


More Between Us Than A Wall

by Gamebird



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e17 The Wall, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:05:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 153
Words: 1,103,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5624683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gamebird/pseuds/Gamebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Reposted because I accidentally deleted the whole fic. Oops.)</p><p>This is a day-by-day account of what happens between Peter and Sylar when they were trapped inside each other's head in The Wall. It is a collaborative writing project between gamebird (writing Peter's sections) and means2bhuman (who writes Sylar's sections). Sections are divided by XXX. After each division, point of view switches and the story continues from the other character's perspective. </p><p>There is an important deviation from canon that will affect later chapters: Rene's power, in this AU, allows a person to take a memory. They do not destroy it - they take it, and have that memory walled off within their mind to access or ignore as they see fit. Rene knew his power worked this way, but he is a man of few words and Peter wanted the nullification - nothing more. But then, Peter drained every memory Sylar had. They're stored away in his head, surfacing only when Peter is free-associating, dreaming, or experiences strong deja vu. Sylar regenerated his memories as per canon and is as unaware as Peter is of what's going on there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Contact

XXX

Peter rushed into it headlong, not stopping to think, because he knew if he did his nerve might fail, his resolve falter. He might start thinking about what was rational and logical, about other options, and ignore the path foretold by the dream - the path to Emma's salvation and through her, that of many more. He reached past the brick, impervious to the dangers Matt's voice was trying to hammer into him, and touched the face of his sworn enemy.

The skin was warm under his touch. Sylar's cheek was a little stubbly under his pinky, the hair silken and fine at his temple where Peter's index and middle finger rested. Peter's thumb pressed lightly against his cheekbone. He felt very human. That, too, was an impression Peter walled off, pushed away, and ignored. He didn't need Sylar's humanity. He only needed him to save Emma, so that thousands of others wouldn't die. She was the key to Samuel's plan.

Sylar's eyes twitched and rolled as he sensed a presence, if only perhaps subconsciously, and between one blink and the next, Peter was gone from Matt's basement and standing alone in a street. He looked around. It was an empty street...somewhere. The details of the place seemed to shift in place, sliding in and out of focus. The glare of the sun made it hard to see. Peter squinted and shielded his eyes, waiting for the mental landscape to adjust to his presence.

That thought left him almost amused. _I'm waiting for_ _ **me**_ _to adjust to the mental landscape. The other way around is false. It's a projection. None of this is real._ He felt a profound sense of isolation seep into his bones. For a moment he was tormented by the idea that he was alone here and would never find Sylar. That too, held a hint of amusement. It wasn't like he really _wanted_ to find Sylar. Well, he _**did**_ , but...He shook his head. _I need to focus._ _I_ _ **have**_ _to find him._

XXX

Screaming; that was the first thing he remembered and soon forgot. No one. No specials, no people, nothing. Void of life but for him. Strange how he didn't miss people until they were gone, dust and ashes. This truly was a nightmare. Fate went beyond 'bitch' with this, leaving him alone without a chance. Bleeding throat, torn and scraped hands were all he had to show for his first day, his knees were even sore.

After living in New York for all but a few years of his life, he'd begun to feel a deep sense of punishing irony at surviving the apocalypse and being trapped by his own immortality. Where was Claire? Peter? That Adam guy he'd heard about? God, but he hated this power now. Fuck immortality. Sylar wished he could remember how this had happened. The last memory in his mind was standing in Parkman's house, asking him to hack into his head. Willingly this time, to take away what made him special.

Too often he pitied himself, but his sins wouldn't let themselves be ignored. Wasn't this enough? Hadn't he suffered enough for the blood on his soul? _Hell of a lot of bleach_ , he thought. Finally he picked himself up and searched again, this time with less hope and more certainty of neglect. This wasn't supposed to happen. _Hiro said I would die alone and no one would mourn me. But...it's backwards. WHY IS IT BACKWARDS!_ He'd been trying, for God's sake, didn't that count for something? When he thought about it, Sylar didn't know which he feared more at that point; a lonely death or a lonely life. But death was starting to look better all the time. And with each passing day and the nights were worse, it looked like a sunrise over his horizon.

Then three years without a living sound. While he may have been accustomed to his own company, this was a new brand of quiet. His Hunger no longer ticked in his head; that was nearly a relief. In one thousand four hundred and eighty-five days he hadn't found a single person; not a body or even animals. Sylar hadn't realized just how much noise had an effect on the human psyche.

Wandering, he'd had plenty of time to get to know everything intimately and then some. Each building and what it was, where all the facilities were located, the food and supplies, where to find scarce entertainment, which was pretty much just books...It was all still here. Radio and television didn't work...Maybe some sort of comet wiped out the satellites...

Anger and pain. The lonely vacuum of miserable tears that no one but him could hear. Sylar hadn't cried so much or so deeply in…well, a long time. Over the years, his moods swung like a crazy pendulum in a grandfather clock, his emotions, once fast and furious, slowed. They were wasted on this wasteland, barren deserted desert of a city. Wasted on himself.

For a sign of life…

He'd searched and searched; for about a year and half until he lost hope. He'd clawed and kicked and destroyed nearly everything in sight with his hands and any type of blunt instrument in his fear; bashing and tearing and bludgeoning. He had to fix his book shelves and a lamp after he'd broken them because he wanted _his_ shelves and _his_ lamp after all these years. An anchor, Danko had called it.

…A speck, a molecule… _A waste of time._

XXX

Peter huffed out a breath. He looked around, expecting to find Sylar immediately, but having the strange feeling that he was the only one here. What was it Matt had said, something about trapping Sylar in his worst nightmare, of being alone? And there was something else he'd said about not being able to get out, as Peter had moved to Sylar, his haste bred from a combination of his own desire not to think this through and his contempt of the inhumanity of what Matt had done.

He was a hypocrite in that regard, but at the moment he didn't ponder that. Instead he wondered if perhaps what Matt had meant was that if he went into Sylar's nightmare, he'd be _in_ Sylar's nightmare, but Sylar wouldn't necessarily be here. Perhaps the other man's consciousness was walled off, insulated in his own desolation, and Peter would find himself in a version of the same thing, like him and Adam inside their own cells at the Company...but not even able to make their presence known to one another.

He looked up at the walls of the skyscrapers, at the tree-lined boulevard and felt a moment of panic and heightened concern. The first thing he called out wasn't the name of the man he'd come to find. "Matt?"

He waited, but there was nothing but an echo. He turned in a slow circle where he stood, searching. Time skipped irregularly. How long had he been waiting for a response? Had he called only once or twice? He started walking. There was no point in staying in the same place. He turned in a circle as he walked, trying to be aware of everything around him. He called out, "Hello?"

The glitching and unsettled jumping of the dream reality continued and Peter could feel a part of his mind struggling with the construct. It was locked up, like a machine with a broken gear. That was Matt's ability, fighting, trying to accomplish Peter's will and bring him to Sylar so he could get the hell out of here. But Sylar wasn't here and Peter wasn't doing what he needed to do to reach the other man.

Peter walked in one direction, then suddenly found himself heading in the opposite. Irritated, he focused on the double yellow line in the middle of the street and walked down it - that way, he couldn't get lost. He called out again, "Hello?" He turned in a circle again as he walked, putting his hands to his mouth to yell louder. " _ **HELLO?**_ " He kept walking, finding himself suddenly further down the block than he'd expected. He yelled there anyone here at all? Was the city itself Sylar? It occurred to him that Sylar need not manifest here as the man he'd met. That was a troublesome thought.

Things glitched again and there was a deep-seated pain between his eyes, behind his skull. He put his hand to his forehead, wincing. He was next to the curb, somehow having strayed from the middle of the street. Angry that he couldn't even accomplish walking in a straight line, he kicked a parking meter. His foot hurt, which was strangely reassuring, and the base of the meter made a ' _pang!_ ' sound and wobbled.

When he stopped hopping on one foot and ascertained he hadn't actually broken any bones, he reached out and shook the meter. It wobbled a lot. He was feeling destructive, so he shifted, grasped it, got some leverage, and pulled, leaning his whole body into it. It slowly bent. He worked it back and forth a few more times before it snapped off, shearing.

He hefted it, remembering Sylar hitting him with something like this years ago. He'd experienced a lot of major trauma in the last few years, even if you only considered the physical - numerous 'deaths', injuries that should have left him crippled or maimed for life and various shocks to the system. Claire said she couldn't feel pain. Peter could feel it, but he had to admit he'd become somewhat numb to it, having experienced it so much. He'd become calloused inside.

His lip curled as he took a few practice swings with the meter, getting a feel for it and imagining hitting Sylar like Niki had done. He wasn't done feeling destructive. He looked at the sweeping expanse of glass facing the nearest store. He'd always wanted to do this, on some level. Maybe the city _**was**_ Sylar. Maybe this would hurt a little - or a lot. He grinned savagely. He took several steps to the glass and swung the meter, letting the heavy metal head of it crash through, sending shards everywhere. Peter's grin morphed into a snarl as he moved to the next pane.

Once the destruction began, he didn't stop easily. He yelled; he cursed; he smashed things; he slammed the head of the meter against frames and counters; and when he ran out of easily breakable things nearby, he started hitting the brick. Pieces shattered and flew with the first solid strike he made. The head of the meter bent and the casing cracked. He didn't care. He swung it again and again until the top came off, pieces flying apart violently. The sudden change in the balance of the object caused him to stagger and nearly fall.

He regained his feet, panting, leaning on the metal pipe for support. He looked around himself, at the ruined glass, bits of brick, and twisted metal. It was ugly. It was damaged. He tried to take joy in the ruin, tried to think that he'd wrecked some small part of Sylar's mental equilibrium. But there was no way to tell if the other man had noticed. Even if he had, Peter realized with a sudden sag to his shoulders, he wasn't here to _hurt_ him. He was here to get his _help_. _This_ , what he'd just done, was not helping.

He stood straighter, remembering one of his father's more colloquial sayings: _Any jackass can kick a barn down, but it takes a man to build one_. He sighed. He'd made a mess, and for what? He was still alone, Sylar still wasn't here, and he hadn't made any progress. He'd thrown a tantrum like a child when the task had proven harder than expected. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. His head hurt abominably.

He shook his head and turned, walking away from the havoc. It wasn't real. It was just an illusion. He kept carrying the pipe though, occasionally entertaining himself by thinking about what it would be like to hit Sylar with it. The end still featured bolts sticking out of it irregularly, like spikes. It would make a fearsome weapon. He had to keep reminding himself that he hadn't come here to start a fight. He needed Sylar's help.

He kept calling out until his voice grew hoarse. He didn't notice, but he never called Sylar's name - not once. He called for Matt off and on and otherwise just yelled, "Hello?" and "Can anyone hear me?" He took to hammering the ground with the pipe when his voice failed him. At first his blows were irregular, but after a while he fell into a pattern and the strikes became rhythmic and steady. He couldn't say why, just that it was what he did. The dull thudding sounded a lot like ticking. Finally, Peter had created a sound that carried and connected to the other occupant of this world.

XXX

The ticking of the world had always been off and it sounded eerily like the steady tempo had previously resided in his head. Sylar knew something was wrong with this world; almost as if it had a bad smell or the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Cold, dead and lifeless, except for him. Did that make him lifeless, too, then?

Sylar wrote it off as he adjusted the tiny pieces of his latest treasure; a tourbillion. Momentarily happy in his trinket, it only had a common problem, however; the self-winding coil had snapped. It broke his heart further to see such a beautiful piece in this condition of disrepair.

After he'd fixed it, and many others, he sat back to think; the old chair creaked as he moved. His hands had cramped from hours of endless work, eyes strained and neck tight. It was insulting and angering to be back to the same place where he'd begun his journey for glory. Just with less in the world. Sylar had never been able to understand how people could live with broken watches, how someone could let it sit on their body, next to their bed, on their walls and desks and do nothing; the world ran on time, or at least it used to. Now time ran him again.

The clocks that he'd filled his room with all ticked wrong, so did every watch he'd come across. Not one was even remotely close to keeping the correct time. He supposed it was a good thing; it gave him something to do. Did he even know the correct time anymore? There was an ache in his head that replaced the Hunger; it refused to be eased or worked away. It clung to him like the loneliness did. It wouldn't fade like the gray misty weather of New York would on occasion.

And it confused him; he used to be able to self-analyze. He'd always been so sure of what he wanted, what his needed. His brain had always given him his marching orders; kill and take powers or be driven mad. His goal was always clear, he'd be clear in his own sense of self, for what it was worth. Or so he'd thought. Sylar had once been able to see with crystal clarity how the pieces of the world fit together and he'd never questioned his role in it. But one was what one ate, right? With no people to make him special, to stand apart from….what was he? In this hell hole one day could go on for a hundred years, yet the same night could last...minutes, leaving him still tired and lost yet again.

It was easy to get lost here, in the city he'd grown up in, lived nearly his entire life in. The mysteries piled up with no answers, barely any theories to guide him. No signs of disease, apocalypse or natural disaster, he might be tempted to guess of the Rapture and for that he'd have to thank his mother. It was a big world, he rationalized; Claire and the Adam guy could be anywhere in it. Strange how he'd never needed people, really, until they were all gone.

Moving on to the next piece, he sprung open the back to peer at the gentle, if untuned insides; the most important parts. Sylar noticed the noise immediately; a dull throbbing clang of a sound; sound with a hint of metal. Sitting up, he dropped his tools, for once uncaring where they landed, suddenly finding himself elsewhere.

Dressed in his black pea coat where he hadn't been before, he stood on a long road. It was still a shock to see no bright yellow taxis parked bumper to bumper. He knew he'd heard something; his face screwed into a worried frown. _Crazy, that's it_. That's what this was, what he was. He was going crazy.

Not a whisper as he walked, nearly stumbling in his restrained haste to find the source of the noise. For long minutes, he just stared around as if a ghost would appear, but he didn't call out. There was no reason to. Eventually a deep-seated curiosity, maybe a hope, made him voice a coarse, weak "H-hello?" Immediately he'd buried his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched in. No answer. So he tried again, stronger, louder, as if speaking to someone he knew was there, "Hello?" But was anyone really there? It couldn't be...Who would be alive?

XXX

_**Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!**_ Then something happened. Peter didn't know what, but he felt it. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he stopped the constant hammering he'd fallen into just recently, banging the pipe on the ground time after time in measured beats. He looked around, but he couldn't see any visible change. Still, he felt like someone was looking at him or aware of him.

He looked at the pipe. It would make a good weapon. He looked around himself a second time. There was no one there. _I'm not here to attack anyone. I'm here to get him and get out. I'll deal with the rest later._ The feeling of being watched was fading. He looked at the pipe again. It had a different use and maybe that was what had engendered the change. He lifted it and struck the asphalt solidly with it. _**Bang!**_ And then again, intending to drum out the same beat as before. _**Bang!**_

After the second beat, he felt the 'something' again, but this time he didn't need to rely on his intuition. For there, a half block down, in the middle of the previously empty street, stood Sylar, summoned like a reluctant spirit. Peter stood up straighter, hefting the pipe slightly. There was the man who had killed Nathan.

XXX

Slouched down, Sylar trod down the blank street when he heard the noise again; this time much, much closer and...dare he think it, real. He stopped on a yellow light, turning slowly in the direction of the sound, that...hopefully blessedly true sound.

Standing down the strip was a man, darkly dressed. Sylar squinted to get a better look before placing the silhouette. "Peter…" His throat couldn't decide if the name was to be uttered in surprise, joy, or disbelief. Of course Peter could have survived, just as he and Claire had, wherever Claire hid now.

The last time he'd seen Peter was...Kirby. No, Pinehearst. Level 5. Stanton. No...Thanksgiving. The hospital, there it was. Being nailed into a table. Hardly the way he'd planned that meeting to go, but when had it ever gone to plan? No love lost between the one-time brothers. But none of that mattered now.

Moving towards the other man, Sylar stared at him. Distractedly he saw Peter's face was one of disgust and resolution, partly hidden by his dark brown mop of hair that he always seemed to have. Sylar ignored the large pipe his new companion held; instead focusing on the discovery of whether Peter was a still crueler trick.

"Is that really you?" He asked in a faint, unused voice. Sylar kept his body on one side of the painted lanes as Peter dropped the potential weapon with an echoing, ringing echo. The noise was that much more beautiful since it had not come from himself. _Oh, just let this be real._

XXX

For a moment, Peter squared off, preparing to fight. He drew himself up, taking a deep breath. It was needless. One look at Sylar's body language told him the other man wasn't brewing for anything. Sylar was hunched inwards, looking shorter and smaller, managing to take up less space. Peter noticed it - he didn't ponder it. He had a mission.

He paced down the street towards his target, moving faster than Sylar did towards him. He shifted his grip on the pipe a couple times, then glanced down at it and threw it aside. He didn't need the temptation of having it in his hand. As he approached, he became more sure that Sylar wasn't going to fight him. He hardly seemed to be the same person. Sylar regarded him in obvious wonder and disbelief, circling a little and reaching out a hand towards him.

Peter glanced at that hand, but otherwise ignored it. "Came to get you out of here," he said brusquely. Sylar did not drop his hand, moving closer, close enough that Peter looked down at it again as his personal space was invaded. He looked between it and Sylar's face. The Italian didn't withdraw. The touch seemed harmless - unwanted, but harmless.

XXX

In this hellish world, the only way to know if this...Peter was real or not was to touch him. Even then, it wasn't one hundred percent. Human contact. Sylar's mind hadn't been what anyone would consider stable before the people disappeared. This would...have to be real, right? This had never happened before.

The other man would notice immediately the lack of aggression towards his person. Sylar's entire demeanor lacked his usual deadly, almost feline air. Instead, his body was timid and innocent, if such a thing were possible for a man labeled a serial killer.

His hand hovering a moment as if deciding whether to break the pleasant illusion. Finally grasping the man's shoulder, he felt the soft canvas of his jacket and firm shoulder beneath and glanced up, shocked. Surely even his own creative mind couldn't fake that to this degree. Soon after the discovery, he whispered low, "It is you...isn't it?"

Then he noticed Peter's confused look. Maybe confused wasn't the right word; the other looked like he'd really like nothing more than to commit Sylar. Taking a step back, still hunched over, but having removed his hand, he tried to focus and balance whatever was left of his equilibrium. He frowned, his face screwing up, attempting to realize pieces to this insane puzzle that barely had pieces to be found let alone put together.

"I thought I was alone here...that everyone else was dead." Taking a breath, _(_ _Steady, steady...)_ he asked more firmly with the intent of getting an answer, "What are you doing here?" Never mind that it had probably been answered, he wanted it clarified. Why would Peter come to get him of all people? Out of where?

Sylar mostly tried to avoid Peter's gaze, wanting to keep away from the look of horror and disgusted disbelief he surely wore; but at the same time, tried to subtly drink in the sight of the other man, if he was real. _Too long without faces…_

XXX

_You thought everyone else was dead?_ Peter's mind stuttered on that. Did Sylar think this was real? It didn't really matter what Sylar thought. He dismissed it as soon as he thought it. "I came to drag your sorry ass out of here. Now let's go."

XXX

Sylar scoffed a little and said, "There is no getting out of here, Peter. I've tried." He looked away. "For three years."

XXX

"Three years?" Peter replied, almost smiling at how absurd that was. "What are you talking about? It's been three _hours_." The degree of self-delusion Sylar was operating under was ridiculous. How could anyone mistake hours for years? Was this some mental command Parkman gave him, twisting his perception of reality?

He could see that Sylar didn't believe him - not in the least, no more than if he'd claimed black was white - and that meant Peter stood there silently, trying to make sense of it, as Sylar answered. Peter's eyes narrowed as he listened to that response. This was not the reaction of a confident, self-assured killer.

XXX

Sylar looked back to Peter to catch the tail end of a smile, but it wasn't a kind one. Peter thought this was funny. Again, his face crunched up, displaying his misery unconsciously. Peter didn't understand. How could he? Sylar's observation was confirmed when his companion next spoke. ' _Three hours?_ ' Tilting his head to stare the other man down, as if it would give him the desired, no, needed answer as it had in the past. The pieces fell into place with silent clashes of mental shock.

"Wait a minute…" he whispered, backing away from the man, the...illusion. "You're not...really here..." was his quiet spoken horror. Still not resigned to the fact yet, his voice firmed to cover his uncertainty, "You're not real." Turning from the smaller man, his dark eyes searched over the cool, immovable glass of the buildings that cast them in shadow. "This is my mind, isn't it…"

Was it really worse to have no one or an illusion of someone? Why Peter of all people? "This is my mind playing tricks on me...as a-a part of my punishment." His mind thought it was so clever, didn't it? Sylar was not to be taken for a fool and he refused to turn into a babbling idiot who talked to himself on the streets.

Facing "Peter" again, Sylar sneered and backed away nonetheless, "You think I'm going to let you taunt me?" Giving a slight shake of his head, his voice changing to become what the real Peter would have known it to be; deep, rasping and full of danger, "You stay away," was his command, backed up with the deadliest look he could muster. Since the real Peter had been stubborn, Sylar enforced his wishes further, pointing at the illusion and shouting in a slightly hysterical tone as he turned and ran; ran where he didn't know, "If you follow me _, I WILL KILL YOU, YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"_

XXX

For a moment, Peter stood there thinking, _He's gone insane. Or maybe he was already insane_. Then he realized that if Sylar got out of his sight, then he might not be able to get the bastard back. He launched into a run, calling out, " _ **Sylar!**_ "

Sylar ran oddly, weaving like he wasn't quite sure where he wanted to go. Peter was catching up to him, despite the other man being taller and Peter having those damn bandy legs. The world glitched again, for the last time, as the reality they existed in became a truly shared construct. Peter wasn't going to let Sylar get away from him. Whatever Sylar thought about being pursued, he wasn't rejecting the other presence so totally as to isolate himself again. Sylar was the key; Peter's dream had made that clear. Wherever he went, Peter was going to follow.

XXX

Sylar didn't turn to see if the illusion of his nemesis tagged along behind him, but he felt the need to make extra turns in attempt to lose him if he was there. _Leave me alone! Just go back where you came from, I don't need this!_ Not another ghost to add to his collection; he had a small army and more than that in horrified guilt.

Darting around the various brick and glass corners, slipping twice in his haste and he panted quietly as he ran, just ran. This was fucked up weirdly even by his standards and Sylar had seen a lot in his relatively short lifetime. Peter just...appeared here out of nowhere - no.

_Get away..._

After he tired, air coming more difficult in his lungs, eventually, Sylar found himself running towards his old apartment building where he ironically found himself living currently, if he could call it that. What year was it, anyway? Bursting into the building, he took the stairs two at a time, long legs pumping in near fear to get him away from the mental threat, smacking open his own door from the book-lined hallway.

Slamming the door behind himself, he didn't spare a thought in his panic to the renovations he'd made to the place. Instead, grabbing up his beloved hammer to defend himself now, prepared to damage as needed. No sooner had he done so, the sound of his door being kicked in followed and he whirled around to face the attacker. Yet Sylar didn't know what was worse...the threat of harm or the implications that Peter might just be real...Perhaps he feared the retribution.

"I swear I'll kill you! Get out of my head!"

XXX

As they ran, it occurred to Peter that he should think of a way to circle or head off his quarry, but he quashed that thought as soon as he had it. _This is all in my head. Just keep him in sight - that's all I have to do_. He almost caught up to the killer several times: Sylar didn't seem to be running all out; he was unaccountably clumsy. Then it was like he made up his mind that he was going to get away from Peter after all. He started pulling away as they ran down one long block after another, turning at every intersection in a fashion that seemed random.

Peter fell behind, until he turned onto the next street to find it empty. He pulled up. Sylar hadn't been _that_ far ahead of him. So...either the old adage _'Out of sight, out of mind'_ was even more true here, or he'd ditched into a building. Since Peter couldn't do anything about the former, he jogged forward. Immediately to his right was a set of concrete steps leading up to an apartment building. The door was ajar, still swinging with a slight motion. He looked up, hearing distant footsteps. Peter launched himself towards the structure.

Just inside the door was a mess of clutter - accumulated possessions and detritus, stacked in corners or leaned against the walls. There was a clear path to the stairs though, and Peter heard a distant banging of a door being shut. He hustled up the steps.

He knew when he got to the right floor, because once more, his way was indicated by the signs of life. Later, Peter would puzzle over this and try to find the meaning in it, because he was sure there was one, though at the moment he was in hot pursuit and followed the path by instinct. The rest of the world was tidy and orderly, sterile in its sparseness. No trash blew down the streets, things were all in their places, and nothing was 'in progress' - it was all complete and waiting, unattended forever. But here in this building, the one Sylar had run inside of, things were messy and out of place. There were projects and tools and materials, as well as refuse and cast-offs. Above all, everywhere there were books.

Peter paced rapidly down a drab hallway that featured stacks of books nearly everywhere that you wouldn't actually walk. There was a shopping cart full of them outside a door, and above that a single dingy light. He looked at the door. It was unprepossessing. He wondered if it was a trap. He didn't bother to see if it was locked. He just pulled back his foot and kicked it hard, near the jamb. It burst open and he glanced back and forth inside before walking in.

Sylar wasn't hiding - at least, no more than he was by having retreated to this place. The interior of the apartment was packed with more books and things than the hallway. Peter didn't care about the place, as they were leaving it as soon as possible. Right now though, he needed to get Sylar to cooperate with him. The other man was brandishing a hammer, reminding Peter of the unconvincing death threat he'd issued before fleeing. But now he'd cornered him. Pressed too much, even the most nonviolent person would defend themselves. Sylar was hardly nonviolent.

Peter put his hands up, but he continued to walk forward, undeterred by Sylar's renewed threat. "Calm down," he told him with careful emphasis. "I am telling you the truth." He moved his hands downward just a little in emphasis. Sylar was listening to him - clearly. The other man was still facing him, holding the hammer firmly, with his entire attention fixed on Peter. There was an intensity to the man that was impressive - a charisma Peter couldn't deny even if it seemed a little maniacal at the moment.

Peter dipped his head slightly, keeping his motions understated. "I came to take you out of here." He moved forward just a bit, leading with his left shoulder, the beginnings of a fighting stance. Peter's teeth set together and his eyes narrowed a little at the thought that he needed Sylar's help.

XXX

The expression on Sylar's face was one of disbelief, "Why do you keep saying that?"

XXX

Peter breathed out and quickly reassessed what he was here for. He relaxed his jaw and leaned forward slightly, trying, at least a little, to reach out to the other man. He genuinely needed his cooperation. He spoke slowly and deliberately, trying to make his words count. "I went to Parkman's house to look for you." Sylar was still watching him, still holding the hammer steady between them. "He put you here." Peter gestured slightly to indicate…everything. " _This_ is a dream."

XXX

_Calm down?_ What did "Peter" think he was; a damn dog? Sylar had never been on this end of Peter's…emphasis before and it felt weird. No wonder everyone followed him. He was damn convincing. The hammer in his hand wavered toward the ground, but returned to its position towards the other man.

Frowning and blinking, confusion written in every line of his face, Sylar listened, albeit reluctantly, to Peter's little explanation.

"IT'S NOT A DREAM!" he shouted right back, his face twisting up as he did in ways Peter hadn't seen for a while. Hell if he didn't know that by now! Peter just frowned, tilting his head back away from the outburst, hands moving into more of a defensive position. _Would he stop staring at me like I'm fucking crazy already?_

"This is real…" Sylar avoided eye contact, voice shaking slightly, instead choosing to glance around the apartment, hoping for an escape, maybe a miracle. _Just go away… Stay_ _._ This was humiliating. It made him feel powerless all over again. Sylar adjusted his grip on the wood of the hammer's handle; there was no way he was letting go of it now.

"You really don't understand that this is all just a nightmare?" Peter still felt the need to speak to him like he was a small child, giving him that patented Petrelli 'I'm disappointed in you' expression, his hands gesturing in that Italian way of his.

"Hell, yes, it's a nightmare…Three years…completely alone…." Could Pete understand that? His eyes still wandered until he reached the part about the length of time, risking a quick, brave and hopeful look into Pete's eyes, darting away again. God, he was just so unsure about all this. _Stupid Peter. All his fault._

XXX

On one hand, 'it's not a dream,' and 'it's real'; on the other hand, 'it's a nightmare' and 'you're not real.' Yet here Sylar was threatening to kill the 'not real' person in front of him. Peter couldn't figure out if the other man was genuinely confused or…no, he was genuinely confused. He risked another step closer, raising his hands in entreaty. Sylar could hit his hands at least with that hammer at this distance, with those long arms of his. Peter was not unaware of it. But the other man was looking around the room, looking desperate maybe. He looked…distressed. Peter tried to be calming. "Not years, _**hours**_."

Sylar looked back at him, mouth agape in disbelief. Peter went on, hoping he was making some sort of connection. He was at least making an impression. "Alright? _Parkman_ trapped you here."

XXX

Sylar began shaking his head before Peter was even done speaking. He looked confused. " _Parkman?_ That's impossible!"

XXX

" _Is it?_ " Peter held his left hand steady, gesturing for emphasis with his right. The set of his shoulders had relaxed a little. The head of the hammer had drifted down several inches. How had Sylar even gotten into this mess? Or a better question, how had he gotten messed up this much? Peter was too much of an empath not to entertain such questions, despite his feelings about who he was dealing with. "What's the last thing you remember, before coming here?"

If they could find some shred of common ground, maybe he could work from that. Because something had to happen between the 'here' of this mental construct and the 'there' of Sylar saving Emma and thereby so many others. The man he was looking at right now wasn't 'there' yet. They didn't even seem to be agreeing on basic reality.

XXX

This was all so very wrong. _Pete. Here. Speaking._ And….that wasn't _caring_ in his voice. The other must want something of him like everyone else. Why would "Peter" ask him of all people a question like that? Sylar just scoffed, but he was oh-so tempted to believe the other man's words.

But it was a good question, his mind just….glossed over it, like he couldn't focus. _Sylar_ couldn't focus. On his own memory, too, goddamnit. The hammer's metal head floated nearer and nearer to his own midsection as he thought on the question. Jeez, it was just a question. Sylar felt his intelligence slipping by the second. _Just a stupid question… It doesn't have to mean so much._ Or did it?

Dark eyes turned away to stare off to the side as he murmured out in a rambled, rather broken stream of consciousness, "I remember…" he began slowly, "wanting my life to change." Here he gave a slight pause, embarrassed; his voice slipped lower and into a less audible tone, becoming thicker with repressed emotion because of it, "Thinking I was going to spend all of eternity alone…" Sylar didn't expect him to understand. Claire hadn't even grasped the concept. _(Well, she_ was _blonde…)_

Peter, ever the bulldog with a chew toy with a subject ( _so similar_ _,_ he thought) wouldn't relent, "Exactly and here you are. Look, I've got Parkman's ability," his voice was rising, becoming chopped with haste, determination and impatience at Sylar himself, "I can take you out of here." Peter was so confident and assured it was difficult not to let his brusque yet gentle forcefulness sweep him under. So very intent on his goal; he stepped well within Sylar's striking range, but neither man paid any attention.

Near tears at the man's words, Sylar gaped at him, honestly dumbfounded and practically stuttering past his closing throat, "W-why would you want to do that…" his voice lilted as if unsure where or when to stop talking, "the brother of the man I murdered coming to my aid?"

Sylar still held the hammer between them, with no real will behind it, no intent on wielding it, but it gave him something against Peter's supposed powers. _Nathan trained him_. Instantly something seamlessly clicked in his mind, his memories unconsciously shifting into the eldest Petrelli's.

_That time with the nailgun._

XXX

'Why?' _What a moment for Sylar to throw_ **that** _up in my face_ _._ His body language froze, like he'd forgotten the delicate conversation he was trying to have without words, parallel to the one they were verbalizing. His right hand was held close to his chest; his left reaching out, but his gesture was meaningless without motion, just as the sound of a single letter means nothing without the context of the rest of the word. Peter's jaw worked for single breath, before he answered, "Because I need you to help me."

It wasn't as tough as he'd expected, to have to say it directly to Sylar's face. Maybe that was because he'd already had to repeat it so many times to himself. "Listen, I _could_ leave you here to rot," and here he lifted his chin, nose wrinkling just slightly at how much he'd like to do just that, how offensive Sylar was to him, "but I need you to save her: my friend, Emma."

Peter's expression shifted back to appealing, and his hands finally found purpose again in helping him communicate. "In the dream, you save her before she kills thousands of people."

Sylar shook his head and looked off to the side. Peter's words sounded a little ridiculous even to him, so what must they sound like to Sylar? Of course, they were having this conversation inside Sylar's head, which lent a certain believability to otherwise surreal statements.

XXX

"Nuh," Sylar said. His eyes tracked back to Peter, but he kept them down, not quite making eye contact. "You've got the wrong guy. I'm not the savior kind. You should know that better than anybody."

XXX

_Guilt_. Peter recognized it in Sylar's failure to look him in the eye. He wondered what to do with that bit of information. He recalled Sylar saying something fatuous at Kirby Plaza about how he was the hero and Peter was the villain. _He wants to be the hero_ _._ A moment of frustration passed through Peter. _Then why…!_

He put those thoughts aside. "It's gonna happen. You're going to save her." That was the important thing. That was what he had to stay focused on. He wasn't here to punish, or pass judgment, or figure Sylar out. He was here to get him, get out, and have him save Emma, whatever it took.

XXX

_What is Peter thinking? He must have a few screws loose himself._ Sylar knew the reason, one Angela Petrelli, mistress of the mindfuck. Still, he persisted. _Emma, huh?_ _Well, she's dead already._

The firm reply even after Sylar picked a…painful topic had him slivers from being convinced. Still, Sylar was no fool, and he refused to be taken for one, especially by a Petrelli. _Again_ _,_ he reminded himself, even if this was probably the most honest of the bunch. It kind of made him want to smack the only other living human on the planet. But all he did was tilt his head up to make eye contact after the uncomfortable moment had passed, quirk his black eyebrow and give a derisive exhaled snort of breath.

Tossing away the hammer, he saw the other's eyes follow the motion (the weapon?). Out of frustration and annoyance, but mostly to shut the other man up, Sylar spat, "Fine. You really think you can get us out of here?" Here his voice dropped down nearly into his killer's raspy snarl, goading and taunting the younger man into action, even lifting his head and giving him a narrow eyed sneer. "Let me see you try."

Sylar saw Peter clench his jaw and approach, very unwillingly, but determined nonetheless, not complete without his seemingly permanent expression of annoyed hatred. _Can't shake him._ Placing his hand on the much taller shoulder as Sylar kept his body turned somewhat away, Peter's eyes closed and his face went calm as he focused.

While the world spun, and Sylar watched, not shutting his eyes ( _because it won't fucking work_ ), pushing him forward, almost dragging him further into the room….they didn't move. Or leave to Peter's deluded fantasy "real" world. _I knew it._

Peter's dark hazel eyes opened and widened in shock, quickly looking to his hand as if the appendage was to blame, his mouth gaping at words that eluded him. "See? We're not going anywhere." There was no way Sylar was letting him off the hook for pulling that stupid stunt; a good thing he hadn't let himself give in to the hope. He could have smirked had the situation not been so….unpleasant. He was, however, a little saddened, for once, to be wrong. Peter inhaled a quick, absolutely horrified breath, his hand sliding off Sylar's shoulder as if he had no strength left.

"We're trapped here forever."


	2. No Escape To Reality

Day 1

 _What?_ Disbelief flooded through Peter. It couldn't be. The dream had said Sylar would save Emma. So here Peter was, getting Sylar. Somehow this was supposed to work! He hadn't come here to get trapped in some psycho-nightmare with Nathan's murderer!

He turned and took a few steps away, hand to his own forehead, trying to think. _I'll just get out. Matt can help me. Maybe only_ _ **he**_ _can let Sylar out of here. Matt?_ He tried to call out mentally. _Matt!_ He didn't say anything aloud, because…well, honestly he was trying to abandon Sylar here (if only for the moment) and Sylar probably wouldn't be too happy if he knew that. Peter tried again, trying to activate the ability and get himself out of this prison. Honestly, this was only the second time he'd tried - once with Sylar and once now. Earlier he'd been trying to find _Sylar_ , not get out. Now he just wanted out.

It didn't work.

Peter wanted there to be a blinding pain or some barrier he could rail against, some manifestation of the block because then it would be something he could overcome - but no, there was nothing. He tried, and nothing happened. It was as futile as trying to fly by jumping up and down. Reality just didn't work that way. But it did for some people.

He wheeled, turning back to Sylar, frustration marring Peter's features. "Let me try again." He reached out towards him hastily, probably moving a bit too fast but he wasn't thinking. Despite the hammer, despite everything else, Sylar was still coded in Peter's head as someone he didn't respect, someone he could grab (if he so chose to) and try to summarily yank out of this place.

XXX

Sylar just laughed merciless and without humor, shaking his head at the younger man's antics. Stupid Peter, thinking he could waltz in and save (Sylar) the day. Sylar, for one, didn't half-ass even his mistakes, thank you. When he got in, he got in damn deep. Why the hell would he get help now? Under any other circumstance, he would have viewed the addition and subsequent doubling of humanity, as it were, as a burden, something to weigh him down. But he had someone to talk to now.

Eyes narrowing as he watched Peter move away; poor, poor Peter looked like he was about to be sick at the thought of being stuck here. However, he noted the tilting of his head, the tightly closed eyes as if he were….That was fucking subtle. "Come here to leave my sorry ass this time it seems," he sneered. Too bad he was just as alive and kicking as Sylar.

Rolling his eyes at first, he was prepared to tolerate another foolish, hare-brained attempt until the sudden motion. _Try what again?_ Jerking his body, mainly his face away from the attack, he slipped and slid a little on the floor in his haste to get out of range of the blow. "What the-" he hissed, mostly to himself, completely unused to moving that fast for literal years. Realizing he looked like an idiot, what's worse, a pansy, flinching from a hit like that (really, it was ingrained self-defense by now), he licked his lips and glanced about the room when Petrelli made no further move.

Talk about telegraphing weaknesses. _Joy_. Just like he hated doing. When his eyes had returned to their normal size from shock, god, he'd have to relearn his people skills all over again; he still moved back a half-step, not eager to play shoulder mannequin until Peter passed out from trying. To cover his lapse in nerves, he asked in his asshole voice, "So how long have you had Claire's power?"

The reason for the question was obvious; Peter had to be immortal to survive…whatever the hell had happened to the world just as Sylar had. Speaking of….Where was everyone's favorite cheerleader? _Don't ask now. Seem too eager. Only face I've seen with this damn tattoo. Better keep that covered._

XXX

Peter held his hand still in the air for a long moment as Sylar recovered himself, the gesture exaggerating how much of an overreaction Sylar had made. Then he dropped it to his side and stood there uncertain. He hadn't been about to _hit_ him, but yeah, Peter conceded that maybe it had looked like that. He wasn't sure how he felt about that ingrained defensiveness on Sylar's part. A tiny, hated part of himself was amused that Sylar was wary of him. Mostly though he felt embarrassed. It brought back all the thoughts he'd entertained so willingly, before, about hurting the man. Now that he was faced with the flesh (so to speak), it was less appealing. And to actually see him jerk back from a casual touch…Peter wasn't sure _at all_ how he felt about that.

He put it aside. It wasn't important. Sylar had asked him a question. Claire's power? What? Before he could stop himself, Peter said, "I have Matt's." He wondered if Sylar knew of the limits to his abilities these days (or "ability", singular). _That_ was something that had taken a while to get over (assuming he was over it) - the anger at his sudden impotence, the jealousy that the serial killer still had a suite of abilities to choose from, stolen from his victims. The feelings of inadequacy had something to do with Peter's occasionally almost compulsive need to swap powers, or so he assumed.

He swallowed, the previous few minutes flashing back through his mind. He huffed out a breath and raised both hands in the same conciliatory gesture he'd made earlier, going back to what had worked. Now though, stripped of the newness, the gesture just looked patronizing and Peter realized that, but he didn't know what else to do. He wanted to get out of here, _**now**_. The whole point of coming here was to find Sylar and get out. He'd found Sylar, so it was time to move on to the next part. "I _need_ to get us both out of here. Hold still. Let me try again." He settled himself as before and reached out, as though fully expecting that Sylar would cooperate with this.

XXX

Sylar tilted his head upward, examining the ceiling casually, but he kept an eye on Peter's outstretched hand, clearly making a gesture. _Embarrassing_ _._ Well, if he hadn't just labeled every weakness and set the tone for the rest of all eternity with that. _Just ignore, just ignore._ Finally fixing Peter with a narrowed eyed stare, head cocked in thought, "Obviously." It hadn't escaped him the other's attempt to 'escape' without him; not that he expected more if truth be told.

The urge to cross his arms over his chest was strong, but Peter might still decide to make a move, trapped as Sylar was, unmoving. His head righting on his axis, he continued to stare, taking in the man's reaction to his mention of his power. Very, very annoyed, a little angry, that much he could read. Perhaps there was more to that question than was being answered.

At this point, Sylar wasn't actually out to be difficult, beyond being wary, but he wasn't going to cater to Peter's lofty ideals of freedom. Eyeing the man's hands, unmistakably attempting to placate and sooth, his penetrating gaze slid back up to the hazel eyes that watched him in return, albeit with far more impatience.

"What's the rush? The girl's long dead by now," he said lightly. But the real question he was dying to ask was, _Where is Claire?_ One would almost be led to think Peter Petrelli, Boy Wonder, wasn't thrilled to find another human being still alive in the world. No surprise.

So Sylar didn't move. "Suicide is not the answer, Pete," he mocked the choice of words, 'getting out of here' especially the part about 'get YOU out of here'. "Sorry, but that's the only way you're going 'anywhere' fast. But I guess you'd pop right back up like a daisy, wouldn't you?"

The other man had always been a little…touched with his delusions of….whatever-it-was this time. At least it wasn't screaming 'save the cheerleader, save the world' or 'the world is ending! Repent!' Because he was doing enough of that for three years to last a lifetime.

XXX

He paused. Sylar was just a little out of reach and he was staying there very deliberately. There was an invisible line here, not really a personal space issue because Peter's sense of such things had always been ridiculously small anyway - he was perfectly fine being crowded in a subway, jostled by people on the street, and touching just about anyone in a friendly, familiar manner. It worked great in the medical profession.

But there were limits. And Sylar's body language, head thrown back, spine straight for once, pretending to ignore him - all said that he was near one. Now he could push past that and see what would happen, and Peter was pretty sure the answer was 'nothing' or he could try something else. He let his hand fall.

"She's not dead. You think you've been here three _years?_ Sylar, I saw you just last month, at the Mercy Heights Hospital." His voice became tight and tense and his body wound up with that tension unconsciously, his breath coming harder and his hands curling lightly. Peter took a half step back, even though Sylar had made no threatening gesture beyond sarcasm. " _Last_ _ **month**_. You have been …"

Suddenly his eyes lit up and a little of the tension left his frame. He leaned forward, more animated. Obviously, he'd had an idea. "Listen, remember back when … my mother was put into a coma by my dad, and you thought she was your mother, too?" _Hm, actually, this is probably not my best idea. Not sure how he'll react to this_ _._ "And she was stuck inside her own head for days? You asked me to go inside her head and get her out. That's how your body is, right now. I saw you, before I came into your head to try to get you out. That's where we are - inside … your mind."

Peter stayed leaned forward, watching Sylar intently. His lips were pursed and his eyes alert, trying to read his reaction. He expected flippancy, more disbelief and defensiveness. But he was hoping that somewhere in there would be a shred of belief.

XXX

 _Well, well. Looks like an old dog can learn new tricks_. Peter halted any forward motion, and Sylar didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed. At the mention of the hospital ( _what an idea that had been_ ), his eyes turned into black slits at the other man, but instead of completing his usually discomforting glare and following up with violence, he just chuckled and shook his head.

That felt a familiar coil of rage through his system, a similar urge to punch Peter for mentioning his mistake. Not his damn fault Angela was so clever. Was he supposed to be blamed for wanting family, fucked up and dysfunctional as it was, but family nonetheless. But his hands were just as chained as Peter's.

He couldn't kill him, well, he could, but….he'd regret being alone afterwards just as Peter wouldn't kill him because he was off his meds enough to believe that he 'needed' Sylar. He did not find any humor in being baited and mocked, never mind the fact that's what he'd just been doing to Peter.

"/Dear ol' Ma….The one time she decides to get into Dad's business and look where that got her/," a shrug was thrown out with his hunched shoulders. He did find himself wondering who she was protecting with that, which of the then-trio of siblings. Surely that was the only reason she would act the way she had.

"See, the thing is, Pete," Sylar placed a hand flat to his own chest, "I have a body. Whatever your medical diagnosis, this isn't my mind. I can feel, I can reason, I can sleep, there's no dream pattern to this. And if I was dreaming?" here he inserted an indignant snort of breath, "I assure you, you would be the last person on earth I would dream about." Okay, not _the_ last, but….close.

"Oh, yeah. And there would be fucking people in my dreams!" he snapped out; he hadn't been angry in a long time, the need to strike and rail against something had passed….months and months ago. Arch-enemies on a vengeance kick and one-time brothers didn't make for Sylar's average wet dream no matter his mental state.

This was seriously one of the more ridiculous things he'd been forced to listen to. _The typical Petrelli serenade. Eventually he'll get bored of being wrong._

XXX

Now Peter was pretty sure Sylar was being difficult just because he could be. Having found he had some form of leverage, he was using it. He seemed desperate, defensive and grasping at straws, which was bizarre given that Peter was here offering a way out. Admittedly, what Peter was saying was apparently challenging Sylar's whole world view, but that world view was ludicrous. Peter figured he'd exhaust this avenue a little more - beating dead horses was something of a hobby for him. Useless as it usually was, it at least made him feel that he hadn't merely given up.

"Do you seriously believe I'm a figment of your imagination then? Where did all the people go? How did you get here? How did _I_ get here? How the hell did you get out on that street earlier?" Peter pointed energetically back in the general direction of the windows.

"One moment it's empty; the next you're there! Are you saying you gained teleportation while you were at it?" _Along with all the rest…Huh, I wonder if he wants_ _ **my**_ _ability in here? I wish I still had that parking meter pole. Knew I shouldn't have thrown that down._

Peter's eyes went to the hammer Sylar had discarded earlier on the desk. It was closer to him that to the other man. A sudden strange desire ran through him to pick that up and use it on the other man. He shook his head against it because that was stupid - it would do no good at all. He took a deep breath and turned away, turning his back on whatever it was Sylar had been about to say in response. _This is all just a dream. It's in his head. That hammer is_ _ **not even there**_ _._

XXX

Sylar's only response was to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sigh, his form going back to slumped. Of course he had no answer; he'd only been pondering those questions for three years _. Hours_. _Whatever_. "Abilities don't work here," he remarked quietly, "I-I think it's something in the air…." That was the only lame explanation he had. God, it felt like he had never been special at all. The blood and torture and travel and violence and tears, the betrayal, the loneliness… _Let that not be for nothing._

It was so real, the three years he'd been here; granted his own dreams were vivid and equally nightmarish, but….never like this. Peter was obviously no illusion or hallucination or…waking dream of some kind, he was very lively and what's more Sylar had felt that he was alive. Dreams left out details like that; breathing, warmth, and they lacked his kind of intelligence. He had no memory of how he came to be here, he'd sat wracking his brain to remember it, but he just couldn't. All he came up with was the black of his eyelids.

 _This can't be happening._ Even his mind seemed to be turning on him, his great intellect, his goals; his freaking vision of everything was gone in a wisp of invisible smoke. Frowning briefly, he wanted to remember himself, something to define him at this point. _Guess that's what Peter is now, isn't he._

Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, he stood there, shuffling in full awareness that Peter was angry with him, angrier than he was letting on. He'd always hated that, but he'd had to live with it in the past. He would be forced to do it again, this time for all eternity. But his stupid conscience was prodding him to apologize for….what he wasn't sure. He hadn't done anything wrong. Why was Peter angry, anyway? Minus the whole…Nathan thing. Pete didn't know about that big thing with Claire in the study hall, did he? _Think he'd have mentioned that_ _._ Or that thing with Angela…When he looked back on it…the Petrelli clan had fucked him over just as much as he'd repaid them in kind. _Rematch, then? You'll lose him. I hate being the not-so-good guy._

XXX

Peter heard Sylar's quiet comment, but he didn't respond to it. The man _still_ thought things were real here. But at least he wasn't being sarcastic and trying to provoke a fight, or whatever it was he'd been trying to do. Peter looked back over his shoulder, calmed down a little. "Listen, you're either going to let me try to get us both out of here, or I'm going to try to get _myself_ out of here and maybe Matt can tell me what I'm doing wrong, because it _should_ work." He sighed, exasperated. Abilities did not come with instruction manuals. They didn't have to. A person tended to know exactly what they did…or at least Peter did. He gained an ability and he knew how to use it. It was automatic.

His brow furrowed. Of course, there was that part about almost blowing up New York. And that other part about jumping off that building, being unable to fly. And that yet other part about being _thrown_ off a building and being unable to fly. And the purse snatching, and getting hit in the nuts with a stick wielded by a sadistic Englishman with hygiene issues…

 _Okay, so maybe using abilities isn't always so straightforward. Wasn't Matt trying to warn me about this? Surely he'll do something to try to get me out, won't he? Eventually, my body will shut down. That would take days though, and weeks or basically the rest of my life if I got medical support. Someone will get me out of here. But in the meantime,_ **I** _have to get me out of here._

_I don't want to look like an idiot, always having to be saved from my own ability_ _._

He turned around and faced Sylar, noting the degree to which the other man's body language had changed. Peter let his own body relax in response. He was still pissed, but they had a common goal here. No reason why they couldn't work together towards it. _I already look like an idiot. Came here to get him out and can't._

"Now, are you going to let me try again, or not?" He raised his right hand in invitation.

XXX

He let out a low frustrated growl at the insinuation Peter would leave him here. Muttering, "No way in hell you'd come back," he stepped closer to the man, but didn't look at him. If he'd had telepathy at the moment, he'd have been laughing at Peter's theory that he 'knew what he was doing with an ability'. True, the empath wielded them just fine around Sylar….Minus Kirby that is.

"Yes, go ahead," was the mumbled reply while he removed his nearer hand from his pocket, just in case he needed it. Sylar himself was enough embarrassed; flinching from non-existent blows, making a fuss over….sort of nothing. He was cranky (and wary) at having someone tromp in and try to stir up his life. Again. Not to say he was comfortable here or anything, but….

 _Mom- Virginia- No, Mom always said you were stubborn_. Time to hang onto his….would-be savior or playmate so he didn't ditch him here. That might actually be worse than before. The fear mind-game wasn't a fun one to be played at this stage, given his three long lonely years of solitude and misery. It didn't change his mind, mostly because he wouldn't be manipulated into something again.

Of course, neither of them would be going anywhere anyways, right? No need to get his hopes up for any of Peter's antics. "The place is empty, you'll have you pick of apartments and suites," he reminded again that he didn't buy Peter's plan. And that was about as close an invitation the other would get towards getting help 'moving in' so to speak.

XXX

Peter bit back a snort at the implication he'd move into an apartment and live here. It was a ludicrous idea - living in Sylar's head for days and days. What the hell would they do to pass the time? Discuss brain surgery techniques? He supposed they did have a certain shared medical background, grotesque as that was.

Peter exhaled and with that breath, tried to drive out the useless thoughts. He needed to **focus**. Maybe that was his problem before - he'd had too many other things on his mind. He rested his hand lightly on Sylar's shoulder, noting the other man freeing up his dominant hand. Peter waited a beat, but nothing else happened, so he gripped more firmly - businesslike - and _**tried**_.

Unlike when he tried to do it himself, he could actually feel something here. There was a resistance. It had to be coming from Sylar. Or maybe it was just a lot more difficult to take someone else with him. The world shifted, his perception of it wobbled, and nothing at all happened. Sylar acted like he hadn't noticed even that much, which made Peter wonder if that, at least, was all in his head.

Rather than admit it wasn't working, he took another deep breath and forged on until he was certain he looked like an idiot. He finally let his hand fall to his side and took a step back. He wasn't real comfortable being that close to the other man anyway. It did weird things with his emotions, like static in an otherwise clear picture. Peter suspected if he said, 'that didn't work', he'd probably get an 'I told you so,' in response, so instead he said, "There's a different way," with much more confidence than he felt. "We'll have to try that."

He turned and looked around the room for the first time really, trying to pull together what that 'different way' was. Sylar had been trapped in here for three hours, which was, as Peter thought about it, a pretty long time. Surely he had some ideas - but would he offer them? There was stuff _everywhere_ in here. Why was that? Did all of this stuff mean something, mentally, for Sylar? Why was it here? Peter didn't even know where to start.

XXX

Sylar gave a light, inaudible chuckle, but no more at Peter's pause at touching him. _It won't bite unless you do, Petrelli_. He stood still while Peter played hero again, rather, he tried to; the room rushing towards him and away at the same time, but the scenery didn't change. Waiting patiently, he'd gotten so much better at the whole waiting thing; three years with only clocks and, yes, his own head for company did that to you, Sylar watched Peter's face swirl over with emotions.

Jaw ticking to speak, his habit to annoy and botch the attempt nearly overriding his new found patience, his own focus was….staying as sane as possible. Peter's arrival could go both ways at the moment towards that goal. The empath had his own pattern of ruining things. / _Always the Peter way_./ Then again, it would be really nice to have someone to talk to…maybe get to know someone. No abilities even. That in and of itself was probably a shock.

"To what?" Sylar asked, confusion showing on his face, soon opening out his hands to gesture at the room. "This is all there is. It's no Disneyworld, but….New York is _home_ , isn't it? At least there's that…" his voice trailed off as he realized he was rambling, giving a slight wince at the other's turned back. "Look, it's about lunchtime. You can see if there's anything in the fridge or pantry or we can always go raid a store. Not like anyone will miss it," again, a nearly forced chuckle escaped him. Gosh, people were hard to please. _No wonder I gave this up for a lost cause._

XXX

Peter looked back at Sylar with an expression that clearly asked, as much as if he'd spoken it, 'Are you crazy?' He gave himself a shake and made a visible effort to fix his face, trying to be polite. The two possibilities that flew through his head were that this was something Matt did to him, seriously and severely scrambling Sylar's sense of reality, or maybe that Sylar just really did have this tenuous a grasp on things. It would explain why he'd become a serial killer, why he'd thought he was the hero at Kirby, how he'd acted when he'd thought they were brothers…

Peter resisted the urge to go sink down in a chair and…he didn't know what. Try to cope. This was the person who was going to save Emma? Surely there was another explanation for why Sylar believed all this was real. He'd never seemed quite this unstable. He'd always seemed… Peter glanced over at him again, an appraising look, like he was seeing Sylar for the first time and this time without any questions as to his sanity. He'd always seemed a lot more driven and dangerous and eat up. Now he just seemed…Peter couldn't put his finger on it, but it was there, scuttling around in the back of his mind. He'd flush it out into the open sooner or later. Probably. In the meantime, there was the issue of getting out of here.

Peter walked over and pulled back the thin curtains, looking out the window. The street still looked the same. He turned from there and picked up a book at random, flipping to whatever page it opened to. He felt compelled to explain himself so Sylar didn't think he was ignoring him. "In a normal dream, there's ways you can tell it's a dream. Text on a page doesn't stay the same if you try to read it twice. Things you've stopped looking at and look at a second time are different."

Peter managed to point at the window with his elbow as he read and reread a bit from An Heraldic Alphabet. "Everything's the same out there as when we came in here. And this…now I know that another word for 'damasked' when referring to a coat of arms is 'diapered.'" He sighed and put the book back down. _Well, that didn't work_. "Not that I thought this was a normal dream, of course."

"Have you ever tried just walking out?"

XXX

Sylar pursed his lips at the first look. Oh, boy was that familiar. The attempt to at least dull the look was appreciated, but too late. Turning partly away to avoid the look that so clearly telegraphed, he attempted to move from it and into the kitchenette. Peter was silent for a few moments while he eyed the kitchen, hoping to be hinting. He wasn't particularly hungry himself, but he wasn't sure when Peter had last eaten. Hero work had to be tiring stuff.

On that note, why on earth would Peter have a dream that he would save someone? He'd have to ask about that later. One of his large eyebrows raised a centimeter or so when the other man spoke, "Uh…" he left off his sentence, his head canted to the side as Peter picked up a book and read from it. That was a change of pace; Peter was ready to sit down and read a book now? But the other man spoke while he read, "No. Not normal at all. We are, or were, special after all." That was what he'd been trying to say, had said earlier. _Normal_ , he mentally scoffed. _Silly Peter_.

It was his turn to return the loving look, "Walking out of where, Peter? I never fancied that much of a walk into Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey or Pennsylvania. I didn't know you were so into travel, but that could explain your hero gig." Inclining his head towards the kitchen, he asked, "Lunch?"

XXX

Peter opened his mouth a couple times like he wanted to say something, but even in the pause that Sylar left between 'hero gig' and asking about lunch, Peter said nothing. Instead, he walked over to the kitchen and peered inside after the other man. He looked at Sylar's face, then around the kitchenette, still obviously on the verge of saying something and not able to find any words he wanted to utter. He looked mystified by the very concept of lunch.

 _Vermont? What? We're in California! No, wait, we're in his head. In his head we're near Vermont? Didn't he mention New York earlier? Where the hell does he think…? No, just ignore it. It doesn't matter. We just have to_ get out of here _, wherever he happens to think we are. Maybe in here it's a metaphor and we have to leave in a physical way, like finding the right door to walk through or going down the right street._

_Lunch…does he actually eat here? Does he expect_ _**me** _ _to eat here? Getting out of here is a lot more important than pretending to eat, like some sort of make-believe tea party with dolls. We can eat later. But does_ _**he** _ _have to eat in his own head? Maybe he's deluded himself into thinking he does. Does that count? This is…confusing. Do I have to eat if I'm in his head, since it's his delusion? Or pretend to eat – whichever?_

_Wait a second – Sylar is asking_ _**me** _ _to eat with him. Why would he do that? Why isn't he kicking me out of here? I'm of no use to him. I can't even get him out of here. He's not being such an asshole anymore. Why? Is he just bored? Three hours of not talking to anyone and he's gone batty already? I think_ _**I'm** _ _going batty and I've only been in here a few minutes. This place is crazy. Or is it that way because_ _**he's** _ _crazy?_

"I've got to see what's outside of this apartment." He looked around the rest of the place as if the walls might be closing in on him. _All of_ _ **this**_ _is his head_. Suddenly he was apprehensive about what was behind the closed doors and where all the people had gone. There was no one else in the version of Sylar's reality that they were inhabiting. And while yeah, that might have been Matt's doing, what if Sylar thought he'd killed them all and he was trying to lure Peter into...? Peter walked out into the hall, getting his bearings and heading for the stairs. He felt shaken. _Action. I need to be_ _ **doing**_ _something, anything._

XXX 5, 225 ^

Giving his…guest a slight grin, he gestured at the kitchen. Sylar did want company. Even if the company was dying to 'escape'. The gaping fish act was pretty amusing, the empath seemed stunned by something. "Peter…." He asked slowly as if talking to a startled animal and he was trying to transcend the barrier of speech with it, "Are you okay?"

Oh, now it was starting to sink in, he could see. Peter was starting to get panicky now. Had it been a stranger, he'd have counted his guest as lucky to have himself to fall back on; Sylar hadn't had anyone. Three years and sane as could be or not so much. But this was Peter, champion extraordinaire (probably with good reason). Sylar had just received a new toy from….somewhere. Maybe the sewers, he'd only checked those briefly because why would anyone hide there? And for three years, too.

"I'd take a guess and say….streets and buildings, Peter. What's there to see?" Sylar just frowned and padded unthinking behind the departing man. He began to hear something now that the ruckus and some of the ridiculous had passed; a lack of sound, like placing an ear to someone's chest and hearing no heart beat. It was a familiar sound to him; it was Peter's watch.

XXX

Peter found the stairs and thumped down them, looking around a lot more carefully this time around, making note of the things stacked around and wondering why Sylar would bother to think this stuff up. He stopped at the door and looked back at Sylar following him down the stairs. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. No, actually he _was_ sure: he felt apprehensive. Suddenly he had a lot more empathy for Sylar pointing at him, threatening to kill him, and running off like a maniac down the street. It had a certain appeal at the moment, when it had occurred to Peter that everyone might be dead in Sylar's mental version of reality because he'd killed all of them.

Peter picked a direction and set off down the middle of the street. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. It was a little chilly – or, he supposed, Sylar's mind was telling him it was chilly. _Fine then. My mind will put my mental hands in my pockets, but that's only because I don't want to argue about it_. He was headed in the opposite of the direction they'd come in from, but with the number of times they'd turned on their little morning run, there was no telling where they were going. Sylar probably knew. It was _his_ head after all. "You ever get lost here?" _Do I need to worry about losing him? Would I be able to find him again?_

He listened to Sylar's answer, not caring much what he said past the yes or no part of it. He thought about that apartment, full of books and clocks; a kitchenette with food that Sylar thought he was going to eat; probably a bed that he thought he slept in. He'd imagined an entire little world for himself here. He'd said something about Peter picking out an apartment to live in. Ridiculous! Disturbing. And…he hadn't told him to move on or get lost, which would have been the sort of reaction Peter would have expected under normal 'real' circumstances. It was almost like he wanted him here.

Speaking of disturbing, he glanced back over his shoulder as he walked and asked, "The inside of your door, on your apartment – why was there a bloody handprint on it? How'd that get there?" It had been one of the things that had creeped him out as he stood next to the entrance to the kitchenette, with the door right next to him, the handprint just at eye level.

XXX

It was warm to Sylar, the weather. Perhaps it was due to his feelings at having found a fr- someone else to talk to. Walking down the hall five or so feet behind the other, he caught Peter's wary glance and raised his hands to show that they weren't armed or rather, he supposed, pointing at his head. "Lost? No. But it may be because I have a good sense of direction. I mean….you can get disoriented, sure, turned around. That part's easy. You'll get used to it. Got plenty of time." Again with the rambling. It didn't even occur to him that's what he was doing, but it made sense.

It was very strange for him to be in the presence of a special and not feel the Hunger tugging at his mind to fix and probe and discover, even if the watch was still begging to be fixed. So while Peter walked, and Sylar walked behind, he found himself staring at the back of the medic's head. Of course Peter was broken, everyone was, but he was broken…differently. Ugh, if only they had their abilities they could have some real fun maybe. Then again….that was probably the worst thing that could happen. Peter would probably abuse them once 'playtime' was over, with just cause.

Sylar trod behind the other man as he was seemingly engrossed in his surroundings, the ones Sylar didn't notice anymore. "You sure you don't want lunch, ma-" he was interrupted by Peter's completely random musing about his door and the ever present handprint it bore. Frowning, he paused as he debated even answering that.

"It's…." to be honest, he didn't want to think about it, but he swallowed and continued. "It's a scar. My second kill. Bennet and….Elle gave me a test…." His voice was fairly quiet and hesitant over his words, almost deciding to stop multiple times. "If I passed….I could have had a life with just my original ability, the one you picked up. Lived out my boring life with my watches and….maybe a girlfriend." Sighing in despair at the memory, he ended his tale, "I failed. Obviously."

Here he was today, whatever today was. Calendars were useless and the stars told him nothing. But he was still a monster even in this waste, a sentiment Peter would doubtless jump at the chance to remind him of. "I keep it as a reminder; no one outruns their sin and pain."

XXX

Peter had been setting a hurried pace before, his strides purposeful even if he had no idea where he was going. He was _"_ _going_ _"_ down this street and there was no reason to dawdle. But his steps slowed during the answer to his second question. He glanced back over his shoulder uneasily a couple times. If it had been anyone else saying something like that…such a raw opening up would…Peter felt a strong need to acknowledge that somehow, validate, tell him it was okay or something else like that. But…this was the man who killed Nathan. That thought surged up in him like a fire and he increased his pace again, hunching his shoulders like it had suddenly gotten colder outside, even though he was hotter within.

_Yeah, you failed. Failed over and over. Maybe if you'd quit doing the same thing, you'd get a different result._

When Sylar spoke of the reminder, the look Peter shot over his shoulder wasn't uneasy or conflicted. His eyes were narrowed and angry. He snorted. He knew he shouldn't say what was on his mind, but all he could think about was this imposter touching Nathan's forehead in that storage unit. Had he known even then? He should have suspected. Sylar wasn't a dummy. He didn't have a right to touch Nathan. And so he asked, "You really need a reminder of something like that? Like a post-it on your door everyday when you get ready to go out – _'Note to self: don't kill anyone today – it's wrong!'_ " A mocking lilt filled his voice. Hearing that tone, he shut his mouth.

_This,_ _**this** _ _is the person who's supposed to save Emma? I don't want him anywhere near her!_

He shook his head rapidly, angry, and tried to see if he could possibly walk any faster without running.

XXX

Peter kept glancing back at him, probably just for that reason, too; Sylar walked _behind_ Peter. Still, if he didn't like it, he could slow his short-legged fast pace and keep an eye on Sylar himself. As he spoke, Sylar saw that he did decrease in speed and really, what was the hurry? The city would wait. It would still be there even if Peter decided to take a breather for five minutes. It would be there in five weeks and five years from then. He had to admit it was a little exciting to have something _to be_ rushed about even if there was no rush at all.

The medic didn't seem to appreciate something he'd said. _What a surprise_. And turned to glare at him. _I know that look…_ Sylar stopped dead in his tracks, unsure of what was expected of him or even how he should respond. What had he said that was so wrong? He hadn't thought there would be any big, blinking red button triggers in what he'd said. "I don't know, Peter, why don't you tell me how you did with your little experiment with my power, hmm?" he threw back, annoyed and strangely insulted by the remark.

He sent a matching glare at Peter's head as he faced ahead and increased his pace again, definitely desperate to get away from this, from him. He began walking again as well. Well, he wouldn't get away from it that easy. It was such an awful long way to run. Peter of all people would have at least some understanding of what it was like. "Fuck post-its," he muttered to himself, but he glanced at his right forearm where the tattoo lay. Talk about confusion. Hiro, Parkman, tattoo girl and Claire….now Peter. Everyone was telling him something different.

" _You will die alone."_

" _You're really are insane."_

" _You're lonely. But you want love; you just don't think you deserve it. You're impotent."_

" _You're a psychopath. Mystery solved."_

" _This is a dream."_

_Die alone, you're lonely, go to Claire, here have a fucking tattoo, that ship sailed, no one will mourn your death._

"Fuck heroes."

XXX

Peter spun suddenly, almost causing a collision, not showing much awareness of where, exactly, the other man was. He sidestepped, which made it look like he was circling. Fine. He circled. And while he circled, he pointed angrily, teeth clenched. "You know, when I first got my ability, I had problems with it. A _lot_ of problems. Dangerous ones. Not just, _'I might want to murder this one person and then that one person over there and then maybe a week later this other person and two weeks after that someone else!_ _'_ I had _**'level a whole fucking city problems!**_ _ **'**_ And you know what? I looked for _**HELP!**_ I _ASKED_ for help! And I _**GOT**_ help! I let a bastard throw me off a thirty story building and beat the crap out of me time after time and-" Peter shook briefly with a lot of feelings. He'd never told this to _anyone_ – not even Nathan, though that was mostly because he'd never had a chance. Their relationship had changed so much after Kirby. Why was he telling it to _Sylar?_

He went on, but he switched to saying something different than he'd intended a second before. "I let myself be incarcerated for _months_ because I thought I might be dangerous. _**Might!**_ " He glared at Sylar like his eyes might burn the other man down. "I got it under control. Did you ever even try? Or did you just dive straight in like an alcoholic looking for the bottom of the bottle, as soon as you had a taste?"

He snorted and wheeled to take off down the street again, hands out and loose at his sides, heart racing. He tried to get a grip on himself. Nathan's face, calm and accepting, danced in front of his eyes with a bloody line across his forehead, but it wasn't Sylar who had put it there – it was Peter.

XXX

Sylar started back at the sudden motion, stepping back and away himself, widened dark eyes tracked him before they narrowed at the outburst. He stood still and let Peter blow his highly compressed air at him while his face betrayed only patience and a kind of blank, detached longevity, but he listened.

He gained some interesting information even Na- wait, what? No, he was Sylar; _he_ hadn't known that about Peter. Blinking and shaking his head slightly to shake off the sensation of foreign if rather pleasant memories, he stated firmly and surprisingly smoothly, "You didn't answer the question." Peter Petrelli was not squirming violently off his hook with anger and bluster and avoidance. He was curious now. _Curiosity killed the cat. Ha._

"I suppose my most memorable attempt for help was with your own kind, Petrelli. _Your_ mother said I was the favorite. Told me she could help me control my urges. Then she fed me a nice girl name Bridget. I sat in a cell, too. I went on a mission with Bennet." So what if the robbery hadn't turned out ideally and by the book, Ma- Angela had forgiven him. Right?

He wasn't trying to sing his own praises….necessarily, but his good deeds were never taken into account. _It's not fair_. Was there a time limit he had to stay clean in order to be….trusted wasn't the right word, forgiven wasn't either. Accepted? _Taken seriously_.

"I tend to get turned away from help or backstabbed on principal of being a murderer, but I asked Parkman for help. I went to-" _Uh…let's not get into that just yet._ "The carnival," he replaced. _Got a tacky tattoo of your pencil-wielding fiend of a niece. God, that one was messy. Took my whole eye with it and everything_ _._ It occurred to him that Peter hadn't read his file, or else he would be aware of most if not all of this. His point was he _had_ tried. On multiple occasions. He'd even stuck around long enough to drive people up the wall with his presence and his attempts.

_Maybe it's just my personality._

XXX

 _What was the question?_ Nathan's dying face came to mind again, blood starting down from his forehead, Peter suddenly realizing what he was doing, the body falling to the floor like a sack of grain… _Oh yeah, that was the question_ _._ He deflated, but he didn't answer it even now. _Fuck_ _._ He listened quietly to what Sylar said next.

He'd begun to suspect his mother told everyone they were her favorite. It didn't bother him. He didn't know Bridget, or what the context was around 'fed me.' It could mean Angela had sent Sylar to visit someone for innocent reasons and he lost control and took her power, or it could mean she brought a handcuffed, blindfolded victim-to-be to him. He didn't know Sylar well enough to judge, so he just filed it away for now. It wasn't like his mother was above the latter possibility, after all.

A mission with Bennet…Peter sighed and nodded sort of distantly. "The carnival's bad news," he muttered, walking off again, but slower this time, not even quite a normal walking pace. His voice barely carried when he added, "That's where you save her. By saving _her_ , you save thousands." _Hard to believe. Asshole_ _._ There was no real heat to that epithet at the moment though. Before Sylar could respond to that, Peter called over his shoulder, "You said you went to Parkman for help. He trapped you in here instead. He lied to you." _Guess that wouldn't be the first time. The people I went to for help…they actually_ _ **helped**_ _. Even Claude. Even Nathan._

Peter looked around at the buildings they were passing. He pointed idly at something. "Palm tree. Not in New York." Not that he really cared where they were (he was very clear on their "actual" location), but he wanted to prove Sylar wrong instead of admitting he might have a point about the problems with his ability.

XXX

Peter went quiet and he could tell the man was thinking or lost in something. Reading silences was getting to be his strong point. He snorted as his curiosity would have to be put aside. He set it on the table to be brought up from a different angle at a later date. And there would be later dates, whatever Peter thought.

"That's no surprise. Of course he did. And damn straight its bad news. But Lydia's not so bad," he said wistfully, "Good kisser. Hands her ability out like you do, though." _Why did I let her kiss me again? Oh yeah. Ability_ _._ "Edgar's a pain in the ass. Probably because Lydia's a good kisser." Sylar grimaced and growled to himself remembering the rest of the ridiculous exchange of saliva and insults.

Samuel….well, let's just say he'd love to sink his teeth into Sam. He hadn't believed for a moment all the hokey words the Irish buffoon had slid his way. Lydia must have picked up more than he'd thought if Sam was able to mimic his own manipulative style so easily. Maybe that's why he didn't like him. Then again, any self-respecting adult male past the age of puberty who wore black chipped nail polish was a screaming mime of bad news, too.

"Thou-" Sylar began, his very mind stuttering over the idea. _And that's all it is. An idea_. _No way_ _._ Peter surely had to realize by 'saving him' and letting Sylar 'save' what's-her-face he would be single-handedly be placing Sylar in a position to be….well, more redeemable. _I'm a fucking coupon now? With an expiration date of course_.

It flattered and annoyed, and, yes, hurt him to no end that people thought of him as dispensable as a coupon. _Cheap one-time thrill ride. What did Angela say? A weapon. I'm not cheap. I just….never had a reason to be the good guy. Not with my ability._

"I'm sure he did," Sylar remarked dryly, not overly sarcastic, more at disbelieving, "I regenerate, the effects wouldn't last three years. Besides, Parkman's dead and everybody lies. I used to have abilities to counter that. I remember threatening his lovely wife and kid, but it's not like that was the first time or anything." _Should have taken those abilities while I had the chance. And banged his wife again, but hindsight is 20-20…._

Sylar frowned at the sudden appearance of the strange, foreign tree. "How the hell did-" he cut himself off before he ruined his own point and left himself open to the 'because it's not real' speech. He'd grasped it the first time. "So that dream you had….what happens exactly in it? I mean, I assume it was M- Angela's ability you were using." Fishing for credibility since Peter was quite the dreamer himself. "How exactly did you….uh, find yourself here?"

Of course he could always ask about Peter's current flavor of the week, this Amanda person or whoever she was. _/Rolling his eyes, he remembered back to the times he'd had to talk to Pete about boundaries with strangers in need, being more of the help those who help themselves type himself. Or more accurately, think of the big picture. Legislature. To this day…he still thought it went in one ear and out the other. Yeah, sure it was before his baby brother found his ability, but the kid could at least try to keep his nose to himself on important things, right?/_

XXX

Peter stopped. Here in front of the palm tree was a good enough place, and it underscored his point. He could see two more further down a side street, but he didn't see any reason to rub it in…more. Instead he turned and scowled deliberately at Sylar for some of the things he'd been blithely jabbering about without seeming to realize how horrible they were. He knew Matt had things to be angry at Sylar about.

He shook his head in a gesture of disbelief, although he believed it all too well. "The dream was one of those…" He gave Sylar another glare, but with less intensity than normal. His mother's ability had almost been taken twice - once by himself and once by Sylar. He still wished that Nathan had somehow crushed out Sylar's identity and taken over his body. He smiled bitterly. Then his older brother would have been as multi-powered as Peter once was - an interesting role reversal. And he wouldn't be dead - the important part. But no. Nathan was dead and here was Sylar, whose continued existence was… Peter sighed. He didn't know what it was, other than _wrong_.

 _What was I saying?_ "It was a dream that told the future, a precognitive dream. And yeah, Angela's ability, not Matt's." He assumed 'Matt' was the name Sylar had been about to say. Peter had specified: a dream, not a painting. Why would Sylar think Matt had dreams of the future, too? Well…maybe he did. If he'd been trapped in Matt's body for a while, then really, Sylar probably knew Matt's ability better than Peter did. _Huh._

"In the dream, you go to the carnival and…" _Emma has an ability. Do I tell Sylar she has an ability?_ _ **No.**_ Peter swallowed. "…and Emma is there. She's being forced to do something that endangers a lot of people. You…you _stop_ her, but you _save_ her, too. And by doing that, everyone is saved." He frowned, not sure how to put into words the lights, confusion, screaming and voices, as well as the looming presence behind Emma, controlling her movements… Or how to express the anguish on her features or her bloody fingers or the hopeful, pleased look on Sylar's face. "That's…pretty much the basics."

Peter stared off down the street. They'd come a number of blocks, enough so he wasn't quite sure which building was the one Sylar lived in. He'd wanted to get completely out of sight of it and see if that changed anything. He turned and looked the other way. The street stretched on for a distance, then there was a T intersection and it ended, going off to either side. That was about four or five blocks away.

_Why doesn't Sylar have cars in this place? Or bicycles? Christ! He had a shopping cart. Why not a bicycle? Of course, there might be bicycles and I just haven't seen one. He doesn't seem all that interested in actually going anywhere - so convinced he's alone. Was alone. Now_ _**I'm** _ _here._

He shut his eyes and made another futile attempt to get out. He rubbed his temple, wishing the strain would at least give him a headache. The utter lack of response made him wonder if he was doing anything at all. _Well, obviously, since I'm still here, I'm not._ Sylar seemed aware of what he was trying. Peter gave him a slightly exasperated look.

XXX

Maybe that's what annoyed him most; that people assumed when they didn't know him. Sylar had been about to drop the 'Ma' word, actually and had managed to recover in time. Ah, Angela's ability—the bane of everyone's existence. Supposedly Ma had had a dream about Nathan being killed so she stuck herself into the situation and instead of healing Nathan's corpse with his daughter's heal-anything blood, she'd pulled a fast one and Sylar was the one who caught the bullet. _Big, fat, life-changing bullet_. Maybe she'd wanted to be a hero, too.

To be honest, Sylar wasn't interested in her ability. He was interested in the murder and blood aspect of it. She really did- had given him something to strive for at the time. The Queen Bitch of All Evil was Angela. Previously he wouldn't have found his inner thoughts to be amusing enough to earn an audible reaction, but with Peter of all people there it now seemed kind of funny. _'_ _Remember that time I kissed your mom?_ _'_ It made him chuckle to himself and stifle it before the other noticed.

He just raised an amused brow at the latest glare; he was being honest. _Why does that always seem to get me into more trouble than a lie would otherwise? I even kept it PG for goodness sake_. _Does he want details or something_? "Eh-heh," he replied, disbelieving. "So…where is this girl of your dreams now, Peter? Is she….hiding?" he hinted sarcastically, "No, no. Playing hard to get, right?" _Just his type then, wasn't she._

"Peter, one day your face is gonna stick like that. Then I'll be pissed because I have to look at you." Sylar snarked in a mild tone at the medic's near constant glare. Juvenile, sure, but it needed to be said. "Now, Captain Grumps, what exactly are we looking for?" this was delivered in a false stage conspiratorial whisper with the intent to mock for the most part.

"Buildings…road…buildings…." He himself gave a wary look towards the palm trees he pretended didn't exist otherwise. "You'd be better off spending your time looking for _just_ the right apartment. I hope you brought pajamas." Was his absent-minded musings as he moved to walk randomly over the street, just wandering really but not going far from the determined medic. _Don't break your brain, Pete,_ he wanted to say at the other man's obvious head pains.

XXX

Disgust crossed his features. _I don't need_ _ **pajamas**_ _._ He watched Sylar's wanderings and considered whether he should ask him the questions festering in his brain:

_Do you know a way out of here?_

_Is there somewhere around here different than the rest?_

_Is there any direction you haven't gone in?_

_Is there any area that scares you, or is confusing, or always disorients you?_

_Is there any significance to him wanting me to get an apartment, or eat lunch?_

His brow furrowed as he considered that last one. There'd been a movie about a guy named Neo where you had to take a pill to do … something, something that took you to another world. Peter hardly remembered the details, though the movie had been a big deal when it came out. All the excitement of dealing with powers had shoved such fantasies to the back of his head. But it was an Alice in Wonderland allegory that involved eating something. Was it possible that eating something here would … do something?

_Man, that seems far-fetched. It's not the sort of thing that would be in Matt's head, I don't think it's the sort of thing that would be in Sylar's, and it's certainly not something_ _**I'd** _ _come up with. Well, I did sort of just come up with it, but it's stupid. I think I'd come up with a door. Or a wall. Or something like that. Something physical - and a lot more than eating lunch with Sylar._

He huffed. "This isn't working, okay? Just go on back to your apartment. I'll figure it out." There was really no point in having Sylar around if he couldn't get him _out_. Being around him was pretty much a roller coaster of emotions anyway and the man was annoying the hell out of him. _Maybe if I just didn't have as many distractions._

XXX

Sylar had made a large circle on the road and came back around in the street, the man's broken sound fading and then getting stronger; coming around beside Peter, he trailed his fingers against the brick of the nearest building, eyeing it lazily. "Nah, getting some air," he gave the other a slight smirk. Honestly he was bored unto death and looking for some kind of buzz out here. Peter was just the unlucky subject in many ways.

"I think it's 'working' just fine, Peter, rolling right along as expected." Sylar kicked idly at the base of the building. "Seriously, man….do things the easy way for once and let it go. There's no one to save. Not even me." _Regretfully_ _._ Huh, that was an odd thought. _Maybe somewhere in another universe we're friends. I'm normal and decently happy and he's…well, hard to picture him as anything else_ _._

While it was a pretty fantasy, it didn't occupy his thoughts. He was thinking on the things Peter would need when he moved in and move in he would, regardless of what the medic thought. Clothes, books, comics and food. Everything else should be in whatever apartment he chose. Oh, comics...

/ _Flash Gordon. George Lucas. He remembered taking Peter to see Return of the Jedi in '83. Poor Pete, he'd been three years old, Ma had protested, but he'd been so adamant to see the sequels. Pete did really well as he remembered, the young boy having sat and stared at the screen with those amazingly wide seeing hazel eyes. Not that he noticed. He'd been busy thinking of the impossibilities of flight with something like the Millennium-/ What the fuck?_

Sylar made a quick motion away from the building's scratchy surface that was unfortunately his only connection to the world, the earth as much as he hated it. Shaking his head, grimacing and blinking he found himself a little disoriented. _I hope he didn't notice that._

XXX

"Let it go? Let _what_ go?" Peter threw his arms out to the sides in exasperation. "Do you think I'm just going to go eat lunch with you and live…here? In your head? Not even _try_ to get out?" _Well, I have tried. Am trying. Just not succeeding. Yet._

"Sylar, I have a life. I have a life out there." He waved vaguely, since what he wanted to point at was everything that wasn't here. "And so do other people - people I care about! Maybe your life is so fucked up that this is an improvement and…" _Oh my God, that's probably true_ _._ Peter's mouth shut with a snap, not sure if he should be embarrassed or ashamed or just bull on through the conversation. It was Sylar, after all, and Sylar's feelings didn't matter all that much to him. The problem was that he felt a little smaller _himself_ just for having said it, regardless of who it was to.

He sighed and looked off at the T-intersection, his mind shying away from contemplating what it must be like to live Sylar's life. Instead he thought about how empty he felt without Nathan in his. It would be Christmas soon and Nathan wouldn't be there. Not that they'd spent the last several Christmases together, but Peter had at least known that Nate was out there…somewhere.

They'd always at least called, either on the holiday or close to it, what with Peter's birthday being two days before it. Except when Peter was locked up in the Company hospital, thinking Nathan was dead. He remembered the ham dinner Elle had brought to him. It was the only way he knew it was Christmas, as he'd lost track of the days long before. He'd been so numb that even her sadistic affections were an entertaining diversion.

_Is that what Sylar thinks I am?_

XXX

"Okay, Peter, go dig a tunnel to China or something. At least you tried, but we have showers here." By then Sylar was getting annoyed despite having someone else in his limited sphere. Peter really wouldn't see reason on this, would he? Then the other man began to rave about how fantastic his own life had been. Had been. Dark eyes narrowed at him and his brow grew tense and he pursed his lips at the other.

"For all your breeding, Petrelli, I would have thought you'd learned a civil mouth." Was his only reply, rolling his gaze skyward. _Ah, much better_. After a moment or two of thought on the comment itself, he sighed. "It's better and worse. No Hunger, no abilities, I can just be myself, but….there's…no one here. I'm rotting away in here," Little did he realize that left him open to further comment about how fitting it was, "But you'll see just how fun that is soon enough."

While he didn't say it outright, the feeling he'd been half-heartedly trying to convey had been loneliness. The world was dead now; what could it hold for someone who'd fought so hard for greatness that depended on _people_. There was no one here to give him anything other than insulted conversation and a headache. Although…Peter depended on people just as much as he did, he supposed. Maybe that boded well for Sylar in the end. _He's not used to it._

He also assumed Peter was immortal and that they'd be nothing but entertaining diversions to each other for the rest of all eternity. _Goddamn that fucking ability and the day I took it_. Never mind that it had saved his life from random pot-shots. He didn't think it was worth this Hell otherwise known as Life. _Oh, that's a great idea. We can sit down with cookies and milk and play a freaking board game. If we make it Monopoly, maybe it_ will _take until the sun burns out. No such luck._

_XXX_

_Rotting away_ _._ It brought to mind the very clear image of Sylar's body propped up behind a brick wall in Parkman's basement. Peter had assumed Matt would wake him up. He was one of the good guys, after all. He didn't exactly count Matt as a friend, but at least not an enemy. They'd worked together, they'd helped each other…off and on. A lot had happened to Matt lately - a lot that Peter probably wasn't in the know about. What sort of effects had Sylar had on him, whilst cohabitating in his body? Matt must have spent six weeks with Sylar in his head and at the end of it he'd been gunned down by a bunch of cops outside a diner in Texas.

Peter looked Sylar up and down and although most of his expression was disdain, there was an element of fear and concern there, too. What if Sylar had pushed Matt so hard that anyone who appeared to be an ally to Sylar fell into the same category? What if Matt walled Peter up right there next to Sylar and just kept piling up bricks? It had already been way too long. If Matt was going to pull Peter out, he'd have done it before now.

 _Well, I suppose I'll know when I suffocate and die. But wait…if my consciousness is_ _ **here**_ _, in Sylar's head, just like Nathan's was, just like Sylar was in Matt's…!_ He jerked as he realized he might be truly trapped here forever. Forever. Metaphorically rotting away in Sylar's head, next to his own, literally decaying body. Peter shuddered like he'd seen a ghost, stiffened and turned towards that distant T intersection.

_I have_ _**got** _ _to get out of here!_

He didn't say anything as he left, because if Sylar had tipped Matt over the edge to become the sort of person who would wall Sylar up in the basement, then he might also have fallen far enough to wall Peter up. And in that case, not only had Sylar killed Nathan, but he'd killed Peter, too, and condemned him to a forever of here, in his head. Thank God he didn't seem to have any powers. Peter figured he had at least an hour or two, but he wasn't sure how much time had already passed. The brickwork had looked shoddy - there would be air holes, but no ventilation. He had no time to waste. Not caring what Sylar made of it, he broke into a jog.

Only later would he wonder what the hell he was running from.


	3. A Long Walk to Nowhere

Day 1

Peter was relieved and disappointed that Sylar didn't follow him. 'Relieved' made sense. 'Disappointed' didn't, but it was how he felt anyway. He jogged to the T-intersection and stopped. He looked both ways, made a quick decision, and without looking back to see what was behind (was Sylar standing in the road looking after him? Walking after him and somehow keeping pace like Pepe Le Pew? Had he disappeared? Or was he just walking back to his apartment to fix that lunch he kept mentioning?), Peter turned left and slipped out of sight.

He took a deep breath and kept going to the next block. He glanced back. The street was empty - no visible pursuit. He ducked into the cross street and leaned against a stucco façade. He calmed down, or at least tried to. He was breathing hard. Was that because of oxygen deprivation? He didn't know. He doubted it. He seemed to be thinking okay.

He looked at his watch, wondering how long it had been since he'd gotten in here, but that was no help. It was stopped at 12:42. He tapped it and put it to his ear. Nothing. He fiddled with the settings, but as it was self-winding, that really didn't do any good. He tapped it again. Still nothing. He sighed. _Great. Just great. Probably has something to do with why Sylar thinks it's been years. He had all those clocks in his apartment though. Were they running?_ He hadn't paid attention, but surely they were. _Why would Sylar surround himself with clocks that didn't work?_

_Okay, let's think this through. If I'm trapped behind that wall with Sylar, then… Okay, if I'm_ _**not** _ _trapped behind it, then I have days until I'll need medical attention and I think it's a safe bet Matt will get me some. And my mom knows where I went. So if he didn't brick me up, then I'm fine, really, other than the part about being stuck here. Eventually someone will get me out._

_But if I_ _ **am**_ _walled up with Sylar, then I only have until my air runs out. Technically, that probably should be, like, now, unless Matt took a break, or had to tear it back down to put me in, or something like that._ He rubbed his forehead. _Sylar thinks it's been years. Either it's seemed like years to him, or Matt told him it was years and now time's passing normally. If it really seemed like years, then if time is still passing that slow, then I'll have…I dunno, weeks? in here before I should be worried. If it was just something Matt pushed in his head like a projected thought, then I'm still out of time. Okay then. I need to get out of here in the next hour or two and if I can't, then…who knows._

He took another long moment to concentrate, emptying his mind, and trying to use Matt's ability to get out. As before when he'd tried alone, absolutely nothing happened. He could think all he wanted about getting out, but it didn't help in the least. "Damnit!" he exclaimed into the emptiness. He balled up his fist, but there was nothing to strike and no one to blame. He let out a long, frustrated sigh.

Peter looked around at the faceless buildings. _Fine. Back to the plan of walking out of here, finding the right door, or whatever._ He walked down the sidewalk, passing in front of a storefront for sporting goods. One side of his mouth quirked up as he looked at the baseball bat in there and imagined uses for it. He caught himself and shook his head. _Really, I seem to be fixating on smashing his head in. I wonder - if I killed him, would I get out of here? Would we both get out of here? If I was wrong though, I would have just murdered him_ _ **and**_ _committed suicide. Even for my 'brilliant' plans, that would be stupid._

He banished his fantasies, but still reached out towards the bat, focusing on it, really reaching. His fingers touched the glass. It was unyielding. He tried again, trying to phase his hand through the glass by sheer mental effort and desire. If this was a dream world, then his will should make a difference. But just like in the real world, it didn't work.

He sighed and put his hand flat on the glass. He pushed. It was hard and cold. He frowned and went to the door. It was open and unlocked. It felt creepy to walk inside, all alone. The store was full of products, unattended. He walked around to the display and reached in for the bat. He pulled it out and hefted it for a moment, a memory of playing ball with Nathan coming to mind. He put it back and sighed. He didn't need it, but he'd confirmed at least that the stores weren't just fronts. They contained things, as Sylar had implied.

Peter walked out, then froze, looking up and down the street. _Crap, which way did I come from? I'm pretty sure it was that way. I turned left at the T…then I turned…um…right? I'm pretty sure it was right. And then I came in here, so I need to go…right. Okay_. He squared his shoulders and headed off to the right. He passed what looked like unfamiliar territory, so he was heartened in his direction sense.

He kept walking for…a long time, not sure how much actual time passed or how to measure it. He tried every door he came to. Walking through them didn't help. He thought various things while walking through them. That didn't help either. He stood restlessly inside a bagel shop and finally helped himself to a couple bagels. He told himself he was just testing and it wasn't because he felt hungry. _I can't be hungry. This is all a dream_.

They certainly didn't seem like three year old products. Not all that fresh, either, but perfectly edible. As long as he was behind the counter, he snagged a bottle of orange juice. The refrigeration units were still running, which seemed odd. He wondered how they were maintained. He caught himself. _Things have_ _ **not**_ _been here three years. They're like this because Sylar thinks they're like this. Why hasn't he noticed discrepancies like this?_

He shook his head and walked out, guzzling the juice because his dream self felt thirsty and it was easier just to drink the damn juice than to argue with himself over his perceptions. It was getting dark. Peter stared up at the sky like he'd never seen approaching darkness. _It's been hours - it has to have been. I'm still alive. And I'm still here. So that means either time isn't stable, or Matt didn't wall me up. Three years to three hours…if Matt wanted to use his ability to get me out, I'd already be out. That means…I guess I have to rely on Mom coming to get me. That might be days. It's an eight hour flight at least._ He swallowed roughly. _I might be here…for what will seem like years. With_ _ **him**_ _._

He sank down slowly against the sun-warmed concrete outside the bagel store. He felt so tired - almost defeated. _Maybe time passes the same in here as out there. Maybe it will just be a couple of days._ He shut his eyes and rested his forehead on his drawn up knees, letting his mind drift, trying to tackle his problem from different directions.

_\\\Whirling gears, a strange ticking sound, comforting in its familiarity, wishing the world would make sense, the gorgeous beauty of realizing that it_ _**did** _ _, the slow passage of the celestial bodies through their courses as lovely as the dance of electrons in the valence shell, bonding...\\\_

Peter jerked awake. _What the hell?_ He was certain, completely certain that those were not his thoughts. He wasn't even sure what a valence shell _**was**_. He struggled to his feet. It was totally dark, save for a few lonely lights on inside of stores. The storefronts themselves were dark and the streetlights weren't on. He rubbed at his eyes. _Okay, calm down. So I'm trapped in Sylar's head and I get…thought-leak, I guess. He could have been thinking about worse things, I suppose._

 _Wait, was I asleep? Why was I sleeping? Damnit. I don't need to sleep._ In a huff, he turned and headed off through the dark, determined to get somewhere and accomplish something no matter what. Blocks passed under his shoes, probably miles. He kept to a straight line when he could, with the tall, stark buildings looming up around him.

Day 2

When dawn came, Peter realized the area he was in looked vaguely familiar. That he might have gotten turned around at some point seemed likely. He didn't think it mattered too much, really, because it wasn't like he'd thought the place would conform to physical limits.

He walked more slowly, examining the structures, looking for street signs (there weren't many, but there were a few) and memorizing the landmarks. He walked out to a new street and jumped. There was a palm tree. It wasn't like he hadn't seen others, but he'd stood in front of this one with Sylar just yesterday. He turned and yes, there were two others down the side street. _Damn. Huh_. He looked down the road towards where he imagined Sylar's apartment to be.

By now the sun was well above the top of the buildings. He frowned at the day orb, the dream-like thoughts from the night before tickling in his head, something about the drift of the heavens marking the truest progression of time. He glanced down the street and jumped again, for there was Sylar, a few feet from the sidewalk, peering at him. They were separated by a half dozen blocks, so it wasn't like he was right at hand, but for some reason seeing the other man unsettled Peter anyway. He walked forward across to the side street, heading down to those other two palms because he needed a destination.

As far as he could tell, Sylar didn't follow him, a fact that made him glad for a while. Then a little annoyed, as the sun climbed higher; he passed through more blocks of empty city, and he wondered restlessly _why_ Sylar wasn't following him. _What is he doing, back there, all alone? What would I do, if I were trapped here alone and someone new showed up? I think I'd follow them. I'd want to know what they were doing here. Maybe they knew a way out. I'd try to find out how they got here…_

 _Of course, all that presupposes that I'd be willing to talk to the person. Maybe Sylar hates me. No, I'm pretty sure he probably does. I don't want him to hate me! I don't deserve to be hated by the likes of him! He's the one who's always been…_ Peter thought about how often he'd ruined Sylar's plans, from Sylar's point of view. His mind didn't like that course, so it jumped tracks. _He's got to be doing something. Maybe he's laying a trap for me. No, that's paranoid. He'd have done something before._

He considered the reactions Sylar had had to him here - running away, conflicted emotions, hope, fear, anger, disdain, unexpected opening up, oversharing of information Peter really didn't want to know, a sort of disjointed rambling at times… He sighed. Okay, so the guy was lonely. He got it now. He'd gotten it before, for the most part, he just hadn't cared. He wasn't sure he cared now.

He went in a furniture store and picked out a nice recliner. He sat down, tilted it back, and settled in. His brain was tired; the sun was setting. His stomach rumbled discontentedly. He'd eaten a muffin around noon, but nothing else. He refused to admit he needed to eat. If he hadn't been so tired from walking nearly nonstop for the previous eighteen hours, he would have argued with himself about needing to sleep, but whatever. His back hurt, his legs hurt, his feet hurt, and his brain was so dulled he couldn't think, so he relaxed and fell asleep after a little bit.

Day 3

_\\\He was eating a cheeseburger that was pretty good and some fries that were merely passable while Mohinder rambled on about specials. He talked interminably and it was really, really grating on his nerves. The food was good though. Mohinder addressed him as Zane and it took him a moment to remember the man was talking to him. The peach pie he had for dessert was delicious and his mind had been occupied by a combination of that and a fantasy of killing Mohinder in the same way he'd killed Chandra. He recovered easily enough, making small talk until Mohinder went to the bathroom, then blithely drugging his drink so the Indian would be asleep when he went to Dale Smither for her ability.\\\_

Peter stirred uneasily, waking. He didn't want to see the next part and he had a disturbing feeling that if he didn't wake up, he would. He slapped himself firmly and that seemed to shake it. _Why the hell would Sylar be thinking of that, now?_ As if in answer, Peter's stomach rumbled. He tried to go back to sleep, but between his body telling him it was hungry and the apprehension that he would be subjected to having to watch Sylar dream about killing someone, he couldn't rest.

He got up and stalked out of the furniture store, even though it was still dark out and his feet hurt abominably. Dawn was close though. He guessed he was getting Sylar's dreams, maybe not intentional thoughts. That was disturbing. The latter, he could insist Sylar cut it out. The former…well, there might not be much Sylar could do about that. It might just be an occupational hazard of being stuck in his head. He wondered if Sylar got his dreams in return.

He found a diner and helped himself, frying eggs and making toast, going so far as to even brew coffee. If he was going to admit that Sylar's weird mental world required him to eat, then he might as well make decent food. As he ate, he reflected on the passage of time. It had been a day and a half by now. His mother, and anyone else she sent, would have been here by now, if time was passing normally. If he didn't have life support…then he should be getting dehydrated. Although he didn't expect he'd feel it in here, he expected that he might start having some impairment - that is, if time **was** passing normally.

He spent the day circling out from Sylar's apartment, which had become the center of the universe by virtue of having the only other occupant of the universe living at it. He managed to avoid Sylar - or so he thought. He worried the other man might be skulking around after him. He couldn't shake the idea that he _ought_ to be, and so he spent the late afternoon trying to catch his phantom follower. Either Sylar knew the territory too well (which he should - it was his head, after all), or he wasn't there. The frequent stops were also a good excuse to rest his feet and stretch. He hurt, a lot. Even more than the hunger though, he resisted admitting to the pain.

Before the sun set, Peter gave up trying to ambush someone who likely wasn't there and climbed to the top of the tallest building he could find. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it earlier. By the time he very laboriously drug himself up a bazillion stairs and reached the top, it was rapidly darkening. He surveyed the terrain, but there was really nothing to see. It was as Sylar had said - streets and buildings, and more streets and buildings. Distantly he could see hills in one direction and the ocean in the other, but for some reason he couldn't focus on which was east and which was west. That was ridiculous, because only one horizon was light but…

Peter caught himself again. Time after time, his mind tried to apply logic and rationality to this world. It was stupid to try. He leaned against what was probably an air processing unit. _No wonder Sylar believes this is real. I_ _ **know**_ _it's not and I keep trying to treat it as real._ He shook his head, not wanting to admit Sylar was right, but here was the evidence of his own behavior. If he didn't remind himself _constantly_ , he fell into the routine of thinking this was the real world. He walked back inside, not relishing the prospect of navigating all those flights of stairs again, even if it was heading down this time.

He went down a couple flights, then leaned on an emergency door, stretching the small of his back and idly looking in. He wondered how Sylar had managed to fill all of these buildings with such detail. _He must be a really smart guy. What's that over there? Is that an elevator?_ His brows furrowed. He triggered the door, which was open, just like all the other doors. It shouldn't have been, as a standard security door like this shouldn't open _into_ a floor. Peter didn't bother to argue with himself about reality and just accepted it. Just like he accepted that the elevator worked as it carried him down to the ground floor without incident. _Wish I'd noticed that before climbing all those stairs. Wait…I didn't really climb all those stairs. I just think I did._ He sighed again and slept in the lobby of the building, on a couch, because he was too sore and disheartened to go out and look for a more comfortable place.

Day 4

The next morning, he felt terrible. Peter ambled around randomly. There really wasn't much point to exploring, he'd decided, and in addition to his feet hurting, his thighs ached. His back wasn't all that happy either - he was pretty sure that had something to do with sleeping on hard couches, recliners and crouched against walls.

So he took it slow. It gave him more time to think. He wondered what Sylar was doing. He didn't think the other man was following him. So…what did he do to pass the time? Three years? Peter supposed he might as well admit to the possibility that Sylar had experienced the relative passage of three years, just as Peter was now beginning his third day. He didn't feel dehydrated or "impaired" from anything other than his exertions and experiences here. He supposed that was a good thing.

His feet unwittingly led him back towards Sylar's apartment. He started a little when he found himself on the same block, but after a moment of consideration, he decided he might as well say hello. Avoiding the other man was childish. And Sylar was definitely lonely. He was doing him a favor, really. Peter stopped in front of the door of the building and stalled for only a few minutes before squaring his shoulders and walking inside. He headed up the stairs with a heavy tread, determined to get this over with. Sylar would gloat that he'd come back and Peter would just have to suck it up, because he knew Sylar would be secretly very happy to see him. Peter could handle a little gloating.

He stopped outside the other man's door and knocked loudly, rather than barging in like before. Seconds passed, then minutes. Peter hadn't heard anything. He hammered at the door again. More silence passed. He tried the knob. It wasn't locked. It was also repaired, he noticed, from where he'd kicked it in. Within, the place was empty. He gave it a quick search, including behind that other door, the one he'd worried about before, but it was just a bathroom. There were no dead bodies or anything at all unusual. He left the door hanging open as he moved on.

He walked back outside, beginning to get worried. Where the hell was Sylar? This was his place. This was where he should be. Where else _would_ he be? This was his head. There was no more reason for him to explore than there was for Peter. What if something happened to him? What if Matt got him out instead of Peter, and this was now Peter's own head he was stuck in? No, that was preposterous. But what if Sylar got _himself_ out, now that he knew it could be done, and just left Peter here? Now that was chilling. Peter might be stuck here forever…alone. " _No_ _,"_ he murmured.

He had no more thought that though than he heard a noise. Not stopping to listen further, he hurried towards the intersection, hastening around the corner to find Sylar - less than twenty feet away and walking towards him, grocery bags in hand. Peter stared at him with wide eyes, then relaxed. Two minutes before, finding Sylar was the most important thing in the universe. Now…he was disappointed and relieved to have found him. 'Disappointed' made sense. 'Relieved' did not, but that was how he felt anyway.

Day 1

 _Let the kid have his moment._ Sylar shrugged and turned slowly back towards his apartment, meandering back home. _Home. Guess it is home_. Not that it was much of one or that he particularly desired it to be, but it wasn't that way before all this, three years ago. When he was young he'd moved around with his birth parents since his d- Samson had Intuitive Aptitude as well and he needed to sate it just as Sylar had used to. But for a good twenty-one years he'd been stationary in Queens. _With mom, Virginia….mom, whatever the hell she was._

Maybe he and Peter could compare travel notes or something, although he doubted Peter kept much track of things like that, being the airhead on a mission that he was. Peter would be focused on who he had to save, who he had to throw in a cell, who he had to fight and he wouldn't be looking at the scenery. The medic had managed to show up at nearly every one of Sylar's important kills or manage to get in his way several times a year for the past six (barring the three Sylar had been incarcerated here).

_So…where's he really been all this time? Probably stuck in a coma somewhere I didn't look._

_First order of business….fix the damn door, then lunch._ Sylar went out to the nearest hardware store, about eight or so blocks away to get wood, screws, screw driver, weather strip and insulation as well as new lock plates and a circular electric saw because he didn't have those things lying around. After an hour or so of cutting, he'd fixed the door; the signs of Peter's break-in (and that's what it was) now long gone.

Padding into the kitchen, he got out some soup. It was cause enough for celebration by not cooking now that Peter was here, besides, he wanted to think. He briefly considered making enough for Peter, but he dismissed it. He went about the motions of preparing the soup; putting it in a bowl and heating it before he went back to the living room to get his latest book. Settling down on the couch after eating his vegetable soup, he read until he lost track of time (not really), but he was engrossed. He woke up some time later with a stiff neck and moved into his bed. Sylar found himself suddenly very fearful he wouldn't see him again, that Peter would fade like a dream. After frowning out the window to see if he could see his recent and missing companion, he waited despite the dark exterior. He couldn't the medic so eventually he gave it up and went to bed. _Fuck Peter. He's a big boy. /Little idiot kid dreamer/._

Day 2

When he woke the next morning about seven, Sylar started up from his drowsiness when he remembered he was no longer alone. _Peter?_ Was Peter still here even? Had he been a dream? That got him up more rapidly than usual, the blood rushing through his body making him a little dizzy at first, but he changed his clothes and grabbed a banana, his coat, and headed out the door. He was left to scrape his too-long hair from his face as he ate since he'd forgotten to manage it before he left. Sighing out into the gray morning air, his breath left a slight puff of white in the weather, Sylar walking for the sake of walking….Okay, and he was hoping to spot Peter.

He was in the habit of visiting the library that was about ten blocks or so away. Around lunch time he went by, rooting around in the piles and stacks of books. He hoped that maybe on the off chance, Peter would be here researching. He wasn't, oh well. But Sylar amused himself for the rest of the evening, picking out new books to take home and others to kill time with. _To think, I used to read the dictionary for fun. So much for avoiding life._ It came close enough, he still learned things here and he was so hungry for knowledge. It beat out being Hungry.

Growing bored with reading because there were only so many positions he could contort his body into to stay comfortable and only so long even he could do it, his patience wasn't _that_ amazing, Sylar left the library, wandering around aimlessly.

As he walked, he wasn't particularly avid in checking his surroundings; it wasn't like there was anything here that could harm him. Unless he fell on a rusty nail or choked on a chicken bone or something ridiculous. He remembered the habit of being wary taking a while to leave him. He'd been running for so long, immortality or not. _Wait…_ _._ He paused in his musings, but not his steps. What was Peter doing _exactly_? If Peter thought this was his mind….and he ran off in such a god-awful hurry….what if he was aiming to kill Sylar?

He did spot Peter at one point, from a distance in the afternoon. He knew Peter saw him because the medic paused briefly, then continued on. It wasn't like there was a shortage of weapons and poisons and other ways to trap and torture him, and Sylar knew from experience that he could bleed and feel pain here, not from any self-inflicted wounds, no. Merely the sensations and marks he'd received from the scrapes and bruises and cuts he'd gotten around and about. _What's he up to?_

Arriving back at home as the sun began to set around him and the city, Sylar trod up the stairs to his apartment, tip-toeing past the mountains of books he kept in the hall. _Should I be preparing for an attack or….just wait for him to come back?_ He chose the latter. _Did he get lost or something?_ Sylar entered his apartment and got out a pizza crust he'd gotten before Peter arrived, beginning to make it complete with sauce and cheese (lots of that) and pepperoni that he cut along with some sausage and olives. He then threw it in the oven and admittedly read Reader's Digest. It had a few interesting things in it but it was mostly something to read.

Once he knew the pizza was done, he removed it and cut it absent-mindedly, reading the mini-magazine in his other hand. Taking a few slices on a plate with a napkin, he debated leaving the rest out for the missing medic. He placed it in the fridge anyway; he moved to the couch to eat and read again. _I'll work on watches tomorrow_ , he thought mildly, _shake things up_ _._ He found he kept glancing at the door. _Why are you waiting for him?_ _I'm torn between trying to make him understand me and letting him think what he likes. Maybe…if I wait long enough…I'm sick of waiting, everything's always been waiting. Why can't he just see reason this time? Can't anyone see me?_

By the time he'd read everything in four Reader's Digests ( _such a dumb name_ ) cover to cover; it was late and time for bed. He sighed and rose to change into pajamas and such in the bathroom, staring at himself for a few moments, unlike usual. _What do they see?_ He had to ask. Too bad he was unlikely to get an answer…well, ever. Sylar padded to bed and rolled into it, lying awake for a bit, again something odd.

Day 3

Morning; again. _Another day another…ah, fuck. Where the hell is he? He's redefining 'can't run from your problems'_. Rolling his eyes he got up. This time he was in less of a hurry to get out and….do whatever. Clearly Peter wasn't going to be returning any time soon. _What if he took off running….really trying to get away? What would I do then? Chase after him,_ he answered changed into day clothes, brushing his teeth after he ate a few bowls of Lucky Charms (because he could), this time reading Wired. This magazine never really said anything, but again, it was just something to read, distract.

He spent the rest of the day thinking if he should search for Peter or continue fixing and tinkering with his watches like he was doing. _/That one Omega watch_ Heidi _had given him when he decided to run for senator. 'Got to dress to impress, Mister Navy Man,' she'd teased. He kept handing it off to Jeff, one of his security guards who was a former demo man in Korea, because the damn thing always went out of time; he'd manage to fix it temporarily, but never permanently. He'd only worn it because_ Heidi _had gifted it to him. After a few attempts and if it hadn't been for others running his schedule, he'd have missed appointments and events because of it, he threw it away./_

Sylar paused to frown in the middle of fixing the current watch. _Why does that keep happening? He's_ dead _. Nathan's_ dead _. Gone, dead and buried. Why won't his memories die with him? I used to regenerate_ _._ The only thing to do was sigh, stretch and replace the backing screws. The rest of the day was uneventful. A few breaks from sitting and a sandwich later, he settled down to read and work on a Sudoku puzzle for the remainder of the evening.

Sleep was longer in coming that usual; _fuck Peter and whatever scheming he's doing. If he doesn't want to come back….I was alright for three years without him, I can do it again. I will do it again._ Eventually slumber rose up to greet his eyelids.

Day 4

Rising slowly, his body a little stiff this morning, Sylar sat blinking in the light for a few moments. _Ugh. Remember when this used to be fun? Waking up every morning to death, bullets, blood, screams and abilities?_

_/"You will die alone. No one will mourn your death."/_

_Yeah and fuck you, too. That's exactly what that katana is for_. He rubbed at the long-faded scar that Hiro had left in his guts six years ago. _Three, according to Petrelli_. He snorted and went about dressing and feeding himself. _Groceries…. How long is that brat gonna stay out anyway? Sure there's plenty of places to crash…he's got the whole city, but c'mon._ Sylar found himself en route to Ralph's, going through the motions of picking up the necessary items. _Chicken and rice for tonight…. Need toothpaste….paper towels….should make spaghetti soon, that sounds good….._

Of course there was no cashier, so he walked out with his self-bagged groceries past inactive security cameras that stared blank and glassy. He was fairly lost in his own thoughts as he eventually meandered back home, pausing as he detected sudden movement and heard a sound around the nearest corner. His eyes locked with Peter's widened pair, noting his stiff posture at first before it loosened up and relaxed. Sylar gave a slight grin. He, for one, was relieved. _He came back._


	4. Moments of Weakness

"Peter," Sylar acknowledged, "as stubborn as I remember. Seen the light, I take it." To appear nonchalant, he approached the other man. Obviously Sylar wasn't armed or dangerous ( _anymore, goddamnit. Good thing Peter thinks I'm more dangerous than I am_ ) with each hand holding a plastic grocery bag. The same couldn't necessarily be said of Peter….He noted the man's face was drawn and rather pale, but that was to be expected. He'd been AWOL or MIA rather for four days, probably not eating; his body seemed to be intact so he hadn't been trying anything too dangerous.

Sylar would have to intervene if he did try anything extraordinarily stupid (which would have to be really, really stupid for it to qualify in this case). He had absolutely no desire to go back to being alone and lonely, not if he could help it. Peter also seemed to have gained some dark under-eye circles and he looked haggard, all the factors leading to the medic's discovery of reality. Honestly the signs Peter was displaying couldn't help but go unnoticed by Sylar because Peter was the only real scenery.

"I've got food. You should probably eat if you haven't; and knowing you, you haven't. You look pretty rough, man," Sylar commented as he passed by the other on his way back to his apartment. Peter would most likely follow behind if he'd come all this way and it wasn't like he had pressing engagements elsewhere no matter what he believed.

Over his shoulder he said mildly, "You'll get used to it; the quiet, the solitude. I'm-" _All you've got_ was what he wanted to say, but he substituted, "the only one left." _Did that sound as bad as I think it did?_ The point he was trying to make was that Peter should give up on the day dreaming. / _Comas and nuclear explosions, worldwide viruses and all that cheerleader business to gain a long-lost, thought to be dead daughter….Maybe it was a good thing_ Heidi _left you_ _./_

The thought threw off Sylar's equilibrium and he stumbled enough to be obvious; the bags pulled him off balance further and he shook his head with a deep-seated frown. _Fuck you, Petrellis. Just….fuck you. Yeah, Pete, I am sorry to be here. Know why? I didn't get the chance to fuck with your mother! I'm not married, I don't have kids or family, I'm not the type for life-long community service, I'm…not that, whatever the fuck it is. I'm Sylar….Hope he didn't notice that. Don't ask, don't ask._

XXX

Peter gave Sylar's greeting a sneering smile. He gave ground and stepped out of the other man's way, not that interested in getting too close, but the cast of his features didn't put this as a retreat - merely an inevitable avoidance. Now that Sylar mentioned it, he _was_ hungry. He hadn't eaten yet today, though he'd drank from one of the drinking fountains in the building he'd slept in. Even that had been a couple hours before. Or so he assumed. Time was strange here.

He followed along quietly, debating whether he should share a meal, with all the symbolism of breaking bread and putting aside differences the act entailed, or go find something to eat on his own. His trailing footsteps indicated that he'd made up his mind on that even if he was still consciously undecided. It wasn't the eating with him that bothered him, but the idea of accepting food from the other man, or anything that seemed to be of a helpful or beneficial nature. It made it harder to see Sylar as an enemy.

Peter noticed, but ignored the opportunity to fight with his foe over being the only one left. First, obviously even in Sylar's delusions, Peter was here, so there were two of them. Second, obviously even in Sylar's delusions, the world wasn't _real,_ so it didn't matter. He just made a small sigh to himself and tried to figure out how to look like he was walking comfortably when his feet hurt like a bitch. _I wonder if my feet hurt because Sylar thinks they should? No matter where I was, he had to be aware of me…subconsciously, maybe._

Peter also noticed, but ignored Sylar's stumble. He felt the slightest pang that he ought to help, ought to support, ought to at least take one of the bags. That pang of humanity didn't stand a chance against how inhuman Sylar was to him. So the psychopathic killer got lonely and went shopping. It didn't make him a nice guy. Peter's eyes narrowed, then further when he caught a glimpse of Sylar's angry face as the man righted himself.

_What does_ _ **he**_ _have to be angry about?_ Peter was here, which was a concession of defeat by itself. Even if Peter's sojourn had only confirmed the mental construct of the world, he had been sure the other man would take this as proof he was right. And predictably, Sylar had gotten to give an 'I told you so' and would no doubt get to give more. As they started up the stairs, Peter's legs and lower back reminded him of all the flights he'd climbed the evening before. He went up with a resolute tread though, lifting his eyes before him. He didn't think he'd ever looked at Sylar's ass before. He immediately diverted his thoughts elsewhere, taking refuge in a sort of defeated anger and heavy resentment. "Do you _want_ me to leave? Let you be the only one here again?"

He stopped on the stairs, frowning up at the other man. Because if that's how it was - Sylar was angry he'd come back, then Peter could damn well go back to that furniture store and pick himself out a nice bed to sleep on. The diner was right down the block and the breakfast he'd cooked there had been pretty tasty. There was no real point to being right here with Sylar. Yeah, they were sharing headspace, but they could obviously get along apart. A stubborn expression settled over Peter's features, even as he thought to himself, _No more do I get here than I want to leave._ He huffed and waited for Sylar's answer.

XXX

_Oh, that clever bastard._ Peter cut to the chase that somehow managed to catch Sylar off guard. Ever the direct one, he'd felt the need to say it aloud. _Hasn't he ever heard of the unspoken rules of men?_ Sylar was quiet for a moment or two, long enough to reach the landing as he heard the other man's footsteps halt. Slowly turning back to Peter, he dug up whatever asshole attitude he could muster to say, "You need me, Peter, remember? And the answer is no; you'll always substitute a punching bag if I ever I need one." _There, problem neatly avoided._

"Speaking of, you should take care of yourself more. There's no healing here, even if you are a nurse," Sylar knew all too well Peter's body was screaming from aching pains, that he tended to run himself to the ground to save someone, that Peter was a EMT and that Nathan used to mock him with the word 'nurse'. "No more special," he muttered to himself, the noise of his motion back up the stairs ideal to cover his comment.

"I'm guessing you went everywhere and ended up nowhere, so your back is killing you and your neck is crackling, your legs…." _Stupid hero punk. Why him? Why me, for that matter? Why couldn't it be a random, sexy, horny blonde or something? Gee, because life has it out for you? You knew you'd get into this when you killed Davis and that Trevor kid. You didn't sign on for heaven. Eternal retribution_. His steps grew quicker as he took the stairs faster. _Purgatory_.

"Your legs are busted up, am I right?" _/_ _Like after that time Howie Kaplan had beaten Pete in the fifty-yard-dash and they'd-_ _/_

"Stop it!"

It took him a few moments to figure out he'd protested aloud, the echoes of his outburst and the swishing of the bag he'd swung fading in the stairwell. His back hadn't been against the wall before, had it? _Way to make a scene_. Well aware that Peter was probably staring at him, he shuffled the bags into one hand and delayed anything by fussing with his dark mess of hair that had found its way in his face.

Sylar licked his lips and swallowed, trudging back up the stairs as quickly and as casually as he could, hoping to sink into the floor while Peter _didn't_ ask him why he seemed to have developed another personality, voices in his head ( _probably the devil or Mom, if Peter's read my file)_ , or had really taken a swan dive into the deep end. _Thank god that sounded so mature and put together, not like a little preschooler squawking at the bullies. God. No wonder people drop dead to take you seriously._

_Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly; he'll totally eat with you now. Just chat your ear off about who's in your head._

XXX

"I'll be up later," Peter said mildly, and sat down on the step right where he was at. He was tired. He hurt. He was miserable and depressed. And his only companion was a serial killer who had gone starkers mad. He smiled a little, recalling Claude using that turn of phrase once. It had taken Pete a little while to understand that, in the context Claude was using it at the time, he meant he'd spent a period of his life roaming around naked, but invisible. Obviously it hadn't lasted. Either the weather in New York or brushing up against a rose bush or the like had persuaded him that there was a purpose to clothing other than hiding one's body.

Peter glanced back to see if Sylar had gone the fuck on yet. It seemed he had. Peter leaned back against the steps and stretched. Something popped in his back, which was nice. He rolled one shoulder and then the other. _And here I'd thought I was in shape. Damn._ He glanced up again. At least if Sylar was crazy, he was still clothed. The thought of the alternative - Sylar, naked, running around gibbering in the street - made him chuckle. The humor faded to sadness.

His stomach growled restlessly.

_\Anything else is just crazy talk./_ Peter thought about his brother talking to him in the hospital room so many years ago, after he'd jumped off that building. He reached up and scratched at his cheek. There was a heavy growth of bristles following his jaw line. He supposed he did look pretty rough. The furniture store wouldn't have a shower, or a tub. He wouldn't mind a bath. To get one, he probably would need to move into an apartment. His stomach growled again.

_Alright, alright. Christ._ He drew himself back up and got to his feet. He trudged up the stairs slowly. He found himself outside Sylar's door, where he paused, hand on the door frame. His mind still hadn't settled on what he wanted here - food and human conversation, perhaps to interrogate Sylar about the world here, or to get some form of satisfaction from him, hurt him maybe, and then leave.

He felt compelled to make some sort of greeting though, so he called out, "Hey. You in there, man?"

XXX

The other man obviously wasn't following him _(not after that little display; he's probably fearing for his life_ ), so much he stated. Sylar was beginning to wonder if things could get any worse, even if things were 'looking up' with Peter here. The medic seemed only to exacerbate every facet of his life to the fullest. So Peter didn't comment, but he was surely thinking something. Sylar just sighed and raised his eyes to look morosely at the bottom of the next flight of stairs, stumbling yet again from inattention, this time fully aware of the lapse. This one pushed his final button and he really did want to make something into his punching bag; he wanted to take a swing at something, cause some damage. _That's because you_ are _damaged, that's what he's thinking right now._

Growling, he shoved open the door and tossed the bags onto the kitchen counter; resting his elbows on the surface, resisting the urge he seemed to always have to scream, he raked his fingers roughly through his hair. Somehow the part about busting up his hands wasn't at the forefront of his brain. _You can't win this one; you won't get anywhere with him._ Slumping, he was busy ignoring the thawing chicken and other groceries he'd gotten when the sound of Peter's voice carried into his apartment.

He straightened up quickly and began digging into the bags, making plenty of noise to cover the previous silence. _What could he want?_ Clearing his throat, he called back, "Yeah…?" with a slight inflection of question at the end. Sylar went about putting away his findings, hoping to prepare somehow for whatever the unpredictable man wanted (hide the power tools); pretending that he could avoid whatever it was if he just put the items away as quickly as he could appear to, yet take up the maximum amount of time in doing so.

"Do you want a….tour or something?" he suggested hesitantly. It sure wasn't for the sake of showing Peter whatever 'exit' or 'way out' he thought Sylar was hiding from him. "Draw you a map," he muttered, realizing that his apparent hot-and-cold routine wasn't going to win him any friends about the time he ran out of things to put away in the kitchen. Sylar bit his lip. That meant he had to face Peter's carefully (or not to carefully) constructed features so he wouldn't give away his contempt, obvious hatred and anger at being stuck here with Sylar.

XXX

"Not really. Had one," Peter said brusquely, walking inside a few steps, seeing that Sylar was in the kitchen, putting things away. _Don't really want to go anywhere with him. Plus I need to see what's the matter with my feet. But…on the other hand, it's a better conversational topic than anything else we've talked about, since it probably won't include mention of people he's killed._ "Well…maybe later. I'm sure there's places you know about that I haven't seen." _It's_ _ **his**_ _head after all. Speaking of which…_

He walked over to the nearest clock, which was all of about three feet away on a table. He bent to look at it, but his lower back protested. He started to squat, but his thighs protested. Peter winced and stood up, putting a hand to the small of his back and straightening. Frowning heavily, scowling even, he grasped the side of the device with his other hand so as to bring it up to eye level where he could examine it more closely. It was running - that was obvious. He wanted to look at that.

As he lifted, he tilted the clock without thinking. The internals of it made a clattering sound and an off-key chiming sounded. Startled, he nearly dropped it. It chimed again with an odd warble and another clatter, like there was something loose inside it rolling around. Peter put it back on the table hastily, turning back to see if Sylar had noticed that. _How could he not?_

XXX

Sylar couldn't resist rolling his eyes. Of all the people, it had to be one that probably annoyed him the most. _No, I take that back…it could have been Maya or Mohinder. Parkman would bore. Angela or Bennet would have been interesting; at least I'd know where I stand with him._ Passing by Peter, he didn't look at him as he went to put the toilet paper, toothpaste and other non-kitchen items where they belonged. But he did manage to smirk a little at Peter's obvious inflexible pain. The kid's back was really killing him, too. _Ooh, sex-y_ , was his mental mockery of the sight and he almost rolled his eyes again at himself.

What he didn't see was Peter grabbing for the precious regulator. If he had he would have snapped and smacked at Peter's grabby hands, but unfortunately the imprecise, careless and broken medic was able to lay hands on his circa 1915 treasure. The sound of small parts clattering out of place raced up his spine and he stiffened, turning slowly to glare death and destruction at the other man. He knew he would really complete the whole hermit or cat lady image by shrieking 'my babies!', so he stalked to Peter and gently and firmly snatched the clock from him.

He knew there was no damage (the pieces merely being shaken out of place), but there could easily have been, it was an antique after all, something Peter knew nothing about appreciating. "New rule, don't touch my stuff," he commanded angrily and it showed on his face. Practically cradling the device, he set it gently on his watch table to be repaired. Again. "I can see why you didn't make doctor," he scathed, "God forbid a pediatrician."

Now his hands were clear, his agitation, annoyance and near-malice were all the more clear to shine through as his hands fisted and he shoved them into his armpits, crossing them over his chest to prevent any homicidal damage to his companion. Sylar felt a prick of embarrassment at having to defend his former trade and current hobby to someone who knew him only as a Sylar, the world's most special killer.

Having Peter around was obviously upsetting Sylar's balance significantly enough that it was probably fucking with his long-since-dormant hormones; specifically the dopamine, serotonin and testosterone, the kind that made fights. He assumed it was because he wanted to know or find out where he stood with Peter. The subject of Nathan hadn't been broached since the medic first arrived, and the continued silence on the matter was surprising. Peter meanwhile reminded him of a child in a china shop. _No wonder I hate kids_. Sylar merely clenched and unclenched his fists where the other couldn't see exactly, eyes black and narrowed at him.

XXX

"I'll touch whatever I want." He looked down at the clock, but it was innocent and besides, he was really worried he might have damaged it. That is, until he recalled it didn't matter - nothing here was real, no one other than Sylar would even know what had happened here. Anything might transpire and there would be no witnesses other than himself and a deranged serial killer who couldn't tell reality from fantasy.

Peter snorted, feeling a sudden very specific urge to set the tone for their relationship, or rather 're-set' it. He didn't like being pushed around, yammered at, talked down to or smarted off to. It was really starting to irritate him. He'd tried to be patient and he'd tried to be polite. The guy was clueless, socially inept and completely immoral, far past the rather loose standards of the Petrelli family (actually, the idea of 'Gabriel' as a brother hadn't been so bizarre, on that front, but the whole time of dealing with him all Peter could think of was how his mother had lied about his father's death - Peter hadn't believed Sylar was his brother for a second, but what he **had** believed was that Sylar believed it…and for a little while, that was enough). Right now, Sylar didn't seem to understand what it was he'd done wrong, or even that he had done wrong, most of the time. He'd been more sane before, but then again, this whole mind trap seemed to have driven him right over the edge.

Peter looked past Sylar, at the kitchen. Maybe he'd find something to eat in there. He had no special desire to do that a few moments ago and really not an overpowering one to do it now, but what he did have was a desire to assert himself here. He took a stride forward, setting himself, knowing what he was about to do.

"Get out of my way," he growled, leading with his left shoulder, his right hand free, moving like he fully expected and intended to move Sylar himself if he needed to. Maybe what Sylar needed was someone to put him in his place and keep him there.

XXX

Sylar was left to blink in surprise; he hadn't expected…that. Did Peter think he could seriously barge in and starting upsetting and poking at his belongings? That was not going to happen. Of course there was no wrong in his mind (at least for the actions of the past three years; he'd been a saint); Sylar was minding his own business quite well, thank you.

He glanced around the apartment, noting that his apartment seemed to have been entered and rearranged, and not by himself. "What… Did you bust in here while I was gone, too?" Sylar turned accusing eyes toward the apparent intruder, "Looking for murder weapons, _Pete_?" the use of Nathan's old reference towards Peter was intentional.

The would-be younger brother approached him and while he felt the need to back down as Peter would surely demand, but it was his place, damnit. Sylar just squared his body at the other man's tone, the proximity anything but friendly, "No, you won't. It's my place." While he didn't see why Peter felt threatened by his demand not to touch his stuff, he was sure that he wasn't in the wrong to demand what he did; however, the surging dynamics between the two left Sylar unsure of where he stood or if this battle was even able to be won.

The debate of showing good faith and keeping his arms locked to his chest crossed his mind, but Peter crossed a line first. "Should I be concerned about you walking in whenever I make a move, _Pete_?" he sneered, dropping his arms to his sides, his fists still balled up. His jibe clearly biting since he was slurring Peter as something of a pervert, snooping around his place the way he had.

XXX

' _Pete'_ \- so that was intentional, was it? Peter had been biting his tongue and ignoring it as nothing but an irritating diminutive, but he really should have thought. With Sylar, it wasn't _just_ a diminutive; it wasn't _just_ an unearned familiarity. No, that was saying something about Nathan, and Sylar shouldn't _get_ to say things about Nathan.

Sylar had every (or at least many, Peter didn't know the details and he wasn't sure he wanted to) memory Nathan had had. He had something of Nathan's so intimate and so personal that no one else had ever had it; no one else _would_ ever have it. He'd taken not only his ability, which was obscene by itself because of the murder it typically involved, but it was almost like he had stolen a piece of Nathan's soul along with it. Nathan's murderer had that precious thing, held it, and was throwing the fact in Peter's face.

Peter took two quick steps towards the other man, his chin tucked and the beginning of a snarl on his face. He was actually pleased that Sylar didn't get out of his way and that he limbered his arms. Shitty as Peter felt, it would all be wiped clean if he could beat the crap out of this guy. He'd taken him before, only a few weeks ago really, although a two-by-four to the back of the head would slow down anyone's fighting ability. Rene's power created a level playing field - not too different from what they had here, if Sylar was telling the truth about having no abilities.

Peter led with his left shoulder, which obscured his right arm to some extent. _You ought to be concerned, all right,_ Peter thought, but the time for speaking was gone. He swung his right with an explosive strength, putting everything into it. Sylar seemed surprised, having stood there arrogantly busying himself with mouthing off and being superior rather than noticing he had pushed it too far. It was just another item on a long list of not-right behaviors Sylar had been showing, constantly hitting the wrong note. Peter had begun to think the man was doing it on purpose, trying to goad him. Well, with the _'Pete'_ , he was sure.

He smacked him solidly on the cheek, managing to tag him hard even though Sylar had been jerking back and getting his hands up. It was too late for the hands to do much good, but the backward motion took out a little of the force of the blow. Sylar backpedaled and Peter hesitated, teeth bared. He wanted nothing more than to beat the man into a paste. He knew he would lose his advantage if he didn't press immediately, but he had to see if something had finally engendered a recognizably normal reaction in the other man, or if he really was as crazy as he seemed.

XXX

Peter didn't answer or make any form of non-verbal communication other than the snarl that Sylar caught way too late. Before he knew it and before he could react, Peter was on him, and his jaw hurt and he tasted blood from the swift punch to his face; the impact jarring his head around to the side. Moving back, getting quickly away, Sylar raised his hands out of surprise and to protect himself. "Uuhn," was all he could groan from the pulsing pain in his cheek.

Stunned and angry, hurt eyes rose to stare at Peter. _Probably had that coming. Should have seen it coming, too. He always was a little unhinged when it came to people._ He didn't move other than to rub at his cheek; not wanting to set the other man off again and with the idea Peter would ignore him if he remained still. He was dying to snap 'Fuck you' at Peter, but he managed to busy his tongue with exploring the split inside of his cheek.

Slowly his hand dragged through the hair that fell over the side of his face opposite the injury. _You should be fighting back, since when do you let people hit you and get away with it? "Die Alone". /"_ _I love you, Peter. "I love you, too_ _."/ Oh my god! Get out of my head!_ Sylar barely avoided slinking back to the couch with a book to pretend that hadn't happened.

Contrary to popular belief, the current population being Peter, Sylar did possess survival instincts; the same ones he'd been using for six years, if only three of them were active. Besides, if he felt any desire to do so, his patience had grown (beyond what it had been) over the years to become a force to be reckoned with; he would easily wait in a dark alley to give Peter his due. Too bad that would leave him alone in all likelihood. There wasn't really anything to say; he'd provoked the other man with his dead older brother's nickname for him, even if Peter _had_ started it.

XXX

Peter's urge to continue was so strong that he swayed forward unconsciously, coiled tensely like a spring, a subtle motion that only became obvious as he pulled back. He breathed hard, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes evaluating Sylar over and over for a possible threat – or an excuse to hit him again. When Sylar stopped moving back and reached up to rub at his face, Peter met his stare evenly, watching for the slightest twitch of aggression to react to. Sylar didn't look happy (and there was that 'normal reaction' Peter had been looking for), but there was no sign he was going to fight back.

Peter put his lips together and stopped baring his teeth, but his jaw remained tight. His gaze tracked that slow movement through Sylar's hair before he finally relaxed a fraction and looked away for a second. Regret chased across his face, quickly swallowed up by another surge of anger – but it had been there for a moment.

He looked back at Sylar with a glare. "You don't get to call me _'Pete,'_ " he bit out.

Peter turned suddenly and stalked on into the kitchen, muttering, "Murder weapons," to himself, but it was loud enough to be overheard. He looked around the kitchen. Sure enough, there was a wooden block with knives. He raised his hand towards them, then caught himself for the nth time and let it drop. He kept wanting to kill Sylar and he suspected he was going to _keep_ wanting to kill him until he… he didn't know. He couldn't imagine what would make him stop wanting to avenge Nathan's death. What was it he'd told his mother? ' _No one wants him dead more than me_.' He looked back over his shoulder in Sylar's direction, wondering if he'd seen that motion, wondering what the other man made of it. He didn't ask, though. Peter just shook his head and huffed.

_What the hell am I doing in here?_ His flimsy reasons for barging into the kitchen came back to him, which was mainly a pretense to hit his companion. _Oh…yeah_. He looked around at the reasonably tidy countertops and opened the refrigerator, again glancing back to check status on Sylar. Peter remained wary and edgy, clearly willing to continue the fight at the drop of a hat or a single false move. He struggled to calm himself down, looking back at the contents of the fridge, swallowing and trying to master his breathing. He reached in and pulled out a half gallon carton of milk, then went to searching the cabinets for a glass.

XXX

Sylar caught the forward motion and stiffened, his head coming up (potentially making himself larger and taller to intimidate, but also out of reaction), but he avoided moving back mostly to be stubborn. Talk about taking things out of proportion, he was left to believe Peter was having some repressed issues and was likely to lash out at the slightest provocation.

While he didn't stare back at Peter; he wasn't that stupid, Sylar looked away and kept close track of the other man's movements, completely prepared to duck back if he made another move. He felt Peter's eyes boring into him and that instantly made him uncomfortable; that kind of attention was never good attention (not that he expected any less). _Careful, I might attack you with my hair,_ Pete _,_ he mentally snapped.

He took to staring at the wall behind and beside Peter that led to the kitchen. Peter wanted to play dirty did he? That was more than unfair but what was there to do? The man was within reason and Sylar knew it. _Catch-22_. Sneering at the name comment, Sylar just sniffed and shook his head in a display of teenage rebellion he hadn't shown even _as_ a teenager.

Eyes narrowing in latent danger as he caught the obvious jab that was humiliating if more harmless than the words themselves. Sylar was powerless, but so was Peter and that leveled the field just as it had weeks before at Mercy Heights. _Yeah, totally leveled, fucking bastard. Play his game; you can always drug his damn food._ Suddenly the worry he'd convinced himself he needn't have about his life statics by homicide came back as Peter entered the kitchen with those parting words.

_Plenty of weapons in there. He's got motive, he's shown he's not hesitant to take a crack at you. But he thinks he needs you…_ He stood there debating whether to arm himself to prevent some kind of undocumented Survivor episode when Peter answered his inner dialogue for him, reaching for the knives he had. _Shit, shit, shit. Die Alone. Die Alone, his mind was busy screaming at the motion. Thanks a lot, Claire, stupid bitch, Lydia. Going to your grave cursing them? Is that really worth your time? Should be praying to whatever god there is because you're as mortal as you were the day you were spawned._

Sylar's eyes had widened, but he stood frozen, waiting to see he if needed to bolt. Should he even run? _We all know Elle shouldn't have saved your miserable neck from the noose, maybe this is what Hiro the hero meant…._ Peter aborted the idea, but that did nothing to ease Sylar's desire for survival and his suddenly boosted paranoia. He saw the medic moving about his kitchen toward the fridge and he made a show of making eye contact before looking away; the high school theatre classes and years of faking anything with Virginia with less, but more intense time spent as a psychopathic killer going far towards making the action casual and natural. Meanwhile his mind was buzzing to think if he'd left any cutlery or sharp objects in the refrigerator. He knew all too well just how dangerous vengeance was in anyone's hands, let alone someone as capable and as wronged as Pete. _He won't need any damn weapon when he decides the time is right_.

His hands fiddled at his sides and he gave thought to blocking up the door to his room with him inside _. Signals, signals, what's he looking for? Milk? What the hell does he want here?_ Despite the desire to set boundaries, childish as it was, and kick Peter out after he'd made it clear that he couldn't come traipsing in whenever he so damn chose to beat Sylar's face in while he slept, Sylar did nothing. He told himself it was Catch-22. _Who buys that? He has to trust you, no weapons,_ he told himself firmly, squashing his crazed mind's attempt at heightened survival tactics.

"Choke and die," he muttered, barely aloud and completely lacking in real conviction for obvious reasons. It was times like this he really cursed his parents, biological and adopted, for his lack of social skills. Yes, he could talk his way out of a jail cell _(minus Bennet, the fucking little...)_. Granted, it was easier with stupid women like Maya and Candice-Michelle whatever the fuck, because he lacked enough conviction in sex to be able to use it as the casual weapon it was. But his true talents came in getting his way; the super-powered neural pathways and synapses in his brain would find the shortest, more direct route to 'his way' after considering the consequences and every potential outcome. _When in doubt, bitch about it._

XXX

Peter heard Sylar say something, but didn't catch what it was. He looked back out of the corner of his eye, then returned to searching the cabinets. _Spices…plates…glasses._ He got one down, one of a matching set of nice crystal. He paused to look at that. He was sure it meant something – the trappings of affluence in a small, cluttered apartment. He poured slowly and put the carton away, once more doing a status check on his companion. He took his glass and turned backwards against the counter, looking out at where Sylar was still standing and managing to look restless and fidgety without even moving.

Peter took a drink and God, did that taste good. He felt the cold liquid all the way down. _Medically,_ he thought, _milk is classed as a solid._ It would calm his hunger for the moment. He tried to relax. He made a sharp exhalation – an attempt at a sigh, but he was still too wound up for that. "So. Three years alone, huh?" He looked at the milk, chewing his lip a little before taking another drink. "That's gotta be rough." He looked around the room blankly. He sounded insincere even to his ears. He was struggling to make small talk, but everything else he thought to say got vetoed by his brain before it made it to his tongue.

_I had all those questions earlier – now I can't think of them! Can he sense me? Can he read my mind? Did he know I was out there? Why is he here? Why this apartment? Why all this stuff around here? Does he still believe this is real? How can I convince him it's not? Is that what I have to do? Does he get my dreams when I sleep? Why is he such an asshole? Does he understand this is a punishment? Does he think he needs to be punished? Is that why he acts so weird with me all the time – because he thinks I'm part of it? Is there a way to get past that so I can actually ask him this stuff?_

He took another drink and reached up to rub his forehead. He looked at his right hand. The knuckles hurt. He'd been lucky, he supposed, in that he hadn't broken the skin, or his hand. He turned his hand and rested them against the cool glass. He raised his eyes to Sylar, whose face was probably hurting him worse. He was pretty sure he ought to feel sorry about that. What he felt sorry about was that he didn't.

He walked out of the kitchen slowly. His feet still hurt and reminded him of this fact now that he wasn't riding high on adrenaline. He went immediately left, getting no closer than absolutely necessary to Sylar. He looked at the sofa. He'd intended to sit on it, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get up fast enough if he needed to. "We've got to get along with each other." He glanced over at Sylar, then at the clock he'd manhandled earlier. He looked back at the other man. "Okay?"

XXX

Sylar's expression ranged from narrowed eyes to a blank look at Peter's sarcastic attempts at conversation, the lack of emotion on his face as it smoothed out conveying his singular thought very clearly; seriously? Peter was probably biting his lip to hold back his laughter at baiting him because Sylar found nothing about it funny. He made no answer to such a lame attempt at humiliation, instead leaning back against the wall in disinterest.

Peter was quiet for a while and Sylar noticed him pressing his fingers to the cold glass and he looked away in disgust. The whole thing was making him feel incredibly used, but that was not a new experience when dealing with Petrellis. Peter had broken into his house after he'd busted the door, snooped around, then come back and upset more things then punched him and raided his kitchen to ease the pain in his knuckles from the (in his mind) unwarranted blow. Peter moved and he stood straight again, but stayed still as the medic passed by, clearly and thankfully avoiding his person.

Keeping a close eye on Peter, he moved slowly to follow him into the living room, standing nowhere near the other, but he saw the aborted thought to sit at the couch pass through Peter's head and he glared at his back. Now his couch was sub-standard? Was this Claire in shape-shifted form? Because his 'guest' was starting to remind him of the cheerleader, what with the hitting and the pickiness not to mention the brainless conversation, or lack thereof.

Crossing his arms again, he shifted his weight. He knew that was the closest to an apology he Peter was ever going to cough up, so he took what he could get. "Yeah, okay, Peter," he conceded quietly, "You…" he started then stopped, deliberating whether to speak his mind, again, making direct eye contact looking up at Peter to show him how dead serious he was, "You're stuck here, man. Get a place, get some hobbies that don't include saving people. Settle down and find a sex toy because we're going to rot here." Words of wisdom however unspoken Peter might prefer them to be.

XXX

"Fine." He eyed Sylar again and finally decided there was no counter attack coming. He sank down on the couch, but not without a wary glance yet again at his companion. That was the last though. He leaned back and put the heel of his palm to his forehead and shut his eyes. He felt like he'd been run over by a truck. "I might be stuck here for a while," he admitted reluctantly. He put his hand down and took a drink.

"But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop looking for a way out. Regardless of whether you believe it or not, or whether I can convince you or not, can you just accept that I don't think this place is real?" He looked over at Sylar quite earnestly.

He started to put his glass down, then noticed there was literally no clear space on the desk next to it that was large enough to set a glass on. Everything was books and clocks in bell jars next to other jars of little metal parts, sitting on top of yet more books. "Why do you have all this _stuff_? Did you bring this here or was it here to start with?"

Once upon a time, Peter had had the normal allotment of 'stuff' that most people his age had - university textbooks, old clothes, CDs, a television, a trendy laptop that fit nicely in his equally trendy messenger bag, dishes that supported a place setting of six (like he'd ever have that many in his apartment!), along with furniture - a bed frame, dresser, table, end tables, sofa and a comfortable chair, among other things.

He'd come back after being locked up in Company jail to find his place had been cleaned out and had some Jewish couple from Indiana living in it. It was reasonable - he hadn't been paying rent while locked up. After that, he'd lived a very sparse lifestyle. He hadn't missed it much, actually, though he was unhappy about his mother telling him his place looked like he had a mental illness. Noah's snide comments about it had not gone unnoticed either.

_Hobbies that don't include saving people…yeah. My whole purpose here is saving people. Noah kind of implied I was a little obsessive about that too._ He finished off his milk so he wouldn't have to worry so much about where to set it and rested the empty vessel on his knee for the moment. He frowned over at Sylar, but it wasn't a personal judgment. He was angry at the world; Sylar just happened to be the closest part worth looking at.

XXX

He exhaled a breath, sensing that Peter's violent streak had passed, so he relaxed enough to slide his hands into his dark jeans. "I don't expect you to stop," he said with some amusement, "I give you about a year and a half, maybe two." Sylar's gaze grew distant as he examined the wall again; a little lost in his own thoughts of the years he'd had alone.

"You'll find it doesn't matter what either of us believes, Peter," Sylar replied in the same tone of earnestness, but his voice and eyes were sad, his mouth downturned. He shrugged and shook his head at the medic. "The stuff?" Giving the man a strange look as if to ask why it mattered to him, he replied slowly as it addressing a child, "Three years is a long time alone."

Closing his eyes briefly, he went on to answer the rest of the question, "I brought most of it. I…haven't…I've been busy; I haven't been here in….a long time." He shrugged again to avoid the answer he had to give, felt compelled to give, "And now I've been here a long time and its worse. It was….how I left it six years ago."

Clenching his jaw, he turned slightly away and leaned his hip against the desk his watches rested on. "And what brings you to New York, Peter Petrelli? I thought you were…." He waved a hand vaguely, "elsewhere with /Ma-/Angela or Parkman or something. And don't give me that bit about coming here to save me to save your girlfriend." Sylar's tone changed to be firm and still be socially acceptable.

The impact of Peter's fist was a possible reason for Peter to be here from Sylar's way of thinking. Peter was a Petrelli, however (normally) decent and well-meaning he was, he still had Angela's blood in his veins. Now that Angela had set Sylar's bar that much higher by turning him into her beloved eldest, Sylar was willing to believe the woman was capable of anything; this could be the most elaborate mind-fuck to date in his short but memorable career.

XXX

_If I'm still here in a year and a half, that would be…what? The afternoon? An hour or two? Not much, really. I'm probably going to be stuck here at least a decade. I wonder if time would pass any faster if I spent a lot of it asleep? But then I'd have Sylar's dreams to deal with. I don't think it will be that easy._

He listened to what Sylar had to say, frowning when it sounded like he was talking down to him. Peter didn't think he deserved that. Did Sylar do that to everyone? No wonder he didn't have anyone he could go to when his power manifested. No one wanted to be around the jerk.

"I've already told you," Peter said in a tired tone. _Maybe if I just say it differently?_ "I came to this place because I've decided the world is a manifestation of Matt Parkman's power and that-" _even someone like you shouldn't be stuck in here. No…on second thought, this is a good place for you to be. I just wish I wasn't stuck in here with you. More like, it's destiny that you save Emma, and that's why I'm here. Fucking destiny. I hate destiny. What was I saying?_ "-it's my destiny to get you out of it." He snorted at the silliness of the whole thing.

' _I've been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny. It's my turn to be somebody now…'_

As if to himself, he continued, "You don't have to believe in it. Most people don't." Without thinking, he bent down and started picking at the lacings for his shoes. He needed to get them off and have a look at his feet. He caught himself and paused. _I need a pharmacy. And I don't want to do this in front of him._ It was not so much because such was rude or overly familiar, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be without his shoes. It was a tiny vulnerability, but even that was something Peter didn't want to display.

He sat back up, changing stride back to the questions that had been percolating in the back of his head for a while now. "I'd be happy to go somewhere else, if you thought I could actually get there. What's the furthest away from here you've been?"

XXX

' _Because I've decided…_ ' That failed to sound pious and helpful by a long shot. What was the saying? 'I think therefore I am'? Of course if he chose, Sylar could easily turn the magnifying class of examination on himself, but that was no fun. He'd had years to contemplate his own sins and faults, both of which he knew were in significant amounts. Why not pick Peter apart in his head (more literally if he bought Peter's scheme).

Sylar was forced to pause in his characteristic mental shredding of the other man at his use of the word destiny. Destiny. It meant nothing now. To think how much stock he used to put in that word, that idea, hurt his head and made his chest twinge. How many times had he used that word to people who couldn't understand? He closed his eyes, as if pained, and he was; his cranium heated up as it was torn between two sets of memories racing though him.

…

/"I've been up here all night, Nathan, thinking about my destiny." _Um, okay….What did he mean by that?_

"Whatcha doin' Pete?" He'd called back.

"It's my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!"

"C'mon, Peter, quit screwin' around." But even as he spoke, he knew what was going to happen. _My career down the goddamn drain because my idiot kid brother is too caring, kind and in love to grow a fucking pair. Please don't do this to me./_

…

"If the soul exists, scientifically speaking, it exists in the brain."

He'd chuckled then, sitting down and earnestly fixing his intent gaze on the Indian doctor, "When I was a kid, I used to wish some stranger would come and tell me my family wasn't really my family." Staring at the desk before him in shame as he spoke, but as soon as the words left him, he kept his blackening eyes to the wood to hide his anger. "They weren't….bad people, they were just….insignificant. And I wanted to be different."

Smoothly he looked up again, deadly rage coiled in his frame, seeking an out, seeking acceptance, understanding. _Understand me_ _!_ ' _Special,_ ' The word that had been trained into him for as long as he could remember. "I wanted to _change_. A new name, a new life." Tilting his head away, his ability silently at work in his mind, he spoke in disgust, "The watchmaker's son….became a watchmaker." Next pleading, "It is so futile. And I wanted to be…important."

"You are important, Gabriel." _Yesss. Yes, I am_.

…

_/_ Dad was dropping him off at West Point with reluctance. Nathan knew Dad's plan was that he go into politics. He'd always had the interest. But he wanted to fly; he wanted to make a difference, be a part of a change, but little did he or his family know just how he would fly. Far higher than anyone had ever dreamed _. No more being crushed under the political mill by Dad. Poor Pete, he's gonna get eaten alive unless he can get out. That's what I'm doing,_ he told himself, _getting out._

"Nathan, as the oldest in this family, you have a certain responsibility. I can't count on Peter; he's not like you," his father placed his hand on Nathan's shoulder, large, warm with the potential to be comforting if he hadn't led off with 'responsibility'. Nathan avoided eye contact at first, but Dad wouldn't relent, those dark eyes boring into him with all the strength of a die-hard lawyer.

"You have a bright future, Nathan. I need you to carry on the Petrelli legacy. It's your destiny to carry our name to the highest places in the world. But don't forget your roots." Nathan nodded once, slowly, adjusting his military issue duffle on his shoulder, turning and carrying everything he needed into the future, away from his father./

…

"They're out there. I can feel them. So innocent, so unaware of what's happening to them." He remembered turning away to smirk at using the Indian geneticist. Looking back, ignoring the frigid winter Montana air, he finished more innocently, "We'll find them, Mohinder. All of them; together; the two of us. It's our destiny." _Why that memory now?_ Mohinder looked like a deer caught in the headlights, not that it was a new look for him _. Obviously you came on too strong and you lost the mole, you lost the_ fucking list _!_

…

_/_ Ma had come in during the election to see if he was still on track for blowing up New York to heal the world. _She was involved…? In this madness?_

"Yes, you don't know everything about me, Nathan," she paused to inhale slowly, eyeing him, "But I do know everything about you. And I know what you're capable of."

"You think I'm a mass-murderer?"…/

…

_Stop, stop, stop! This isn't me! This isn't mine! I'm not him! My name is_ -

…

He'd come to at the sound. Bright lights blinding him out of his drugged slumber, flinching from the sharp pain that stabbed his head and eyes. _My leg…Where am I?_

A voice…distant and mechanized spoke to him, "You lost a lot of blood. We sewed you up the best we could." Groggily, he looked to the source, dimly making out a tall man in a gray suit, short cut blonde hair, holding a clipboard with piercing blue eyes behind the horned rimmed glasses he wore. _Cell, I'm in…a cell. Prison…government holding cell_. He sat up quickly at his next thought, throwing off the heavy, scratchy wool blanket that covered him. _Experimental torture._

"Turns out you're not so untouchable after all." The man hummed as Sylar stared him down, pulling his mental muscles to access his ability. _Cut the bastard's lying throat_. "You'll find your abilities won't work. Not here. You're not going anywhere. _Gabriel_." The man was unflinching under his gaze, how odd. _Damn bastard's smug. He's pleased at this, that's what I hear in his voice._

"My name is Sylar," he'd replied softly.

"Now it is." The man took a breath before droning on with his misinformation, "It wasn't so long ago you were Gabriel Gray…An insignificant watchmaker."

Sylar was already moving, swinging on the platform of a bed to stand, hissing as he moved his leg too quickly. He braced his hand on the thin mattress, staring up at the man as more pieces fell into place. "I restore timepieces," he corrected in the same soft voice, keeping the pain from it. Balancing and moving to walk around the head of the bed towards the porcelain sink at the back of the cell, he continued, "You wanna know why I was so good at it?"

"No, why don't you tell me," was the mocking reply.

Glancing back to give a deadlier look as the drugs began to clear from his system, limping as he took a few steps. _Not good._ "Because I can see how things work." He paused in his attempts at walking to lift a scornful eyebrow in teasingly serious threat, "What makes them….tick," his tone intimate, "Like you," he drawled.

"We're interested in how things work as well. Everyone else we've…met has had only one ability; you've taken on several," the man in the horned rimmed glasses interrogated with the subtlety of a snake.

"Guess that's what makes me special," Sylar shrugged, proud to be able to speak of the fact, his accomplishments.

"That's important to you, isn't it - being special?"

He detected the sarcasm and the bait in the short sentences and he answered, purring, "It's important to everyone," so easily avoiding that sin.

"I think you're insane. I think the infusion of so many alterations to your DNA as corrupted your mind; all this power is degrading you."

Sylar stalked towards the glass and the man behind it, snarling quietly, "And yet here I am, alive and well, and once I get out, I'm gonna collect one more ability from your _daughter_ …Sweet….innocent," Oh, he could taste it, his voice rising to counter the agent's reply, "Ripe. Indestructible."

The man repeated himself, barking, "I said that's enough, Gabriel." And it was the final straw.

He'd snapped, lunging into the class with all the impotent fury of a caged panther. "MY NAME IS SYLAR!"

…

/…"Important men make impossible decisions. President Truman dropped two atomic bombs on Japan to end World War II; Killed thousands to save millions."

"That was different, Ma; we were at war," he felt compelled to point out. The situation was totally different. Nathan was not going to sell his soul….lightly at least. "I can't accept this," he shook his head, trying to get her to recant.

"That is your one weakness, Nathan; you have no faith. So how could you possibly believe this bomb could actually heal the world if you have no faith in the idea of destiny?"

Nathan rose, restless and unconsciously avoiding the issue, but she continued. _Dog with a bone, my mother._ Folding his arms in on himself, he made a sour, pinched face where she couldn't see, his back to her. _"_ Your destiny, Nathan, is to set the course of history after this unspeakable act as occurred." Nathan just closed his eyes against it all. _How can she say that? I know she's cold, but this…_

"And people will look back on what you do as the freshman congressmen from New York and they will thank you for your strength…for your conviction….for your faith." He nearly flinched at the points she was making, distracted by the tapping of Gary's knuckles on the window of his office. Turning, he slowly raised a finger to halt it in his universal gesture of 'just a minute'. His mother used his motion to stand before him.

"In my day we called it being _presidential_." Glancing from her to his jacket she'd removed from the hanger, he slowly turned away again, this time to accept the jacket, already….accepting this burden, he knew. Wincing before he faced her, he begged her with his eyes, knowing already that he'd lost this coin toss and won the election.Straightening his lapels, Ma gave him her signature motherly air that had him every time. "Can you believe?" she asked softly, "Can you be the one we need?"

Nathan moved behind his desk, assuming the position, shifting his shoulders back in preparation of the blame, the outrage, the decision, god, the decision. Hands on his hips, he stood tall, gazing at his mother as she slowly smiled her candy, winning smile. "That's my boy," she had whispered./

…

Stalking silently behind Bennet and Petrelli, tapping the man's shoulder to get his attention, he flicked his fingers, sending the agent flying back into a pillar, keeping him out of the fight. The younger man turned to him with those wide hazel eyes, backing away and preparing for battle. "What took you so long?" he purred, then inquired, "Haven't I killed you before?"

"Didn't take," Peter had replied with bite in his expression, unmoving. Sylar chuckled, reaching out his arm to capture the man's throat in a telekinetic grip, prowling in a large circle around his catch. "You think I'm gonna let you ruin it all? Take all the glory?"

Hearing the second heartbeat approach and the hammer of a gun being squeezed, he turned in time to see a large man firing bullets at him. Sylar unconcernedly raised his other hand, halting the bullets in mid-air, curling his fingers he turned them and sent them back at the shooter, penetrating into his torso and gut. He then called a parking meter up from the concrete, snapping it into his palm, failing to notice the tall blonde that approached him.

Full of righteous fury at everyone in his life that had tried to hold him back, hatred for those that succeeded, he snarled, "Did you really think you could stop ME?" He made to swing the clubbed end at Peter, but was halted by the woman he hadn't seen coming. Turning as she grabbed the meter from him, she swung and connected the metal head into his stomach, dropping him to the smooth sidewalk. _I am NOT the bomb. I am in control. I'm better than this. Mom…. I-I'm better than this._

The distraction, surprise and pain freed Peter, who stood and spoke to the woman, "Go back to your family. I got this." Sylar sneered into the ground before he rose to his knees and he was grabbed by the back of his collar, turning his face into Peter's fist. Bracing on hands and knees after he was punched again, his mouth bleeding copiously, he began to chuckle madly.

The chuckle turned into manic laughter _. I win. I did it. He thought he could beat ME!_ He looked up to see the glow of a mutual power lighting up Peter's hands, the man gasping in horror at his own limbs. "Wait, NO, NO!" he shouted, walking past Sylar toward the statue of Kirby. Sylar took the opportunity to stand, taunting him further, "Turns out you're the villain, Peter." He smirked triumphantly as the man glanced terrified at him, never mind that his look of fear wasn't for Sylar himself. "I'm the hero."

…

The memories tore into him, tears leaking unbidden from his eyes as he shook, unconsciously clutching at his head. Sylar shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, groaning loudly from pain, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He wasn't aware he'd sunk to his knees, his head clunking against his desk, raising his hands to fend off the attacks that plagued his mind. "Stop it! Leave me alone!" His shout ended with a dry cough and gasp for air as if he'd been screaming himself hoarse, bending at the waist towards the floor.

XXX

Peter had looked off out the window after sitting back up, thinking about what was out there, wondering how far Sylar had strayed from here. He need not have stayed 'here' the whole time. His mind could have dreamed up a series of places to be before this place. Maybe they were all out there, metaphorically speaking, of course. Maybe he had a string of places … No, that seemed unlikely. He'd said there was nothing else out there, which argued either he was hiding something or had never gone anywhere. Despite all of Sylar's other flaws, he hadn't been all that much on the concealing-things-business. Peter dismissed it and decided to go with the assumption the other man was telling him the truth as he knew it, at least until Sylar proved himself devious.

The sound of a groan caught his attention and he glanced back, then jerked in surprise when he saw Sylar was on his knees, holding his head. Peter struggled to get himself out of the couch. As he'd expected, it was soft, low and encompassing – under normal conditions no trouble to get out of, but in a hurry, with his back and legs weaker than they should be and aching, he clambered to his feet clumsily. He hesitated, trying to divine what was wrong from where he was at, despite his medical training telling him to go to the man, touch him, calm him, and check for symptoms.

_He wouldn't have any symptoms. We're in his head. Is Matt trying to get him out?_ Peter tried to open his mental senses and _listen_ , which was simple to do in the outside world, when he had Matt's power. He did it now though and nothing happened. It was like listening for a sound that wasn't there.

His attention was dragged back to Sylar with the man's shout. That really argued that some outside force was influencing Sylar, doing something to him, perhaps trying to end this little bubble of 'reality' as Sylar saw it. _Matt? Matt?_ Nothing. _Crap. Matt, if you can hear me, get us the hell out of here!_ Sylar looked like he was in real pain there. As an afterthought, he tacked on, _And whatever you're doing to Sylar you should probably stop._ It wouldn't do to get out of here only to have Sylar too mentally messed up to carry out his mission.

"Sylar?" he asked in a steady, loud voice. "Sylar, stop fighting it. Is it Matt?" He took a few steps closer, wondering if he should hazard touching him and trying to get them out again.

XXX

Sylar could only grip at his skull, gasping from the overload and barely able to see. Every part of his brain was racing, feeling like it was torn apart; frontal lobe- consciousness, judgment and emotional response with memory for muscle habits, problem solving and….word association. Parietal lobe- location for visual and touch orientation and integration of different senses to allow understanding for a single concept, recognition and perception. Occipital lobes- vision. Temporal lobes- memory acquisition, categorization of objects. Cerebellum- his movements.

_I know all this, I know all this. What's that sound?...a voice? Peter. Peter! /_ _Pete_ _/ DIE! YOU BETRAYED HIM! YOU BETRAYED ALL OF US! I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS!_

Panting and inhaling deep lungfuls of air, Sylar slowly came back to reality, beginning to see the room he knelt in again. He saw Peter standing and looking at him like he was about to have his whatever-lobotomy and get the straightjacket treatment. _He was sitting a minute ago….ages, years ago. God, just go fuck yourself and die Parkman. Angela, Bennet, NATHAN._ Now what had his companion been saying?

Haunted and pained dark eyes stared at Peter in confusion from the floor, "W-what?" he managed to croak, not comprehending the questions or commands, whatever was said. "Parkman's not here, I'm not in….not in his head anymore. I went…" he frowned, trying to remember a half-dreamt dream that melted with reality. "I went to him to…take away my abilities, but…." _I'm insane. You can say it. Parkman did. I'm not that damn crazy by myself._

"Why won't he die? I killed him, you…" his gaze sharpened at the other man, zeroing in on him like Sylar was starving and Peter the steak. "You dropped him, I…." he chuckled, amused for a moment in his conquests of evil, the thrill at having won. "I made you drop him and….why is there no one here, Peter?" softly uttering the man's name, his voice had trailed off to a whisper; one that begged an answer as if to an innocent, frightened child as his face took on a look of childlike confusion. On some level he didn't understand why he'd been hurt. Didn't everything make sense to them? Why couldn't they just see?

Sylar leaned back against the desk, straightening up and taking his time doing it, his brain still throbbing with splitting shots of pain. Staring at the medic, he wondered why he stood there, looking so helpless. _Oh, yeah…that's right. You're not his brother._ Somehow not being able to hold someone in place and speak his mind, ease his conscience, his soul to someone who he wanted to care, but hated him bothered him greatly. "Where did they go? Why would they…."

Here he was believing he'd gotten over needing people when one showed up and fucked up his….everything. He resented, he hated, he craved and he needed on most basic levels to feel and be understood. Caring and love he knew were too much to ask; he'd begun the slow and painful process of letting those go finally after years of clinging resilient to the idea, the theory.

Coughing, he shoved back chunks of his hair, glanced up through it at Peter who still stood and stared. He hoped clearing his throat would signal to the other that his questions needn't necessarily be answered. Peter didn't know anyway, right?

_I will rise from the ashes again._

_XXX_

_Wait…what?_ Peter knew he wasn't brilliant. He'd met brilliant people, geniuses even, and he knew he wasn't one of them. He was smart enough in his own way of course and he had gifts - just different ones. He stood silent and unmoving while Sylar rambled through his mental breakdown because he was trying very hard to figure out what the hell the man was talking about. There were common threads there…they had meaning. There was a lot of emotion and if Peter was good at anything, it was understanding how people felt - even if his ability to do that seemed a bit abridged here in Sylar's head.

The only person Peter had 'dropped' lately was Nathan and from the brief expression of gloating that passed over Sylar's face, that was exactly who he was talking about. He deserved to be beaten into the ground for even mentioning that incident, but at the moment he was on his knees babbling, so Peter just stood and listened while his face darkened, eyes narrowed and his lip curled. Things clicked into place and began to make sense.

So Sylar felt bad that no one would tolerate his bullshit. So he'd noticed that no matter how many abilities he had, none of them gained him friends or family or loved ones. (Elle the sociopath excepted.) So he was lonely, and for all his intelligence, he hadn't figured out how to be nice to people, or gain their trust in a genuine fashion or be a good friend in turn.

Peter snorted very softly after Sylar stood, an expression of deep disgust on Peter's features. "Where did everyone go? You made them drop their loved ones off buildings, Sylar, and who knows what else. They hate you now. No one wants to be around you. On some level, even you understand that."

He blinked. His eyes were wet - hate that he couldn't vent about everything Sylar was, anger that Sylar might have staged that whole episode on the hospital roof merely to mock him and maneuver him into letting Nathan fall, the stupid shred of hope that had flared when Sylar asked why he (Nathan?) wouldn't die - all strong emotions that found outlet only in his tears. Peter shook his head and headed for the door, limping a little. He drew up and looked at the bloody handprint there. He glanced back at Sylar and opened the door.

XXX

Again, Sylar knew he'd struck out. In his head, he snapped at the ghost of Nathan, _You can take my misplaced desires to the grave, fucking politico._ Sylar hadn't even been thinking of being attacked again at the mention of Peter's murdered brother, the one who tormented both of them. Normally he would have thought of the damage he was inflicting, but...he was too damaged at the moment to think of Peter.

The look he was given immediately informed him that Peter was not and never would be an avenue to converse with and attempt to figure things out with. That road had been swiftly blocked. His goal had never been to make friends; at least, he didn't think so. He'd expected to meet people, definitely not as intimately and as aggressively as he had; everyone pretty much fell under this category: wronged by Sylar, having attempted/succeeded at homicide/torture many times, unforgiving.

What he hadn't expected or….taken the time to consider was how his actions would remove him from what he now knew he (apparently) needed.

' _They told me I need a connection. A friend. I don't wanna be alone…and somehow you're supposed to help me.'_

Somehow in his drive to become special, powerful, fix the world somehow before it drove him insane and he broke it instead, he had so thoroughly repulsed every person that he knew that he had no chance of friendship, not even with a normal. Sylar had never been able to comprehend human emotion, particularly his own. So ironic that he be paired with Peter the wonder-empath; someone who understood and felt what the person was feeling before they themselves felt it.

That type of connection was only fathomable to him on a clinical level if he considered empathy as a power. As a personality type, a character trait, it was beyond him. He'd only ever managed it on accident and he would have little idea of how to go about it purposefully.

Peter spoke and Sylar knew it was nothing but the truth. If he knew that already, why had he bothered to ask? _…and somehow you're supposed to help me._ Sylar was beginning to understand the true depth of the pit of helplessness he'd cut himself into; no plea of his would ever be heard since he'd hurt far too many loved ones of all the people he knew to ever be given a sliver of redemption. That he did understand. Acutely. He'd felt it every day for three years.

Ducking his head down, the hair he'd pushed back falling over his cheekbone again; it tickled, but he ignored it, staring numbly at his feet. _Let Peter cry, he has something to_ cry for. Sylar didn't move when Peter did, allowing him his much needed escape after Sylar's unnecessary meltdown. He would have to be more careful in future to avoid….how the hell was he supposed to control something he couldn't? _That's an unreasonable demand he's silently charging you with. He doesn't want to deal with it, and why should he? It's not his problem._

He stood for several moments, giving Peter a little lee-way before tromping quietly after him. No one (other than Claire and maybe Bennet) made him feel more brutish and out of place, and, yes, deformed and monstrous than Peter. / _He was born with a silver spoon. He had everything handed to him; money, colleges… /_ Padding a good ten or so feet behind the man, not wanting to incur his wrath further, but he found himself speaking before he could close his mouth.

"You're right. But people sure do line up when I can do something for them," he snipped, aiming his comment at Pet- well, any of the Petrellis for that matter, those living and dead alike. Look at Peter. Probably the most honest man, the least-hypocritical man he knew ( _he did have his moments, Mr. I-shall-not-abuse-the-nail-gun-and murder-out-of-rage, oh, by the way, control your IA, Sylar, while I cut open dear Ma's brainpan_ ) yet here he was, sticking with the family business by using Sylar.

The only thing, the only shred of consciousness in Sylar's head stayed his balled up fists from connecting with Peter's scrawny neck was the fact that Peter was the only other person alive. And he might not be given another chance once the blow was dealt.

XXX

Peter walked out in the hall, steamed – relieved and disappointed that he didn't get to unleash any of the tension coiled within himself. He wiped his eyes, glad of the closed door between them now. He went to the top of the stairs and looked down them. He hadn't thought it would be this _hard_. It wasn't the duration that bothered him, although he certainly wasn't keen on the prospect of being here for years, trapped, separated from everyone he knew and cared about. It hadn't really sunk in yet what that would mean for him and when it did, he was going to panic. What was tough now was the idea of not hitting, not hurting, and not murdering the idiot. He walked down the stairs a bit slowly, thinking about this impulse of his own and trying to divine if it was how he truly felt – which he'd assumed, until now – or if it was some aspect of being in Sylar's head.

Then Sylar interrupted his thoughts by opening the door, looking out as if to see where he was. Peter grimaced up at him and went back to a normal pace rather than the introspective meandering he had been doing. Hopefully all Sylar was doing was checking to see if he was really leaving – and seeing that he was, he'd go back inside to his groceries or clocks or whatever.

But the asshole started to follow him instead. Peter shot him a nasty look for it, but he went on outside of the apartment building without other comment. Maybe Sylar was just going to some other apartment or room. When he followed him all the way outside, Peter stopped with the intention of glaring at him – maybe he'd get the message – but Sylar took the opportunity of having his attention to speak.

"You think so?" he answered dryly. "There's things you could do for me, but I'm not even bothering to ask. I don't want your help." He caught himself. "Well, aside from the dream. That's it – get you out, have you do something worthwhile – and maybe it's just an accident and I hope to God you don't-" He snapped his mouth shut, startled at what he'd almost said, having intended to finish that with ' _save everyone by killing Emma and taking her ability_.' The dream hadn't _**felt**_ like that was a possibility, but predictions of the future sucked. They were often contrary and unreliable. So he finished lamely with, "don't do anything worse. After you get out." He sneered at Sylar in case there was any doubt of how unlikely Peter found that to be.

He started walking down the street, examining the storefronts as they passed. He was looking for a mart or a general store or a pharmacy – any old corner store would probably do and he was sure there was one nearby, within a block or two, but he didn't have the place memorized well enough to know if he needed to go right or left, two blocks or four.

"Just go back to your apartment, Sylar. I don't want you near me." _You piss me off. You upset me. What was that song lyric – you challenge my balance? I wonder if there's music in here? I wouldn't mind listening to the radio. I think the title of the song was 'Wonder' – lyrics sounded like it was someone with an ability._

He paused at the intersection. This was the corner Sylar had come out from around, with the bags of groceries. He probably hadn't gone far to get them and what Peter wanted was basic first aid supplies. A grocery store would have those. And he could get food while he was there, because he sure as hell wasn't eating anything Sylar offered him. He turned down that direction.

XXX

What the hell did that mean, exactly? 'Things he could do for Peter'. He snorted loudly enough to be rude, mostly in an attempt to get some standing with the man and get over his little scene moments ago. He was still very shaken, cranky from the headache it left pounding in his skull. Su-ure Peter didn't need him one ounce. "What would those be, Peter?" he chirped, miming innocence and helpfulness. Seriously, he was doing anything to crack this guy open; Peter was positively annoying. " _Have me do_ something worthwhile, huh?" The idea was laughable and he scoffed at it. He knew the game, he knew this little drill.

This was still a Petrelli he was stuck with, so the rules would be the same: Ignore the puppy dog eyes, in this case, the glares, until Peter wanted to get creative, which Sylar wasn't necessarily looking forward to. Sylar had his good deeds, but he tended to keep them under the radar for safety reasons. If the people he knew learned of his 'weaknesses', hell, even his goals and desires, they would be used against him in an instant.

"If you keep this up, Peter, who knows what I'm capable of." He just rolled his eyes at the insinuation that he would 'get out'. Poor kid couldn't accept a hard fact of life, could he? Sylar was tempted to begin making hand-mouth puppets as Peter spoke just to be a dick, but he didn't. "You amuse me. You _need_ me, Peter," at first he was serious, then he pretended to implore of the man.

Surely Peter understood Sylar's need for attention, even if his attempts to get it were rather crazy, admittedly bipolar (with good reason). To remind Peter that he wasn't getting out and that Sylar did NOT like to be ignored, he lengthened his strides, walking beside and two steps behind the man about a yard away (out of reach). "What are you looking for? I thought you said you didn't need a tour?" _Know your way around the city already, do you?_ He wanted to rub in.

Glancing at Peter once, he soon looked away and went about admiring the scenery he'd already viewed, keeping his hands in his pockets, hunching in as he walked. He gave an inaudible sigh at the futility of everything. _He won't even let me help. I'm completely useless here. I'm not that much of a threat now, am I? He doesn't know that._

XXX

At Sylar's first question, Peter flipped him off silently and kept walking, unfazed. _Having you do something worthwhile might be a nice change of pace. You ought to try it, psycho._ He looked at the apartment buildings and reluctantly agreed, mentally at least, that he needed to pick a place out and settle there, if only for a night or two until he decided where he would be for the long haul.

_What does that mean, to be living somewhere in Sylar's head? It's just a mental construct, but why does it manifest like this? Is it because we dream of real life, so our mental spaces would look like real life? Is this what a nightmare would really be for him? For most people there'd be…gore, and scary things. I guess when you're the bogey-man, those don't scare you anymore._ _**This** _ _does._

Sylar made another stab at provoking comment from him. Peter wasn't particularly avoiding being provoked. If he was giving the silent treatment, it was out of a lack of desire to communicate, not a desire to hack the other man off, though he knew full well it would have that affect too. He listened to Sylar's increasingly desperate attempts to get some attention from him and Peter's silence quickly began to fade into intentional cruelty in holding his tongue. When Sylar moved up closer to him, Peter faded to the side. He'd preferred the previous distance. Actually, he would have preferred Sylar stayed in the apartment altogether – there where Peter could find him when he needed him and staying out of his hair the rest of the time. Yet here he was.

Maybe he could make him leave? "If _**I**_ need _you_ so much, why are _you_ tagging along after _me?_ You think I'm going to find something out here you might want to keep hidden?" Peter didn't think that was likely, but he said it anyway. "Or are you just so bored that baiting me is the only entertainment you've got?" _Now that's probably true._ As biting comments to run Sylar off went, they were pretty weak. He muttered, "Enjoy the hell out of it, Sylar. You've already made it miserable enough for me to be here that I'd do almost anything to get out, _without you_. Keep it up and I'm sure I'll find new depths of desperation to explore."

There had to be other ways. Maybe he could use Matt's power to reprogram Sylar. Maybe he was meant to steal shape-shifting from the bastard and that was him saving Emma. Maybe Sylar saving her was metaphorical somehow, but he couldn't imagine how that was. He huffed and looked at the buildings. There, on the corner, was a...grocery store? His brows rose slightly, as did the corner of his mouth. _Just what I was looking for._ He headed for it with a couple faster steps, then scowled at Sylar as his mind played forward to having the jerk shadow him the whole time he was in the store, commenting on his selections and being rude.

_Just go away!_ He didn't bother saying it though. After a point, even negative attention was attention. He sighed and copied Sylar's body language unconsciously, shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders.

XXX

He just sighed at that, having plenty of responses to it, but he was too tired to fling it at Peter. _Classy,_ he thought, _completely original._ Sylar just clenched his jaw at the increasing silence radiating off Peter in angry waves; oh, and Peter felt the need to move away. _Who hit whom here?_ He wondered. _I'm not poisonous…per se._ Opening his mouth to retort something smart and snappy, but paused to consider his words, rather the effect that they would have. _You need to tread carefully; don't lose this one._

"I'm- what? I offered you a goddamn tour, man, there's nothing in here that's going to surprise me. Sorry, no dead bodies…" under his voice he muttered, "conspirator." Peter would just _love_ that, wouldn't he? If he found some dirt, some skeletons, whatever the hell it was he thought Sylar could _possibly_ be hiding in this hellhole.

"Because I-" Oh, convenient that he couldn't come out and answer that. _Damnit_. He had pushed too far, too fast and Peter had called him on it. Did Peter have a similar need to be recognized that he needed to hear Sylar say that he needed the medico? Of course Sylar wanted the company, the conversation, whatever it be about.

As a man who based himself, unfortunately, on the attention he received, most of it being negative which probably explained him accurately, being without people to give him any kind of reaction was torture. But in the end, he was a man who did what he wanted, what he needed to do and...dealt with the damage later.

Personality warred with genius in his head; the former fucking with the latter until his goals were diluted and tangled. Ironically, he was aware of the saying 'Good attention, bad attention; it doesn't matter so long as it's attention.' Something he found himself living and relying on more and more as the years had gone on.

"You're not getting out, Peter. It will be easier for you to accept that, man," he offered quietly, keeping pace to fall behind as Peter sped up, sensing the futility yet again. Sylar was obviously not impressed by Peter's hard-nosed displays and insistence to 'get out', so it wasn't taking up any of his precious brain space; he wasn't hopeful or even worried about the prospect.

"Take care of your feet; they'll just get worse." _Nathan? Again? You fucking pr_ \- Sylar found his body tensing up, but he managed to control his reaction. _He is_ not _your goddamn baby brother_. He knew where they were and most likely where they were headed, so he didn't stare at the building or make a comment of any kind. Why bother?

The doors whooshed open allowing Peter to stalk in like a man on a mission (rather than like a man avoiding the hell out of something) and prowl around for whatever it was he was looking for, which Sylar imagined to be food. Dumb kid probably forgot to eat the same way Sylar had when he'd been on the road and on the run. _Again, similarities everywhere. Why can no one see that? Why do I have to be the monster?_

Sylar was used to reading body language and he was picking up more hostility than he would prefer to place his person around. Peter pulsed with annoyed anger and it actually grated on Sylar's mind, seeping into his emotions. It only jacked up his headache further. He slunk a ways behind Peter out of boredom, wariness, loneliness and curiosity, mostly curious to see what Peter was here for, what he picked up, hell, even what he looked at.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a mildly nasty look for the comment about not getting out and a sullen one for the quip about his feet. He held his tongue, denying Sylar conversation because he could - and besides, talking with him hadn't gotten him anywhere but worked up and angry. The man's continued presence was like a stone in his shoe.

He stalked into the grocery store and drew up just past the cash registers. He gave the place a cursory scan, confirming it was indeed the sort of place he wanted to be in. To his immediate right was a candy display. He reached out and snatched off a Hershey bar with almonds, ripping the wrapper loose and letting it hang to the side. He took a big bite, not stopping to savor it, just crunched it up and swallowed. He looked back and forth at the various aisles more slowly and took a second, smaller bite at a normal pace. It tasted good, just like chocolate should, just like he remembered it. He sucked at his teeth and then nibbled off an even smaller bit, revealing an intact almond. He studied that, then gently took the nut in his teeth and worked it free, eating it by itself.

He felt better. _Blood sugar rising_. He looked over at Sylar, who was quietly watching his possibly-odd candy-eating habits. Peter's expression eased a little. He looked away and the set of his shoulders relaxed slightly, like he wasn't so completely poised to fight at any moment. He let out a deep breath, gave a last look at the signs over the aisles that revealed what lay in each, and headed off to the left.

He took two limping steps, then turned back towards the entrance, going up to one of the other check out stands and liberating a couple empty bags. He quit limping again, having caught himself. He gave Sylar another 'checking' glance, but there wasn't any excess of hostility in it. He was just seeing where the man was. He wasn't comfortable with him being there, but there wasn't a lot he could do about him following him around. At the moment, he didn't feel up to threatening him with anything to make him go away. Sharp comments and the like weren't at the forefront of his mind either.

Peter headed back through the store, going down the medications aisle. It occurred to him that if there were pharmacies here, then there were probably hospitals, with fully provisioned stockrooms. It was something to think about, though he didn't see a lot of point to drugging Sylar. _Maybe myself, on the other hand_ …he thought with amusement. He wasn't serious. His mouth quirked a little at the internal joke anyway. He snagged a bottle of Tylenol and dropped it in his sack. He wandered on down the aisle, taking another bite of his chocolate bar.

Peter stopped to get a bottle of alcohol and another of peroxide. He searched around for a moment, not seeing what he wanted. _Ah, over there. Tubes._ He walked back the way he'd come and grabbed a tube of ben-gay. He put it in his sack and glanced discreetly towards the front of the store, giving Sylar's location another status check. Peter was hyperaware of where the other man was at, relaxing only gradually. He moved away and found another unbroken nut in his candy. He bit it off whole, sucking the chocolate from around it.

Peter picked up a box of moleskin and another of blister plasters. He finished the candy bar and wadded the wrapper, looking around, wondering where he should dispose of it. He put it in his sack and stretched. _Next on the agenda: food._ He meandered down a few aisles, trying to think of what he wanted to eat. He didn't want to fix anything, as appealing as the idea of prepared food was. He went down the bread aisle and took down a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread. He could happily eat that all by itself and when he was a kid, he had sometimes done just that.

_I need to get something other than bread though, or I'm going to have to limp my lame ass down here again in a few hours._ As he moved back to the front of the aisle, he turned and looked at Sylar, not to see where he was, but just to look at him. He hadn't said anything annoying for a while. Peter decided not to break that good trend by inviting conversation. Instead, he headed over to the fresh fruit and vegetable section. He snagged apples, celery, carrots and a sweet potato. _I wonder if there's already food in the apartments? I suppose I could ask._ He went back towards the front of the store. _Or I could go find out._

In any event, his steps slowed as he reached the doors. They swept open and he ambled outside because of that only. He wasn't sure where he wanted to go from here. He stood there looking around, trying to weigh in his head how far away he should be from Sylar so as to avoid the bastard, and how close to be because…well…he wouldn't really admit, even to himself, that he didn't want to be off by himself.

XXX

/ _Almond Hershey bars….He remembered Peter chowing them down by the dozen in med school. Poor strung out Pete had needed the sugar to even stay on his feet and keep his eyes open, let alone keep his brain online. Every so often, Nathan would have his assistant send Pete a box. Ma use to give him looks when she'd catch Pete with one like it was some kind of Nazi anti-appetite spoiling plot, but he'd kept doing it anyway. ("Kid's a nurse, Ma, he knows about diabetes") This was America and Pete was wafer thin and strung out for the energy. Hell, they were close enough that Nathan knew how he liked to eat them; large, chunks torn off into his mouth then sucking the nuts clear before crunching on them like they were the best part of the bar, something Nathan didn't exactly understand. Nuts were plain, chocolate was…well, chocolate. He still held a random memory of teasing Pete about said nuts; his own higher-sexed brain making a few connections about how, exactly, he liked to devour the legumes. Yeah, he'd known about Pete's little secrets in school. He'd mused a time or two that the kid might actually get laid more than he did himself with whatever his cute little (turn your head and cough) nurse routine was. Sometimes he surprised himself with the older brother role, but he was twelve years older than his kid brother, so he hadn't ever really considered it a choice. He remembered being baffled by the whimpering, pink mass that resembled one of those dolls the little girls seemed to fawn over when it, his newborn brother, had been set in his arms as a kid. Dad had never given him anything, even if the unspoken 'offer' was present. Nathan knew it had fallen on his shoulders that day, even if he didn't know it that moment in the hospital. Ma always did say that he took up more space…./_

Sylar just stood with his head down as tears stung his eyes. He had no other reaction to give to the memory; it made his chest ache hollowly, somehow chilly inside. _God…to have had a brother, a sibling…parents, really_. Was it any wonder he'd become a killer? _Then again…the sibling would probably have gone before Mo-Virginia._ Sylar found himself leaning his butt back on one of the register's conveyer tables, raising wet, wide, darkened eyes to track Peter's every move. _Get to know him, figure it out, he's not rocket science, he's….What was Pete?_ He met the glances the man threw back at him as he rolled the thought over in his mind, but didn't give a sign of any emotion to the attention.

Peter….Peter was an adversary, technically an enemy of the highest rank. Deadly, ruthless, and capable. But the man had opened up a time or two. The smallest glimpses only created more questions than they answered and Sylar was oh-so curious (one of his weaknesses). But he was still a brother in some very fucked up way, to Sylar, not Nathan. He held memories of Nathan's disregarding, mocking, insulting behavior, chopped, rude responses to 'My foot hovered before it hit the ground. _Hovered_!' Sylar knew that feeling. He would have understood, even if he'd never developed his own ability.

Some people couldn't understand being special. Peter…he understood, but he didn't seek it out, instead choosing to be selfless and helpful (to everyone but Sylar). Sylar knew he never would have 'fit in' as a Petrelli (reasons being Claire and Bennet; the options of being shot and stabbed on a daily basis not appealing even to his potentially masochistic sense of self); he knew he'd take Peter's place as the blackest sheep, assuming Angela ever released him from Level 5 period. But he felt such similarity to Peter; surely the other man knew? Maybe he could sense it somehow…It was too much to hope. _His empathy is broken after all…_

After taking mild note of the items Peter picked or gazed lingeringly at, Sylar lifted himself up to sit on the black conveyer table. The motion seemed to earn him a longer look, he only returned it, his eyebrow inching up slightly in question. Moments later, Peter shambled from the store and Sylar could see him looking around, telegraphing 'lost' all over his face. Sylar plopped down to his feet, shuffling out after him, careful to keep his distance and silence. Peter seemed more receptive that way, even if Sylar was brimming with questions. He didn't offer any comment or directional help since Peter seemed eager in the extreme to part ways.

XXX

Peter swung his bag pensively, looking up and down the street. He gave Sylar a glance and dropped his eyes before looking away at his possible destinations. He was softening even further in his stance against him – not that it really changed anything, except that Peter wasn't angered by Sylar's mere presence. _How long did that take? A whole ten or fifteen minutes of him keeping his mouth shut?_ The prospect of years stretched ahead of him. He sighed.

_Wasn't there a psychological experiment like this?_ He started walking slowly back towards Sylar's apartment. _Not being trapped somewhere with a psycho-killer, but having to sit across from someone at a small table and make constant eye contact with them for…I dunno, two minutes. It's longer than people think. Then you had to rate afterwards how you felt about them, whether they were a good or bad person. Just looking at someone for that long, not talking, not doing, nothing else – and people universally decide the stranger is more likable than someone picked at random._

_So here I am stuck with Sylar. I hope like hell he'll quit being a condescending ass, or at least keep his mouth shut._ He glanced back at the man again, but Sylar was still silent. Peter relaxed a little more and looked around at the buildings, the trees, the empty sidewalks. _It's kind of restful in a way._

He was alone with his thoughts – not a state Peter had ever been very good at. He was prone to brooding in solitude if he wasn't able to keep busy. He didn't want to 'brood' at the moment. He wanted to find an apartment, eat, take a hot bath, and lay around with his feet up, waiting for time to pass…he supposed. It would end when it ended. He just had to wait until then.

Waiting. Alone. With his thoughts.

"So, um…what do you… _do_ most days, here?" He had to have been doing _something_ all this time. Peter kept moving forward steadily, not looking at Sylar, not wanting to do anything to encourage another burst of sarcasm or slur against himself.

XXX

Sylar only moved so far as to look in Peter's direction as he emerged behind him from the store. However, he did give a startled glance at the man's back as he headed back towards Sylar's place. Either he was looking to settle close or he was being friendly or condescending enough to go back to Sylar's domain. Peter seemed more at ease in the silence Sylar provided so he didn't speak, attempting to enjoy even the illusion of companionship.

Plodding after the man, a distance behind, Sylar was more interested in the questions he had for Peter and trying to discern what his own next move should be. It all seemed to depend on Peter. _So this is what going crazy (for the dozenth time) feels like. I thought I gave up on waiting on other people._ He gave a miniature sigh to himself. Maybe some things never really change. _Take Peter for example_.

Sylar started slightly at the oddly asked question, surprised to be addressed at all. Blinking, he licked his lips, moving a hand to shuffle through his hair; a defense mechanism he'd developed suddenly now he had company since the last haircut he hadn't bothered to observe. "Uh, whatever you want. There's reading and shopping and cooking. You don't strike me as the homemaker type, but there's always arts and crafts and furniture décor and rearrangement," he chuckled lightly to show that he was indeed joking, not snarking.

He felt compelled to leave masturbation _off_ the list since that would be….awkward and Peter would figure that out for himself. That was literally none of his business. He supposed someone could make that a serial habit….he shook his head to clear it. It was awkward even in his head and for once his overactive mind wasn't doing him a favor _. I need a life. Badly. It's starting to show_. He also didn't feel the need to point out that Peter could spend his time making forts and cleaning guns, sharpening his knives and perfecting his poisons. That would be pushing him in all the wrong directions.

"There's always writing and board games, card games, too," he provided helpfully, honestly. "There's always learning a new language or learning to sew or something." Shrugging, he gave a small frown at the thought, "Just…find a hobby, basically. You'll try nearly anything to avoid boredom, but it will come for you anyway. Find something….stable." _Huh, stable. Coming from you, he'll leap at the chance for a weekly chess game with you._

XXX

_Are you the 'homemaker' type? Sylar the homemaker._ A memory came to mind of Sylar…no, Gabriel, feeding Mr. Muggles a bit of waffle. The man was wearing an apron and taking care of a little boy. He'd come over and hugged Peter warmly, put his hand on his face, and acted happy and balanced, rather than the desperate, haunted man he was all the other times Peter had seen him. It was a weird scene - simultaneously proving Sylar _could_ control his hunger and asserting that doing so was so difficult that he hadn't achieved it for long years.

_He was controlling it last year, when he thought he was my brother. How hard is it to master?_ He mulled over their previous conversation about post-it notes. It made him uncomfortable shortly, so he let his mind jump tracks, listening as Sylar elaborated on his answer.

_Writing. I wonder if he keeps a diary? Some sort of journal of his victims? I doubt it. Doesn't seem his speed - I doubt he thinks much about the people he killed - their lives were just speed bumps on the path to getting more power. Not much point in writing here anyway, since no one can read it but us. It's just a mental exercise. Though I suppose that's the point. A few hours have seemed like years to him…and I'm sure someone from the outside would have done something for me if I'd been lying around for three or four days now._

He eyed the buildings they were walking past. _So where do I want to be? Same block? Two blocks away, like here? Does it mean anything to be further away?_ He felt a bizarre urge to settle in virtually next door to Sylar, but all he needed to dispel that was to remember his several failures in conversation so far today and his track record in trying to get anywhere (in more ways than one) the first day he'd been here. He stopped walking, looking up at what were probably nice, mid-sized family apartments. It was a lot more than he needed, but he didn't plan on staying there for more than a day or two - until he felt better and had a better feel for what was going on.

Even though he'd already decided where he wanted to spend the rest of the day, he was reluctantly to simply walk off from Sylar and leave him standing in the street. They weren't exactly having a conversation, but they'd had an exchange that had been perfectly civil. It was a start. _Maybe I should just leave it at that and take my victory where I find it. That's what Nathan always counseled._ But no, Peter had never been one for that strategy, so he asked, "What do you do, though? What are _your_ hobbies? If you really think we're going to be stuck in here forever…" _Even by my assumptions, it's going to be a really, really long time._

XXX

The idea of Peter keeping a journal ( _oh, the empathy_ ) or writing an autobiography or worse, a self-help book or 'Reasons Sylar Should Die' memoir best seller was alternately horrible and amusing. If he went with the memoir, he supposed, Sylar could always sign the first million handwritten copies. Still he continued, more ideas coming, "If you're interested, there's always graffiti. But you're only destructive w-" With a nail gun. Ted's power. "When you…have to be," Sylar finished lamely.

Sylar himself was frustrated at his own inability to keep his mouth shut. As a watchmaker all those years ago, he'd had ideal control of his words, even the emotions he let slip to the surface. As Sylar, himself, now, having his personality, his mind rot away over the years alone had apparently left significant amounts of anger. Anger he hadn't realized he still possessed.

Peter seemed to be looking around….for his own place? Sylar was a little shocked he would consider something so close to himself, not that he was complaining if that was the case. He'd be thrilled to have someone, to….actually _have_ something period, let alone so close for him to view almost as he pleased. Of course, he technically had the whole world for his own, but maybe because Peter _wasn't_ his _anything_ , perhaps an enemy, it was appealing. A challenge, perhaps. And a challenge the medico was in spades.

Peter spoke again, posing a question that had Sylar gaping a little, unsightly as it was, at the man's back. _Did he really just…?_ As baffled as he was by the question, his brain was already coming up with the answers for him. "Wh- uh…I….read a lot. A lot. I don't cook for fun, but I do cook to eat. I do puzzles on occasion, I can draw a little. I collect stuff and fix up furniture sometimes." He did hesitate when it came to divulging a potential secret of himself, one that could set him back all the accomplishments and murders he'd bled and suffered to achieve.

Deciding to forego it at the moment; Peter may already have put two and two together about the earlier clock incident, he had a question of his own to ask that couldn't wait. "Um….Peter?" Sylar asked quietly, "Have….have you read my file?" Random and it probably drew more attention to the question and the motivations behind it because of it. Some secrets were best left buried. He had to see what he was working with.

XXX

Peter jumped on the question, more because of the tone it was asked in than the words themselves. Truthfully he initially had no idea what Sylar was talking about, but there was an earnest, quiet tone there that wasn't confrontational or aggressive. It caught Peter's ear instantly. "Your file?" _Medical file? IRS file? That file the FBI supposedly keeps on everyone? No, wait - the Company file. I'll bet that's what he means._

He looked back at Sylar, shifting his feet enough to be angled towards him, like they were talking to each other rather than Peter speaking forward at the world and Sylar addressing his back. It had seemed safer that way - less direct - and Peter suspected he was pushing too far, too fast just with that small movement, but he'd already made it. To take it back was worse. No, let Sylar recoil or rebuff instead, or adjust to tolerate it, depending on his capabilities.

In the meantime, Peter studied Sylar's expression, seeing the caution and reticence there, along with something that wasn't mere curiosity. The other man _needed_ to know this, which cemented what they were talking about. "Your Company file?" Peter asked, just to make sure. The shift in Sylar's expression affirmed it and Peter looked away, not wanting to be too intent.

"No," he answered shortly. "Me and the Company aren't on good terms, Sylar," he said with a snort. They'd tried to maneuver him into blowing up New York; they'd locked him up for months; they'd developed a virus that could destroy nearly all the world's population, and then _**kept**_ it; one of their founders, his father, had stolen his abilities (which may or may not have been related to some plan to give everyone abilities, and then to lose control of the situation such that a future version of Peter thought it needed to be stopped); they'd cooperated with the mass abduction and imprisonment of specials, including Peter himself…really, at what point in all of this would Peter have had an opportunity to read Sylar's file?

He chuckled at the thought, still looking away. To make it clear his humor wasn't at Sylar's expense, he said, "No, we're not on good terms _at all_."

Why would Sylar care? Why did Sylar think Peter was interested in his life, or multiple imprisonments, or victims, or whatever the file held? _Well, I did ask about his hobbies. Maybe he thinks I'm curious about him? I guess I am, though really I just wanted something to talk about._ Direct as always, Peter asked with a hint of a smile, "What's in there that you don't want me seeing?"

XXX

The way Peter pounced on the question, giving him that Peter look, going so far as to turn towards him and give him a glance told Sylar that he'd managed to sink himself. He had the man's complete attention, how ironic that he didn't want it on this particular subject. Something on his face must have shown, since he didn't bother to answer the obvious (to him) question, only shifting his weight as an 'answer', but it had Peter looking away.

Having Nathan's lovely memories, he knew Peter was not chummy with the Company, but he did know that he had almost unlimited access should he chose to exercise the right. Then again, Peter was literally a jump first, think later guy; that much he knew from experience. He was the lovable ignoramus, mentally chuckling to himself at the image.

Peter answered in very vague and hazy terms in the negative to his hesitant inquiry, so he gave an uncertain nod in response, hoping to let the subject drop. Of course Peter's amusement made him a little wary of mockery, but the man dissuaded it quickly; leaving Sylar to tilt his head in equal measures of puzzlement and amusement at Peter's display of good humor. Peter didn't show it often any more (not that Sylar knew much about it).

He couldn't really escape the returning, very fair, question. Sylar didn't want to make Peter any more suspicious than he was already. Come on, Peter still thought he'd managed to kill someone (everyone) or hide a secret portal in his closet or something equally ridiculous. But the EMT had also admitted that he was staying for a while and that gave Sylar….mixed feelings to say the least.

Oh, somewhere in the back of his mind he did hope for the freedom Peter proclaimed to be truth and reality, but….he had no choice but to be pragmatic about the whole thing. (And, really, that was just be totally unfair if Peter only had to 'stay' a week _with_ company, mind, while Sylar spent three years alone.)

The smile, however, did nothing to ease his worries. "I'm entitled to have my own demons, Petrelli," he said, mild and firm, nicely getting him to back off. It was about the extent of his manners, but he did hold his tongue on mentioning who exactly was involved in creating said demons, i.e. Mom and Pop Petrelli. "You've made it clear they're none of your business, except….the obvious one," again, avoiding naming names, this one Nathan's.

"It's not like it's going to come back and bite _you_ in the ass, so don't worry. I was just….curious how much you knew, that's all." _My god, stop talking already. Thought you wanted his attention_ off _your damn file_. To back it up, he set about looking innocent and harmlessly normal. Odd how he felt the need to keep Peter away from something that could barely be classified a secret when he was the only other being alive. Pride was funny that way.

Really, did it need protecting? No. Sylar just preferred avoiding further humiliation, but….was that worth all the subterfuge? Perhaps it was merely another weakness, another opening for Peter to get inside that he somehow, for some reason sought to prevent. He'd had enough of his own personal identify crises ( _Thanks, Mom, Elle, Bennet, Samson, Angela, Arthur and Nathan_ ) prior to being mind raped and manipulated. His own experiences, his actions hoping to show the specialized world what he was, who he was. And that someone was no longer a watchmaker. _I restore timepieces_.

How far he'd gotten with the community, he didn't know for sure; he only ever heard the negative murmurings and whispers, the plots and grievances laid against him. He knew he'd managed to erase his birth name (to everyone but the state of New York PD) and become reborn as Sylar, the most dangerous special. Feared; respected only in regard of the levels of fear he commanded and the intensity of actions the others would commit to see him dead, worse, imprisoned; even selling their own souls to give him the same measure of pain he'd caused them, also the family some would sacrifice to use him as a weapon.

At least Peter had answered the question, a result he hadn't been sure about; this opened the door for more of Sylar's questions. Meanwhile he was strangely touched; Peter would be thrilled to know, that the other man had inquired about something as mundane as his hobbies. He wasn't, however, so delusional as to believe it was concern or affection by any means. Peter was merely asking about what he was dealing with and probably trying to fill some space. He was obviously learning that Sylar was really the only thing that would fill the space.

He decided to try his luck again, "Assuming you're from….another reality," what a coined phrase that was. Peter used to be able to teleport after all. _Fucking teleportation_. "Um…what am I doing there, exactly? I doubt Parkman is going to stand by and…." And what, really? Um, try to find his (apparently still existing in Peter's La-La Land) kill spot? Incase him in carbonite or burn him to ash and hand him in a jar to Claire or Bennet, maybe Angela to gloat over? Mentally rolling his eyes at himself and the endless imagination; he was trying to figure it from the perspective of Peter's overactive one. Hey, he'd phrased it...delicately.

XXX

Peter backed off as desired at Sylar's firm non-answer. _Ones,_ his mind added, _**plural.**_ Whatever had happened to Claire was his business too, no matter how insular Sylar wished to be in limiting who he thought Peter should be interested in. And not that blood relation was all that mattered - there had been others Peter had known about fairly directly - Jackie and Isaac came to mind immediately, then there was Claire's biological mother, whom Peter recognized as family if only of a distant sort. He'd never even met her, but that didn't matter. It wasn't like he didn't care about all the other people Sylar had killed, or that they were somehow insignificant and beneath Peter's concern by virtue of unfamiliarity. The implication that they _were_ , or _should be_ , seriously got under Peter's skin.

Peter's jaw worked slightly. His back tensed up again (and hurt). His eyes narrowed. He drew his head down and his posture shifted. Sylar was looking away, though, thinking through something other than the effect his words had had on his companion, unaware of how completely that had shut down Peter's attempt to reach out.

Sylar asked his question, again mostly looking away until afterward. With difficulty, Peter listened and actually gave a moment to consider it. _You're being bricked up behind a wall in Parkman's basement. You'll never matter to anyone ever again. No one will find you. Your body is going to be buried and you'll be trapped in your head forever._ It might have helped Peter's cause in getting Sylar out if he'd said any of that, as Peter knew it might motivate Sylar, playing on his sense of self-preservation if nothing else. But he didn't feel inclined to share anymore. Pettily, he'd rather keep something like that, something Sylar would want to know, to himself. He answered honestly, though a bit less directly than he might have otherwise. "You're unconscious, just like Ma was at Pinehearst." Let Sylar imagine his body lying still and safe in a bed somewhere. The reality was more horrific.

Peter gave a smile that was very foreign to his face, a smile of someone who had seen a bit too much and been scarred too deeply by it. Eyes still narrowed, the smile didn't make it past his lips, but it wasn't fake. It was just as bitter as day old coffee. Because whatever was happening to Sylar was probably happening to Peter too. They were linked now, one way or another. He wondered, again, what Matt would do with him. Obviously, he wasn't going to pull him out or else he wouldn't still be here. That meant … what?

Peter exhaled sharply and looked upward, stopping his mind from the fruitless, stupid circle that he'd run in too many times already. He was here, and that's how it was, no matter the reason. He hurt, and he was tired and hungry and he wanted to plant his fist in Sylar's face again for no more than a comment that Sylar didn't understand. And that was what pissed him off so intently - Sylar didn't understand, _at all_. He had to get away from him again.

He turned to the building and took a few steps towards the door. "Don't follow me." A moment later he glanced back, expression hard and still angry, but feeling the need to add anyway, "Please." Partly it was politeness, and partly it was a genuine plea. He didn't want Sylar to follow him out of contrariness, or some misplaced need to prove he could. It would start things - things Peter didn't want started.

Peter pushed open one of the glass double doors and walked into the apartment building, getting about twenty feet before sagging against the first wall he came to, head hanging, bags dangling limply from his hands. The whole situation tried to crash down on him at once. He wasn't beaten yet though - not by a long way. After a few seconds, he bore up under the burden, straightening again. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, going to the elevator, his stride getting increasingly steady. The doors parted immediately and he walked inside, turning. His face was chagrinned as he realized the outer doors were transparent and he'd had a moment of weakness in view of the other man.

The elevator doors blocked off his view.


	5. Settling In

Day 4

Peter looked at the bank of elevator buttons blankly. He felt emotionally drained and that meant he couldn't think. The buttons went up to eight. _Top floor? Bottom? In which case, why did I get on the elevator? I'll look like even more of an idiot if I get out and there probably aren't any apartments there anyway - just offices and services. My luck Sylar would still be standing there, watching._ He hit the button for eight and reminded himself it wasn't like he was going to be staying wherever he ended up. He could always move later.

He walked out into an empty hallway, looking at doors distinguishable from one another by only the numbers. He went to the first one and…knocked, because he couldn't bring himself to just walk in. There was of course no answer. He knocked again - still no answer. He sighed and tried the door. It was unlocked. He swung it wide and looked in. "Hello?"

In all of his wandering, he hadn't gone inside the buildings very much. He'd gone in ground floor, commercial establishments, but Sylar's apartment had been the only one he'd been in. It had been creepy enough going in an empty store. It was worse going in an empty residence. He kept expecting to see an elderly person passed out on the floor, or a cat vanishing out of sight, like the times he and Hesam had been called to investigate by concerned neighbors or relatives.

There was nothing there, though. The rooms were also strangely sterile. There were no pictures of loved ones, no clothes left out on the floor, no hair in the hairbrush that was neatly put away in a drawer. The few articles of clothing were separated by the same distance in the closet; folded identically in the dresser. Everything was set 'just so,' staged for his perusal.

_Well, first thing's first_. He walked to the door and locked it. He put his vegetables away in the refrigerator and set the bread on the counter. Unable to resist, he got out a slice, then a second, and ate them together like an empty sandwich. He took the rest of his acquisitions to the bathroom, noting there was a shower head over the tub so he could bathe or shower as he wished. He figured he'd do both. He considered what order to do things in and decided that as much as his feet hurt, any bandaging and wrapping he did wouldn't do any good if he took a bath right after, so he plugged the drain and started the water running.

He put the toilet seat down and unlaced his boots, gingerly removing them. His socks were grey, but they had a few dark spots on them now, unsurprisingly. He peeled them off and threw them into the trash. _Need new socks_ _._ He twisted his foot up to look at the bottom. He was blistered in a patch under the ball of his big toe, on the top of his little toe, and across his heel. His other foot had a similar wear pattern. He shook his head and stripped off his shirt. He suspected it was a bit ripe. He tossed it on the sink and followed suit with his pants. His underwear he tossed on top of the socks in the wastebasket, then climbed into the tub.

He played with the water settings, heating it up a little more, and settled back. _I wonder if there are hot tubs around here? Or swimming pools? I thought I saw the ocean…I wonder if there are seasons. I suppose there are, since Sylar thought of it as 'years.'_ He let the hot water soak into his muscles and ease them. He leaned forward to rub fitfully at his calves, then his thighs, before leaning back again and resting.

It had been a while since he'd really relaxed. Even before he came here - grieving for Nathan disturbed his rest and taking his mother's ability hadn't done him any favors. _In more ways than one_ _._ Once here, his sleep had still been tense. He couldn't guard his mind then. _That probably has a lot to do with it. That and never being sure if Mr. Murder-happy might show up_ _._ He sighed. _That's…probably uncharitable. He probably…he must have a good side in there somewhere, or at least a side that's not…_ Peter sighed again and shifted, finding a more comfortable position, shutting his eyes and drifting. He let his thoughts wander in the lassitude that comes between lying down and falling asleep.

_I wonder what he does with his free time, that's so secret or embarrassing he wouldn't talk about it? What, does he knit pictures of kittens?_ The warmth seemed to be seeping into his bones, calming him and soothing. Peter let his mind unwind too, letting the stress of constant concentration disperse.

He was a very focused man and when he paid attention to something, he paid attention with everything he had. It was a trait he'd shared with Nathan and their father - a peculiar ability to make a person feel like they were the most important thing in the world to them at that moment. It wasn't a lie, either. No one wanted Arthur's hawk-eyed attention, and everyone wanted to be Nathan's friend, if only for a moment. Peter had a different effect on people, but it was no less intense.

He replayed the conversation they'd had on the street outside, what few words they'd exchanged. Was the question about the file trying to change the subject? His mind turned over the tone of voice, the body language, Sylar's expression, his gaze, his motions and stance - he didn't consider them clinically, but as a whole, assuming them inside his own head like a set of new clothes, trying to gauge what it felt like to be Sylar at that moment, trying to understand his motives.

Finally even that bit of mental work exhausted him and he fell asleep in the bathtub. He twitched a little, not noticing as the last of the barriers in his mind came down. A memory, or a dream, came to him. He was…someone else, someone with long, thin fingers, quick and delicate, yet still masculine. _\\\_ _He was working carefully at a watch, incorporating a part he'd fabricated himself, having failed to find an adequate replacement. He wasn't sure he had the diameter right, but that was how it had gone for a long time with his Sylar_ _.\\\_

Peter twitched again, eyes moving back and forth under his lids. The watch was familiar.

_\\\Of course it was. He'd worked on it for years. It was his pride and joy._

_The bell over the door rang. He looked up and saw one of his occasional repeat customers, Mr. Thomson. He told the older gentleman, "I'll be just a minute," in a voice that was almost Sylar's - but too young, unguarded_ (Peter heard the difference instantly) _-_ _and made a final adjustment to the gear. He'd been right though - the diameter was wrong. He'd have to go back to the Swiss shop and beg a little more time with their machine to make another part, this time just a tiny bit smaller. The customer leaned over the counter; looking at what he was doing there at the workbench he'd set up near the front window._

" _Whatcha got there?" the older man asked, his blue eyes sparkling with interest._

" _Oh," he said, looking up. He wanted to know what he was doing? It wasn't the first time the man had asked about his work, which was part of why Gabriel remembered him as a customer. "This is a Sylar Field Edition. It's my hobby watch. I've been trying to repair it for years now, but they're very rare." He started to warm to the subject, smiling and turning towards the man. "I've been having to make custom parts for it, because the three I found were all a little corroded on the inside and-"_

_The man laughed - he **laughed!** \- and shook a hand at him in negation. "No, no. I'm sorry. I just thought that might be the watch I brought in last week."_

_The smile fell slowly off his face. He was an idiot. Why had he thought the man cared? He recovered his smile, but it was false now. With a bit of effort, he made it look almost as genuine as the one he'd worn before. "Of course, Mr. Thomson. I finished that one Tuesday and called you yesterday. It's right over here." He moved to the register and produced the repaired chronograph for the man's inspection. The older man barely looked at it. It was a woman's watch, his wife's, Gabriel recalled him saying. He stuffed it in a pocket almost as soon as he'd seen it, not asking what had been wrong with it, not even checking if it ran. Gabriel blinked once at the careless treatment of the timepiece, swallowed and rang up the sale._

_The customer left. Gabriel stood very still next to the register, berating himself inside. He had such a rare interest, a virtually extinct hobby and he knew that. He'd known that all along, but it didn't stop him from looking for someone else who might be interested. They didn't have to share it - they just had to be … they just had to show an interest in **him** … It was a stupid desire, because no matter what empty words his mother gave him about how special and interesting he was, he knew no one else felt that way.\\\_

Peter struggled out of the vision with the utmost of difficulty. He roused himself, waking, and shook his head a little to try to clear it. Mission accomplished, he took a deep breath and then settled back into his previous position, mulling over the revelation. It seemed unlikely to be a dream, at least in that Peter's mind might have made it up. It had to be another of those thought-leak things and this time he could understand perfectly why Sylar would be thinking about this. He'd expected that only happened when they were both **asleep** , but apparently not. It was closing on noon. It was improbable that Sylar had gone home for a nap. Grumbling about his sour luck, Peter relaxed again.

He tried to recall all the details he could about the scene. He shifted a little and let the water swirl around him, letting him almost float. He'd been drowsy before and however unexpected the intruding thoughts were, they hadn't been upsetting. He settled back down quickly, falling back asleep.

_\\\A waitress addressed him as he sat in a diner, pretending to contemplate the menu. She said "Oh, nice watch. That's a, um, Sylar Field Edition, right? You know those were modeled after the watch that Allied Command John Pershing brought back from Russia after WWI."_

" _Are you a collector?" For just a second, his face relaxed, his mouth opened more, and his eyes widened._

_She saw his response, muted and brief though it was. "Uh, no," she laughed - **she laughed at him** for his moment of hope - and spoke quickly to head off any interest he might have in pursing that side of the conversation. "No, I just um, read about them in a magazine and I just remembered. Just something my brain's been doing lately, just remembering everything."_

" _Everything?" Sylar asked with a slight edge to his voice._

" _I'm my very own wikipedia." Sylar thought she sounded like a ditz.\\\_

Peter breathed harder, trying to wake himself again but having less luck. He'd heard the tone in his (Sylar's) voice. He knew what that meant. He could remember/feel/know the thoughts that had been in Sylar's head. There had been a smirking, calloused disappointment…

_\\\He really hadn't expected more, but for a second there he'd thought that maybe…maybe that he'd found someone with a similar passion, but no. Of course not. Just an empty-headed waitress with an ability she was milking to increase her tips, no doubt having mentioned his watch solely for that reason. She wasn't interested in the Sylar - it was just another useless fact stuck in her head by an ability she didn't even seem to appreciate. He would appreciate it. He would value it, cherish it, just like he had the watch…\\\_

Peter clenched his teeth. He knew where this was headed and he had no desire to see it for himself. He lashed out with a foot, kicking the side of the tub and splashing. The flash of pain and the noise finally pulled him out of it. This time he sat up and threw water on his face, scrubbing at himself. _As if I needed a reminder that he's a killer. Someone laughs at him and he thinks he needs to murder them._

Peter shook his head and got carefully to his feet, pulling the plug on the tub. He didn't want to risk another lapse and get bombarded by another…whatever these were. Peter pulled the curtain closed and turned the shower head on to rinse off before the tub was empty, enjoying the sound of water against water. It brought back other memories; ones he was sure were his alone - walking in the rain after slugging Nathan, trying to get a cab, running into Simone. He smiled. That had been a good night. Sort of. The smile slipped away as he thought about why he'd been out there in the rain - Nathan had publicly humiliated him by claiming Peter had tried to kill himself.

He frowned and got out of the shower. He didn't like this 'alone with his thoughts' business. He dried off and saw to his feet, thinking that after eating lunch, he'd spend the rest of the day exploring the building because he needed to do something to keep his mind busy, and the idea of 'reading' or whatever Sylar had suggested just truly didn't appeal to him. Maybe eventually, because he supposed it was okay as a way to focus your thoughts, but he wouldn't really be learning anything new. That was impossible, after all.

He found underwear that fit him, to his surprise, in the dresser drawer. They were a little tight, as was the dark t-shirt he pulled out, but they were okay. The socks were a better fit, but they came in a small range of sizes anyway.

He roamed through the building to find that most of the apartments were carbon copies of the one he'd been in. There were always details different - one might have a room decorated for a kid, with a dinosaur theme or all done in pink; another might have crocheted covers on all the furniture, bringing to mind the elderly. But there were no people. One empty apartment after another weighed on him.

Peter suspected it was a feature of the place; a deliberate aspect of it; a part of the prison Matt had made for Sylar. Of course, now that Peter was _in_ it, he was affected as well, but at least he understood. Sylar didn't seem to have that benefit, even now that he'd been told. Understanding it didn't mean Peter didn't feel it, but he didn't leave the building.

_I don't have to. I'm not lonely. And there's no one out there anyway but Sylar…a man who can't even get through small talk with a waitress without finding something to take offense at_ _._ So he stayed inside, busied himself searching for supplies that he might need - a few more clothes, he scavenged a few cans of food from other apartments, he found a messenger bag and a backpack.

When he finally laid down for sleep that night, he prayed for a dreamless night. He needed the rest dreadfully. The bed was soft and warm. It was comforting. He'd propped up a tower of canned soup against the door in case Sylar tried to get in - it was stupid, and he thought it almost impossible, but he hadn't been able to relax and lie down until he did it, so that was just how it was. His slumber was undisturbed, by demons within or without.

Day 5

Peter woke early, before it was even light outside. He showered again, this time washing his hair. He shaved, not really approving of the choice of toiletries in the apartment, but they would do for the time being. He stood before the sink contemplating the toothbrush, holding it before him. He sucked at his teeth and looked at the hairbrush he'd been using. There'd been not a hair on it when he pulled it from the drawer. It hadn't looked brand new, but the use marks it had, if any, were sort of generic. The same could be said of the toothbrush.

He tried, and failed, to convince himself that he was in Sylar's head and this was perfectly sanitary. _It's all a dream. The toothbrush doesn't even exist._ He sighed. _I don't even have to brush my teeth. I can just skip it and get one from the store today – a new one, in a package – if that's what it takes to make my subconscious feel better_ _._ He stared at the toothbrush, an expression of defiant mulishness creeping over his face. _Fuck my subconscious!_ He stuck the toothbrush in his mouth and turned on the water, getting out the toothpaste. He brushed dry for a little bit until he was sure he'd swapped germs with whatever illusory mental construct had previously owned it and then wet it and applied toothpaste to brush properly. He glared at himself briefly in the mirror. _There!_

Feeling strangely victorious, he headed out into the world instead of staying in. His feet still hurt, but not as bad and his back and thighs were much improved. He still took the elevator, though he wondered if 'exercising' here would make him _think_ he was stronger and had more stamina. It was a thought. He liked exercising. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for free weights, though if he didn't see any in apartments, he was pretty sure that sporting goods store he'd seen the first day would have something appropriate. Even a jump rope would be nice.

_I need to clear some of that crap out of my apartment. There's too much stuff in it. All of_ his _stuff. Not the sort of stuff I want in my apartment. I wonder … if everything I do here is just a mental exercise, then maybe I could get some good out of doing things that benefit from concentration and mental repetition, like music_ _._ He smiled a little and thought of Emma as he walked down the street in the pre-dawn gloom, heading immediately for the diner he'd fixed himself breakfast at before. Doing so took him past Sylar's apartment. He hesitated as he turned onto the street, eyes sweeping up and down it. It was empty. The lights above were off. He headed on.

At the diner, he found the place as messy as he'd left it. His brow furrowed at that. He guessed he'd imagined that it would fix itself after he was gone, but really, he hadn't thought about it at all. He cleaned up, then made himself scrambled eggs with bell peppers. Scrambled eggs with onion had been Nathan's favorite breakfast dish (unless you counted an omelet with onions). He almost never ate either because of the effect on his breath. It was probably the sense of the forbidden that made him love them more. Peter tossed some onions in a little late in the cooking process. He didn't care what his breath smelled like. This time, he cleaned up before leaving.

He walked back, feeling competing urges to see where Sylar was and what he was doing, and to swing wide to avoid the man's residence. His mind threw up other possible places to explore, but he refused them. He would stick to the plan he'd had that morning. Sylar was not going to keep him from being wherever it was Peter wanted to be. He wasn't _afraid_ of him, for God's sake. He walked down the street in front of his apartment resolutely, but it was empty.

He turned the corner to head to his apartment and there was the man, sitting on the front step across the street from the building Peter was already thinking of as his own. His stride didn't falter, because now this was not him intruding onto Sylar's space, but Sylar in his. Or… sort of. The street outside was mostly public, at least insofar as 'public' meant anything here.

He wondered if it was purely coincidental that Sylar was directly outside the building Peter had been planning on exploring next. It didn't matter. Peter walked over to him, pausing four or five paces from the other man. He glanced at Sylar in acknowledgment, then looked up at the building façade. "Hey," he said, still looking up.

Day 4

Closing his eyes with a sigh, Sylar turned and began to meander back towards his own humble abode, leaving Peter as… _requested_. Just when he'd been getting…not comfortable, but…acclimated to the sheer brain-blowing boredom of being alone, Peter waltzed in and turned everything on its head; everything was now _without_ Peter. Living this mind-numbingly boring life now had an additional factor. The EMT was as unlikely to sit and play a game of chess with him as he was to break out into a soft-shoe number. Meaning Sylar would have to reacclimatize to Peter.

The other man wasn't going to be thrilled with his presence either, making the job that much harder. He would have to be polite, avoiding annoying and angering, even saddening his companion which was a harder task than it seemed at first glance. Peter the empath, Sylar the psychopath. Someone who understood every human emotion meeting someone who could barely begin to grasp the concept, who failed to understand even his own subtle emotions? What a pair.

_Alright, alright. I need to be thinking of what I can do to keep him around, keep him_ _…_ interested _for lack of a better word. God, that sounds like a wife desperate for an indifferent, ED-affected husband_ _._ Sylar went so far as to stop walking at the metaphor. _Anything but that. I won't beg_ _._ Or so he told himself. Frankly, he couldn't guess at his limits at this point. He could be very well capable of….outrageous actions to get what he wanted. That much was very clear over his less-than-stellar track record.

Sylar was surprised at himself as he began to walk mindlessly again; his pride….where had it mysteriously vanished? When, even? _Somewhere around….oh, yeah, being mind-fucked_ _._ If he was still in possession of his pride (and powers), what would he be doing now? Torturing Peter, without a doubt. Yet somehow that struck him as strange, no, not because of the lack of pride and powers, but because of the hypocritical nature of that thought. Sylar knew he would gladly torture, abuse, break and even kill Peter had he those things; he'd been ready to at Mercy Heights.

Here he was, however: partially alone, powerless and no sense of accomplishment or even his so-called god complex to see him through. Mortally immortal with the exact opposite of himself, Peter. _But he has my flaws, the same as Bennet, the same as Claire, Angela even_ _._ Briefly the thought to call out to Matt, the unseen, unbelievable, fat LA cop in the sky…. _Oh, help me now_ , he mentally moaned, _I don't want to die from a doughnut crumb when he finally decides to snuff me_. _Because so help me, that is_ not _going on my damn tombstone- death by fat LA cop in the sky's doughnut crumb. Parkman is not God._ Shaking off the image with some physical help, he went back to his original idea. Was this some kind of test? Throw the boa constrictor….(well, Peter certainly was no mouse) live prey and rate his progress? No, that made obviously no sense. Neither of them had powers.

_Go back to the beginning. Peter….'came' in here of his own free well, so he says, to get me out. All over some prophetic dream he's had (probably a nightmare), that his random girlfriend of the week is going to….kill lots of people._ Sylar straightened as he stopped dead again, turning around to glance back at Peter's building as if it were the man himself. _That's it, isn't it? She's special. How else would she even register on his map? How easy would it be to kill thousands of people with the right ability? Don't I just know it. Meanwhile….I'm…"sleeping" somewhere, in no real danger…so I hope. Where does that leave him? He can't be two places at once- Time travel. Is…is he from this time? I don't know any Amanda, Amy, Emily, whatever the hell her name was. It's possible._

Nodding at his own cleverness, he set the thought away to ripen, focusing instead on where he was physically walking, what he was doing. _Interests….Peter can't cook. He's not that big a reader, too ADD or too much of a dreamer for that_. Nathan's memories were seamlessly tapped into (for once by choice, this allowing him some kind of power over the run-away recollections; they didn't overwhelm him this time. Sylar chuckled gleefully) and he ransacked through the files looking for hobbies and interests.

_Wow_ , he thought, _his list is….nearly as short as mine. That's_ _…._ His mind had been about to supply 'that's so sad', but he caught himself before it formed in his mental voice. _Pathetic. Guy like that, he's got everything but control and killer- no, he's got killer instincts._ Sylar was torn at the thought between gloating and sorrow and a twinge of bite-sized guilt. Arthur. He'd had his own neck broken and before that been thrown off a roof with Peter, then the whole nail gun thing…. _Yeah, he's got the balls. Looks, money, enough personality to make almost anyone bend over for him and what does he do with his life?_

_Baseball- not playing it, but watching it; Nathan had gifted him with a ball signed by the Yankee's Batting champ Paul O'Niell, .359 in 1994, a game they'd seen together. At least it's a decent hobby._

_Music- the guy liked to play instruments, something you forgot to mention. Strange how it doesn't trigger one of Sky-boy's memories. He plays piano and guitar fairly enough._

_Helping people- Uugh!_ Sylar knew this was going to be a problem instantly. He was the person in need here, Peter was….well, was he supposed to help? Certainly he was under no obligation unless he suddenly decided to overlook the whole Nathan thing and undo the wrongs of his kin. _Un-fucking-likely. If there were any animals here, I bet they'd go to him_ _._ While Sylar was and had been good with animals, the past six years (only three of which actually mattering) the creatures tended to treat him like a well-learned electric fence.

_Continuing on…_

_Travel (Europe, huh?), swimming and diving (Okay….), blah blah blah…nope…nope…Board games….the kid used to like sex when he could get it, that much I can tell._ At that, Sylar tried not to snigger, he really did, but the idea of Peter Petrelli, I-talian Eagle Scout, boy-wonder charming his way into some invalid cougar's bed was honestly sickeningly amusing to him. _Chess, checkers, board games….card games when they're relatively clean or unless you get him to…well, well, well. Popular TV shows, movies (those are wasted), exercise, he speaks some French, likes politics._

_Ah, shit. Should have invited him over for dinner. Again. Not that he'd accept, of course_. Sylar was fairly confident that the offer would eventually be granted, even if it took some time. Time they had to spare (even if Sylar doubted his sanity had it to spare). By then, Sylar had purposefully bypassed his apartment building and headed towards the library, intent on his purpose. He made a mental note to stock up on 'Peter food' for the next time the man decided to raid Sylar's kitchen.

Musing on this, Sylar entered the library. It never crossed his mind that Peter would feel under a lens or feel objectified as he racked up memories of Peter's favorite foods: mac 'n cheese, chicken alfredo, the cinnamon bread…. _Focus_. He went to the sports section and after leafing briefly through the selections, he chose a few on stats and biographies; specifically of New York's Yankees and Mets teams, the two he assumed Peter would have the most exposure to.

Taking up the books, he headed back towards his apartment, going up three flights of stairs to his rooms, closing the door behind himself without much care. Sylar set the books down on his single table, passing into the kitchen. He was hungry and the urge to feed was starting to affect him and he hated that; even if he was usually so focused on something he would actually forget to eat; again, something he knew he and Peter had in common. Now what to make?

Sylar drew out a can of chicken noodle because, yes, he was a little stressed, but when had that become news? _Stress is all in the mind. Oh, fuck you, Chandra, just….go to hell._ Preparing the soup in a bowl, he threw it in the microwave and sat down with a flurry of motion to still as he read the stats book. Joe Torre, Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Alex Rodriguez, check, check, check, check; damn….forty World Series wins from 1921 to 2009. Yeah, he would have remembered that with the red-head's ability, but he didn't have it and he'd never heard that information.

He wasn't a total loser in sports; he knew the teams, a few of the big players, but nothing substantial. Sylar had known the Yankees were a bit of a disreputable and famed wild card while the numbers were hazy. The microwave made a 'ding!' of finish and he rose with the book in his hand, still reading, to remove it and grab a spoon, returning to his seat. All the while his eyes never left the book, drinking in the information as he failed to notice the fading light outside.

Nathan's memories aided him in knowing which games they'd seen together in person or via the television but soon he grew uncomfortable sitting in the wooden chair, moving himself into the bedroom with the book attached to his left hand. Laying the hardback on the desk after he'd gathered up his pajamas, he quickly stripped and redressed for bed, tossing the pillows into submission and settling in under the blankets.

His last thought was, _Hey, maybe this could be fun_.

Day 5

Sylar awoke the next morning, finding the book on the floor next to his cot. It drew a frown from him to see something so valued on the ground. The sight prompted him into action, rolling from the bed to grab it up. Once he straightened with it in hand, he was forced to shove back his unruly dark hair when it fell all over his face. Sighing, he padded into the bathroom to take care of business, entering the kitchen once he'd done that and dressed. Yawning as he sat at the table, Sylar opened up the hardback as he poured out Lucky Charms, catching on too late as he missed the bowl, spilling the cereal over the table top.

He groaned. _I hate it when that happens._ _/"Why does this keep happening?"_ At an extra tooth in his mouth. _That's not my fucking tooth. It's not mine_. _It's not mine!/_ Sylar set the bowl under the edge of the table, scraping the cereal back into it from the table top, pouring milk in, this time with his attention on the carton, not the book. After he'd finished, he took an apple and the book and left the apartment in search of Peter, rather, to stalk Peter's place for when he left.

Arriving not long after, he sat on the steps of a building across the street from the medic's place in the nice morning sun, stretching out his too-long legs and opening the book again. It wasn't a book for the mild-reader by any means; chock full of facts from cover to cover, it was no walk in the park for someone like…Peter, for example. But Sylar thrived on those facts. Surprisingly Peter showed up much sooner than he anticipated; he'd been kind of expecting a barricade situation with the man. Even more so surprising was that he'd already been out and about.

Peter wasn't limping so bad; clearly his feet pained him less than yesterday, but the man stopped shorter than the average proximity distance. Some long-buried or half-learned social ruling triggered something in Sylar's head and he stood quickly; all awkward legs and arms, nothing like the graceful, predatory killer he'd been before. Holding the book in one hand, the other quickly burrowing into his pants pocket under his pea coat, he replied, "Hey. Peter," Sylar tacked on the man's name, unsure of why he had, noting the man's clean-shaven face and continually broken watch.

Sylar wasn't staring (pretending to stare) at the building, instead he gazed at Peter, trying to discern the man's shifting moods. _I can do this. I can win him over_ _._ "Like your new place?" He asked randomly, just to start a conversation on the right foot this time. "Quite the choice, huh? I mean…" _Don't belabor that again, he doesn't like that. He doesn't want your assistance in settling in._ "Uh…I found some board games." _Smooth, that was real casual_.

XXX

He watched the other man scramble to his feet and there was something unthreatening about the motion. It was different. Peter contemplated that, but he couldn't figure out how to characterize it. It was like Sylar stood up with less poise, less prepared to uncoil in an attack – maybe that was it, that his posture was unguarded. One of his hands was occupied and the other was in a pocket - yes, definitely unguarded, so much so that he wondered if it was intentional. Peter grunted and looked past him at the door of the building, his gaze called back when Sylar said his name. He gave a brief nod and looked away again, inwardly relieved that they'd managed to exchange greetings in a civilized manner.

He glanced back at the other building when Sylar referenced it. He supposed it was appropriate to call it his new place. He still didn't plan on staying there, though getting through a dreamless night had been a relief. _Maybe that has something to do with it – I'm only vulnerable to those thoughts if I'm uncomfortable? One night hardly proves anything. I might as well stay a few more to find out._

_Board games?_ Well…he supposed he would eventually, probably, sit down and play something with Sylar if he got bored enough. And if Sylar learned, at some point, to self censor. He wasn't interested at the moment. A quick glance around confirmed Sylar hadn't actually brought any such games with him, so that saved Peter the rudeness of declining.

Peter wasn't real sure how he felt about Sylar being here, waiting for him. He looked back at the building he'd picked out for today's search. He supposed that three relative years alone, being mentally tortured, would probably make someone a bit desperate for company. And so Peter didn't try to run him off. He wasn't interested in playing games though. "Board games, huh? That's cool. Maybe some other time."

_I found some cool stuff in the other building… no. He's been here a long time, and that's an opening for him to be a smug, arrogant bastard and I'd rather not start that. Again._ "I'm going to look through the rooms here." He gestured at the building in question, hoping belatedly that Sylar didn't take that as if he was searching the city for bodies, which in a vague sort of way he _was_. Bodies, a presence, a life force, something to relate to other than Sylar. And there was the other angle that this was Sylar's head. Peter wasn't the curious type by nature, but he wondered if there was an end to the level of detail he'd find and if somewhere, there was something darker and more mysterious than empty room after empty room.

Suiting action to words, he moved forward, deliberately not taking the wide berth around Sylar of the day before and instead giving him only a normal amount of space. He opened the door and moved inside, looking around at the foyer. _I wonder if he could tell me what's in every room before I go in them? 'The tour' he offered…maybe after I get done here. Then I'll have a better idea of what's in all these buildings._

XXX

This time Sylar noticed the attention Peter was giving him as he stood. Honestly, he didn't know if that was a good or bad thing or what to do with it, so he didn't bother to acknowledge it. There were no obvious signs of where Peter had been or been doing; he assumed the medic was out for a walk. The man looked at him at his name being voiced; a natural enough response and Sylar met his eyes as he did, almost asking permission to be in his presence.

The nod he received was answer enough and Sylar relaxed further, the set in his shoulders easing into casual that would be unfamiliar to Peter. That alleviated many doubts in his mind as to Peter's mentality and…strength, if that was the right word. The empath would keep fighting and so long as he did, they would be fine.

Peter addressed the board games and Sylar nodded back, enthused about the idea. He hadn't played a board game in….eleven years? Grinning lightly, he looked back to Peter's building, which seemed to be the focus of the day. "Why? Do you need something?" Tilting his head, he turned back to Peter, his grin fading into a slight frown, confused. "Um…what….what would you be looking for?" Suspicion did begin to creep up in his mind. He tried to avoid being defensive and on the attack, managing not to turn and stare Peter down (his favorite method of getting an answer).

However, the space between them closed on Peter's accord and he blinked in surprise and delight. Grinning again at the man's retreating back, he followed along behind towards the building. "Seriously, man, what's going on?" _Besides not much?_ He so helpfully supplied them both mentally. Jostling his book and apple, he darted quickly forward to catch the door as Peter opened it for himself. Clearly he didn't expect Peter to hold the damn door open for him or anything. Of course, he wasn't thinking about the suddenness of the motion and how it might strike his companion.

Honestly, Sylar was happy as a clam to be near someone, hell, have the option to converse, even if it wasn't exactly welcomed. It was equally strange to be…close to a person and not have to worry and keep his guard up (well, as much). No weapons other than words, no cells, drugs, no _abilities_. That was the real crux of it all for Sylar. To be this close a special and not feel that….gut-wrenching need to fix and discover _(minus that goddamn watch of his!)._ _Cotton and ice….heavy on the ice_. On top of it all, it would appear that he'd won over Peter….while he kept his mouth shut, that is. _That's why I brought the book_ , he supposed.

XXX

When Sylar's hand landed unexpectedly on the door a foot above Peter's, the empath jumped and stiffened, freezing in place for a moment. He bristled and it felt nearly literal - like every hair he had attempted to stand straight up. He turned and looked at Sylar with a long, level look and one slightly raised eyebrow that was a lot more threatening than any amount of hysterical response. It communicated very clearly, _'I do_ _ **not**_ _want you that close to me_.' Or perhaps it was actually saying, ' _Get the fuck away from me_.'

Peter let go of the door and walked inside so stiff-legged he hardly bent his knees. He got a little space and felt better immediately. _Stupid overreaction. All he's doing is holding the door. Don't want him holding the door. Shouldn't have walked so close when I went past him then, idiot. I'm_ _ **still**_ _overreacting._

With an effort, he drew his thoughts away from berating himself and looked around the foyer. There was a spacious little lobby separated from the foyer by a set of interior glass doors. The lobby was a bit shabby around the edges but, like most everything in Sylar's world, it was clean, empty and open. There was a board on the wall near the division between the foyer and lobby, next to a bank of buttons to ring individual apartments. There were no names on the board - no way to indicate who was supposed to live here. Peter pressed one of the buttons anyway.

XXX

_Oops_. Why oh why was he not born with the (natural) ability of being social? That would have come in handy and made things….a lot easier. Peter telegraphed restrained hostile awareness the instant his hand landed on the glass. Sylar himself froze and waited until Peter got his desired (required) space even though he desired to crowd him in the entryway. He could have easily; a quick excuse to be close.

Sylar assumed Peter would recall just how useful he was without abilities and weapons. Peter stalked off with a burr up his ass, looking like he needed to puke from fear and possibly anger for getting within Sylar's personal bubble, even by accident. The glare he was given was only a cover he could tell. He frowned, following several feet behind; _God, this is ridiculous. Walking twelve steps behind. What's next, bowing and scraping?_

His face taking on a scowl at the back of the man's head as he walked further into the foyer, only glancing at the surroundings. Peter moved in through gated doors and Sylar settled for opening the door again for himself due to his distance. _That should please him_. The medic began to explore the lobby, peeking around in the few doors. Of course Sylar lingered behind, not getting in the man's space as he looked into the rooms for several reasons.

XXX

He stared vacantly at the board for a moment, remembering going by to pick up an Irish guy named Chris while on his way to Julie's birthday party. The ring board for the redhead's apartment had looked just like this. He'd hoped to hook up with Chris, but the guy had showed up with Ivan. Peter had ended up with Justin instead, which was probably a good thing all the way around. _God, that has to be more than ten years ago, because I think that was my second year in college. Wonder what ever happened to any of them?_

He reached over and opened one of the glass double doors just like someone had buzzed him in, having waited about the right amount of time while thinking. He was unconscious to the pattern, carrying it out without realization - no doubt in the same manner that Sylar carried out many of his own habits in this nightmare world. To anyone cast in the role of an observer, though, it would be immediately apparent. Peter glanced back at Sylar still shadowing him, moving on through the door abruptly enough to avoid any possibility of Sylar's arm reaching above or past him to catch the door.

He looked around. He had elevators, the door to an office, another door to…Peter looked inside, through the glass built into the door… _laundry room. And over here is…ah, an exercise room_. He stood in front of the door for a very long, still moment, eyes cataloguing the equipment. He saw no free weights, jump rope or anything small and portable. He was uninterested in the stair machines or the treadmills, but the stationary bikes might be useful and the weight machine could be disassembled. _I've always wanted one of those_. He held himself on the door frame, leaning close to the glass panel in the door, looking off to either side with wide eyes and obvious interest.

For some reason he picked then to finally answer Sylar's question. "Just looking for stuff. I don't _need_ anything, really," he said distantly. He'd seen enough. He pushed away from the door and went to check what was behind the other ground floor doors. Janitor's closet, storage, and a…he looked at the sign on the door: Facilities Room. He pulled the door open. It was a large, open room featuring a couple long folding tables, a few neat stacks of folding chairs, some blank, empty cork boards on the walls (the sort that really should have had announcements pinned to them), a folded up ping pong table, a foosball table, and an upright piano.

Peter went straight to the piano like it was magnetized. It was old, battered and not a high-end piece to start with, but it was here. He glanced back warily at Sylar like the other man might interfere somehow or get between Peter and the precious piano. Peter shifted to the other side of it, so he could better see Sylar in his peripheral version. He folded back the fall and pressed a single white key, listening to the deep tone it produced. He pressed the next and then the next, several in sequence. It wasn't tuned properly.

Peter pursed his lips and frowned. He'd watched the repairman who came by to tune his mother's every few years, so he knew the basics. _It's not like I don't have plenty of time_ _._ He thought about sitting next to Emma, doing something simple like playing, making music, and connecting with someone. He looked down thoughtfully at the keys under his fingers and stroked their smoothness. It had been a long time since he'd connected with someone and that's why Emma meant so much to him. It wasn't romantic - it could be, it might be eventually - but what had thrilled him at the time was the simple human element after so many months of self-imposed isolation. Emma had brought him back in touch with the world and the people in it. She'd let him remember he was an empath first, before anything else.

He sighed and looked up at Sylar.

XXX

Peter lingered significantly over the workout room and Sylar glanced sideways at the man. He had bulked up recently. Surely it was all the freedom fighting. _Wonder what's behind that_ _…._ Eventually Peter stopped daydreaming and moved on to the next door, actually entering the room. Sylar lingered in the doorway, making half an attempt to look invisible and just observe. Making a beeline for the piano, Peter lifted the top and plunked a few notes, making Sylar wince; it was horribly out of tune, something that made his spine shudder.

Somehow, the noise was pleasant in an emotional sense; to have music and know that the sound came from another person was comforting. He frowned slightly again as Peter turned to him and sighed _._ _What did he want, a duet?_ "In case you're wondering," _Which I know you're not_ , "I can play something if I hear it. I can't read music." _Just thought I'd…throw it out there_ _._ Given the man's reaction to Sylar's hand being placed flat on a piece of glass in his area, Peter was not likely to allow Sylar to _sit_ next to him and allow their arms and fingers to brush.

Sylar was beginning to think Peter would take a slow death by poison before he allowed any such activity; he wasn't subtle about it. Not all that surprising, really. This time it was Sylar who was first to leave the room, turning from the door frame and moving to push the button for the second floor on the elevator. _Leave Peter to whatever far more pleasant memory he's having. Lucky bastard. He'll come up eventually_ _._ He didn't really consider any meaning behind the piano, go figure that Peter would find something in it. The idea was more than a little foreign to him.

Of course the elevator car was on the first floor; where else would it be? So Sylar entered it and turned around, absently smacking the second floor button again, not really waiting for Peter. Rubbing at his face, he groaned to himself as the doors began to close. This was incredibly frustrating.

XXX

Peter looked down at the standard piano bench with a blank expression. It had not and still did not occur to him that Sylar might have been implying they sit together as he had with Emma. He imagined the implication was more that Peter would play something, get up, let Sylar sit down, and Sylar would try to copy it - rinse and repeat until Sylar got the hang of it. _That sounds…really tedious. But there is that issue of having enough time. I wonder if I could actually teach-_

There was a ding of the elevator door opening. He lifted his head. Sylar wasn't in the doorway anymore. Peter strode over quickly to look out the door, seeing the elevator closing and Sylar finishing rubbing at his face. Peter's face looked mildly surprised, but he stayed where he was. The doors shut.

_Huh. I wonder where he's going? Is there something here he needs to hide?_ He considered Sylar's body language, since Peter had said he was going to explore here. _Nope. Not hiding anything_ _._ He turned and walked back over to the piano. _I wonder what he's going to do?_

He opened the bench seat, which he'd been planning on doing anyway. As he'd hoped, there was sheet music and a couple compilation books in it. He leafed through them, just looking at the titles. A lot were familiar to him. Much of it was religious, but not all. Nearly all of it was on a beginner level, which was good, because Peter was much better with a guitar than the piano. He saw a few favorites of his in the mix. Peter replaced them and shut the seat. _Why would Sylar leave? Does he just want to be the first one there?_

XXX

Sylar moved on mostly because he couldn't really handle watching Peter zone out on some happy memory with _people_ , with _friends_. He wasn't aware the other man was alerted to his departure, not that it mattered any. Any amount of suspicion placed on Sylar's shoulders would be nothing new.

He half-sat, half-leaned on the railing of the elevator as most people did on the brief trip up and found himself staring at the painted down escape hatch of the roof of the car. Blankly, he eyed it for a moment before snorting; really, the idea that somewhere, there was a disintegrated maintenance man who'd fucked the paint job of painting and screwing down the hatch.

The ridiculousness of it stuck with him as he exited the car and into a bland gray hallway, the typical New York fare. _No one will need to make a quick escape out of_ that _elevator, will they, José?_ He shook his head with a mix of emotions; pushing open the nearest apartment door on the left since the door to the right was a janitor closet and that was just bound to be full of goodies. He started in, alone, by taking note of his surroundings.


	6. Empty Chamber

Day 5

The paramedic wandered back into the lobby, looking at the display over the elevator door: "2" in friendly green diodes. Peter looked around. If there was anything else to see on the ground floor, he was missing it. He went to the door to the stairs, just to be contrary, and…paused just inside the ground floor landing. He let the door close very gently and quietly, then walked slowly and stealthily up the stairs. As he'd hoped, there was a window in the door.

The hall was empty. Peter made a greater effort now to close the door soundlessly behind him. It still made a distressingly loud click. Peter crept down the hall, looking at the few doors. One was open, the first to the left of the elevators. He could hear sounds from within. He looked around the door frame.

Sylar was standing next to a desk, sorting through the contents as though looking for office supplies he might wish to stock up on. He looked up at Peter without the least bit of surprise. The Italian was a little offended by his own apparent lack of success, not that he'd been trying to get the drop on the killer. _I was just…paranoid, I guess_ _._ There hadn't been anything he really expected Sylar to be doing, after all. He'd just…thought Sylar would be… _doing_ something…something nefarious.

Peter turned and went to the apartment across the hall, suppressing his urge to knock because he didn't want to look stupid in front of Sylar. So instead he barged right in, leaving the door hanging open behind him much as the other man had. He sighed and looked around the place, trying to figure out what it was he was looking for here.

XXX

The room was fairly basic, the person had been clean and organized, clearly someone who worked most of the time and didn't spend their time at 'home'. A light blue paint covered the walls with off-white curtains that Sylar was pretty sure was from JC Penny due to the tacky, faux expensive taste of them. The wood of the furniture was primarily, okay, all of it was a matching cherry.

By the time he heard the obnoxiously loud _cla_ _-_ _ap_ of the stairway door (he'd _always_ hated those damn things), Sylar had already snooped on the mechanized, battery operated clock on the wall; and was currently shuffling carelessly through the desk's drawers, having left his possessions near the door. _Post-its….black Bics….receipts…paper clips, god, how useless….Pencils but no sharpener….Stapler, labeler, white out_ _…._ He only turned around to let Peter know he wasn't going to allow the medic to pull any funny business with the majority of his back turned.

He managed to hold back his chuckle at Peter's put-out expression; clearly Hero Breath thought he was cleverer than he really was. Of course, watching his companion from the corner of his eye as he went across the hall; he sniggered and covered it with a cough as Peter paused at the door, looking rather puzzled as how to handle it. Sylar honestly almost walked across and opened the door for the poor boy, just to show him how to do it. Hell, Sylar's own door had suffered worse. _Should have made the brat fix it. Ha. Not like he knows what manual labor is. Sir Petrelli._

XXX

Peter had been in a lot of people's homes. His job as a paramedic called for it, giving him a rich and varied background in the subject of how people really lived, rather than mere speculation. He'd grown up in rich, but he'd seen plenty of poor, middle class and the dwellings of a few families as well off as his own. Whoever lived in this apartment had been a little wealthier than average for the floor space. They'd lived here a long time, he suspected.

Later middle-aged, in addition to upper middle class, by money and lifestyle if not square footage. They had ornate shelves covered with figurines and bric-a-brac. Several displayed a collection of bells, one for each state and notable tourist attraction they'd been to. He picked one up and rang it. It had a pleasant tone and he smiled, thinking about the souvenir of happy times. _Is this here because I've seen so many of them in other people's homes? Or has Sylar seen something like this - a collection of things from every state? Or is it here just because I think there should be something here, and my imagination is filling in the gaps, like a real dream? Ha. 'Real dream' - what would that make this? A fake dream?_

XXX

Leaving the desk none-too clean as when he'd found it, his interest was for the bedroom next and he homed in on it, padding in like he owned the place, which he kind of did. Modern and put-together, the place screamed of a working woman; men weren't this organized unless they were severe Type A and OCD along with some serious other disorders. Pushing the door in without fear, he moved in to stand beside one of the two bedside tables; he opened the drawers quickly and began to paw through them.

He was picturing a brunette, about five-ten, wore heels twenty-four-seven, the impossible pencil skirts and tight hair buns, maybe some stylish glasses…. _Focus_ , he told himself as his thoughts were straying far from the contents of the drawer, even the apartment itself. It served no one any good to dwell on long-gone occupants.

So, sighing, he went back to sorting through the drawer. _Hair clips and elastic…things, pony tails? Some cough drops, light reading glasses, Tylenol, nail polish, sleeping pills and…_ _._ Sylar's eyebrows rose slightly at the next 'medication' of sorts. While he didn't find any other 'incriminating' evidence, his previous Irish Catholic upbringing made an unauthorized appearance before he squashed it, shoving the container to the back of the drawer.

His attention was drawn away from it to the tissue and radio-clock atop the table. _Finger nail clippers, pen and paper pad….meh, nothing of interest_. Slapping the drawer shut, he picked up the clock (of course it didn't keep the damn time, how could it? It was an analog) Muttering to himself as he didn't bother to prize the back apart since all he would see would be wires and a fucking battery inside. Sylar set it back to the table's surface and stood abruptly.

The bathroom was next on his hit list, as it were, but it only got a brief perusal because, really, what interest could a woman's bathroom hold for him (especially with no woman in it)? The only thing he could think of that would shock him was a chainsaw or a butcher knife….maybe a corpse. Perhaps Peter was having more luck…

XXX

He moved on, letting his fingers trail the edge of a narrow table set against the wall. It wasn't even dusty. There was a small aquarium on it, burbling along. He bent, face to the glass, looking for whatever was supposed to be inside. The water was crystal clear and although there were actual plants in it, there weren't very many places for fish to hide. He studied it for a very long time, but it was empty - not even one of those sucker fish. Nothing dead either - just empty, just like these apartments. Unsettled, Peter straightened and looked for something more pleasing to examine.

He spotted a turntable and perked up. His mind reaffirmed the age-bracket of his imaginary former occupants - 50, maybe 60 years old. It was interesting to explore even knowing it wasn't real. He was finding out little things about how the world worked just by looking around ( _today's lesson: No point in trying to go fishing_ ). He wondered if this gave him an insight, however oblique, into Sylar's mind. Now _that_ was something he was actually curious about, although he as of yet refused to admit it.

He found a record, "The Best of Simon and Garfunkel," and put it on. He chewed at his lip as he squatted to place the needle. He checked the settings on the machine, having only used one of these a few times in his life, while over at Brian's house. He scratched at his cheek. He was pretty sure it was right. He flipped the switch. There was a muted pop and the speakers hummed. The record rotated. A faint scratchy noise emanated. He waited. Obviously, this was that blank part around the outside of the record. The needle gradually circled inward. The scratchy sound continued.

Eventually Peter began examining the controls again. He changed settings. He turned it on and off. He moved the needle further in. He tried a few other records. Nothing but a scratchy noise, because in this hell, even the sound of another human voice was forbidden - at least, insomuch as it might come from the world around them. He could communicate with Sylar, at least. He wondered if the man could sing. He flipped the machine off and wandered across the hall to look in on him.

He found him coming out of the bathroom, looking supremely bored. For some reason that made Peter smile. Sylar was not here, on the second floor of the apartment building across the street from where Peter had slept last night, because this was his idea of a good time. He was here because Peter was and Peter found that warmly amusing. It wasn't that far amiss for why Peter was back in the same room with Sylar. Every time he got away from the man something drew him back and he wasn't so ignorant of himself as to not notice it. So he gave Sylar a wry smile and said, "Want to go check the ones down the hall?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar telegraphed firmly, relieved and showing it. Swiping his apple and book again, this time he set them by the elevator, knowing he wouldn't leave them behind that way. He followed behind Peter as they walked down the hall to enter a random room (hard to be random or decided here, really), turning the knob to go inside it.

Oh, boy. A smaller apartment, clearly the byproduct of a bachelor, that's all Sylar could describe it as. While the place wasn't filled with garbage, per se; chip bags and pizza cartons or beer bottles, it wasn't clean in the best sense of the word. A game console and connecting wires to the controls were strewn over the worn rust-colored couch with a single Pepsi can on the glass coffee table, the condensation long gone.

XXX

Peter looked around the place with a sort of pleased surprise. Not that he approved of the mess - far from it - but it was the first really messy place he'd seen. Sylar's had been cluttered, not messy, but most of the other places he'd been in so far had been sterile, antiseptic even. This was…well, it looked a lot more lived in than most, he supposed.

He left the living room to Sylar and went further in, finding the one bedroom in the place residing behind door number one. Door number two was probably the bathroom, he assumed. The bedroom was equally a mess, but in addition to the food boxes there were clothes strewn across the floor. He looked at the battered dresser immediately to his right. Not wanting to walk in further right away, he opened the top drawer - socks, and ratty-looking ones at that. He shut it.

XXX

Sylar was immediately put off by the perceived 'mess' and he stood near the door way, hesitant to go in further. Ugh; it reminded him somehow of Zane's place all those years ago; subconsciously he peered around as if waiting for Mohinder to pop out with a tuning fork and large syringe.

Taking a few steps in after Peter (who didn't appear to mind so much), he shrugged to himself and plunged in, wondering if he should fear for his life. "If we find a corpse keeled over the Halo set, man, I'm done," he muttered mostly to himself. Honestly, he didn't want to look in the bedroom, kitchen or bathroom.

Sylar dared to peer into the kitchen and didn't find anything of note there besides a suspicious lack of culinary tools….well, not suspicious if he considered the fact that this was the pizza-and-beer type who probably couldn't cook to, ha, save his life. He glanced in Peter's direction briefly. _He's clean, though; spartan, actually_. Meanwhile, Sylar feared the mold-monster.

XXX

He opened the second drawer, a deeper one. It was heavy and came out reluctantly to reveal two out-of-fashion sweaters. Peter frowned. One did not have to be a sleuth to deduce that a drawer full of sweaters should not be that heavy. He lifted one, to discover an image of mammaries of massive proportions staring up at him. He dropped the sweater immediately and looked guiltily at the open doorway. No, Sylar wasn't there. He could hear him noising around, but Peter didn't know what he was doing. Regardless, he wasn't in the doorway.

Peter picked up the sweater again and felt around in the drawer. There was a good four inches of magazines in there, in a double stack. He lifted sweater two to find more epic endowments of the female variety. It was very much not Peter's kink and never had been. Not even remotely. He was pretty much on the opposite end of the spectrum, if he had to pick based on physical form alone, which had never mattered much to him anyway. He folded the sweaters back and closed the drawer.

XXX

He decided to go skeleton hunting and went to the closet between the dead TV and the kitchen, opening the small door. One of his eyebrows crept upwards as he saw various amateur and high school trophies, a bowling ball ( _oh, the cliché_ ), several jackets, a cardboard box that revealed a whole plethora of Transformer action figures. Admittedly, Sylar sniggered a little. _Expecting the little cousins over much? At least that was this guy's excuse_.

For the hell of it, Sylar decided to see what games and movies (that wouldn't work) the former occupant had stashed. He crouched at the TV, opening the stand's cupboard to peer inside at the contents; Nintendo, Playstation and X-box? _Overkill_. _What was this guy, a 'professional' gamer?_ Grand Theft Auto, the obligatory Halo, some Tom Clancy, Call of Duty, Kill Zone, baseball, basketball and football, Marvel vs. Capcom, Final Fantasy, Mario and Pac-man?

Opening one of the cases at random, he discovered all was not as it seemed. "One of those things you don't want Mom finding, huh?" he mused aloud, tossing the pack back in and shutting the cupboard as he stood. He would have leaned against the wall as he waited, but he frankly suspected the dull tan paint was toxic as well. So he stood and waited for Peter to leave any minute because this apartment clearly had nothing of interest.

XXX

Watching his step, he walked around the corner of the bed, looking at a pair of crossed swords hanging on the wall. They were very shiny. He leaned closer and examined them, then touched the blade on one. As it had appeared - dull. Props. He looked across the room at the poster of a dragon on one wall. There was another sword, much shorter, near the headboard of the bed. He cocked his head at that. It was situated so someone on the bed could reach it. He went to it. The blade here wasn't as glossy as the others, but a careful touch revealed that it was much sharper. He wasn't sure how sharp, not seeing any reason to press and cut himself, but it was certainly serviceable.

 _Huh_ _._ He didn't know what to think about that, so he opened the nightstand that was directly in front of him. Inside there was a single object: a pistol. He stared at it for a very long moment and finally picked it up. _Heavy_. He turned it over and examined it. _Safety's off_ _._ He clicked that over, then looked at it again. It was a good fit for his hand, but he wasn't familiar with it. He released the magazine, which looked full. He turned the gun and looked inside. He was pretty sure there was a bullet in the chamber. He racked the slide, ejecting it. It made a loud, characteristic sound.

XXX

Out of nowhere, Sylar heard the familiar sound of a gun slide being pulled and released, next the sound of the magazine being ejected and reinserted. He stiffened instantly, turning slowly, expecting to see his companion with the gun pointed at Sylar's pupil.

 _Gun. Of course there's guns here. Why did he have to be the one to find it?_ While Sylar's first reaction was to grab a knife from the kitchen, hell, the wire from the game controller would work to strangle Peter; he forced himself to calm down and find his control. Taking a breath, feeling incredibly mortal, he padded softly to the bedroom door and peered in.

XXX

Peter bent and retrieved the ejected bullet. _Hollow point_. He was entirely absorbed by the gun. He tried to fit the bullet into the magazine, but it wouldn't go. He frowned. Whoever had had the gun had wanted to have every bullet available when they reached for this, much as there was nothing else in the drawer to possibly distract the hand if it was dark and one was in a hurry. He put the magazine back in and chambered another bullet, then released the magazine and put the extra he'd ejected earlier into it. He reinserted the magazine, returning the gun to the state he'd found it in. Except that the safety was on.

XXX

Peter was fiddling rather intently with the gun; a pistol, he noticed. It was no Company-issue, the Kimber SIS; he'd arrived in time to see Peter pop out a single, additional hollow point, designed to expand on impact. With the firearm, with the bullet, Peter could do more than just kill Sylar; he could shred off a limb or blow his genius brains out to cover a wall.

Sylar waited quiet and invisible for the moment in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Redemption could be death, he realized. Not just having one's powers removed and becoming mortal, hoping to rejoin the general populace (unlikely), but extermination.

Would Peter be the one to pull the final trigger? As much as he longed to run or better still, grab up his own protective object in the form of a weapon, he knew that it might fatally escalate things and ruin his chances at more than just survival.

The normal adrenaline rush, the surge of fear he knew academically he should be having was rather muted and dispassionate. He'd done his own considerations around year two and a half here. One of them had been suicide. Sylar didn't really fear for his life, not like he should, like he used to. In the past, he'd fought tooth and nail to climb out of graves and break out of prison cells; all for his evolutionary drive. Life didn't mean much here because there was none.

Peter had gotten plenty of chances to off Sylar before now, but was that because he preferred his kills with a cold heavy firearm and the impersonality of the shot when he did the deed? Then again, Peter could get plenty dirty with a nail gun and his fists, too. He certainly hadn't hesitated when it came to brain washing. The seemingly innocent medic knew his way around guns; Sylar knew that much from Nathan and personal experience.

The other man proceeded to weigh the gun and test the sights before staring at it too long for Sylar's comfort (but it wasn't about his damn comfort now was it?). Peter pulled it close to get a closer look, at what, he didn't know, but Sylar gazed at him from the door frame, careful to keep his body out of sight, not presenting Peter with any kind of target for a fast shot.

XXX

He held it out in his hand, testing the grip, looking down the sights. _It's good enough_. He blinked, confusion marring his features. _Wait … good enough for what?_ He pulled the gun closer, turning it sideways and looking at it intently. _What the hell am I going to do with this? Shoot Sylar? What good would that do?_

Realizing he'd been standing there focused on nothing outside himself, he jerked his head up and looked to the doorway.

XXX

Suddenly, Peter looked up at him and their eyes met; neither moved for a long moment and Sylar didn't say anything about what he'd obviously observed. There wasn't anything for him to say to it. Under suspicion and under an abundance of death penalties, two of them from Peter's immediate family, Sylar didn't expect any other treatment.

He'd hoped for it, but he didn't expect it; that Peter considered the gun told Sylar enough. Had it been anything else in Peter's hand, no matter how dangerous, Sylar would have turned and walked away; but he was not about to turn his back on a gun, not when he knew what he had coming and what he was up against. He couldn't combat something like that with logic.

 _/Die Alone. Die Alone./ Maybe this is it. Your cards ran out a long time ago. You picked a bum hand at Stanton. He's loaded, he's got reasons and he figures he'll save more lives than I will in his "dream" doing this now_ _._ Sylar stared, not at the firearm, but into Peter's eyes with his own rather dull, dark ones; because the eyes would give away his decision before his hand and finger ever did.

XXX

Peter looked at the other man fixedly, but after the first second he hardly saw him. Nathan's body, in the storage unit; the weight as he moved the corpse with Noah Bennet's help, lifting it out of the trunk; the strange empty sensation as Noah finally had to shove Peter out of the plane as it began its gradual course down - Nathan's last flight. Peter blinked rapidly, breathing harder. He looked down at the gun.

Killing Sylar would be a murder-suicide, of that he was fairly sure. But what did he really have to go back to? An empty apartment; an empty life; saving people one person at a time - it seemed so noble, but then why did he feel so defeated by it? He turned the gun slightly, the barrel pointing generally at himself. If it fired at that particular moment and angle, it would merely hit the wall next to him. Another twitch and it would hit home.

He remembered that desperate man, Malamut, in the office building who'd shot him only a few weeks before. It had hurt, not as much as that huge sniper round Danko had gotten him with, but it had hurt anyway. More from the surprise, probably. He'd thought he'd had the man.

\ _"You want to punish the people who have hurt you. I know what that feels like. I want to torture the guy who murdered my brother. I want to make him scream. That's all I can think about. … Look, I promised my brother I'd be a hero. Don't make me a liar. Not today."_

_Punish the people who have hurt you … be a hero._

" _Don't make me a liar. Not today." BANG!\_

He took a long, deep breath. \ _I want to torture … make him scream\_. He looked over at Sylar again, noting how the man carefully hid his body; the caution and edge of fear on his face; waiting, rather calmly given the situation, for Peter to do something decisive. He'd felt Sylar under his hand, next to his body, flesh and blood, heard him scream: _Do it! Kill me!_ His eyes narrowed, remembering putting his hand to the man's forehead and trying to snuff him out, letting Rene's power wash through him and every memory Sylar might call his own pouring out of the man. He'd tried to exterminate him. He looked back at the gun, taking it more firmly in his hand, pointing it ahead at the mattress of the bed before him.

\" _Do you really think Matt could purge every sick thought from that head?"_

" _What are you gonna do? Beat him out of me?"_

" _That's all I can think about."\_

Was there anything else _to_ think about? Emma, the carnival, the dream - it all faded to unimportance. He was here. Sylar was here. There was a gun in his hand. Surely at least one of these bullets would hit the bastard. A sour smile flitted across his face. Sylar was pretty hard to kill under the best of circumstances. Kill him here and maybe he'd be a vegetable forever. It seemed possible. Sylar dead - Peter ejected from his mind. Really, it was the obvious solution and Peter could find another way to solve Emma's dilemma - time travel, shape-shifting - any number of solutions were out there. And if it killed Peter with Sylar, that wasn't really a problem either.

_\"Running into danger, going off after Sylar - you're not going to do anything but get yourself in trouble. You've got to stop." "No." "You've got to stop!" "I **can't**. … if I keep moving, if I just act on instinct, then I don't have time to think."_

" _That's all I can think about." "I don't have time to think." "…just act on instinct."_

" _I promised my brother I'd be a hero."_

"… _just act on instinct."_

" _Not today."\_

He put the weapon back in the nightstand, shutting the drawer.

He turned back to Sylar and said quietly, "There's nothing in here I need. Let's check the one across the hall."

XXX

He stood watching as Peter tilted the gun about; towards himself, towards the bed, finally away completely. This took over the course of about a minute or so but it was Peter's face that held his attention. Grief; the kind that made Peter look older, the kind that drew lines in his face and made him appear haggard. The unfocused look of someone recalling a memory, the helpless and hopeless look of someone who'd fought too long and too hard with so little gain; the temptation raging in his soul, the spirit-draining drive for vengeance and more so for justice. All the emotions Sylar knew well and assumed of Peter.

How easy would it be for him? What could possibly be holding him back? If the medic spoke true about Matt and this being a dream…then Peter would lose nothing. Hell, the kid would get a goddamn medal for murdering Sylar's mind when so many others had failed. It would be easy enough to destroy his body without fear after that.

If Peter was wrong…. He would lose nothing but the company; that may or may not drive him crazy, depending just how badly he wanted to dance on Sylar's grave and for how long. If Peter guessed wrong….Peter could die, too. If this was Sylar's 'mind' and he was killed….wouldn't Peter get stuck inside, too?

Surely the temptation would win; Peter may have been the better man of the two, righteous and wholesome, a real hero. But Sylar had robbed him and robbed him blind. Claire, attempts at Angela, succeeding with Arthur and more deeply felt with Nathan. Isaac, Ted, Elle and the others.

Sylar had been ready to die many times; expected by others (and himself) to die and stay dead. He always kept trying to test his limits in life; how else was he supposed to bring himself up? He never expected to pay for his….sins in this way. Nor did he devote time to his dramatic, thematic death scene (unlike Hiro, who would probably suggest falling on his katana; but Sylar had already done that). Not a thought was given to the 'after' part, his body or his soul; that just wasn't his style.

Actually…he didn't even have a final thought prepared, not a prayer or a wish to be had; no apology or plea. For someone who'd died far more times than Peter had, plenty of them before being immortal, Sylar knew how death went. A tiny sting, a bare second of shock before blackness and loss of gravity; no white light, no heavenly choir, and there sure as hell weren't seventy-four virgins waiting for him. _Serial killers_ didn't get those.

 _/No One Will Mourn Your Death_./

He watched as Peter took a deep breath, his body shaking a little, gripping the handle, smiling bitterly again; this time in a self-deprecating way. Sylar himself didn't move; preparing himself not to stir if Peter turned and came closer for the shot. _Redemption_ was the only thing on his mind.

He wasn't surprised when Peter did turn, but his eyes did widen when the drawer was opened. _What, more ammo?_ And the gun placed inside it. Standing still, Sylar's expression loosened unconsciously, brown eyes softening. All he could do was nod, unable to trust his voice and unsure how to take the unintended gift of Peter's enduring empathy. A little wobbly around his knees as he finally shifted his weight, he backed away from the doorway.

 _Mercy from Peter?_ That was going to take some getting used to…

XXX

Peter walked out of the room on autopilot, coming as close to Sylar as he ever had and without even bothering to look at him as he went. No wariness, none of the caution and vigilance of their previous interactions here. He felt shell-shocked. He walked out of the apartment and rapped twice, perfunctorily, on the door across the hall, suddenly not caring if Sylar thought he looked stupid.

He didn't wait long, though, opening and walking inside. He looked around the place with dull eyes. It was another small apartment, symmetrical with the bachelor pad they'd just been in. This one might have also belonged to a single male, but it was neater, if still quite full of things. The living room was crowded with books and entertainment paraphernalia - television, computer screen, various peripheral gadgets. He gave the bedroom and bath a quick glance each - no bodies, no occupant - of course not. That was all that mattered at the moment.

XXX

Sylar frowned a little on instinct as Peter passed; the kid looked worn down and numb. Apparently Sylar was no threat to Peter, at least at the moment. The medic would most likely change his mind and decide otherwise at a later time. Dutifully, he followed back into the hall to the next apartment of choice. Sylar himself was a little…off balance from the discoveries, the change and he failed to so much as raise a considerable brow or make a comment at the knocking. He didn't even clear his throat.

Entering much more casually into the next apartment, Sylar check the rooms opposite of Peter, bathroom then bedroom on seeing where the other man went. The pair weren't friends, they weren't really anything….How much did he really know about Peter? The idea was to keep close but not go near each other, hence the switched routine to avoid contact.

XXX

Peter wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He looked around at its interior and pulled out a can of soda from the door. He walked back out into the living room and flopped down on the couch after giving it a brief inspection. He wouldn't stick to anything and there was nothing to move out of the way. He vaguely wanted to continue searching, but for the moment he just wanted to recover. Process. Stop feeling numb.

The soda was cold as he took a deep drink. Not his favorite brand - it was a Pepsi and honestly he didn't care much for either of the big name products, Coca-Cola or Pepsi - but honestly he would have taken a beer at the moment and he disliked _that_ even more. Caffeine, alcohol, whatever legal drug of choice he could find. Given his companion here, caffeine was probably the safer choice. He didn't want to get impaired around Sylar.

 _\'_ _Do it. Kill me!_ _'\_ Sylar's request haunted Peter's thoughts. What bothered him even more was that he'd tried to do just that. He'd tried to murder someone.

He looked up at Sylar and then away, feeling a little of the homicidal impulse fade. He'd felt it almost continuously since coming here. Every time he picked up anything remotely like a weapon, it was there, tickling at the back of his mind or even flagrant in the forefront. _It isn't me. It isn't what I_ _ **want**_ _to be_ _._ He sighed and took another draught, feeling the drink cold and sweet and bitter in his mouth, the faint burning of carbonation fizzing in his throat. He rolled the can against his forehead.

XXX

When he returned to the living room, he saw Peter sit down with a can of pop in his hand, the gesture one of defeated unfeeling. Suddenly Peter was looking exhausted and he had no physical reason to be, but he could understand the emotional drain that was obviously the culprit. To give the man his moment (surely he needed one), Sylar slunk to the kitchen himself.

He didn't need anything; he had his apple still, but he made a show of looking around the kitchen, opening all the cupboards and drawers. Once he'd finished with that, not finding anything vaguely of interest, he leaned against the kitchen's door frame, profile to Peter so as not to appear to stare. But that's just what he felt the need to do; check on him. He did notice the EMT seemed to have a headache or….maybe it was one of those perceived mental aches.

Sylar was surprising himself left and right with this whole 'help and guide and appeal to Peter' business.

XXX

Peter looked at a magazine on the TV tray serving as an end table next to him. He reached over and picked it up: BMX Plus! He frowned at the titles of the articles advertised on the cover: _How to make your race bike even faster! Check out what Ross is rockin'! Installing locking grips_ _._ He tossed it back down. That was so far outside the range of experience he'd had lately that it was like a foreign language. It gave him culture shock just to contemplate it.

His life since he'd gotten his ability had been anything but normal. He'd wanted that – what his ability had brought him. He'd sought it out. He'd embraced it even. But doing so had separated him from the people he wanted to save. He had so little in common with them anymore. He had become like a ball in a pinball machine, constantly reeling from one disaster to another, trying to stay ahead of the repercussions to his actions, trying to live a moral life when a making a mistake could level a city, or wipe out 93% of the world's population. He no longer lived the sort of life where ' _How to make your race bike even faster!_ ' made any sense.

Peter mused aloud, "Sometimes I wonder what's going on with everyone else out there in the real world, what kind of life they have, how they get by and if they enjoy it. There isn't any other way to _be_ for them. But those of us with abilities don't have that option. Not usually. I guess a few do. Or try to, like Matt and Claire and … hell, I guess my mom. She at least managed to raise Nathan and I without us knowing."

 _\'That's crazy talk.'\_ – Nathan telling him that having abilities was ridiculous. Later his brother had called his own ability "freakish."

 _\'Now that's as strange as it gets.'\_ – When Peter had tried to share with Simone, heady with the importance of his power, she'd shut him down. It was like a bucket of cold water. Every time he'd thought about telling someone else about it, he remembered her reaction. Hers, and Mohinder's. They had made him feel stupid and neglected, small and insignificant. He knew he wasn't.

Which brought to his mind asking Mohinder, \ _'_ _You ever get the feeling you were meant to do something extraordinary?'_ \ And he did. Even now. Even here. Peter still felt there was a meaning to his life beyond just being a normal paramedic or whatever. It was why when he'd had the dream, he'd dropped everything to live that life again, diving headfirst into the situation. And here he was.

 _\'When I'm by myself, I'm not much of anything._ _'\_ He was defined by who he was with – his ability had always worked that way. He looked over at Sylar and smirked. _Well, I'm not by myself…but I'm not real sure what I am when_ _ **he's**_ _around. I suppose_ _…_ He thought about when he had put the gun back in the drawer. _I suppose I'm not a murderer. That's nice to know_ _._ He started chuckling to himself and muttered, "At least it's not contagious." He started laughing harder, because it seemed incredibly funny to imagine a world where people's defining characteristics: plumber, student, paramedic, serial killer - might be contagious and easily transferable, like Peter's ability. _Sylar the plumber_ _._ Peter set his soda to the side before he spilled it on himself. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands on his face, and laughed.

XXX

Randomly, his companion spoke and he turned to face him as he did and what he said made little sense and meant everything at the same time. Surely Peter wasn't just NOW coming to terms with that fact?

"For you and I….there's never going to be a happy middle ground; we're never going to blend in if that's what you're as-" His companion erupted into insane chuckles; a sound that had no business coming from Peter. Why did he have to have his breakdown now, here, with Sylar? _Guess that's maybe what he feels like with you_ _…._ Had Peter been….aware and thought about things (possibly before 'leaping' as it were), he'd have seen years ago that the idea of 'being normal' was impossible.

It was a kind of all or nothing situation. It sucked. Peter had at least had family, friends, coworkers and people to talk to; people to be human with so Sylar didn't pity him very much at all. Peter may have always felt that he stuck out somehow, but he'd had people. He'd had a brother, for god's sake. If he'd had his abilities he would have laughed _at_ Peter and shook his head in amused disgust that it had taken him this long to figure that out.

His eyes widened in stunned horror as Peter took a turn for the hysterics and he was left to…what? Comfort? Ignore? Give him space? Oh, it was like every one of those awkward romance movies where the woman started bawling over the corny pick up line the guy made (start bawling for no reason actually…) and every time Sylar was left to pity the poor man who had to bear it. Sylar squirmed in the doorway, completely uncomfortable and he settled for _looking_ comforting. 'Um, Peter….?' He wanted to ask, but didn't interrupt the flow of unrestrained laughter.

The laughter was nice, he realized next. Mirth from another human throat; unabashed and (somewhat) wholesome. He relaxed once he knew nothing would be expected of him and he just listened to the sound. Such a beautiful sound; made even more so from the fact that it came from a man who laughed so rarely now. In a way, Peter's laughter was a gift. _Damn, he's…he's real stressed_. Again, Sylar had very little pity to spare for him. _Silver spoon_.

Poor Peter. He'd learn though, wouldn't he? Learn of despair and neglect and abandonment. Of hopelessness, crushed dreams, mind-shredding loneliness and of utter helplessness. Plenty of tears and tantrums and all-out screams pleading for a sign or for mercy, maybe damaged phalanges, knees, knuckles and fingernails. Sleepless nights filled with nightmares when he would manage to sleep, the burn in his eyes the next day, the ache in his back and neck...Yet again, Peter had something Sylar hadn't had when he'd learned all this. Peter had Sylar.

For someone who'd received so little pity in his life, so little plain-and-simple _help_ , it was difficult for Sylar, as a labeled psychopath, to empathize. "Just take it easy, man. You don't….have to worry about that anymore," he murmured; idea of helpful and comforting. Sylar leaned in and swiped the magazine Peter had picked up, leafing rapidly through it, trying to take his time and appear interested. _Motorcycles?_ Of course, it was as unfamiliar to him as it had been to Peter.

XXX

Peter wound down from his fit of laughter, taking note of Sylar having come within arm's length of him. Maybe that was what snapped him out of it - or maybe it just came to a natural conclusion. He leaned back, putting the heels of his hands to his eyes. _I wanted to kill you_ _,_ ran through his head and he very nearly blurted it out. He chuckled again, because in his current frame of mind that would be a funny thing to say. He had enough sense left to control his tongue though and so he said nothing. It had been perfectly clear, after all, from Sylar's face that he knew what Peter might have done with that gun and just as clearly that he'd put it aside.

He put his hands down, sighing and letting the last of it pass out of him. _Too much tension. I'm walking around carrying too much tension. I keep expecting him to do something. I keep expecting_ _ **me**_ _to do something - to him. There's nothing else here for me to_ _ **do**_ _!_ The frustration of being stuck here was wearing on him.

XXX

Peter clammed up the instant Sylar moved for the magazine. _Really?_ He had to ask himself. _I'm fucking powerless and I didn't even move all that fast._ Of course he knew he'd done a fantastic, probably unrivaled job of making it easy for others to hate him, what did he expect? While he knew it wasn't Peter's fault, he still glared at the damn worthless sports magazine.

When the man chuckled again, seemingly unable to stop his round of maddening laughter, Sylar was about ready to snap at him. 'What the fuck is your problem? Just get over it already! It doesn't hurt so bad once you let it all go….' Maybe even 'you need some serious Zen (might I suggest yoga?)'. But he managed to keep his mouth shut, pursing his lips to help with the act as he tried to pull a Cyclops move on the publication in his hand.

XXX

He gave Sylar a very assessing look, up and down. It was a rude look and he knew it. He looked at him anyway. _This is the guy I get to be trapped with for the next however-long?_ He reached over for his soda and got to his feet. He rubbed at his still-sore back and moseyed over towards the side of the room opposite Sylar, turning his back on him. He looked at the contents of a shelf set, silently reading over the titles of books, looking at a handful of odd curios - tiny metal figurines of tanks and jeeps, brightly painted. He took a deep drink and scratched at his forehead, glancing behind himself to status-check on Sylar.

XXX

Somehow he felt a pair eyes on him, the quality of the look was different, he knew. Slowly he turned his head to eye Peter right back, brown eyes widening as he noted the direction and type of gaze Peter was raking over his whole body. _Did he just….No, no way. Is he….?_ He shifted his weight, standing up straighter. That type of look usually spoke of disgust and danger, followed up with a biting comment or question.

And what did Peter do? Look him over, as if he were something to be inspected, found him wanting or of disinterest, pick up his pop and walk off. _That fucker. You….bastard, don't you dare ignore me!_ Sylar was busy snarling mentally, _Emo Petrelli bastard spawn; don't you dare treat me like that_.

Once Peter had turned his back, Sylar glared holy and self-righteous murder at him, trying to mentally rip the man's spine out from his jacket-clad back. No such luck. He had the urge to strangle his companion just for being too annoying to crack open. Bash his head in, make the medic stare at him and force the man to see him. He barely restrained a step in Peter's direction.

The nurse would be the perfect fodder for his latent desires. They even had a gun. But while it may have been a clear message to his psyche, he knew it would be the wrong decision to make. _A challenge. I like a challenge. He's a challenge_ _._ Maybe if he kept telling himself that Peter would live another day. _He wants to play a game, does he? I'm very good at games. You're on, Petrelli._

XXX

His mind was blank. He tried, with an effort, to pull thoughts into it. Peter didn't have a constant internal monologue, not most of the time. He felt things, he responded to those feelings; he wanted to express things, his mind found the words to do so. Sometimes he thought things 'out loud' in his head and sometimes he did not. This was one of those 'not' times.

He shrugged to himself. This was emotional processing. It didn't always make sense. It didn't have to. In the meanwhile, he turned to one of his standard coping mechanisms and buried himself in 'work' - that of the moment being to examine the contents of the room in more detail. He was sure he'd had a good reason to do so at some point. He pulled down books at random and checked the interiors - they all had text in them. He didn't bother to read them. He didn't care. He was just checking.

He tried to flip on the computer - it did not activate. He looked over at Sylar, almost asking a question. _Does anything electronic work?_ He looked back at the computer, imagining Sylar's cutting response (not that he could think of what he'd say specifically, but Peter knew it would be biting), putting him firmly in his place as someone who didn't understand the world they were in and needed his help. He looked at Sylar once more, now wary. He moved on, looking through the drawers of the computer desk and examining the contents.

He finished his soda as he headed to the bathroom, tossing the can in the wastebasket. He found a very good electric razor plugged in and sitting on the counter. He flipped it on. It worked. He turned it off and unplugged it, putting it in his pocket. Most electronic devices did function here, he considered. There were just some strange anomalies that did not, like television, radio and apparently computers. Even the turntable had worked, it just hadn't played.

He opened a drawer. _Toothbrush, toothpaste, clippers…hm_ _._ He regarded his nails. _I wonder if they grow here? If so, I wonder who cuts Sylar's hair?_ He snorted and continued looking. _Shaving cream - why would he have that_ _ **and**_ _an electric razor? Huh. Band-aids. Condoms_ _._ His hand paused in the process of sorting through things. _Condoms. Don't need those. Is Sylar even gay?_ He swallowed and shut the drawer, suddenly uninterested in whatever else was in there.

He stood there staring blankly at the sink for a while. He wanted very much to leave suddenly, to go back to his apartment and stay there. But Sylar was here and he'd want to know why and telling him he was going to carry back this electric razor almost certainly would not fly. He wasn't all that sure why he wanted to leave himself, except that it had something to do with that box of condoms and the rude look he'd given Sylar earlier. He turned mechanically to the combination bath/shower and reviewed the products there - completely uninterested in them, but keeping his mind off anything else.

He left the bathroom, intent on continuing his methodical, pointless search of the rest of the place. He went in the bedroom next.

XXX

Sylar turned the glossy page roughly, tearing it a little as he saw the other man pass from bathroom to bedroom out of the corner of his eye. _Just tack him down like a butterfly on a board. /I wanted to crucify you in Times Square./ Stop him from moving, fix his brain, own him, shut him up, get inside his head, get the answer._

The next action he wished to perform was shredding the magazine for being present, being in the way, being so damn useless. A hindrance. _Angry at a magazine? That's a new low_. If Peter looked, he'd see Sylar's face probably get pale with anger. The other had man merely poked around the room with faux interest. Honestly, he'd just lost interest in 'exploring' the way Peter felt the need to.

_Because, seriously, what the hell are we gonna find that's so damn important? New shoelaces in this year's colors? Sure as hell isn't BMX magazine or the fucking Kimber. Oh, no, I know. A secret door somewhere, a dead body, no, maybe a skeleton. Maybe Hiro or Claire hiding out somewhere; what the fuck is he 'looking' for?_

Sylar growled at the man once he was in the bedroom, already sick of his presence. Just to show his disapproval, he threw down the magazine, pages fluttering wildly and stalked out the door; closing it loudly enough to make a statement as he entered the hallway. Clenching and releasing his fists as he started to pace while he waited, simultaneously debating whether or not to move up to the next floor.

Then he thought on it; _why was Peter looking at me like that in the first place?_

XXX

Peter combed quickly but thoroughly through the bedroom, interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming. He jerked, startled, and moved to look out the bedroom door, which he'd left open. He listened. Hearing nothing of note, he looked into the living room. No Sylar, front door shut. _Well, he can't have locked me in here._

He'd noticed Sylar was angry. He didn't care all that much. He supposed he should. He looked at the front door for a few moments, then wandered into the kitchen thoughtfully. He started looking through drawers on autopilot. _What might an angry Sylar do?_ Any of those things Peter had already contemplated seemed more likely - murder, torture, whatever inventive cruelty he might come up with.

 _Maybe he left to get the gun?_ For some reason, that seemed entirely implausible. Peter could trot out reasons why it was unlikely - Sylar's loneliness, his desperation, his lurking around him and repeated approaches, trying to find the right distance to be at - but none of those rang quite true. He tried to pin it down. His constant paranoia of Sylar had to have _some_ basis, after all.

_\'You're not a killer, Peter. I am.'\_

_Was I even alive in that future where he saved Emma?_ He wasn't sure he was. Sylar was - or at least what looked like Sylar. Peter pulled out a can opener that looked good. The apartment he'd picked didn't have one. He stuffed this one in his back pocket for the moment. _I should have brought down that backpack this morning when I left, or the messenger bag._

He looked in the refrigerator again and snagged a cheese stick. There was nothing else in there of note, though his mind absently catalogued that perishables didn't go bad here. He moved on to the mostly bare pantry. _Cheese puffs, pretzels, beef stew, canned soup, mac and cheese - I like that stuff, already have some in my apartment - hey, some of those cracker and cheese sandwiches. I have lunch_. He picked those up too, putting them in the same hand as the cheese stick. _Didn't I see a bag around here somewhere?_

He looked around in the living room, trying to recall where the bag was, because he thought he'd seen it in there or the bedroom. His eyes fell on the torn magazine and his mind diverted from the materials issue to the human one. The why of Sylar's anger was straightforward enough - Peter had dismissed him and disrespected him. Could he kill over that provocation? Certainly. Peter had provoked him precisely because he feared him and refused to back down.

Peter had put aside the gun and decided, very consciously, that vengeance wasn't his goal. If Sylar hadn't witnessed that, then that would have been the end of it. But Sylar had, and he'd given no affirming response to it. There were several opportunities there for a connection, but Sylar had not made one, for a host of possible reasons. Lacking that, Peter had felt an instinctive need to prove that simply because he wasn't going to carry a weapon didn't mean he was afraid of Sylar or happy with the situation. Cue rude dominance display. Cue angry Sylar.

He huffed. _Okay, Sylar's had long enough to cool off a little. Time to go let him chew on me a bit, then maybe we can get back to … normal, I guess_ _._ He went to the front door and opened it, walking out without any wary first glance, trusting his instincts that he wasn't stepping into an ambush. He had a slightly wary expression on his face, and held in his left hand a cheese stick and two cracker sandwich packs.

XXX

 _Wear a hole in the carpet, do it, just don't…..fuck this up. More._ Wasn't 'leaving the room' the therapeutic, typical cut-and-dried psychiatric advice for an argument or the thing to do when angry? (Granted, 'communicate' was _before_ you slammed the door…). Sylar wished for one gut-twisting moment to have his Hunger back; having it as an excuse this _one_ time…. It would feel like heaven, as close as he would get anyway.

Heaven in blood, murder and destruction. _Guess it makes up for those seventy-two virgins no one is getting_ , he mused, nearly to the point of hysteria himself. _/"All this talk about souls and spirits has my head spinning. I_ _am_ not _a religious man. But there is one thing I do believe in: Blood."/_

 _That could bring me back….I am Sylar_. He felt his short nails digging into his palm. _This is nothing new. He'll be just more miserable if you don't kill him. If he thinks he's getting off easy for that…. Here for a reason, here for a reason_ … Sylar sagged against the wall. There was no Hunger. Did Peter know that? He would have no excuse, not that he ever needed one, but he'd….grown used to it. Was it really an excuse if no one attributed his sins to his ability?

Of course Peter was right; right about everything. The glaring, the violence, the nail gun, the sneering attitude… _You deserve this, remember? You get Hell because you screwed people_ _._ Sylar found himself sitting on the floor of the hall, only partly defeated, full-on insane. Wasn't that one of the last things Matt had said before…before all this Hell? _/"Wow, you really are insane. And what? Be normal? Nah, I'm sorry, that ship sailed, what, fifty murders ago?"/_

That didn't soothe his nerves or calm his desire to flay Peter alive, but it sent some…weird emotion wiggling down inside him. Of course, he ignored it. He was still angry. Peter exited the latest apartment and Sylar scrambled to his feet before the man could see him sitting in a heap. Once he stood, hands in pockets, he glanced quickly at the objects Peter held, his eyes catching on a foreign….'object' in Peter's pants. Was that a cord hanging from his pocket?

After the loving look Peter had given not moments before, it was beyond a doubt that whatever _was_ in Peter's pants, it wasn't something that would prompt 'Is that something in your pocket or are you happy to see me?' What really sent Sylar over the edge of annoyance, amusement, sanity and violence was the cheese stick. He raised doubtful eyes to Peter's as if asking if this was really happening.

 _This is a joke; it has got to be a joke. There's no way I am stuck in Hell with_ …. Lunchables and a cheese stick. His face was left blank until he could make up his mind. Making a low growl under his breath and turned towards the stairs, not even bothering to wait for some kind of answer. Sylar was behaving himself, Peter….god only knew. _Someone help me…._


	7. Mister Bear Gets Some

Day 5

Sylar pulled to his feet as soon as Peter came out. Peter was relieved that the other man hadn't left entirely. He considered that emotion for a moment. Or maybe he was just happy Sylar wasn't trying to kill him. It had been a possibility, after all. He was distracted from those thoughts by Sylar looking him up and down, eyes focusing on his crotch just a little longer than he should have. Peter stood there and affected being relaxed and comfortable, not about to respond to Sylar doing the same thing to him that he'd done to the man. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Sylar looked flabbergasted though, which wasn't the expression Peter really expected in a situation of dueling, sexually aggressive stares. He looked unbelieving even, then the taller man turned and strode off energetically. Peter followed more sedately, glancing discreetly down at himself and noticing the suspicious bulge near his groin. _Oh. The razor_ _._ He grinned. _Yes, well, Sylar, I was just trying to show you who was bigger, since we seem to have gotten into a dick-measuring contest. I really need to get a bag._

The question of Sylar's sexual orientation drifted through his mind again, this time coming with memories of a number of moments of slightly unusual degrees of eye contact, motions and inadvertent touches on Sylar's part, mostly while the man thought he was his brother at Pinehearst. Peter had dismissed it for exactly that reason. He and Nathan touched a lot. It was enough to have engendered more than a few unsavory comments. Once, at function Nathan had drug Peter to when he was still pre-law, an older man asked outright if Peter was Nathan's 'partner' - Peter had pretended the man meant a partner in the law firm, denied it, then pointed out they were brothers. The old man had looked disappointed that the Petrelli reputation remained unstained by that particular misconduct.

But when you lived in the closet, you tended to get sensitive to certain things, keeping a lookout for certain behaviors and patterns. Sylar's pattern…did not strike Peter as solely heterosexual. He frowned to himself. He didn't know the other man well enough to be sure. He **was** sure that he didn't really want to know him that well; but if he was stuck here for years, relative or not, he suspected he was going to find out. Given the situation, the only person whose desires Peter thought might be a complication would be Sylar's.

Peter pushed open the door to the stairs, noting Sylar was finishing the stairs to the third floor, then went inside. _I wonder why the stairs? He left his apple and his book at the elevators._ Not that Peter was about to go get them to be helpful or anything. Maybe he'd mentioned it later when they left. _These are all imaginary possessions. They don't really matter_. He snorted and made a mental note to himself to try to wish something into existence. It seemed that they **did** matter, whether he wanted them to or not. He strongly suspected that that pistol he'd found would have made a distinct difference in a fight, far more than an 'imaginary' object should.

XXX

Pushing open the doors to the stairwell, he climbed the flight to get to the third floor, immediately going into the nearest apartment. It was larger, obviously a family had lived here and it made Sylar's stomach lurch. Family. _Goddamn you, Petrelli, and your_ family _!_ Lest he forget Peter was one of them. He cautiously entered the master bedroom, very careful not to touch any of the toys or objects in this room; he was worried about a different type of contamination this time.

That's what a family was; a contaminant. It sucked you down and infected you, gave you an infection until you were too delirious and caught up and…. He took a deep breath. He also didn't want to disturb something so precious. Kids had lived here, probably pretty happy and carefree. By stepping in _he_ was the one doing the contaminating while Peter, when he arrived, would simply slip right into it and fit in, clean as a whistle.

He felt out of place in this environment; it was not for him.

XXX

He glanced through the window of the stairwell door at the third floor, then walked in. Sylar was nowhere to be seen, but the door to one of the nearer apartments was standing open. He stood beside it for a moment, looking at the closed door on the other side of the hall. It was some other apartment. He didn't _have_ to be in the same apartment as Sylar, after all. It might be wiser to reduce the chance of friction by keeping a little space between them. He walked through the open door anyway.

It was one of the larger floor plans, he saw, and apparently a family that had young children, judging from the toy box tucked up next to the couch and the highchair he could see in the dining room. No children here, though. _No children, no adults, no elderly. The hospitals are empty. No one to help. No one to serve. No one_ _._ He shook off the moment of ennui without too much trouble and went into the kitchen, looking for a sack. He found a paper grocery sack tucked in next to the refrigerator. He opened it noisily and put the razor, can opener and food within.

He reached out to open the nearest drawer to find himself thwarted by a child safety lock. It was the first 'lock' he'd come across that was engaged. He bypassed it, fiddling with the little plastic latch and wondering if it meant anything. He thought not, but what did he know? He searched through the drawers steadily, finding nothing of great interest. He suspected his interest in the objects of this world would wane soon enough. Having free and easy access to **everything** meant that few things really mattered - items of comfort, maybe, or entertainment - those still mattered.

He wandered through the dining room towards the bedrooms, knowing from the occasional small sound that Sylar was in here somewhere. He glanced in the rooms to see which one he was in, intending to go to the other.

XXX

Sylar was at an emotional crossroads in the master bedroom, standing and staring around the room, not doing much of anything. Maybe that was supposed to make him feel better; the fact that Peter's 'family' was just as fucked up (in its own way) as his own had been, however much less of a 'family'.

Clenching his fists again, he stalked over to the bed stand, rifling through it with rough motions. It didn't matter; no one was here, he didn't need this family's things, neither did Peter. They didn't even need to be here looking for….whatever the fuck unless Peter had some kind of wish list that he wasn't talking about.

He heard the distant crackle of a paper bag and hoped Peter was 'taking care' of whatever it was he'd had in his pants before he met up with Sylar again. That had been…unexpected to say the least. It was other things, but nothing that bore continued thought. Besides, _Peter_ would want him to ignore such a happenstance.

More confusion filled his head and he snatched up a bed pillow and threw it at the window, just because. _Let Peter find that!_ He thought derisively, being spiteful. Why was he angry again? Oh, yes. Why was he playing along with this charade again? Oh, yeah.

Stupid Peter, stupid family, stupid whatever it was that made Peter give him that look and whatever that damn cord was. _Focus. Remember the game_ _._ Sylar cast a shady glance towards the door of the bedroom that Peter so obviously wasn't entering. Hmm. There was nothing incriminating or even interesting in the bedroom; _parents_ , he sighed to himself in his head.

He inwardly cringed at having to enter the kid's rooms, but did it anyway. While he hadn't looked very much in the first, dirty gun-bachelor's apartment, he would have no such excuse as 'imagined germs' here. He could always play off kid-phobia… _No, he'd be onto that_. Sylar slowly padded into the little boy's blue bedroom. Cowboys was the theme, the whole Toy Story get up, not that he knew anything about it or recognized it.

A noise clicked in his head, similar to one of his prized clocks as his eyes fell on a particularly special item to the boy that used to live here. _Claire-bear_. His eyes narrowed and he chuckled grim and amused, _time to play_ _._ Moving forward and reaching for the teddy bear on the bed, he suddenly got a different wavelength full of static.

_/Watching Pete sit on Santa's lap. A tiny boy at two years old, those pleading hazel eyes locked on Saint Nick's jovial (fake) face, Nathan at fourteen, having refused the opportunity, but stood near to Pete just….because._

_He was the older brother, a role he'd accepted without much thought and he took it seriously. One look at Pete's innocent, dreaming face could do that to you. His baby brother was handed a large chocolate plush teddy and Pete had locked it immediately in a death grip of a hug after staring into the bear's glassy eyes for a moment._

_Fast forward four years at the beach, a weekend vacation with Ma and Dad, complete with Izzie, the family spaniel, yapping down the surf, doubtlessly driving Dad's nerves up the wall as usual. Of course Mister Bear came along for the trip, the plushy material that made up the bear's fur long since worn. And of course the bear had to come in the water._

_Nathan was holding Pete's slightly reluctant, juice-sticky hand, leading him hip-deep (for the kid) into the ocean; the bear in the boy's other hand, clutched loosely in kid-fingers. Pete kept making funny faces, obviously unsure of how to handle the water and he glanced up a ways at Nathan. Before they'd gotten in the water, Pete had asked of Ma, "I can wash him, right?" Ma had nodded distractedly, busy with the picnic lunch she'd brought, giving him a "Yes, of course, dear", but he still seemed uncertain._

_Seriously, that damn bear got more attention than Peter himself did. Nathan lifted Pete by the hand to raise him above the swell of a particularly large wave of salt water, trying to spare the boy a face full of icy ocean. Peter had cleared it, but the bear was sucked out in the pull before either Petrelli noticed its absence. Mister Bear was gone to sea and Peter had cried the rest of the day and on the road trip back./_

Sylar snarled and dug his fingers quickly into the soft fabric of the bear, pulling it into his hand, shaking off the memory with a shift of his shoulders. _This is why I hate family; especially this one. Nothing but a bunch of mindfucks in a mansion_ _._ This bear was different that Peter's in that it had a red bandana around his neck and a straw cowboy hat stuck to its head, but Sylar ignored the details.

"Oh, Peter…." He sing-songed to get the other man's attention and, ideally, the man himself as an audience. Surely Peter knew about Claire's bear fetish ( _or was it Bennet's? Ugh_ ). This was about to hit a dozen of Peter's 'things never to see or think about' list.

XXX

Peter looked in the master bedroom. It was the first one he came to. It was in a little bit of disarray - nightstand drawer open, pillow on the floor. _Nightstand - guns_ _._ His mind made an idle connection. Sylar had obviously been in here and wasn't here now. He was debating checking out the room instead of bothering to confirm where his companion was when the man's voice rang out in sing-song.

The tone alerted him instantly. Something was up. Sylar was up to something and very proud of whatever it was he was about to spring. _Nightstand - guns_ ran through Peter's mind again. A bullet through Peter's leg would be something Sylar might find highly amusing and though Sylar surely wasn't stupid enough to think that wouldn't be a potentially fatal injury; he might be pissed off enough not to care. Then again, Peter couldn't think of any of Sylar's kills that involved a gun, other than cases where others had pulled the trigger, himself included.

No, Sylar had always preferred his abilities, as far as Peter knew. Telekinesis had featured just about every time. It had pretty much been Sylar's introduction in that high school so long ago - years now, but it seemed like yesterday. Sylar, dark and shadowed at the end of the hall, Claire fleeing him, Peter being unsure, recognizing the figure from the paintings and the glimpses of the future he'd seen. And yeah, he'd been scared. Then a moment later the locker doors were flying at him. There was no reason to stay, so he'd fled. His job had not been to stop the killer, but instead to save the cheerleader.

What would Sylar do for violence if stripped of his powers? A knife? A gun? A baseball bat? Or would it be something more insidious like drugged food followed by restraints and torture? The sing-song tone said 'I'm about to fuck with you.' Peter knew that fully and yet he still went to the voice to see what Sylar was going to do. He did at least manage a modicum of caution, approaching the doorway in a very similar way to how Sylar had stood when Peter had handled the gun - leaning to the side slightly, leaving most of his body concealed.

Sylar did not have a gun in his hands. Or a knife. Or a baseball bat. He had a teddy bear. Peter stared at it dumbly, surprise making him less cautious than he was a moment before. A teddy bear _._ _What the hell?_ Was Sylar going to hold the teddy bear hostage? Was he going to threaten to hurt Peter by tearing the stuffed animal's head off and vicariously harming it? It wasn't like he could intimidate him by killing a beloved pet, after all. He looked at the bear. It did have a fairly close resemblance to Mister Bear - same size and color, same well-worn fur. The accoutrements were out of place, but…but Sylar had Nathan's memories. He knew what the bear looked like.

Peter's eyes rose to Sylar's, seeing the maliciously gleeful, anticipatory look on the other man's face. Sylar was up to something, all right.

XXX

Sylar gave him a smirking grin once he peeked his head in, obviously wary. The man's glance went from the bear, held at Sylar's chest height, then up to his eyes, seeing something that set him on edge. Rightly so. If Peter thought he would get away scot-free with that look earlier, hell, with the (understandable) 'scare' with the gun, he was dead wrong.

Staring Peter down, Sylar hugged the bear to his chest, murmuring, "Look who I found." He could see the individual thoughts racing through Peter's head; confusion, disgust, annoyance and anger, but enough curiosity to keep him there. "Think I'll call her….Mrs. Bear….No, no, I've got it." The evil behavior he was subjecting the medic to was flexing so many muscles in his psyche; the flood of _almost_ Hunger filling him. It felt so good, a rush of endorphins and adrenaline like he hadn't had in literal years.

XXX

At first Peter didn't have much reaction aside from a narrowing of the eyes. He frowned deeply, unimpressed at the moniker of 'Mrs. Bear,' surprised the asshole didn't go for a direct copy of Peter's childhood toy. The reason, he supposed, became clear as Sylar rubbed the stuffed animal against himself and moaned. _Pervert. Weirdo. Is this supposed to impress me? I suppose it does - I didn't think you'd sink this low right off the bat. So much for him being gay - if he can't even label a fake bear as male for this sort of thing._

XXX

In response, he gave a hum, one that could have been interpreted as a moan if the other man chose, as he slowly dragged the teddy's muzzle down his abdomen, slithering it downwards. Watching all the while as Peter's gaze tracked the motion, blinking in confusion, the thought telegraphed over his hollow little head 'Where the hell is this going?' _/God….this is fun./_ "Think I'll call her…Claire. Get it?" Sylar gave a wicked leer, holding the bear by its head and eventually placing it to face his groin. The placement was suspicious, but Peter was a little dense.

This was a test; Peter wouldn't take up the gun, but Peter was no gunman…except for that time in Haiti. _Hmm, singular event_. He couldn't even kill Arthur, something that still rattled in Nathan's memory for some odd reason. _/"You're not a killer, Peter. I am."/_ The medic had made his intentions clear, but then backed it up with a snotty look at Sylar. _How low will you go?_

Still he wasn't finished. _He is not getting away with mocking me. I can call every shitty aspect of his life on stage in front of him and there's nothing he can do about it._ His next noise was a low rumble in his throat, depicting pleasure that he wasn't receiving from the bear/Claire's "mouth" while he began to roll his hips against it anyway. _Whoa, hello_ _…._ His hormonal reaction was not what he'd anticipated. _Huh_. _That shouldn't feel good, maybe it looks good…something's still not quite normal about that._

He recalled taunting Matt with a stuffed (pink) rabbit. _/"Something doesn't fit in this picture." He recalled hiding his smugness from the oblivious cop, not that he needed to, clapping his hands together. "This house isn't used for drugs. It's used for something worse. A_ lot _worse."_ _Why Matt believed him, oh, right, he was a_ _'_ hero _'._ _Why Sylar would point something like that out….well. He enjoyed the sport and Matt was so easy to string along, it was almost anticlimactic./_

"Have you ever been in her room, Pete? I doubt those chaste hugs and lingering glances give you much of her scent, do they?" he rasped intimately towards the other man. Because, what…the fuck…had that look been about? He wanted to know. People didn't….it was just…odd, out of place. "Vanilla," Sylar whispered, grinding the bear around some personal areas for show.

XXX

Then the name changed to Claire and Sylar started pantomiming fellatio. That was…upsetting. Peter shifted position, coming more fully in the doorway but that wasn't really his intention. He felt uncomfortable, so he shifted. What he was really doing, and had he been thinking about it he'd have known, was getting more balanced, more poised. Sylar didn't have a gun and obviously wasn't preparing to rush him, so there was no reason to be peeking around the corner like a frightened child. Peter's eyes narrowed further as he weighed how much and if he needed to defend Claire's name from being sullied like this.

_He's not worth it. Let him show off what a juvenile sense of humor he has. Don't give him the satisfaction. He's **trying** to get a rise out of you with this. Speaking of which…is he…?_

His eyes pulled back up to Sylar's face with the man's next words and he felt his blood begin to boil despite his intentions. _'Pete' again. What is he trying to do - see how far he can push me? Does he think me putting down the gun gives him a free pass for anything? Does he think I'm toothless or something?_

As for Claire, Peter had had a crush on her for a little while once…longer than he should have, really, but what the hell were you supposed to do when you had no idea the girl could possibly be related to you? She was a random teenager in _Texas_ , for crying out loud! She was jailbait, the situation sucked (he was, specifically, in jail for part of that, after all), so he was thankful he hadn't done anything, but it didn't mean he hadn't felt something. Even without that, she was his niece and this level of disrespect was intolerable. Not that he expected better from Sylar, but Peter couldn't stand here and do nothing.

XXX

Keeping his voice low still, he continued, "Ever wonder why Claire's a lesbian, Pete? One word; Stanton," with that, he chuckled, amused and proud of his accomplishment: Peter was enraged by now and it showed, blazing through those hazel irises. To top it off, literally, Sylar mimed carving into the bear's cranium under the hat, through it, whatever, as he bobbed it back and forth at his pelvis.

XXX

He knew Sylar had taken her ability. He'd always wondered if more than that had happened. It had never seemed appropriate to ask though, so he was gentle with Claire and left it at that. Sylar's next words… _Claire's a lesbian? What?_ Peter had seriously, seriously been out of touch with his family for the last many months. He hadn't even noticed that his _brother_ , his beloved _brother_ , had been replaced by an imposter. So the idea that Claire had perhaps come out of the closet and he hadn't been in the loop - well, it was certainly possible. _Maybe he's lying? Why does he think I'd care? 'Pete' again._ _ **You**_ _do_ _ **not**_ _get to call me that!_ And then that last word brought everything together.

Peter had never given so much as a single thought to what might have happened to Claire behind those doors at the Stanton. It wasn't callousness, so much as having so many other things going on. She'd been clothed when thrown into the hall before Nathan and him; her voice had been steady and strong; things had started happening fast after that. But maybe they'd been happening fast before that, too. Suddenly his mind was trying to calculate times, consider Sylar's personality, the gloating leer on his face right now, Claire's personality… _she'd become a lesbian? He'd raped her? He's admitting this?_

He couldn't think anymore, but that was fine because he had no more need for it. He launched himself across the few steps between them. Sylar's hands were occupied, his body obviously busy responding to a situation that did not prepare him well for Peter's fist crashing down on his face. And Peter was doing his best to achieve just that.

XXX

He'd been more or less expecting this; violence. Usually Peter liked to avoid the fight and talk people down (sometimes literally), but this time he didn't spare a word before he rushed Sylar. He took the initial blow across his cheekbone, the explosion of sensation snapping his head around to his right side, a coarse bark of pain escaping him. Dropping the bear from his right hand, still holding it in his left, he swung his freed fist for Peter's oncoming face, snarling as he did.

 _You are not going to treat me like that, I won't let you. You may be the last man on earth, but I'm still me. I'm not a piece of your Petrelli shitbag scam, I'm not a fucking toy! I won't let you, I won't let you, I won't_ _…_ The contact jarred up his arm and he hissed from the receiving pain. _Fuck, forgot how much I hate this_. _Stupid bastard, asked for this._

_/"NOW GIVE ME MY BROTHER BACK!" "Nathan's pretty dead, Pete, I should know….What are you gonna do? Beat him out of me?"/_

Then he remembered the reason for getting abilities: he didn't do hand-to-hand well, technically 'dying' the last two times. Just because, Sylar swung the teddy bear at Peter; it was in his hand and he was angry and it was a sort of statement. Not like the real deal would break and it was a goddamn bear! The stuffy hit Peter at the neck before continuing past him to bounce on the ground, but neither man paid it any mind.

XXX

Peter was actually faintly surprised to have struck the man, not surprised at all that it hurt. Peter was a lot more familiar with hitting people than he wanted to be - more familiar with hitting _Sylar_ than he wanted to be. Kirby Plaza, Pinehearst, Mercy Heights - all fistfights with this man and he'd won each time, more or less. Kirby Plaza was arguable - complicated by others, but Peter counted it as a win. All of those flashed behind his eyes with a weird sort of double exposure, like he was remembering the incidents from not just his own point of view, but Sylar's. Peter's own fists crashing down on him painfully; confusion; the simple stunned awareness with which he'd looked up at Peter at Pinehearst and did nothing to resist him while the Italian, the so-called empath, had hit him again and again, stopping to gloat between each blow.

"Uf." Peter was hit solidly on the cheek as a reward for getting distracted. He shook off the bizarre memories, falling back and trying to dodge, more than a little disoriented from the blow. He didn't have time to think things through, though if he had, he would have thought Sylar had done that to him intentionally somehow - some mental effect of being here. He'd lost the advantage of surprise. The stuffed animal hit him and bounced away - he felt an equally bizarre, but more understandable pang of concern for it.

XXX

 _Hit me once, shame on me..._. In the back of his mind, he knew he was purposefully provoking the conflict, but he just couldn't seem to stop himself. A lifetime's worth of frustration, repression, anger, loss, heartbreak, neglect and failure on both sides. And the additional (probably testosterone-fueled, adrenaline-filled) energy had to go somewhere; it had to be let out somehow. Sylar shoved Peter back by handfuls of his shirt, making use of his height and longer reach, stalking after the man. When he reached him again, he swung down at Peter, just lashing out to cause damage to something so frustrating and full of anger; really unaware that he was striking the only living thing in his world.

XXX

He grabbed at Sylar's hand when it clutched his shirt. He was shoved back to where his own fists couldn't make a solid contact with any critical part of the man's body. He twisted to the side, heedless if the clothes ripped, but the cloth held. He hammered sideways with the knife edge of his hand at Sylar's wrist, impacting hard and jarring his grip, getting loose quickly and staggering back a step. Quickly or not, it wasn't quick enough - he regained his balance just in time to get hit in the face and staggered again, pain blooming between his eyes, making them water as his nose stung and felt wet. "Agh!"

 _Great. Fucking bloody nose_ _._ He bared his teeth and snarled.

He took another step back as Sylar took a couple more swings, not connecting solidly enough to matter.

XXX

A sudden blow to his wrist made him cry out, the tendons and fragile bones shooting pain into his hand, his hand faltering instantly as he pulled it back anyway. The urge to cradle his arm was strong, but Peter wasn't calming down. _Good_ , he thought at first, immediately followed by, _bad_. _It's a kid's room, no box-cutters or guns in here, no powers here, no weapons,_ was his next rundown of the situation. Perhaps starting Peter up hadn't been such a great idea; the medic was easy to start up, but not so easy to turn off when it came to this sort of thing; he was nothing but vengeful with a reason to be. Sylar always provided that reason.

In reaction to pain, something he hadn't been handling as well of late, not handling it as efficiently as he had in the past; Sylar swung in what he thought was okay form. His fists would catch on Peter's deltoids and graze his chest, missing his face completely after drawing blood from his nose that second time. Go figure stupid Peter would make him look like a fool, swinging blindly like an idiot. _How is he….?_ He was firing away directly at Peter, but the EMT was moving, still catching his balance and moving to avoid Sylar's fists.

The lack of physical connection only made him angrier, but he wasn't stupid enough to allow the anger to overrun his instinct to put more force behind his rather unskilled jabs. That would only tire him and give Peter plenty of opportunity to beat his brains out. When Peter moved to Sylar's left to avoid the right incoming fist; he pivoted and raised a leg to kick into Peter's hip, the toe of his shoe connecting just shy of the joint, bruising deeply into his thigh. The contact sent the man stuttering away, pushing off the wall and homing in on Sylar's position.

He himself took a step back, holding his fists up in a lightly-refined technique in preparation of defense, unaware he was probably giving off 'schoolyard' to the other man. Even if his fists were in an MMA style he'd read about; of course having no experience or sparring partner to learn more than that. It seemed like a good idea.

XXX

_Get him down, beat the crap out of him, teach him that he can't treat me like this, this is what he gets if he wants to spend his time taunting me, he deserves this…_

Peter maneuvered back, trying to get some distance and get his balance. It was a good idea in theory, but as soon as he was out of range of fists, Sylar turned to feet and kicked him. Peter would have liked to credit footwork or dodging with why he managed to take the blow on his thigh instead of hip, but the reality was Sylar simply missed where he was aiming at. Still, it hurt badly and caused him to shift his weight awkwardly. He fell back against the wall and realized he was in a danger zone, too easily trapped and confined, his exit strategy foiled.

Sylar didn't push his advantage, for whatever reason. Given how he'd fought in the past, Peter gauged that Sylar just didn't know what he was doing in a fistfight. Had he put his hands down and relaxed his stance, Peter would have still carried the fight to him, but he'd have thought the other man had backed off to try to de-escalate things. Instead he backed up and raised his hands again in a fighting stance. Peter recognized it vaguely, but as the kick had hammered home to him, he had to get inside Sylar's reach to win this. There was no way he was going to accept losing and being at this man's mercy. Not ever.

Peter put his head down and bulled forward in a shoulder check, trying to get inside Sylar's reach. He took a blow coming in, but Sylar had been set up to defend against strikes, not against a rush, which was part of why Peter did it. Sylar backed up a step, coming up against the footboard of the bed and for a moment they teetered there: Peter slugging at Sylar's ribs without any power behind it (yet, because at the moment it was more an extension of the rush) and Sylar struggling to keep himself upright.

_Get him over, knock him down, get on top of him, then pound him into the ground…_

XXX

 _Ha. That's what you get_ _._ In hindsight, he was overly cocky with this; but it was kind of a big deal to be able to lay blows on the infamous Peter Petrelli; some elation was involved by default. Had he been in the mood, he might have chuckled and snarked something at the man, but he had to stay focused for whatever the next-

 _Shit_. Peter approached, but much too fast to be punching or kicking. Sylar recognized the move too late, which was the idea. He was set up for punches and kicks, set up pretty well, too; he hadn't expected to be rushed and as such he'd cornered himself perfectly for Peter to do just that.

In a second, he was crammed against the bed stand; the rounded end of the stand jabbing into his spine as Peter rushed his upper half, practically bending him over it, leaving him to grunt. The blows to his ribs still hurt and left him a little breathless at the pin. He wasn't a complete social outcast in that he didn't watch movies, so he dropped his bent elbow down into Peter's back as it presented itself, grabbing his hair next and shoving his head to the side. Of course the move worked, but not as planned; Sylar went the opposite direction and fell onto the bed with his legs tripped up and unable to move.

XXX

"Ow!" The elbow jab _hurt_ and yanking on his hair didn't help, but neither stopped Peter from managing to tip the other man onto the bed. So far, all his injuries were relatively superficial. He hadn't even managed to lose any hair. The blood from his nose was running down his face and he could taste it, but he was breathing through his mouth fine.

Peter followed Sylar onto the bed, scrambling to get on top of him, straddle him, and get control of the situation. If he could get the man under him and sit up, then he could rain down blows and limit Sylar's ability to retaliate. That was his plan at least, to the extent that he had formulated it. Sylar was obviously aware of his poor position and as soon as Peter started to lean away from him, Sylar hit him solidly on the right shoulder, following it up with hitting him in the face with his other hand.

 _God-damn reach!_ Peter couldn't get back fast enough, a little stunned and mostly trying to get his face away from those fists. _Okay, so maybe getting on top of Sylar wasn't a good idea_ _._ Sylar had his shoulders and was trying to shove him off. For a moment they wrestled. Peter knew he was stronger - a lot stronger than Sylar - if he could just get his dominant arm to work right. He knocked Sylar's hands off a few times; trying to get them out of the way so he could punch with his left. He swung, but he was blocked, probably giving Sylar a few bruises on his forearms, but they weren't disabling blows in the least. The other man gave up on trying to shove him off like that - if that was what he was trying to do - and started twisting his whole body.

XXX

Peter followed him right down and he recognized the positioning for the second time. _How did I get into this? No, how do I get OUT of this?_ He sent a fist into the nerves where Peter's neck met his shoulder, numbing the arm somewhat before snapping at his face to stun him. Then he started twisting like a madman, fittingly enough, pushing on Peter's shoulders; a molecular speck of fear from being pinned like this with this man. _Mercy…Heights…(What a goddamn name for a fucking hospital. 'Mercy'. Especially one where Pious Saint Peter works)_ _._ He would have reached up to strangle him, except….that would take things to an undesired (sort of) level.

_/All he could remember suddenly was a hand under his neck supporting his head in a strange display of care, a heat near his lap and the pressure of a sweaty hand on his forehead, hearing a growling voice above him, demanding something. Everything had slowly sapped from him at the time, like suddenly remembering less and less of yourself; having memories yanked out, no, memories just being gone, empty, but totally aware, for the moment, that someone was taking them away. He did remember looking up into vaguely familiar hazel eyes in a kind face that was set in a mask of a snarl, managing to grate out through a throat that could barely get air from shock. "Do it. KILL ME!"/_

Peter kept getting his elbows into Sylar's arms as he kept the man away, but not off him; the medic settling over his lap on the bed. The man would bend or break Sylar's stiff-arm and try to strike him, but Sylar would raise his arm to fend it off, catching the blow with his arm, grunting at the blows. All the while he was squirming like a long eel from underneath Peter, grabbing at the bed to move himself away.

XXX

Teeth clenched, Peter hit Sylar in the shoulder, but he was being unseated from his superior position by the energy and force of the other man's effort. He had a choice between trying to reestablish his pin or taking a few licks while he had the chance. He went for the latter, not passing up the chance. He hit the man again in the shoulder - nearly the same place, but it was unlikely do much other than hurt and bruise, maybe limit the strength of the arm much as Sylar's blow had done to Peter. He aimed higher with his right, going for the side of Sylar's head.

It was a moving target. Although Peter knew his right hand still didn't have the strength it should have, numbed from the shoulder strike, he hadn't thought about the implications of hitting a hard surface with a fist that wasn't tight and firm. So when his balled hand came down on the rear side of Sylar's skull, it hurt Peter a lot more than Sylar. Something snapped in his hand and his wrist wrenched. "Ah!"

XXX

He took a hard sock into his shoulder again as he managed roll onto his side, feeling his right arm tense and jerk in reaction, sound escaping him. Growling next to be intimidating and perhaps because it would help him wriggle free of Peter's encasing legs (god, how awkward). His vision shuddered and his head snapped painfully into the bed, something in his neck popping from a swift blow from something hard to his skull.

"Uh…" was his groaned exhale of pain, an instant headache splitting up his cranium, throbbing around the impact site. He dimly heard the other man make a louder noise in agony, but he just kept moving, not at all pausing to survey the empath's injuries because right now he didn't care. Wonder of all wonders, this was so similar to another fight this pair had been in. Maybe everything had already been done before.

 _/"You're too weak to stop me! I know what it feels like now. All this power...I'm the one who's_ special _."/_

XXX

 _Shit!_ He jerked his hand back reflexively. He could still fight, but that injury by itself knocked his effectiveness down by more than a quarter, maybe half if something was actually broken, ceding the advantage entirely to Sylar. For the moment though, maybe Sylar didn't realize that.

XXX

Peter stopped moving, stopped advancing so Sylar _didn't_ kick him as his legs cleared the other man's straddle. He then took the opportunity to roll off the bed and onto the floor, sliding down in a muddled mess. Moving to his knees, he saw first that Peter still knelt on the bed, cradling his arm, possibly the one he'd hit Sylar's head with.

Fuzzily he had a flash that his head had always been a little thick. The medic flexed his hand briefly, holding back his grimace of pain, but Sylar caught it; he must have done something to make the man look at him because Peter's eyes rose from his arm to Sylar's eyes and he began to move off the bed.

He took that as a move back into the field, injured or not. Looking around the room much faster, his eyes alighted on a baseball bat; crude and messy, but he didn't intend to use it and that fact was none of Peter's business. Grabbing hold of it, he wobbled to stand, something from the headshot disrupting his balance. "Enough," he rasped out, holding the bat in front of him for show.

Peter hadn't attempted to strangle him or otherwise bash his brains in; he hadn't even run for the gun. Sylar concluded that Peter in fact wouldn't go back for the gun or the nearest sharp object, Petrelli-style, for the final Medal of Honor. The bat wavered slightly in his hand and he blinked a few times at the injured man.

XXX

Peter looked over the bat carefully, noting how it wavered. It wasn't held firm. He didn't think Sylar truly intended to use it. That was good - Peter was done with the fight too. He took a half step back and to the side anyway, out of caution, keeping the corner of the bed between them so there was no way he could easily be rushed. People could be killed bare-handed, but a fight with weapons became all kinds of lethal that a fistfight was not. Sylar's single word eased him a lot, turning the hefting of the bat from an escalation Peter wouldn't win to a graceful way to back down. He'd made his point and even though he doubted Sylar understood why Peter had attacked him, Peter did and that was good enough. Absently he noted the stuffed bear was directly behind him. He nudged it back with his heel, unconsciously keeping himself between it and Sylar.

He waited a few more seconds just to be sure of the situation, then let his thoughts go back to what had started this – Sylar's insinuations, or perhaps confessions. "Is there any low you won't sink to? _Rape?_ " It had provoked him because it was new, as a piece of information; because Sylar had been taunting him; because it seemed Sylar wanted to start a fight and would keep at it until he did. It was worse than his other sins – there was no excuse of the hunger or even self defense in taking advantage of Claire. A new low, yes. But it wasn't like he'd had all that far to fall at that point.

Peter shook his head, lip curling in disgust. "Don't talk to me about how you've _hurt_ people. If you really think we're stuck here forever together, _don't talk to me about that!_ " Peter's voice rose in distress. "There's nothing I can do about it!" _Except beat the crap out of you. It's already done. Maybe I could have been there faster. If I'd only known…_ "Just because you have powers doesn't mean you have to use them that way!"

He licked at the blood on his lips and raised his left hand to wipe it off his chin. He eyed Sylar further, but the other man was holding his ground. Peter felt of his nose briefly. He didn't think it was broken. His teeth were still solid. He took a quick catalog of his other injuries. Nothing seemed critical except for his hand. He flexed it, giving Sylar a sullen look, unwilling to explore it further right away. The other man looked fine – a little unsteady, with red marks blooming slowly as the first stage of bruising – but basically fine.

Peter remembered an exchange during his precepting as a paramedic, where his instructor was trying to treat a patient who had been in a bar room brawl. Either punch drunk or inebriated, the man kept demanding the paramedic 'fix' his injuries, which consisted of several blows to the face similar to Sylar's, or Peter's. No bones were broken, nothing was bleeding. The veteran medic had told him, 'Buddy, you've been punched. I can't un-punch you. Take some aspirin, use some cold packs, and don't get in bar-fights.'

Peter dropped his eyes, backing up another short step, signaling more firmly he was done here and he was backing off.

XXX

Sylar blinked at the man a moment, taken aback by the one slur that was sent his way and attached to his name. Another and far greater sin to be associated with him. _I. Hate. People_. Sylar leaned forward and extended the bat at Peter's chest, "I'm no rapist," he snarled, body tensed. Of course Peter would think that; it was probably the only thing he heard from Sylar's entire….speech. "The only thing I ever touched was her pretty blonde gray matter for her stupid ability."

Peter's voice rose and Sylar was left to wait out the tirade he presented, after he finished, Sylar snapped back, barely restraining his own bitter anger, "Don't you dare lecture me about abilities, Petrelli, don't you dare." He knew he didn't need the bat, but it made him feel better regardless of Peter's potential as a threat.

Who rescued who from killing their then-shared mother? Who had taken hits and been strapped down and drugged _again_ just to be a _good_ _brother_ _?_ _Mommy's good boy?_ Peter had gone crazier faster with the Hunger than Sylar had himself. But, no, Sylar was ever the monster because Peter, precious, perfect, loving and loved Peter could be forgiven. His body count was zero of course.

The other man's eyes dropped and he backed down. "You've never seen me 'low', Peter, so don't be so quick to judge. I can't remember the last time I was laid and that was prior to three years ago." Okay, a bit of an exaggeration; he did remember, but it was just to illustrate that he wasn't the most social of men. His voice had relaxed but he still held himself stiffly, prepared for another foolish rush against the bat; typical Peter.

XXX

The bat made an annoying degree of difference in how he responded to what Sylar said. Peter had a feeling that were it not there as a glaring reminder of the next step in their conflict, that they'd still be fighting one way or another, steadily moving the relationship between them to more and more hostile. He leaned away and tensed in turn when Sylar gestured at him with it, but he didn't give ground.

He believed Sylar instantly, which annoyed him even more. He _should_ argue. He _should_ demand proof (though what proof could the other man give?) He _should_ demand an apology for Sylar even insinuating that he'd done that to Claire. But instead, the back of his head which judged people and made emotional decisions said, ' _oh yeah, that makes perfect sense_ ' and the more intellectual part was left gaping and struggling to disagree. He frowned deeply at Sylar and hoped he'd hurt the bastard worse than it looked, because if he'd said those sorts of things knowing they were false, then he'd done it just to start things, intentionally goading him.

Sylar's eyes dropped and his tone eased back towards normal. Peter was left wondering what the hell 'low' was for Sylar if it wasn't killing people and being a menace to everyone who got close to him. Really, molesting Claire at the Stanton seemed possible. Sylar's outrage that Peter would jump to the obvious conclusion was irritating. _Asshole. You have no grounds to say someone is being 'quick to judge' if they believe what_ _ **you**_ _tell them_ _._ He supposed he didn't really know much about the other man, but what was there worse than the murders? Sure, Peter's imagination could fill in a lot of scenarios (cannibalism, child molestation, prolonged torture, and a sort of psychological torment of the sort Peter wondered if he was getting into with this current bullshit) – but it left a curiosity about what Sylar thought was out of bounds.

XXX

Actually, he should probably be more worried about being stabbed in the back as opposed to a frontal charge, but this was Peter of the manipulative clan Petrelli. "You are barking up the wrong tree if you think I'd willingly get it on with anyone in your family," he said sneeringly serious.

XXX

So the Petrellis were safe from Sylar making passes at them. Fine. Sylar meant it as an insult - that was the only reason Peter found it objectionable. _Just stop talking_ _,_ he begged mentally. _Stop insulting. Stop_ _…_ Peter sighed. _Like that's going to happen. Maybe I've got to stop taking offense. He's not going to change. I can't_ _ **make**_ _him change_ _._ Some part of himself ached and hurt and objected to the idea that he had to weather Sylar's abuse and disrespect. There was a distant echo here of his father being overbearing and authoritarian in Sylar's comportment, claiming absolute superiority with such infuriating constancy. He couldn't slug his father; but by God that didn't mean he hadn't wanted to. His jaw worked. He said nothing.

XXX

"Your niece is about as loving as a porcupine, Peter. I never touched her like that. I prefer my partners willing." Something that was hard to come by for a serial killer and psychopath. And even then the woman was manipulating him. Hell, once it wasn't even his body. "When we find her waltzing around here after a dozen years or so, you can ask her your damn self."

Sylar swung the bat into the wall, denting it easily and letting the would-be weapon drop to the floor amidst crumbs, dust, and rocks of dry wall. His expression dropped from dark and angry to hollow and lost as he looked at Peter as if asking 'how could you?' before he left the room. Far be it for him to walk away more hurt if he started the fight.

XXX

Sylar swung the bat into the wall and Peter jumped a little. Then he dropped it. _Good_. Peter swayed a little to the side, away from Sylar as he walked by, close enough to reach out and grab because Peter was not very far from the door. But Peter's feet didn't move and neither did his hands. His head hardly turned either, holding himself still. If Sylar had wanted to press the fight, he'd have done it when he had a weapon in hand, not now. As angry as Peter was – and partly because he was so angry – he wanted the fight over. He probably wouldn't win it anyway with his hand messed up (not without resorting to something like the baseball bat, now lying unattended and available). Sylar passed by without incident to stalk off to wherever else he intended to go.

XXX

Sylar managed to walk in a straight line out the door, only half-heartedly expecting to get capped with the bat. _Rape, now. Wonderful._ He hadn't felt like dying today (not really), so he didn't push the big black button of Nathan; Claire was the other easiest target. Go figure it would come across as rape to the devoted and slightly infatuated do-good uncle.

 _May as well have for all he thinks, god….No more tests for him. They just hurt._ All the more he was forced to remember that Peter was on the ignorant side of this…'partnership'. Sylar knew Peter, both as an enemy and a brother and something in between.

 _Rape. Won't mom be proud_. He rumbled in his throat and banished the haunting idea. _/"You? You could never hurt anyone."/_

XXX

Peter took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders a little, working his right. He turned and picked up the bear with his left hand, looking it over briefly. He didn't want to leave it here. He looked over at the bat. _That_ he wanted to leave. He walked over and kicked it under the bed, then regretted it instantly. If Sylar looked back in here and it was gone…what would he think? _Dammit_. If he got down and crawled around to pull the damn thing out that would look even more suspicious. _Whatever. Just get out of here_. Carrying the bear, he walked out.

He felt a little ashamed to be carrying a stuffed bear. He thought it looked juvenile, or overprotective, or like he was seized of some irrational, displaced urge to protect and comfort one of Sylar's victims. Well, the latter at least was probably exactly what it was. He tried to tell himself he didn't give a shit about what Sylar thought.

XXX

 _Good news is he won't kill you even he does believe a lie. That's just what you get for opening your mouth. Why tell him anything?_ Unfortunately he was painfully aware that he wasn't adept at keeping his mouth shut, censoring himself (hell, even wanting to) and that over the next hundred years he'd be coughing up more facts about himself than he had ever before.

If he'd had a therapist previous to this, he or she would probably drop dead from shock. He really had nothing to look forward to in that regard; hemorrhaging information about himself, secrets, regrets and fears; all the goddamn _damage_ he carried around that someone who hadn't read his file wouldn't know. _Fuck that_. _Just don't tell him anything_.

As a game plan he knew it sucked. Sylar weaved a line for the couch, collapsing on the cushions with an exhausted sigh. It was only then he allowed himself to catalogue his injuries. Pain itself was an afterthought but he just blinked down at his wrist already blooming with bruises, stiffening up. _Hyperextension_ , he labeled dully. Nothing serious.

XXX

As he walked to the kitchen, he glanced at Sylar. Peter put the stuffed animal in his paper sack. He started cleaning himself up at the sink, wiping his face. His nose had pretty much stopped bleeding, but he couldn't breathe out of it and it had dripped down his shirt. His hand hurt. He felt it up a little bit. He was pretty sure there was something broken there, but it was starting to swell.

He sorted through the cabinets for painkillers, found some and…couldn't get the freaking child-proof lid off with one hand. It was one of those ultra-protective versions that required two hands, with a fair grip strength in both, to open it. Shit. He sorted around through the various other bottles of vitamins and children's fever reducers (also equipped with ridiculously aggressive caps), but this was it. He could hold it with his right, but not with enough pressure to keep it in place while he triggered those tabs with his left. Peter thought they'd pulled this style of cap off the market ten years before, but this wasn't the real world. If it hadn't been in keeping with the latches on the drawers he'd found earlier, he'd have thought the cap was some subconscious attempt of Sylar's mind to thwart him.

 _Well, I'm not going to be thwarted_ _._ He frowned deeply at the bottle. The idea of getting that baseball bat and smashing it was very appealing. Or he could put it on the linoleum floor, put his foot on it and get it with his left. Or…taking up the bottle in his left hand, he looked around to see where Sylar was at the moment.

XXX

He moved on, rolling his shoulder, feeling only a sharp bruise that ached to move his arm up. _Bruising_ _._ He thought he'd tasted blood earlier, so he prodded his tongue around in his mouth for the cut, locating it, but his lips felt fine. Whether or not he had blood or cuts wasn't a priority, but he did feel around over his face to locate the deep-stinging bruises to the bones there. Then there was that balance problem… _Mild concussion. What was he thinking with that?_ That explained Peter's pained hand.

His back was tender and stiffening up as was his neck, doubtless he'd wrenched both with the bed. His ribs weren't hurt, but they did hurt. All he had was aches and pains and a serious headache. Once he'd finished with his assessment, he rested his elbows on his knees. _Why am I still sitting here waiting for the tour to continue?_ That pulled a frown from his tired face and if he could have rubbed it without pain, he would have. _Why do I feel like I lost the fight?_ He settled for digging his fingers into his tangled hair as the word ' _low_ ' echoed around in his ears.

He heard Peter moving around and glanced to see him carrying the bear into the kitchen. Sylar just closed his eyes and faced straight again, really trying not to consider that. For some reason that small gesture felt like a slap in the face, and it was probably intended as such.

Claire might be prone to keeping things from people, but she wasn't shy about laying sins at Sylar's door, surely everyone knew that? He'd been Nathan for god-knows how fucking long! She was still underage or looked it enough to be- _I'm not even considering this. That's just disgusting. It's like saying I touched Molly Walker when she was eight or however old._ He shook his head, sending pain shooting down his neck so he halted the action.

_Is this Hell for immortals?_

Sylar heard Peter clattering and huffing in the kitchen over a bottle of….pills, painkillers probably. 'Suicide isn't the answer, man!' his overactive brain insisted he utter, but he had no real desire to and didn't. Peter was taking this all surprisingly well; the whole 'new life without PEOPLE' thing. Aside from the fact that he was still _looking_ for his cubbyhole out of here. That was the point of this whole exploration.

Peter emerged moments later and approached him with, whaddya know, a bottle of pain killers. What made him look twice was the child lock, still closed in the man's swelling hand. Sylar's eyes rose slowly from the bottle up to the man's face, hesitant disbelief coming into his eyes. _Help? Me?_ _/"I'm not the savior kind."/_

Normally his first reaction would have been a quick mocking noise, possible laughter for someone failing to master something so simple, regardless of physical ability or pain. (He could just imagine it, too; Peter Petrell: boy wonder throughout the world for saving it above and beyond the call, foiled, not by Sylar, the monster, but by a child-locked bottle). The lack of sound coming from the man's dead watch grated on his sense with the concussion. He let out the breath he'd been unaware of holding; Peter's gesture, obviously genuine in its need, defusing Sylar's tension.

When Peter approached and handed him the bottle, gesturing to his hand by way of explanation they both knew Sylar didn't need. With bruised knuckles, he thumbed open the tab of the cap and handed Peter back the opened bottle. Thankful he'd left the bear in the kitchen. Again, the funny feeling ran down his spine to his stomach.

Sylar had initiated, insulted and insinuated, forcing Peter to act; he'd then been injured in doing so trying to hurt Sylar. Peter, the fearless mouse, then asking in such a diplomatic way, for assistance for such an obvious reason….He didn't like that spiral feeling in his gut. Never had. So he ignored it.

He looked up at the medic, eyes reading ashamed as he dropped them quickly; the urge to apologize hanging on his lips.

This was really going to take some getting used to. Being safe with a man he'd so badly wronged; the same man who wouldn't kill him even with just cause and weapons under provocation. _Safe_. He nearly laughed at himself.


	8. Aftercare and Naptime

Day 5

Peter took the bottle and rattled the pills in it. He considered just walking back to the kitchen, but it occurred to him that Sylar was not in the best of shape either. The look the other man gave him - something other than sneering arrogance, cemented it. "Do you want some?"

He watched as Sylar took a single pill and Peter held his tongue about the quantity. One pill for an adult male of his size would have a negligible effect. It was hardly worth taking at all. Was Sylar trying to appear stoic and unmoved by pain? If so, then why take even one? Was he only taking one to be polite, because Peter offered? That seemed odd, but it was an odd moment. Peter didn't question it - it was Sylar's business, not his. Instead he said grudgingly, "I'll get you some water in a little bit." He turned and went back to the kitchen, favoring one leg.

XXX

Sylar blinked at the offer, a little stunned on top of his head injury. He was having instant and real difficulty deciphering the meaning behind it. _Is he saying I'm weak? That he beat me? That he wants to be friends or put this behind us? Certainly he's not forgiving me for anything. Maybe it's a Hunger reference._

_/'I guess I'm like an addict. It's like a drug you can't enough of.'/_

"Oh…uh, thanks," he said quietly after a pause. He managed to grab out a pill from the tiny bottle. Almost as soon as he'd done so, his companion had turned away, saying something about water for him. Sylar was left to blink at the man's back, his mouth open to protest that he didn't need it. Oh, well. Maybe he could drink it for hydration purposes; he had just gotten a thorough, uh, workout as it were. That's what it was.

XXX

Peter had a lot of puttering around to do and various muscles and sore spots were protesting now that he didn't have as much adrenalin coursing through his system. He got himself a glass of water and washed down triple the standard dose. The only thing he had to be concerned about was nausea or stomachache if taken on an empty stomach. He washed his face again, blew his nose, waited while the residual, secondary bleeding stopped, and washed again. His wrist was really swollen by now, which was part of why he'd handled the other self-care first. He located the sealing storage bags he'd seen in the drawers earlier and fumbled one under the ice dispenser in the door of the fridge. A few moments later, he had a bag of ice and a couple stray cubes on the floor. He kicked them out of the way.

XXX

Peter was opening and closing the freezer, scrabbling around in plastic bags with what sounded like ice. _Ugh, ice_ …That sounded good right now. However, he didn't move into the kitchen or risk upsetting Peter's space; the guy probably had his own routine for cleanup and he didn't feel like disturbing it. The only move Sylar made was to toss back and swallow the pill, wincing as he did and not from the lack of water or taste of the powder on the pill.

_/'Drugs and pills are the devil's work, Gabriel. Don't ever fall into them; only misery and death and destruction come from that kind of…living,' he remembered his mother, foster mother, Virginia, saying to him at the tender young age of eight. Someone a few floors up in their apartment complex had just O.D'd. He only knew that because his mother had asked the EMTs who came for Mrs. Ellens._

_And he only knew what an overdose was from biology class and reading. He caught himself wondering what it felt like. He was beginning to suspect Virginia needed some pills herself. He remembered hearing the speech multiple times; any time he had a headache, his mother would start up again on the sin that was pills, whether he wanted them or not. Mostly he knew they couldn't afford them. "They will lead you into Hell and God will not see you."/ Funny, I'm already in Hell._

_Oh, those were the days_ , he mused next and he stared and picked at his knuckles.

XXX

Peter looked at the bag blankly, then at the box of bags. Sylar was hurt too and as much as a part of his brain said, _Good - the bastard deserves it,_ another part was much less bloodthirsty. He _wanted_ to help people and it wasn't like his patients had to pass much in the way of an entrance exam to qualify. Human? Check. Alive or recently so? Check. Good to go.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd treated a patient who'd slugged him, wrestled with him or even tried to kill him. The worst he'd had to deal with was a mechanic with carbon monoxide poisoning and a crowbar - clearly impaired and dangerous, clearly needing to be subdued and treated. He'd had a hard time talking the cops out of shooting the man. Once he and Hesam had managed to get the crowbar away from him through a combination of coaxing and sleight of hand; though the police had moved in, the man had gone berserk at the betrayal and all hell had broken loose.

There was hardly any more effort involved in making two ice packs as there was in one. He snagged another bag and filled it halfway, as he'd done with the first, then sealed it shut. He grabbed a couple kitchen towels to wrap them in and started back, then remembered the water. He got a new glass down, filled it and set it aside. He dug out the cracker sandwich set and put it in a pocket, then gathered up the ice packs and towels between his right forearm and body, carrying the water in his left.

He looked at Sylar very briefly, then away, and offered him the glass. "Here." He was trying to be sensitive to the fact that Sylar probably didn't want his help, but he'd also noticed the man hadn't actually _left_. Surely that meant something, didn't it?

XXX

Peter returned moments later balancing ice and towels and extending a glass of water towards him. _Kindness_ , his mind supported randomly; _he's being_ _kind_. "Thank you, Peter," he forced himself to say, taking the glass in hand; almost embarrassed now that the man would do something like that when it was difficult for the more injured medico.

His mind still tripped over the idea of kindness after that kind of intentional incident. _God, it was just a glass of water, why was it such an unheard of thing? Because you're not used to people_ , he answered himself, _and people aren't used to you_. Maybe Peter did believe him about the rock in their collective shoe, was that even possible? Surely a man who felt his niece's rapist sat in the next room wouldn't bring said supposed offender a glass of water.

Somewhere in his long buried conscience, the words bubbled up, "I'm sorry," was his low murmur. Unsure of the reaction that would garner, he kept quiet and took a sip of the cool water and fiddled with the glass; tracing the decorative ridges with careful fingers, he eyed the condensation.

XXX

Sylar said something indistinct as Peter took one of the towel-wrapped ice packs and set it on the end table next to the other man. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but it certainly wasn't an insult. It sounded a lot like an apology. Peter was angry, and accepting, both at the same time. Regardless of the anger he was deeply relieved to hear what was probably an acknowledgment that deliberately pissing one another off was a bad idea. He didn't respond directly, letting the probably-an-apology stand without drawing attention to it. He gave a single nod and limped over to the easy chair.

He started to settle himself into it, heard a crinkling and paused to remove the crackers from his pocket. He set them on the arm of the chair and sank into it. He breathed out a long sigh, letting, forcing, himself to relax. He shifted the remaining ice pack down to his wrist, arranging it carefully.

XXX

The instant before he apologized, the medic had set one of the two ice packs on the side table next to Sylar. That drew his attention more than any words Peter could have spoken. 'Fuck you', 'you're insane', 'enjoy hell, rapist' or even 'die alone'. All things he wouldn't have batted an eye over (not really).

Peter Petrelli had made him an ice pack. Sylar didn't move a single sore muscle towards it other than to stare first at it, then at Peter's moving back, then back to the ice. Peter heaved himself into a chair, melting into it as if he were trying to cover it with his limbs like a blanket after removing the cracker pack; the man releasing a sigh similar to a less-noisy helium balloon for volume.

 _I don't know about the average familial kitchen, but I don't think he had time to make a bomb or put liquid nitrogen in it…_ He glanced back at the towel that rested over the seemingly innocent ice packet. That kind of speculation was a moot point; Sylar knew it was safe; it was a fucking ice pack for goodness sake; but it was kind of ingrained in him. Sylar glanced and nodded at Peter's hand as he began to place the ice packet (through a towel of course) onto the delicate phalanges, "You're gonna need help taping that," he subtly offered in return.

XXX

He glanced up at Sylar's words, clearer this time. _He's offering to help me. I shouldn't turn him down. I should let him help_. The idea of letting Sylar do something more involved than stand still while Peter touched his shoulder was a little…scary? Well, maybe that wasn't the right word, because his feelings were born of the same reluctance as his lack of desire to let Sylar fix him lunch. Resentment - maybe that was a better description.

"Yeah," he said vaguely, committing to nothing yet. "We shouldn't do anything until the swelling goes down a little though." _'_ _We'_ \- so was he going to let him help? Was he going to let Sylar handle an injury of his? He made a rough grumbling noise in his throat and leaned back in the chair, shutting his eyes. _Let's see if we can get through a half hour or so without trying to kill each other - metaphorically, that is._

Eyes still shut, Peter gently manipulated his right hand with his left, figuring out what was wrong _._ _Fourth metacarpal - boxer's fracture, bar room fracture. Well, at least I don't need a cast, or…probably don't need pinning. I wonder if I could get an x-ray machine to work?_ He worried about how clean the break was. Even if it was relatively clean, responded well to taping and he managed not to re-injure it, this was going to take weeks to heal. He stopped messing with the injury and gave some thought to his other hurts.

XXX

Peter addressed his offer, giving a tentative 'yes' or so Sylar took it to be, but then followed it up with a more negative noise, settling in. He watched, interested, as he saw his enemy and only companion close his eyes in his presence, something he would have deemed impossible and unheard of. And it was unheard of. No one ever so much as blinked when he was around, especially the big hazel eyes that were now shut, blissful physically, but hiding troubled thoughts.

Sylar nursed the glass of water slowly as he forced his eyes away from just drinking in the sight of _someone_. A someone he'd hit and bruised up inside by beating him down, wearing him down over the years and finally shredded the man's heart up by killing his brother. _Self-defense_. He'd just finished toying with the man and he was met with a kind act, not once but twice.

XXX

Peter's face was banged up pretty hard, having been hit at least three times and pretty solidly every time. He didn't feel disoriented, but his neck felt strained. Then of course he was limping a little from being kicked in the upper thigh, his scalp hurt where his hair had been yanked and his neck also hurt at the joint of his right shoulder - a pressure point Sylar had punched. He frowned and rotated the joint a little, as he could without moving his right hand. His face was feeling…full, he guessed the right term was.

 _I've been here, what? Five days? At this rate I won't need to worry about the hand. I'll manage to kill myself long before._ He sighed again, realizing suddenly that he was sitting in a room with Sylar with his freaking eyes shut. They snapped open and he looked over at the man, then shut them with a tiny grunt. _Calm down, idiot. Just calm down._

"How are you doing, man?" he asked, opening his eyes just a little to regard his companion.

XXX

Only glancing as Peter moved his shoulder around, Sylar was leaning over and reaching out for the proffered ice pack when Peter's eyes shot open and he started, jarring his entire body painfully. His hand jerked and he swiftly pulled it back, rubbing it over his jean-clad knee, desperate to act as if he hadn't done something wrong. How much of his reaction Peter witnessed, he wasn't sure, but a few drops of water had made it onto his other leg from the glass.

 _Yeah, there it was. What would my nerves do without this jumpy tension, I do wonder_ ; he thought without amusement, barring his ever-present gallows humor. _Certainly be less clumsy_. Peter spoke up, but it was not anything he expected to hear from him or anyone. 'How are you doing, man?' Such a simple question and it had a visible impact on him, his eyes widening as he straightened a little. _Completely unworthy of such a question, that's why you've barely ever heard it_ , he concluded without self-pity.

"Did….did you hit your head, Peter? Or…I mean…." His voice trailed off as he frowned a little at the lounging man, unsure of the angle he half-suspected was being played. That immediately had him on alert, but he knew if he acted on it he would set Peter off and they'd just gotten comfortable; neither one in any condition to go another round, even verbally.

Shaking his head at Peter, he thought he heard his muscles creaking as he pivoted, _slowly_ on his butt to toss his legs up onto the cushions, lying back, wincing as his tender scalp hit the couch's decorative pillow. Shifting to adjust around the injury, he placed one hand under his neck for support, balancing the partly-full glass on his stomach, staring at it. _Because if he can get comfortable, so can I_.

What he wanted to figure out was why the question still bothered him so much.

XXX

Peter snorted slightly and smiled just a little. His face hurt at the expression. He spoke slowly, saying, "No. I hit _yours_. It's kind of hard. Guess I shouldn't have done that." He kept smiling at the humor. _I was aiming for your ear, after all. Still a stupid place to try to hit someone with my arm messed up, but it wasn't like I had much of a chance to think it through. I wonder if he has a concussion?_

"So we heal normal speed here, huh?" He knew the answer to this, as the blisters on his feet and the soreness in his back and legs - that had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with his insane, marathon wandering of the past few days - attested to. "That's gonna suck." _More for me than you, unless I miss my guess_.

XXX

Sylar remained quiet as Peter spoke of punching his head; the smile after his words left him wondering exactly what it was for. _Probably something quite painful_. He felt nausea roiling in his stomach and he turned his head to the side in case he did have to throw up; his face paling like Virginia always said it did when he was sick.

"Yeah, normal speed," Sylar eventually addressed the question about healing; the one Peter had no need to ask, surely. Like that time he'd sliced into his thumb cutting up dinner. It had bled nastily even through the band-aid, stinging in hot water making showers a little tricky. It had followed the rules he knew in regards to cellular growth, the normal kind that is. "Hmm."

Sore throats, headaches, aches and pains, stubbed toes- they all followed the rules and Peter's hand would be no exception, nor would Sylar's concussion. Peter was awfully chatty, but he recognized the need; he recognized what made him do it, too; the man was looking to cope and what better way for an empath to do that then reach out…sort of.

XXX

Peter saw Sylar pale and become slightly diaphoretic. _Yep, concussion. Probably best for him to just stay still for a while and get his bearings._ He glanced around surreptitiously for a trash can. He spotted one just behind the end table that was now behind Sylar's head. Peter rose carefully, walked over to it and moved it next to the couch. He glanced at the ice pack and wondered at that. He was a little annoyed by it and a little hurt. Annoyed because Peter could use it; he'd gotten it for Sylar and the other man hadn't even touched it. Hurt because he really did want to help – not so much hurt because he was unappreciated, but hurt because he knew Sylar was in more pain than he would be otherwise for not using it.

He thought back about the fight. Sylar had been trying to start something. What the hell did he expect Peter to do? Stand there and snark off at him? It wasn't one of Peter's skills. But no, leaving the ice pack was probably because Sylar was as reluctant to accept help of him as Peter was of the killer. Oddly, Peter felt a little guilty that he wasn't the companion Sylar wanted – whatever or whoever that might be. He had no idea what Sylar wanted in people, or friends, as traits. If they didn't have abilities, then did he even have any use for them? He sure seemed desperate to be around Peter. And they certainly rubbed each other the wrong way. Peter went back to his seat and settled in again.

XXX

Lazily Sylar watched the man way less carefully than he probably should have as he stood and grabbed up something near the head of the couch to set it closer to him on the floor. At the angle he lay at, he couldn't tell what it was. But, gosh, Peter moving around was not helping his stomach; he just breathed and swallowed the bile that kept trying to rise in his mouth.

Peter seemed to be more mobile if in more pain so he tracked his motions with glassy eyes, trying to readjust his head to be comfortable around his bruising scalp. Since he was left to stare at the ice pack, he actually began to consider why he hadn't utilized it, the real reason, if he had any. Um…spite looked to be the most probable cause. Would it be awkward to move for it again now?

XXX

Peter shifted the ice pack further down so it covered both wrist and hand. The wrist wasn't swelling as much as he'd expected. His mind played back through the times he'd seen others with similar injuries. Physical responses covered such a range that it really wasn't useful. He thought about the last time he'd been hurt badly. _Hey, he probably doesn't know this:_ "I got shot in the chest a few weeks ago. Claire wouldn't let me take her healing at first. It kind of gave me a scare." He was trying to make conversation. He reviewed the incident a few times in his mind, trying to think of how and if Sylar could use the information against him. That he couldn't think of anything wasn't all that comforting, but he didn't have many conversational topics that Sylar wouldn't already be informed about from Nathan's memories.

"It made me think about how much I take for granted. I knew she was there. I would have never," his body shook with a couple brief chuckles and no more because laughing hurt - there was a knot in his back where Sylar had jabbed him with an elbow, "I would have never jumped in front of that bullet if I thought she wouldn't help me." _Not that I wouldn't have still tried to stop the shooter. I just would have tried something different_ _._ "I was having a really bad day," he said dryly. That had been the day of Nathan's funeral.

XXX

Sylar nodded slowly, just absorbing for the moment, formulating his response if any was desired or needed. _Why'd he get shot in the chest? He's not SWAT team, but maybe he missed his calling_. Peter's chuckling was pleasant to hear and he wondered if this was what normal men did; rather, men with friends. Buddies. _Just…sit around and talk about what they've done? Probably not what they'd do differently, but still._

Dark eyes watched Peter carefully and casually, without any hidden agenda or malice, just looked at him. _Of course, he's not really opening up. He's…trying to create a stepping stone between us, I think_.

 _Claire wouldn't let YOU take her power?_ That got his attention, but he wanted to point out how hard he'd had to work to get the same ability Peter had on tap - Claire's. Three years he'd hunted her down and in the end, he'd been rather gentle about taking her ability from her. That would only spark the 'you're a monster and she's my niece, duh,' age-old argument. But he did feel the need to….add something to the….'exchange' that Peter presented.

Somehow the man's words just made him angry. 'I was having a bad day. How much I take for granted'. Oh, he was having a bad day? How about how much the man had to take for granted in the first place? His ability didn't eat him alive and force him to drench his soul in blood. He hadn't been tortured in a Company cell for a woman who would never tell him he was 'okay' because of an ability he'd longed for but had gone so wrong; the ability he couldn't control.

His mother never pushed him to become something he wasn't (Arthur may have, but Gabriel hadn't had a father so it probably evened out). He hadn't been sold like a car or a dog by his father when he was a kid, living his life trapped down to a mentally unstable woman who he couldn't leave. He had a loving big brother to take care of him and to talk with, to grow up with and learn things, do things with. He had money, a big house, any education he could point his finger at, pets at his whim, he had social skills, friends, coworkers….

 _I've only had to bleed and murder to get….well, none of that_. And that was the point, wasn't it? He, Sylar, fell short again.

"Rough time," he grated out, anger making his throat tight, but importantly he kept his mouth shut even if the effort made him want to shove the ice pack down Peter's throat for spite. Closing his eyes, Sylar just rubbed at his eye sockets, hissing as he hit a solid bruise there. _Oh, the people skills_ , he sighed. Peter put his damn self in the way of any bullet headed for an innocent, so Sylar was completely devoid of pity.

XXX

Peter felt a deep, rending ache for Nathan. He almost wished his brother was still alive inside of Sylar somehow, that he'd come into this mental prison to find some reminder of Nathan, some shred of possibility that he was really still in there, that his soul hadn't passed on and that had just been Sylar lying to him. But he'd seen no sign whatsoever of his presence, except for Sylar occasionally calling him 'Pete' and letting slip that he knew more than he had any right to know. That whole stuffed bear thing was layered with things other than just the rhyme between 'Claire' and 'bear.'

If Nathan was still in there, then surely there would have been some indication. Peter's face fell into sadness. He shut his eyes and waited for the emotion to pass. There was nothing else to do about it, because beating the crap out of Sylar - in addition to being easier said than done - wasn't helpful. (He wouldn't deny it wasn't satisfying, though.)

XXX

Sylar did catch the wave of grief that suddenly seeped into Peter's face, so he looked away to give him his moment, not calling attention to it or speaking just yet. Mostly he longed to avoid and bury that little incident.

He decided to inject; "I got stabbed in the eye with a pencil a few years ago. For a woman she's not a great sounding board." Subtly mentioning _years_ , not weeks, making current tenses of Claire but leaving out the part about his mini-quest that became…something more serious that somehow landed him here. _Help_. Hell, he'd gone just about anywhere he could go and ended up, coincidentally and karmatically in Hell.

 _I had my throat cut for a woman I thought I could be with after she twisted me around her finger and led me to murder a second time. I really did die_. _I was killed slowly and in ways totally against the Geneva Convention over a period of weeks just to be able to tell my mom 'I'm special'_. _I died then._ _I've been brain-raped into being someone I hate and disrespect, someone who hunted me down so I could be your big brother_. _I pulled myself out of his grav_ e. The more he thought of it, the less he liked the topic.

He'd sold his soul for a pair of women, out of the hopes of gaining some understanding, acceptance and possibly love, or at least the acknowledgment of it, a sign of capacity for it. Maybe just some flat out hope. He'd died so many times he'd lost count; painful, quick, bloody, slow, close-up with guns, powers, hands, drugs and other medical implements, coming close with a noose once. _Gee, Peter, did you know that one?_

XXX

"She stabbed you in the eye with a pencil?" He snorted, then winced and touched his nose. He glanced around. _I really should have gotten some tissues, too._ Luckily, it didn't start bleeding again. ' _Years ago.' Could have been when he got her ability to start with. Could have been at the Stanton. Could have been some other time._

He didn't have much to say beyond that, thinking it over, thinking about Claire and how she was coping, having lost a father she'd hardly spent any time with. And apparently, things between her and Noah had become quite strained because of the whole situation. Peter couldn't say he didn't understand. Noah deserved a good fist to the face, too. He suspected that was something Sylar could get behind. He mulled the possible conversational topic around in his head, trying to figure out something they could talk about, something emotionally invested, that wouldn't set either of them off. Common ground, so to speak.

XXX

Sylar snorted a chuckle himself at Peter's snort before having to check his nose, the jolt ran through him and it turned his stomach. "Yup," he intoned after swallowing, recovering; simultaneously wondering if Peter was asking for details or not; heck, maybe the social etiquette for dealing with someone who was formerly your enemy in a civilized conversation. "I pointed out that we're similar and she didn't fancy the idea. Small wonder," he was making light of the situation and nixing the part about holding her down to make his damn point…. Was he supposed to frisk the bitch down for fucking trophies, butcher knives, pieces of glass and now pencils?

He reviewed the previous depressing topic—Claire, dying or being shot/stabbed, the out-and-out filthy struggle for survival in life, the desperation to please and the failures therein. In the back of his mind he knew he was extremely jaded by the past six years, but they had more lingering effects than the other thirty. That prompted a question from him. "Death bothers you, doesn't it? Your own and in general," he clarified so it didn't sound like he was talking about Petrellis Past, Nathan and Arthur.

Union Wells, Mohinder's apartment, and Kirby were the times Sylar recalled seeing Peter 'die'. Never stopped the fool-hardy medic; it barely gave him pause. The man was about as resilient as he was; the creepy cockroach power matched by the seemingly nuclear one (no pun intended) of the do-right empath. And that's why he was the ideal nemesis, if he dared use the cliché Hiro-geek word. _How many times has Peter actually died_? He wondered at that.

XXX

Peter's eyes flew fully open at Sylar's question about death and he looked at the man very intently, alert for a moment. His lips moved, but he quelled it without speaking. That was quite a question and oddly deep for the small talk Peter had been aiming at. He didn't want to just lip off the first thing that came to mind, which was ' _Of course it does_.' He settled back and stared off into the middle distance, his brows pulling together a bit. Obviously, he was thinking it over.

XXX

Sylar glanced at Peter as they made eye contact, his expression about as bland as he could keep it, the alternative being a sick, nauseous look; he was careful not to tense a single muscle (anymore than they were already). It was almost a Nathan question. _/_ _/"Takin' care of dead people?" "They're not dead; they're dying; and I think its noble." His then-wife had piped up in Pete's defense, earning a pointed thanks towards her from his baby brother. "What's it pay?" He'd asked so long ago./_ Peter was obviously thinking about it and that meant he would be getting a genuine answer, not something quick and cheap.

XXX

Finally Peter said, "Death doesn't bother me. If it did, I wouldn't do the things I do or take the risks I take. What bothers me is pointlessness and misery, when people take the gifts they've been given – time, money, influence, power, or powers – and do bad things with them." He didn't want that to sound like an accusation of Sylar because it wasn't. Honestly, he laid more blame at Nathan's feet than anyone else's for misusing what he'd had in his life. The man had had everything and he'd thrown it away. If he hadn't had another hare-brained idea to confront Sylar directly and physically, then he'd probably still be alive. Peter sighed. Of course he was to blame too for going along with it.

And what he'd said sounded like an accusation anyway, he knew, so he softened his voice a little and decided to try begging. "Please don't argue with me. You asked a question; I answered. I wasn't meaning it about _you_ , particularly. As a philosophy, it's probably more full of holes than a colander but there isn't much I can do about that." He wasn't a great debater or arguer. He had too many memories of being argued down by his father – eventually Peter had learned to listen to him sullenly and say nothing, a characteristic look of long-suffering disgust on his face. His father would wind down, order Peter to do things his way, and stalk off. After a beat he added, "Claire told me once about dying: it's no big deal." He smiled, even though it hurt.

He reached over and picked up the cracker pack, opening it slowly, which made the crinkling of the cellophane seem louder than it was.

XXX

Peter spoke his piece and Sylar hummed at first before a muscle in his eye twitched and his stomach heaved a little inside as he beat down the desire to lunge at Peter just for saying that, not particularly out of anger either. The same could so easily be applied to precious fucking _Nathan_ , too! The former senator-navy-boy had squandered everything in his life, probably for the right, completely misguided reasons.

He just nodded as Peter clarified his belief, rather his view on death of all lovely topics. So long as it hadn't been aimed at him, he had no trouble letting the man do or believe his thing as he pleased. It wasn't something that they would be back at each other's throats for or anything. Sylar was immortal and he'd moved his kill spot so he had no worries about it, which probably removed him emotionally from it anyway. Not that he was close to people enough to notice their lives in misery.

He knew he'd once been miserable and hadn't had much of a life and that's what prompted his next words. "I actually agree with you," he stated simply. It was actually probably the reason his Hunger made him collect abilities from those who wasted them. Unfortunately it didn't evolve into the helpful role he might wish it to be.

Heroes were special right? He hadn't been born with a handy ability like empathy, not like Virginia would have bought that at all; ' _Empathy? Oh, you don't need anything like that. Stop being silly and focus on these job openings at the bank…_ ' He could hear her pitchy voice now. Empathy wasn't flashy, but it did help people. It would get him friends, right _?_ _Yeah_ , so _not what Mom wanted_. Important. Prestigious. Powerful (well, he had that). All that, provided he chained his ankle to Mom.

Even if he got empathy, it wouldn't do any good. He'd managed it a time or two (women he could get close enough to kiss seemed to be easiest, the only ones thus far) and it hadn't sated his Hunger because he didn't know how they worked. Peter had had it and he'd still tried to kill his mother. _Such a romantic, predictable cycle_. Really, if he killed a few dozen people for the greater good of a million or so, would he be forgiven or praised? That was such a slim chance; he supposed it was a good thing he didn't have to chance it.

"I suppose it depends what Claire believes, religiously. Cheerleader, probably hasn't been alive long enough to do anything amazingly sinful or wrong, so she might very well not have a-" Peter began to open the…fucking packet of crackers. The noise assaulted him first, scraping over his ears, tender from nausea, but what did him in was the smell.

He could smell the crackers and for some reason it turned his guts for the last time. Sylar yanked himself quickly to roll and lean over the couch cushion he lay on to heave breakfast into a trash can he saw (one that Peter must have placed there earlier), before his eyes shut and he vomited, thinking, _Oh, god; I hate this_.

XXX

Peter examined the cracker sandwich – a couple of toasted, round crackers with what was supposed to be peanut butter between them. It resembled peanut butter, at least. It was probably a close cousin. He popped one in his mouth and looked back over to see if Sylar was going to finish his sentence. _Claire_ _might not have a what?_ About then the other man rolled over and lost it into the trash can, causing Peter's own stomach to clench sympathetically. He took an immediate deep breath and shifted his ice pack off to the side, leaning forward and putting it on the arm of the recliner. He forced himself to swallow the cracker and waited a beat until Sylar began his second heave. Peter got to his feet.

He hobbled to the kitchen and dug out another towel, sticking it under the water dispenser in the fridge door because that was quick and didn't require two hands. A little water on the floor was not a problem (although a distant part of his brain began to calculate the slipping hazard he was creating here). He switched the now-wet towel to his right and grabbed the roll of paper towels hanging from under the upper cabinets. He yanked it down, not caring too much if he damaged the holder. No one lived here. The only person who mattered around here needed the towels right now. He walked back out.

He knelt slowly next to the trash can, a little awkwardly because the muscle in his thigh spasmed and complained about the flexion. He ignored it and waited to be noticed and acknowledged, not wanting to rush the other man. He'd noticed Sylar was messed up more than just a knot on his head and a collection of bruises, but Peter wasn't in much better shape. He'd thought – and still did – that the best treatment was rest and calming down. There wasn't much to be done, otherwise, and like the nausea all there was to do was let it pass, provide comfort and treat symptomatically. He held the hand towel in his left and waited for eye contact.

XXX

Once Sylar had finished upchucking, hating the feeling intensely as always, he spat into the trash can, noting Peter's sudden proximity. _Whoa_. In his hand, he held a wet towel and a roll of paper towels. He did his best to come up with some sort of threat the items could hold, but he failed to divine one. Instantly, he looked up into Peter's face as he spoke, blinking and clearing his head by turning it back and forth slightly as if he were trying to remain awake. He wasn't about to pass out, but he might fall asleep just from tiredness. The atmospheric shift involved with vomiting sending his headache into the hideous monster category.

XXX

Peter tried to ignore the smell of bile and the discontent roiling of his own stomach. Despite the odor, he took in quick breaths to hold his reaction at bay and distracted himself by running down a quick checklist of symptoms for minor traumatic brain injury. Sylar didn't seem confused or emotional. He wasn't perseverating and his conversation had been clear, not disoriented. Peter didn't think there anything all that severe or treatable going on here, but he wanted to get a good look at Sylar's eyes just in case. _What I wouldn't give for a pen light. I need to get together a medical bag. Yeah_ _,_ he said to himself in his head, _while that's not a bad idea, what I_ _ **need**_ _to do is quit beating the crap out of him. Of course it would help if he wasn't picking fights. If he wasn't who he was._ Sarcastically his mind enjoined, _Me and Sylar. Been here less than a week and we're already both beat bloody and messed up._

When the other man finally looked up at him, Peter offered the towel and said quietly, "Sylar, will you let me take a look at you? I want to check your eyes for uneven pupil dilation and check your scalp where I hit you." He spoke slowly, very aware that less than a half hour before he'd been the one hitting this man, inflicting the very injuries he was now asking to examine. He was sensitive to that, and aware that concussion victims were often irritable. These things combined (and of course that this was Sylar he was talking to), Peter wouldn't have been surprised if the man tried to hit him again. He was aware he was in range. He leaned back a little, raising the towel again. It put his left hand up where he could try to block with it if that happened. This time, he had no intention of striking back.

XXX

Sylar managed a light frown in the face of 'will you let me take a look at you?' Then it hit him why Peter would ask to examine him; the words otherwise failing a connection to his logic. "Oh…Amanda, huh? That's why." That was the only reason Peter would want to help, wasn't it? The man still hadn't come to terms with the fact that Sylar was the only other thing alive here. But he really didn't think that fact would stop the medic from drastic and potentially homicidal actions.

Then again….Peter had stopped earlier when he'd had Sylar dead to rights with the gun. Peter….Peter wouldn't be subtle if he did try anything, he knew; no poisons or cutting Sylar's wrists in his sleep. The non-murderer would probably prefer something at a distance; something cold and detached, not close-in and hands-on. Touching the person and watching the lights go out of the eyes and feeling the heartbeat falter, then slow and stop wasn't Petrelli's style. He couldn't handle something like that. Sylar gently and slowly took the towel and swiped it over his face, setting it aside again, nodding his thanks.

XXX

Peter watched the other man closely as he rose from the trash can. Sylar's answer to Peter's question made no sense at all. Internally, Peter revised, _Okay, not coherent_ _ **now**_ _._ That made him cautious, because a rational person was much more likely to signal an attack. One who was impaired was less predictable.

XXX

Sylar couldn't get his mind completely around the fact that Peter would set aside his justified revenge to save someone (and/or hundreds or thousands of innocents) using Sylar as his plot of choice. Empathy must play a part in resisting temptation like that. _Go figure. He's a fucking white knight in shining armor. Peter, your brain is definitely broken; you make no sense._

He moved to prop himself up on his elbow, his stomach still squirming around, but he had nothing left in it to cause problems. "If touching me is all you wanted, you didn't have to hit me," Sylar teased him, his expression showing gentle amusement in his sarcasm, looking away to show he wasn't serious. _Probably why he became a nurse in the first place_ , he mused absentmindedly.

He then faced Peter directly, keeping his eyes open sufficiently, "You won't find anything serious in there. It's only a mild one." The smell of Peter (and crackers) close up wasn't a pleasant thing, but it was another person in this Hell, so he was grateful to a degree. If only said smell didn't make him want to hurl again, he'd be that much happier. Then again, he knew he probably smelled now, too, and smelled worse. He sighed as Peter moved in to gently peel his eyelid back and lean in close, professional and removed as ever, to peer into his pupil, repeating the process with the other.

It wasn't as uncomfortable as it could have (perhaps should have) been. The last time someone had checked his eyes like that had been….in a Company cell and he'd been dead/dying.

XXX

Peter started to get his back up about the 'touching' comment. _That had_ _ **nothing**_ _to do with it! Wait, incoherent again_. He calmed and put on his best paramedic smile, put aside his bristling and exchanged it smoothly for amused agreement. "Well, then, just let me take a look." He shifted the trash can out from between them and examined Sylar's eyes - brown, clear, and healthy. _Nice eyes._ _If I had a light I might be able to tell if he had much brain swelling. There's got to be a flashlight around here somewhere._

XXX

Sylar managed to roll his eyes at Peter buying his punch line. ""M joking, man," he murmured, "I'm not a child," he couldn't resist a slight chuckle at the empath's gullibility. Once Peter removed his hands, he made to lie back down, but his companion reached for the back of his head and it took everything in him not to react badly to that one.

_/'C'mon, Nathan, I know you're in there…'/_

Sylar settled for looking along down his body, staring at his toes, leaving his head turned so Peter could see and touch his scalp. For some reason hair was horribly intimate and having the EMT touching it finally made him uncomfortable. Doctors, Matt, Peter, Mohinder, Angela, Chandra, even his mother had all left something to be desired when it came to that having his head touched; but he kept very quiet while Peter poked and prodded painfully at his skull and scalp. He noted the irony of the gesture. The head was a very special place because it housed the all-important brain. The whole sum of a person was in there. Someone once said _'_ _We are only what we remember.'_ And sometimes near- eidetic memory (and clairvoyant memory) just sucked.

He remembered having his life sucked away by the hands currently on his scalp and it had been a headache unrivaled by the current one.

XXX

Peter slid his hand into the man's hair, tightening his lips. His body tensed and he noticed that Sylar's did, too. Peter had done this to hundreds of patients. But doing it to _Sylar_ came with emotional baggage. It reminded him of crouching beside and over the man - also in the aftermath of a fight. One hand had cradled the back of his head, the other on his forehead, forcing what he was out of him no differently than his mother had had Matt Parkman do. He'd killed him more intimately than if he'd strangled him, what with the glimpses of Sylar's past and the fleeting impression of memories as Peter had drained them out of the other man. It was as premeditated as it could be. He'd called on Rene for both facets of his ability, always expecting that he'd have to use it that way, glad actually that Sylar hadn't taken his spurious 'offer.' Peter hadn't intended him to.

He remembered seeing Mohinder grab the sides of Sylar's head and bash it on the concrete floor at Pinehearst. Sylar had come back for his 'brother' then - an unexpected moment of loyalty when Peter's own father had turned against him. If Sylar had truly been on Arthur's side, he never would have come back for Peter. It was odd - where Sylar had placed himself in that struggle. He'd been told he was family and believed it. He seemed taken by Angela, but it was Peter he'd reached out to several times in different ways. He'd never so much as spoken to Nathan and he'd turned on his 'father', Arthur, more than once. _What to make of that? The only person he treated like family was me. And I didn't even believe he was._

XXX

Hissing sharply through gritted teeth, he kept his eyes closed and his noises to a minimum as Peter massaged the large, delicate bruise on his skull, feeling the rise of flesh from the bones. _Fuck, that hurt, forgot how much that hurts_. _Hands in the hair feels nice…any contact kind of does, actually. It's like remembering I'm 'human' for the billionth time now. Have to ignore it._ That kind of thinking brought danger in its wake. (He refused to allow the heady feeling from the unadulterated contact that had nothing to do with the injury. His heart beat faster because of it all).

Once the medic was apparently satisfied enough, he pulled his hands away. He'd noticed Peter's defensive arm in place earlier, but he hadn't acknowledged it. "We should just limp home, man. Get some rest for a bit," he suggested. It was an easy way for both of them to tend their hurts and feel safe in their own apartments. And if he didn't get moving he would most likely fall dead asleep there on the couch.

XXX

Peter felt of the knot that had already formed under Sylar's scalp. Peter ran his fingers through the hair around it and confirmed there was no bleeding. The subdermal hematoma wasn't bad. Peter pulled his hands away and Sylar settled back, arranging himself for rest even as he insisted they should go back to their respective apartments. Peter picked up the ice pack and continued to speak in his paramedic voice - even, calm and friendly with a steady smile. "Yeah? How about we just stay here for now. It's morning. There's no hurry. Here's just as good as any other place. Now raise up a little and let's put this ice pack on the side of your head there. It'll hold the swelling down."

Surely Sylar knew that, but why he'd spurned it earlier was uncertain. If he was having cognitive problems though, then it didn't have to make sense.

XXX

Opening his eyes at the sound of the ice pack being handled, not looking at it but at Peter as he raised his head to allow the medic to place it against his concussed cranium. "Hmm…'K." _Oh, that's it, force the ice pack on me, why don't you?_ He had to hold back another fit of chuckling as his over-active imagination went wild with images on the subject. Peter told him to keep still, so he answered with "No problem," and finally diverted his gaze away.

Honestly, the doctor smile had always creeped him out because it always spelled bad news. You're dying, you have cancer, your left foot has to be amputated, this will only sting for- And on Peter (not a doctor), the medicinal man who'd just tossed back way too-many-to-be-healthy pills for his own broken bones; oh, yes, Sylar had heard that; it had almost double that effect. The patronizing (doctor?) voice was not getting the man any points as he'd noted earlier.

In a way it was amusing for him (and Nathan's fucking memories) to see just what Peter did at the job he never left. The guy had to be in serious pain; Sylar had had his shoulder torn out without having his heal-anything powers and he remembered how agonizing it was. The fact that Peter could do what he did with a broken hand was that much more impressive to him. _High pain tolerance, the little bastard_ , he thought with something akin to affection before he snapped himself to rights; _Knock that off_.

XXX

Peter's voice slipped back to normal as he got to his feet. "Standard treatment for concussions, assuming you're not showing any danger signs," _which you are, but there's nothing I can do about it and they're not bad ones…we'll see if you keep vomiting or that was a one-time thing_ _,_ "is to lie down for thirty minutes in a darkened room and do nothing at all. If you feel like you want to sleep, then sleep. They've proven that stuff about keeping people awake has no basis in medical fact. I'm going to turn out the main light in here."

XXX

Sylar had no answer to the comments about staying put, so he didn't bother to make any, settling in to the icy packet on his head, controlling the groan he wished to make. Just as he was wanting to close his eyes but forcing them to stay open by setting the glass on the coffee table after drinking the rest, Peter addressed the science of the fact and he made a noise to show his attention to that fact, "Huh. That's interesting," he said, his tone read of genuine intrigue. The ability node in his brain perked up at learning something; _What was that about not doing anything, Peter? Then you shouldn't teach me things, I'll only hound you into the ground for more._

XXX

Peter went to turn on the hall light. The kitchen was already lit. By turning off the light in the living room, the area remained lit enough to see, but much dimmer. "That should help with the nausea, too." In case Sylar wanted someone to take the blame for the enforced rest period, Peter added quite truthfully, "My feet hurt. My back hurts. My leg hurts. I don't see any reason why we should go anywhere. But if you want me to leave and that's the only way you'll rest, then tell me and I'll get out of here." _In which case, I'm sure you're not going to rest, but there's no way for me to_ _ **make**_ _you do it anyway._

 _There's not a whole lot I can do if he has swelling or bleeding in the brain. I can't do surgery. Wait…none of this is real. He can't be hurt too bad. It's imaginary._ He arranged the ice pack a little better over his hand and wrist. _That sure feels real. I didn't wake up this morning without blisters. So…if he thinks he has a concussion, then I guess he has a concussion. Here's to hoping he doesn't think he has intracranial hemorrhaging._

XXX

Peter got up, but Sylar continued to look around even after the lights cut out. _It's_ _a regular game of Heads-Up-Seven-Up or Who's In My- Uh, no. Not going there. In the "dark" with….Peter Petrelli; he's injured, he's slow and I know, at least, I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to start anything. He's had his chances so….relax. Why would Peter think I want him gone? Just don't know how far I can trust you, man_ _._ Somehow he wanted to voice that last thought, but knew it was already in contention. "No, no. You're fine," he spoke up, probably a little too quickly, waving towards Peter's designated chair.

 _So….it's just…nap time, then_. _This is so weird…._

"Um….Peter?" he asked hesitantly once the man sat himself down with his crackers once more. On thinking about his question, he dismissed it. He didn't think he wanted to know the answer or Peter would lie or something. "Never mind." After a pause he spoke again, eyeing the popcorned ceiling lazily, surprisingly comfortable for being in pain, "Just let me know when your hand needs to be taped up," Sylar reiterated his offer as the human male's version of a thank you.

He barely noticed his eyes slipping shut.


	9. Peter's Ponderings Part 1

Peter settled into the chair, listening as Sylar's breathing deepened and he drifted off to sleep. That was surprising. He half hadn't expected the other man to rest at all with him near. He certainly hadn't expected him to sleep. _Of course, it might just be the concussion making him woozy and fouling his judgment. Wasn't like he was making a lot of sense a few times there._

 _Amanda._ His brows pulled together. He remembered an Amanda. She'd been able to conjure fire. She'd burned down her own house, overwhelmed by her ability. Then later she accidentally set fires in the hospital. They were minor, but a symptom of her lack of control. He'd pushed her to seek out her family and find a support system. _Did Sylar's comment mean he's met her too? I wonder if she's still alive? Surely he doesn't … didn't kill everyone he ran into._

Sylar breathed more heavily. _A support system_. He remembered watching this man sleep before. _He came to me for help. Twice. He showed me his ability - telekinesis - and it never even occurred to me that he wasn't Nathan_. He gave a bitter, haunted smile, full of regrets. He'd felt jealous. He'd been sure 'Nathan' was lying about not knowing how he got the power and even if he wasn't, Peter didn't care. Nathan had proven he wouldn't use his gifts for anyone's good but himself. He was twisted inside. The more Peter thought about it, the more he understood how a future version of himself could come back and shoot his brother. _I already tried to shoot Dad in_ _ **this**_ _timeline. My whole family is fucked up. Me among them._

He chewed on another cracker, thinking about how uneasily this man had slept in Peter's apartment, on his bed, curled around a mostly empty bottle of the hardest liquor he could find. Peter had stayed up all night, thinking, watching him, struggling to come to terms with what might have happened. He hadn't been positive Nathan was dead. Yes, he'd seen his body, but he'd also seen Sylar's. And Peter had had his own experience with being 'stashed' in a body that wasn't his own. With abilities, there were too many possibilities.

All he could go on was what was in front of him and that had been a man who had looked like Nathan, but said he wasn't. He didn't act quite like Nathan either. _If I hadn't been so buried in my own life maybe I would have seen it earlier. What would it have been like if Sylar had been a brother for real? If he'd had a support system to go to like I did, like I told Amanda to go to? Surely he had_ _ **someone?**_

 _He came to_ _ **me**_ _for help. Was that because he was Nathan and I was his brother and that was what Nathan would have done? Or was it because he was Sylar and Sylar thought I … he thought I would help him? Or that maybe he could trust me?_ Peter's mind went back to Pinehearst and his earlier thoughts about how he was the only member of his family that Sylar seemed to have an interest in (that is, a non-homicidal interest), which struck Peter as odd given how homicidal their many interactions had been. _He came to_ _ **me**_ _for help._

It was definitely something to think about.


	10. Truce

Day 5

Sylar woke from his rather comfortable position on some strange couch, _sure as hell's not my bed_ , to a _noise_. He just caught himself from flopping like a fish from shock. _Who's here? What's_ _…._ As soon as he'd been about to mentally voice the question, his muscles began to strain and shriek at him and he groaned, rolling slowly to his side. _Ugh…fuck. Fighting with_ Peter. For a brief second he wondered why exactly he'd started so from his loosely-termed 'nap' and concluded that he hadn't heard noise while asleep for three years and a week, give or take.

Sitting up slowly, he looked around the dim room, almost expecting to see Peter in a SWAT uniform. The gun was no longer a concern and that surprised him greatly; both in Peter's nobility and his own lack of unease regarding it. The door to the hall was shut. It was possible that's where Peter had gone, but that action's logic left him confused, not for the first time.

 _Help me, let me sleep and…_ Sylar touched his aching face, wary of Sharpie marker there, _didn't do anything to me as near as I can tell, then leaves without a word?_ He frowned, pushing himself up to stand, taking his time due to his head injury, waiting for the wobble in his balance that didn't come. His scalp was still pleasantly chilled from the ice and for now, before his blood began to pump through his body at a different atmosphere, it would stay so.

 _Strange, strange man, Peter Petrelli_ , he shook his head lightly and began to wander to the kitchen. _I mean, where the hell would he be going? His timing is…Doesn't matter where he goes, I know this place and he doesn't. I can find him again_ _._

His thoughts were halted in place by the sound of the toilet flushing, followed seconds later by the sink cutting on. Sylar spun around and forced his tensed muscles to relax along with his nerves and instincts. _Not only are you not used to hearing that noise unless you yourself made it, you're not used to noise from other people period. Wonderful combination. Guy had to pee; he's been drinking all morning._

Briefly his mind tracked back to the last place he'd been that had people in that kind of situation; the Carnival and before that, Parkman's house, sort of. _You know, it's really a shame everyone's dead and gone. My 'karma' is so damn unbalanced now because of those pricks. Someone somewhere owed me a shot at revenge and Peter Petrelli wasn't what I had in mind._

He didn't want to consider why Peter wasn't…exactly on his hit list, so he didn't. Instead he shoved it away and banned the thought somewhere far, far away. _Two out of four Petrellis, check, check; Bennet, Parkman….possibly Mohinder. That weird Japanese kid for his ability….Samuel….Edgar….Eli….Might get Samson for good….Ugh, but all this is useless. It's increasingly sad that those are the only people you know._ _Okay, okay, all I ever really wanted was a decent shot to pound his face in a few times. Guess dreams do come true._

Sylar rolled his eyes, reaching out and flicking up the light to the living room since there was no need for continued darkness and he thought it might look fishy to Peter. He leaned against the wall to the kitchen, rubbing at the clenched shoulder that he'd succeeded in jarring several times now, stretching his neck and waited for Peter to emerge. _Suppose I should ask if he's okay…_

XXX

Peter came out of the bathroom, flipping off the light as he did. He was holding his right hand tucked up against his body. The wrist had swollen a lot - as had the hand, but not as badly. So also had the right side of Peter's face, now puffy and thoroughly reddened. He was sporting the beginnings of a black eye where the skin under his right eye had darkened - no telling how much that would spread.

For a paramedic, who knew better (and he did), he took crap care of himself and he always had. He _should_ have iced his face. He _should_ have compression-wrapped his wrist. But he hadn't. _He_ had never been anyone's first priority, not even his own. It wasn't that he put Sylar ahead of himself, but he hadn't felt he could leave until he was sure the other man could get up and get around. That, and it hurt to move, so he simply hadn't.

Speaking of Sylar though, he was up. Peter looked at him intently in the now-lit room, giving him as thorough a once over as he had before the fight, but this time with a completely different expression. This was detached and incisive, without the liberal hint of attraction. Peter examined the man's posture, how he'd chosen to lean against the wall, the steadiness of his gaze and the small movements he made in the normal process of standing there. Peter nodded once. "You feeling okay? Any dizziness?"

XXX

True enough, Peter emerged from the bathroom as he'd expected, looking worse for wear. Subconsciously he was aware of being a little smug about that factlet; that he'd trumped Peter in (probably for once) a fair fight. "Yeah, everything's-" He caught the tail end of a similar appraising look over the considerable breadth of his body and he quickly glared at Peter, who didn't catch it.

 _Are you just that damn dense or wha_ _-_ he was halted before his anger could rise to its usually violent head when he saw that it was a 'nurse' look. Peter the medico, not Peter the Petrelli. "-Fine," he concluded calmly, his own glance going only as far as the man's hand and his face, bruises turning a funny shade of red on the man's skin.

In reality, his body was screaming sore. His knuckles were uncomfortable, his back felt crimped and his own face throbbing, but his head was worse; painful and distracting, but nothing crippling in any way (so he hoped). Most importantly his motor, linguistic and mental functions were working properly, near as he could tell.

 _Wouldn't that just be funny if Peter helps you this far then kicks back with popcorn to watch you thrash around on the floor in a seizure, drooling and babbling from a concussion?_ He snorted, amused at himself and partly at the image, shaking his head and beginning to stretch out his neck from side to side. _Already did that at Mercy. Been there, done that._

XXX

Sylar had his own semi-untreated injuries marking him. They were just things they were going to have to deal with. Peter was ready to go 'home', lie down somewhere that he felt safe, and figure out how to better tend his hurts once he was alone. He felt lousy. Sitting in the chair had been comfortable enough. He'd risen only when his needs had demanded it. A number of muscles had tightened up. He intended to make a lot of use of that tube of ben-gay he had at his apartment, as well as the antibiotic ointment - though the only spot he had that seemed to need the latter was the cut on his cheek. He didn't have any compression bandages or splints and it was just wasn't worth it to go the few blocks down to the store to get them.

On the other hand, he'd spent some of his time in the chair mentally cataloguing the supplies he needed to get on hand for future use. When he was able - he'd get on that.

XXX

"How's the hand?" Sylar asked in return, purposefully not pressing the issue of taping it, even though he was pretty sure you were supposed to as soon as the swelling went down. Peter was politely skittish about his help; not that he would or could expect less any time soon. The offer stood and he wanted to subtly remind Peter of it. The man's broken watch still annoyed him with its proximity, its silence irritating his mushed brain.

XXX

"The hand sucks," Peter announced bluntly. He wiggled his thumb and index finger, touching them together a few times to illustrate his next statement, "I can still do a little fine manipulation, but there's no grip strength." _Not without it hurting a lot. I can still pull a trigger, but I probably couldn't aim to be worth it. Not that that's an issue._

XXX

Sylar's eyebrow quirked briefly at the gesturing digits, wondering briefly at what Peter meant by 'fine manipulation' and 'grip strength' exactly. His mind going unpleasant and dirty places at once before he could focus himself. He was safe from the gun and already that sort of 'fear' hanging over him was beginning to pass. "No heavy lifting for you, man," he said in a way he hoped came across as good natured.

Suddenly briefly tempted to ask what Peter's worst injury barring death was, but that was personal and was bound to stir up bad memories for the sensitive man, so he put the question aside. Instead he asked, "What's your plan of action?" _Did that sound as bad as I think it does? Well….guess you hope he knows you're innocent and helpful and just shooting in the dark worse than he is about how to handle this… situation._

XXX

"My plan?" Peter raised his brows, one a little more than the other. There was a tiny shift to his eyes that spoke of aggression, as they swept across Sylar's face and read his features. Peter squared up his shoulders and drew his head back a little. There was the faintest lilt to his voice that anyone who grew up in the Petrelli household would have recognized as an attempt at verbal fencing. "I was thinking we'd do what you suggested - take the rest of the day off, limp home, elevate everything…"

Peter caught himself, recognizing what he was doing and discarding the action before he even finished his first sentence. He shrugged casually like that had been where he'd intended to stop talking, then turned away and headed into the kitchen. As he walked past Sylar, he ducked his head a little and reached up to scratch at his temple on the side closer to the other man. It was a defensive motion, warding him off, putting his hand between his face and the other man, though Peter didn't think of it that way. He just thought his temple needed to be scratched at that particular moment.

XXX

At his question, Peter homed in on him, quickly, too. Sylar's head turned fractionally under that intense wave of hazel. _Some latent hostility in there, methinks_ _._ He narrowed his eyes but shrunk back slightly all the same. In doing so he hoped to avoid another round and not get pushed around, but if Peter pressed it, Sylar would kick his ass again.

Peter increased the tension causing Sylar to hunch his shoulders and shove raw knuckles past the denim of his jeans pockets, unsure how to handle that or what to say. _What the hell?_ He noticed his own words being thrown back at him, but he was totally floundered as to the why. _It was an innocent question! Or are those labeled as no-no's now?_ Would his further presence be viewed as a threat? An insult?

Peter all but slid by him, hiding his face, totally changing his tune with a shrug to leave Sylar blinking at his back. _I thought I was the one who's supposed to be 'touched' sans concussion. He is a Petrelli._ He stood still as the man passed, but turned to watch him move about the kitchen, playing with the pills as he went. _Didn't anyone ever tell you you're going to Hell for that, Peter?_ He internally mocked sarcastically, mostly at himself, but sighed physically.

XXX

Peter walked over to the counter next to the refrigerator, picking up the bottle of painkillers he'd left there. He read the dosage on it, ostensibly to remind himself of how much he'd taken, but mostly as a nervous fidget. He set the bottle back down and turned partway to address Sylar. "You should get a compression bandage around your wrist, maybe even a splint." _I didn't look at it. Wonder if I should? I'm not a physical therapist. I'm not sure what I could do other than say, 'Wow, that looks sprained.' I'd be pretty surprised if it was broken._

XXX

His companion spoke up about his wrist, leaving Sylar hopeless in the 'conversation' such as it was. Positive, negative, positive again. Not that he wasn't used to the behavior, he just….didn't react well to it. In the past the flip-flopper usually wound up dead by his hand, intentional or not. "I….yeah, I probably should. I have some back at my place." But he wasn't about to leave Peter alone because…well, he wanted to stick around. If that was 'allowed' that is.

XXX

Peter's leg hurt. He debated whether he should walk down the couple blocks and back to the store to get compression bandages - not for Sylar, but for himself. Sylar might have some in his apartment, but that was his business. Peter walked the one step across the kitchen to the counter on the other side, where he'd put the brown paper grocery bag that contained his findings, and the bear. He nudged the bag, like he was considering picking it up, maybe leaving, but the motion was abortive. All he did was push it around a little - again, an unconsciously nervous gesture.

Peter turned to face Sylar again and gave the other man a curious, intent look as his mind began to face the reason for his nerves and his previous, almost reflexive, verbal jujitsu. "Do you have any first aid training? Or…medical training, of any kind?" _Other than the obvious brain-removal type. It'd be sort of weird to find out he's a neurosurgeon. Or used to be, I guess. All the medical students said it took a special kind of person to be willing to cut into a live human being in cold blood. They usually didn't mean 'special' in a good way._

He leaned one hip on the counter in a false posture of relaxation. He pondered the memory (dream? thought-leak?) of Sylar as Gabriel, a watchmaker. _That rules out neurosurgeon, but not first aid. It would kind of help if I knew what he was capable of tending on his own. He made it as Sylar for a couple years without regen, so he's got to be pretty good at taking care of himself. No scars, he's symmetrical and balanced, good movement … just from that fall off the Odessa Stadium alone he should have been messed up for life. Huh. That argues actually that he had something better than first aid. It shouldn't have helped him_ _ **that**_ _much that he landed on me._

XXX

Idly Sylar saw Peter poke around the kitchen, his actions reading of discomfort and….something else he couldn't place. He looked almost embarrassed, why he didn't know; unless it was the medic's turn to overreact to something harmless, which it appeared to be. "I, um….took a first aid class in high school, but that was a long time ago. I've done lots of reading since then. I consider myself to be competent," he stated simply, without much pride, managing to hold back his wince at how that sounded. He'd had enough experience patching himself over, countless experiences actually. Sylar couldn't compare to Peter's training and his innumerable experiences and attempts at healing _others_.

XXX

To Sylar's comments about his first aid class, Peter nodded slightly. He looked to the side and considered that, face neutral. Sylar would make a passable aide – he could hold things and probably follow directions. The 'probably' part was what worried Peter and it had nothing to do with the man's competence. _Would_ he? Sylar had never agreed to help, to save Emma, to save anyone. In fact, he'd denied it and said that wasn't the kind of person he was. What he'd agreed to was letting Peter try to get them _out_ and Peter was very aware of that.

The other man had made a number of somewhat helpful gestures – he'd offered lunch, he'd offered a tour, he was here with Peter exploring although clearly it wasn't his cup of tea, and he'd offered to help tape Peter's hand. All but the last were basically self-serving gestures. He was bored and lonely and drawn to Peter as Peter had already found himself drawn to Sylar. When there was nothing moving in a landscape, the sole motion did tend to draw the eye. Maybe in a few days or weeks or months Sylar would get bored with observing Peter and go away. Somehow that prospect was more unsettling to Peter than the idea of frequent surveillance by the man.

There was also the issue of whether _Peter_ would let Sylar help him. He'd refused lunch, and the tour, and he'd made it amply clear he wasn't wild about Sylar being here with him. He was evading now on the matter at hand. _If I want his help with Emma, then pretty soon I've got to find out if he'll help at all, for anything, or if all he's going to do is make snide comments, goad me and molest stuffed animals_. He sighed a little. It was one thing to ask for help on something predestined, where Peter knew for sure the other man _would_ help and so in a way he wasn't even asking, he was just informing Sylar of what the future would be. It was another thing to ask on something like this, where as far as Peter knew nobody's life hung in the balance and it seemed pretty likely that admitting some form of weakness would just buy him trouble.

XXX

"Of course I'm more of a self-taught brain doctor with a ninety-nine percent casualty rate," Sylar said, voicing what Peter was doubtlessly thinking. He paused, inhaling and crossing his hands over his chest now defensively in preparation, "Until now, that is." It was obvious Peter wasn't going home any time soon. Sylar stared out the kitchen window before making a decision and padding off into a bedroom, returning moments later with strips of a bed sheet, entering the kitchen slow and cautious. He held out four larger strips towards Peter, waving them a little when the other man made no move for them. "For your wrist. You can wrap it around ice, too."

Retreating back outside the kitchen, he slowly leaned back to crack his spine and rub at a deep-fleshed bruise there.

XXX

While Peter was pondering, Sylar said his next piece about being a 'brain doctor,' earning him a hard look and narrowed eyes. Peter glanced over Sylar's crossed arms and then looked away. It wasn't like there was any point in denying the past, but Peter wondered what the other man meant by 'until now.' A long, tense moment passed in silence until Sylar broke it by walking away, further into the apartment. Peter sighed again, more deeply, and turned to lean back against the counter, facing towards the fridge. _'Until now' that he's changed his mind about killing people? He said he'd wanted his life to change – that's what he'd gone to Parkman about, apparently_ _._ Peter smirked. _Well, I suppose he's succeeded. Being walled up in someone's basement is certainly a change._

 _Or is it just 'until now' that he doesn't have his powers and wouldn't get anything by carving my head open?_ He turned around and fiddled with the sack again, considering whether he should slip away without saying anything, or… _what's that noise?_ The distinct sound of cloth tearing drifted out from the back room. Peter's brows drew together as he stood and listened. It was regular, not hurried and accompanied by no other sound, so it wasn't like Sylar was having a destructive fit – as out of place as that would be at the moment. Peter replayed their last moments in the kitchen, mystified as to why Sylar would be off tearing something up.

When Sylar entered the kitchen with the strips of bed sheet, his slow and cautious approach was a good idea as it gave Peter a moment to stare between him and the fabric, uncertain of what he was being offered, or why. Sylar clarified. Peter took the cloth and blinked at Sylar's retreating back. He tried to think of how this was self-serving. Nothing came to mind. He smiled a little and looked at the sheet, wrapping it loosely around his right hand, tilting his head and gauging if that would work. Something stretchy or with adhesive would be better, but this would do for now, he supposed. It meant he didn't have to walk down to the store.

He put the strips on top of the bear in the sack and gathered it up with his left arm. He walked out to see Sylar stretching. Peter glanced away politely until the other man was done. "I'm going to go over to…my place," _Yeah, I guess it is_ , "and stay there for the rest of the day." _Head aches, face aches, various other things…it'll be better tomorrow. I'll go get some proper compression bandages then and a splint._ He pondered what else to say. _See you tomorrow? Same bat-time, same bat-channel?_ Peter rolled his shoulders a little, creating a little too long of a conversational pause as he couldn't find the words to say what he wanted to express. Finally he said, "Thank you," with a slight jerk of his chin towards the cloth visible at the top of the bag. "I'll use them." He turned to go.

XXX

Who knew what went on in Peter's mind, the brain that coagulated the thoughts….ticked funny, it wasn't right. Not just the ability part, either, the Petrelli part of his brain was…unfitted. Like his wrist watch. Sylar realized as he walked away that he'd totally exposed himself to death again; Peter in the kitchen with knives and cleavers as he'd turned his back on it. He stood with his profile to the kitchen, should Peter emerge as he must eventually, his eyes closed as he tried to elongate and work the muscles in his back.

Peter's boot made a slight scuff and he snapped straight again, eyes wide to see Peter looking pointedly away until he regained some composure after his stretch. Sylar tugged down on his pea coat, making sure to cover his midriff, etc. _Oh, that was….more awkward than the bear. Huh._ Glancing around to relieve his own awkwardness at the situation, he made to move with his left hand and wound up making a face. _Fuck, not my hand…._ _Peter may be a medic, but he has no one to care for; he doesn't need his hands. I have my clocks…._

Sylar turned to blink at him, slightly surprised that Peter would concede what must be seen as 'defeat' so easily. He'd been expecting Peter to break out the taser and demand Sylar walk ahead of him for the rest of the exploration. Then again, Peter was probably in more pain, a busted up hand would do that. A kind of…guilty satisfaction surged through him quickly before it died. _Goddamnit, why'd it stop?_ His surprise (at both his feeling and Peter's words) probably registered on his face.

After a beat, he nodded. He took up a strip of the sheet, pushing up the sleeve of his coat to get at his left wrist under all the fabric. Instantly he realized he couldn't do it standing and, his eyes still focused on his arm, he did the mindless, intent-on-something-else walk towards the couch. Intending to sit and wrap up his arm, he was interrupted and floored beyond his bruised brain's capacity to accept by Peter's gratitude.

Wide brown eyes gazed at him before he ducked his head, nodding to hide his growing grin. "'S no problem, Peter," he said quietly. _Maybe there is hope…Of course it only came after a fight, but….Maybe that wasn't such a stupid idea….not that I'm gonna do it again. At least I hope not._ Sylar opened his mouth and looked towards Peter again, but caught his back, considering for a moment before he closed his lips. _'I only started it so I could know you weren't homicidal still.'_

Biting his lip for a second, he thought of another thing that was within his power to do that Peter seemed to like and appreciate. He darted into the kitchen again and snatched up the painkillers Peter had neglected on purpose or with intent, it didn't matter. Sylar then padded behind him, sure to make some noise to indicate his presence. Peter opened the door and proceeded down the hall with Sylar in tow, quiet, musing. _Really makes you wonder how much he likes this girl if he's willing to let you live._

XXX

 _That grin_ _._ It made Peter feel warm inside to have said something to put that expression on another's face. Sylar's smile was open and happy, with a sort of embarrassed delight, like no one had ever told him thanks in his life, or at least that he'd never expected to hear it. Peter turned and headed out, concealing his own expression of a gentle smile complete with crinkled corners of his eyes. Yeah, maybe Sylar didn't expect to hear even a simple thanks coming from Peter, about as much as Peter didn't expect Sylar to do anything worthy of the words.

He heard Sylar scurry hastily in the apartment behind him and he wondered what he was rushing to get. The only item of note Peter had seen in there was the baseball bat and going for that now was so incongruous as to garner a snort from the empath. He hobbled slowly down the hall, in no great hurry. He heard Sylar come up behind him shortly and Peter glanced back. It wasn't so much wary this time, just looking, still checking, but Sylar had moved up to a comfortable distance, not crowding him, and then matched Peter's slow pace.

XXX

Sylar took up his…position, he supposed it was by now, next to Peter, this time unworried about being struck (and not just because of the broken hand). He managed to pocket the container of painkillers, not for himself, but for Peter. Peter took the hall slowly and he found himself grateful for the pace; every move, hell, being upright made his head throb with red pain, so the slower he moved, the less his heart had to work.

Sylar noticed the glances back at him, but pretended he didn't see them. It took a few moments for him to catch up to what he was so contagiously grinning about. _Peter said 'Thank you'. What made him say that? He didn't have to, I barely did anything._ A brief spiral of unease, he'd dub the emotional reaction, went through him. _Or what if he's manipulating me? No, he's not that quick, I haven't been that obv- Okay, I guess I have been in the past, but…What does it gain him? A personalized revenge slave?_

XXX

Peter continued on to the elevator, seeing no reason to take the stairs in his state. He reached out immediately and without thinking, pressing the button with his right thumb. He grunted in pain, but the button lit up. _Ow_ _._ He frowned at his hand. It had hurt. The slight pressure of pushing the button had resulted in a compression across the complicated structure of his hand, hurting where the bone was broken and where his wrist was twisted. _I really need to immobilize this. I can't keep looking around here, going through apartments, with my hand like this. I'll mess it up doing casual things like pushing buttons._

XXX

Peter approached the elevator doors, pushing on the button with what Sylar saw as a bare application of the force he knew those hands possessed. But that small motion triggered a noise of pain from him and that got Sylar's attention. Peter took it like a champ, stepping into the elevator car quite fearlessly, even though Sylar knew from long readings about arthritis and hand cramps from being a watchmaker full time that the motion hurt his broken finger like hell.

XXX

The doors opened and Peter walked inside with a glance at his companion. They were going to be trapped together in a small room, an awareness that wandered through Peter's mind without settling or setting off any action as a result of the thought. Peter moved politely to one side and Sylar did the same opposite him. Both were silent. Neither looked at the other. As the doors shut, Peter cleared his throat and said very quietly, "Can you push the button for the ground floor for me?" He had the paper bag held in his left arm and he'd already discovered that using his right for this wasn't a good idea. He could have put the bag down and used his left but… _Would_ Sylar help him?

Peter wasn't real sure what he was doing - being manipulative? Looking for opportunities to give positive strokes? Trying to be friendly? Sylar's earlier grin had surprised the empath. It wasn't superior or snide or sarcastic. It wasn't bitter or sneering or smug. It was a simple joy at being appreciated and Peter wanted to see if that was still there, or if it had been some kind of a fluke. Because yeah, Peter needed the help – with his hand, with Emma, with being stuck here for what looked to be years. As much as Sylar would never make Peter's 'interesting people to be trapped with on a desert island' list, Sylar was here, things were as they were, and Peter knew that sooner or later he was going to have to accept his companion's presence and quit acting like Sylar's mere existence was offensive. Even if it was. _Yeah, I'm going to have to give that up eventually._

XXX

Sylar slowly stepped in beside him, keeping the usual distance between 'strangers' at this point. Since Peter was the first one in, Sylar assumed he would be the one to press the correct button. Sylar stood for a beat until he recognized that the 'normal' proceedings weren't going as was socially planned.

Peter spoke up quietly and he turned his head to look at him out of the corner of his eye. Sylar found himself responding instantly to Peter's question, taking a step and a half to lean forward and past the medic to push the button to get the car started.

"Sure thing, man," His reply was unnecessary and unnecessarily long at that, but it just slipped out. _Excuse me?_ He asked of himself. _Are we really his freaking pet now? Jump when he says? You practically signed yourself off on a silver platter with 'sure thing, man' as if it's a contract for 'anytime you need any heavy lifting' or 'a cup of su-'_ Sylar bit briefly into his lower lip, but stopped before Peter could notice as he thought on how he could have blundered.

Hadn't Angela said something similar? _/"You had a skill that I needed."/_ Why had he never been afraid of manipulation from Peter? Aside from the odd fist fight that may or may not have led to some outright torture with a nail gun… _Maybe that's why: the only thing he's got in his arsenal is busted empathy, big puppy dog eyes and a real insight on how to convince people._

XXX

 _He did it._ Sylar responded, pressed the button, and did what Peter asked. It was kind of amazing, really, even though it was such a minor thing. "Thanks," Peter murmured, briefly, and casually. He kept his eyes to himself and acted disinterested, which was far from the truth. He hadn't earned another grin and that was disappointing, but at least he'd gotten cooperation. Had Sylar declined, or smirked, or otherwise gone back to being an ass, Peter would have just put down the bag and pushed the button himself, or gotten off the elevator and taken the stairs. It wasn't like he didn't have options, which was a big part of why Peter was willing to ask - he was risking little here.

Sylar wasn't the only one 'testing' his companion.

XXX

The car lowered down to the first floor and the doors parted. Somehow Sylar felt the need that Peter, the more injured and smaller of the two should exit first, so he waited to allow that. Peter's hip clearly bothered him and Sylar's back ached and twinged at every step; what a pair they made.

XXX

The doors opened and Peter hesitated for a moment, noting Sylar's indirect indication that Peter should precede him. The paramedic remained very aware that Sylar was at his back, but he walked out first anyway. He walked towards the double doors, going slowly as he had before. The muscle of his right thigh kept trying to cramp. He was pretty sure it was the sartorius muscle. It affected how he moved his knee and his ability to keep a straight line without adjustment. It would affect him even more if he tried to do something that involved rotating the leg. The spot where Sylar had kicked him had swollen into something of a knot. It would stay that way for a day or two and really, he should stay off his feet during that time. He intended to try.

XXX

The men headed for the door and Sylar lengthened his stride to hit it before Peter, casually pushing it open, holding it a bare second or so too long so Peter could get out without hurrying/hurting himself or using his hand. He stayed in front of Peter a moment to keep up the act, but he soon fell beside him once more.

XXX

In the lobby now, it seemed Sylar had less patience to follow his slow pace. Perhaps, Peter thought, he'd misjudged the cooperation in the elevator and instead of being helpful, Sylar had just been speeding their journey. Maybe he was in more of a hurry to get back to his own 'territory' and alone than Peter was. Then the other man surprising him by holding the door open for him, hanging onto it with his fingertips after he'd had gone through, leaving it open enough so Peter didn't have to shoulder his way through it. Peter's eyes widened for a fraction of a second at that before he dampened his response to something more normal. He availed himself of the courtesy.

Repeating his thanks seemed awkward, and perhaps overusing the grateful phrasing (twice was enough, especially as he hadn't managed to work himself up to saying much else), so Peter gave an appreciative nod and looked Sylar in the face for a moment, giving him a quick half-smile of acknowledgment. Sylar fell into step next to him once they were outside. He no longer trailed behind, Peter noticed with a sidelong glance. Of course in the hallway of the apartment building, Sylar hadn't had a lot of room to walk next to him, but the day before, when they'd gone to the store, and before that, as Peter had sought to escape him - Sylar had always followed.

XXX

Sylar glanced around, secretly observing if Peter cleared the door, which he had. He turned back as they drew level and caught the man's nod, his face loosening at the smile, such as it was, but it was more than enough. His own lips quirked up as he turned away and looked down, amused and proud to have garnered the expression from this increasingly stoic man. _No idea why he's smiling, but I'll take it._

XXX

Peter hesitated at the edge of the sidewalk, whereas Sylar did not, taking a step or two into the street before noticing his companion had stopped. When Sylar glanced back at him, Peter said, "It's kind of creepy out here - all open…and empty. It didn't feel that empty, really, in the apartments." He started moving again, walking across the street.

XXX

Sylar started out walking, slowly down over the curb due to his back and the altitude changes to his skull. He began to head towards Peter's place. About three steps in he noticed that Peter no longer walked beside him; he pulled up short and turned to look. The medic seemed deep in thought. _Maybe he's drugged or high on pain_ _,_ he initially thought before Peter spoke up.

Sylar studied him closely and he found the topic odd, but that was Peter. "Yeah," he whispered, eyeing their surroundings without seeing it too well. "Seems like it's not really New York without people, huh," he said, not entirely a question, but not a statement either. Really the whole thing made him kind of bitter, but he did feel better knowing that Peter would be going through the worse part-the transition, the loss.

Creepy he could deal with, loneliness he'd dealt with, no people whatever…. It hit harder, so much harder than he'd thought. The same was almost true for Peter, minus the creepiness which he'd just stated bothered him. Peter began walking again, past Sylar who started up beside him, keeping pace.

XXX

Peter stopped outside the door to his apartment. Sylar was still beside him, moving along with him just like they had merely decided to go explore a different building, rather than Peter going up to his own room. Peter paused. He was aware that he had something fragile here, a tenuous sort-of trust, a truce of sorts - 'you won't kill me, I won't kill you' and maybe even a 'you help me, I'll help you.' Telling Sylar to fuck off and Peter wanted to be alone didn't seem right, even if it was exactly what Peter wanted to do, and the rational part of his brain was reminding him that they'd only been together for a few hours and already had a serious fistfight. Further association was ill-advised. Plus he couldn't defend himself much, if it came to that.

Peter had never listened much to the rational part of his brain. It told him things like not to jump off high buildings and to question the existence of abilities, or perhaps even his own sanity. He was well-accustomed to ignoring it and he did so now, looking down at Sylar's swollen left wrist and asking, "Are you going to need help wrapping that?"

XXX

Not a minute later the pair reached the entrance of Peter's designated building. Sylar paused after Peter did at the doors. _Oh_. He had assumed- what had he assumed? Peter had stated clearly what he was doing and where he was going. He hadn't been included he noticed. Sylar took a few steps backwards, placing his hands in his pockets as he felt embarrassment. _Alone time. Duh_. To save him…almost, the irony, Peter asked about taping his wrist up. His embarrassment continued when Peter glanced at the limb, partly buried in his jeans pocket.

Fair was fair. He'd done the same or similar to Peter earlier when he'd had…something in his jeans pocket, something with an electric cord. Sylar swallowed; his imagination running untamed for a moment as to what that object might be before he stamped ruthlessly down on the runaway thought. (Nathan's memories did not help the process). Even if Peter told him to fuck off right then, he'd be pretty content. He could have lost the fight so long as things had gone the same way after it.

"Don't think so. I've wrapped my own wrist before; I'm ambidextrous. It's not a big deal. Different from a hand, fingers." Sylar nodded towards Peter's own coloring hand. 'Thanks' was…truly a barbed word if it were to slip from his throat and he realized how much it must be costing Peter's pride to say it twice to his brother's murderer.

XXX

Peter felt a tension build inside as Sylar glanced up at the building, the other man's eyes widening just slightly as he comprehended where they were. The steps back he took made it clearer that he understood his lack of welcome. His embarrassed posture did nothing to dispel Peter's tension - it just changed the tenor of it from apprehension that Sylar might insist on not leaving him alone (and cause Peter to be explicit in seeking solitude), to discomfort that the other man might deal really badly with such rejection.

Sylar still struck Peter as highly unstable. His overly shamed response at the moment was a perfect example. Saying good-bye to someone shouldn't engender the reaction he was getting and so Peter stood there uncomfortably, not quite sure what to do because he didn't know Sylar well enough to know what he'd do in response to any given action on Peter's part. The empath made his inquiry about Sylar's hand and thankfully Sylar didn't take him up on the implied offer of assistance, just as Peter was not taking Sylar up on his somewhat more overt offer from previous.

XXX

Sylar took a step further back, turning in the direction of his own apartment. He had his…way around saying thanks, something that said the same thing. Sylar had always been better at gestures than words anyway, apparently neither really ever really worked well for him. Words made him a lying psychopath and gestures, actions made him….Sylar so it would seem, the psychopath part.

"Peter, uh…" he began, turning back, tugging the bottle of painkillers out from his pocket with stiffening, scraped fingers to place it in Peter's bag. He couldn't hold it; couldn't catch it or else he would have thrown it, the memory of Nathan teaching Peter how to catch at the age of six coming to mind. "You're a medical man, I trust you to be more responsible with those than Mohinder was," Sylar said by way of a joke (Mohinder was a geneticist as he never failed to tire of telling everyone and Sylar's way of asking Peter to be careful about his consumption) as he walked away with a brief, tight, awkward sort of grin.

 _God, just let this not make me look like a mother hen with a crush or something, anything but that. Let him not find me to care,_ were his parting thoughts.

XXX

Peter turned to eye the door to the building when Sylar changed direction and came back, addressing him and holding something out. The erstwhile killer put the bottle in the sack where it rested on top of the cloth strips, themselves on top of the bear's hat. Peter recognized the pill bottle from the apartment, complete with annoying childproof cap. Peter hoped the cap was only on loosely, as he'd set it before. If not…it didn't matter too much. He'd gotten a bottle of painkillers from the store the day before. They were in his apartment. But Sylar might not know that and the gesture he was making was clear.

"Sure," Peter said with a short nod. He stepped over next to the doors and shrugged his left shoulder. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow then." _Not that I think I'll have much choice in that, other than maybe hiding in my apartment all day. I'm not going to_ _ **hide**_ _from him - especially not after the fight_ _._ He wouldn't be intimidated, though he was clear that he'd lost. Something his father told him once came back to him: _'_ _The winner is the one who gets to say when the fight ends.' Last time I noticed, that was the guy holding the bat - not me._ He shifted the bag carefully and managed the door himself. He propped it open with his foot and watched for a moment as Sylar walked away. Peter shook his head briefly and went inside.

Once within the apartment he'd at least temporarily claimed as his own, Peter leaned against the door and groaned…in pain, in frustration, in tension. Screaming was not out of the question, but his face hurt a bit much for that. He set down the sack on the nearest horizontal surface, which was the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He touched his forehead and went back to the door, locking it. He looked at the stack of soup cans next to it, ready to be assembled as a warning system in case someone had a key and bypassed the locks with it. Peter stared at them blankly, then picked up the top two with his left hand and moved them into the pantry. Leaning over made his face throb, so he didn't put away more than those two - but he'd get the rest later. He didn't think he needed them.

He turned on all the lights, gathered up his supplies, and settled on the couch. To his annoyance, he did not actually have a tube of antibiotic ointment. He cleaned his face and knuckles with the peroxide and cotton swabs that had been in this apartment from the start. The place also had a single box of bandages which he made use of. He applied ben-gay to anywhere that the muscles were sore. Finally he tackled wrapping his hand. He didn't do a good job of it, but it was better than it looked, it didn't cut off his circulation and it seemed snug enough to work. After that came ice packs, arranging pillows to keep all the right parts elevated, and way too much time to do nothing more than think.

XXX

Sylar grinned to himself as he walked stiffly down the abandoned road in an abandoned city towards his apartment. _'See you tomorrow'_ _._ It rung in his ears. Peter had taken almost all of that exceptionally well. While he wasn't sorry per se that Peter had taken the trouble to break his hand using Sylar's head, he was….interested. That was about the best word he could tack onto it; interest without being concerned or apologetic or even guilty. Peter was the one who'd swung first to begin the fight and he'd made the choice to take a stab at Sylar's head so he himself was blameless to his logic.

 _I'm not convincing myself out of guilt; there is none except for premeditated aggravation which I'm not guilty for._ The several blocks to 'home' seemed to take longer than normal; he figured that was because Peter wasn't there. He could tell his hormones were haywire; his frame, aching and sore thought it was, flooded with testosterone and epinephrine, endorphins from _life_. The half a day he'd just experienced had been the most _life_ he'd had in three years.

It was hard not to get swept under the current. A fight, winning it, companionship, getting said companion to smile a little…He sighed, quite pleased with himself. He hadn't even toyed with Peter….much and the medic walked away with superficial injuries. _What is it about him that makes me think I have my powers back and I'm being merciful to him?_ He glanced back behind himself now several blocks away, swerving out of his formerly straight walking path to gaze a second at Peter's building which may well have been Peter himself.

He faced straight ahead; hurrying to his apartment as temptation suddenly struck him and struck him hard. _I could do anything to him….No one would ever know. I don't_ need _his permission_. Those thoughts sucked oxygen from his brain and made him heady on top of his throbbing headache as he opened the door to his building. He found himself in his apartment, a little shell-shocked.

Tapping the door closed, he wandered into the bathroom, discarding his coat on the bed as he passed, crouching slowly to get into the cabinet under the sink for his Neosporin, ben-gay and tiger-balm. To say he owned a brace was relative; he had a wrist brace, but he was fairly sure compression bandages would work better.

More comfortable at any rate, so he grabbed those out and set them on the counter. Sylar checked his face in the mirror for cuts and bruises. He purposefully never lingered at the mirror these days, so he moved on when he found nothing but swelling, coloring bruises; something that couldn't be helped other than to ice them and he didn't bother to. _Hell, maybe Peter will get his kicks off it._

He turned to the side, trying to use the pair of mirrors that reflected into each other at an angle on the walls to see the area Peter had hit. Peter had hit him behind the ears before; he'd had regeneration one of those times. _Peter plays dirty_ _._ Prying into his hair, he tentatively prodded the bruised skin, but felt no wetness of blood, even if the slightest touch drew a hiss of pain from him unbidden. _I'll live_.

He removed his shirt first so he didn't get the ointments on it and took up the ben-gay and tiger-balm and rubbed them into his back and wrist, washing his hands of the smelly stuff as soon as he was done. _I haven't had someone on my hands in three years_ , he thought idly. The ointment was next and he leaned against the sink, dabbing it on his knuckles.

Padding out into the kitchen, bandages in hand, he got out the ice packets he'd found years ago; he'd kept it around for the odd headache and migraine he suffered from leaning over his clocks or books for too long and for him that could be a long time. Bringing them back, Sylar sat wearily on his cot, wrapping his wrist gently and securing it with the metal tabs, placing an ice pack on it as he slowly lay back.

The second ice packet went behind his head on the pillow. At first he intended to think, plan something out, pick a stratagem in regards to his new companion, but his eyelids grew heavy despite his earlier nap. With the ben-gay at work on his back, he drifted off relatively pain free.


	11. Learning To Be Friendly

Day 6

At first, Peter had no idea how much time passed. He needed to shift the ice packs twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off. His watch not working made that difficult to gauge. After a while, he took to watching where the sun slanted in the windows and the slow progression of the rays across the floor. Mentally, he designated spots as where 'enough time' would have passed. It was a system at least.

He had a choice of how to occupy his thoughts: distant memories of family and pre-ability times; more recent memories of the last several years; trying to figure out the current situation and this crazy prison dreamed up by Matt or Sylar; or speculating about the future. The last was painful even to try to think about. He shut his eyes and turned his head, but it didn't stop the recollections: stranding Caitlin, killing Nathan, watching Sylar blow up Costa Verde, the explosion on the floor of Isaac's loft…the carnival…Sylar with that odd smile, heading towards Emma…and Peter hoped like hell he was going to help her, save her. It _felt_ like that's what the killer was going to do, but Peter felt fear clench his gut, uncertainty. The more time passed since the dream, the more chance he had to second-guess, the more opportunity his memory had to distort the impression.

He tried to think of something else, anything else. A camping trip when he was a kid, with the boy scouts. Gaining merit badges, running around in the woods, trying to convince Jason that Derek had lied about the poison ivy Jason was now rubbing on himself because Derek had said you could 'vaccinate' yourself with it if you rubbed it on your butt where the doctors always gave you shots. Poor Jason.

In standard human nature, he'd blamed Peter for a while, until Peter suggested they jointly beat Derek up for it and then suddenly Jason was his best friend. They never got around to it, because although Peter had suggested it, the idea of actually attacking someone, even someone deserving of it, had bothered him. Instead they discussed plans and worked up strategies while Peter hung out at Jason's place because Jason was laid up with allergic reaction. By the time the opportunity came to pass to jump Derek, Jason's anger had faded and the two of them made up. Then Jason told Derek that Peter wanted to beat him up for the prank and Peter was never friends again with either of them. Sigh.

Oh well. It was a preferable memory to what he'd seen was yet to come, so he spent the afternoon trying not to think about his current situation or what might happen next. Eventually he slept, having weird, disjointed dreams about Sylar's father, or a man he assumed was Sylar's father.

Day 7

Peter rose in the morning, trying not to think about the thoughts that leaked from his companion's mind in this place. He suspected Sylar did not know he was doing it or that Peter was getting information about him this way. Peter didn't want to know him like this. He'd prefer to talk and hear how Sylar presented himself now. People could change - this Peter believed, and the impressions of how Sylar was years ago weren't necessarily relevant to how he was now.

He took more painkillers and ate a couple more pieces of raisin bread before going about his morning routine. This time he had an electric razor. It was a pleasant coincidence because his right hand wasn't up to holding a razor and he was sure he'd do a lousy job with his left. The electric razor was more forgiving of mistakes. He didn't bother to try for a close shave. He managed an even, uniform bristle length. He smirked at the mirror as he considered growing a moustache. _Ah! Hair grows here. If my facial hair is growing, then the rest is. Huh_ _._ He combed the rest back and let his thoughts avoid how he would eventually have to give himself a haircut … or the obvious alternative of asking Sylar to do it.

He applied more ben-gay, recleaned and rebandaged his knuckles and adjusted the wrapping on his right wrist and hand. He'd used plastic wrap and a bag over it for the shower, but it was a little wet regardless. He grabbed the messenger bag before heading out. He looked over at the bear. He'd stripped off the hat and bandana the night before. It looked a lot more familiar now and sat on the nightstand watching over the bed. He gave it a long look, then dropped his eyes and left.

It was easier to walk now, but he still took the elevator. His back, thighs and feet didn't hurt nearly so much, although he was still limping from being kicked. His first stop was not to go outside, but instead visit the building office and find the key to his apartment. There might be times he wanted to lock it behind himself after he left. He took the key and as many master sets as he could identify. None of this would keep out a determined man, but at least locking the door would establish that he didn't want Sylar inside without permission.

That done, Peter walked outside into the pre-dawn air. As before, he'd gone to bed early, risen early, and the sun would be coming up in the next ten to fifteen minutes. He liked the way the city looked at this hour - light enough to see a bit, gloomy enough to imagine that maybe everyone else just hadn't woke up yet. He was still hungry enough that the diner sounded like a good idea, but he also wanted to get some proper compression bandages right away. There would be things to eat in the grocery store, too. He looked around to see if he was alone or if Sylar was waiting for him even before the sun came up.

XXX

Sylar woke up slowly, rather groggy and hazy. The first move he made was stiff and seemed to trigger his entire body up to the same level of it. He grunted and took his time rolling out of bed. _Back…my back_ , he thought, shuffling into the bathroom. When he leaned over the running tap to splash some water on his face his bruised scalp screamed at him next and a survivable if brutal headache invaded his head. He groaned at that one and rolled his eyes. At least it wasn't as bad as before.

Somehow he felt refreshed, odd given his morning pains, the fight yester- yes, it was the next morning which accounted for his waking. _Something about the spirit being strong and the body weak_. He was still in pain, his face aching and all to complete the look, but Peter had said they would meet that day. He chose not to label that emotion as hope. Because, really, what would they accomplish today?

He finger-combed his hair back, musing like he did almost every day about cutting it. Moving to the toilet he relieved himself and washed his hands, exited the bathroom lazily and going into the kitchen. He pawed around mostly out of boredom since he already knew today was toast; he always knew, it was unsurprisingly a routine.

After he'd placed the bread in the toaster, he ambled back towards the cot in search of reading material, trying to remember what it was that had caught his interest not so long ago. _What had it been?_ Baseball. He rubbed his face as he recalled it; he'd left the book at the apartment complex where they'd fought. Biting his lip he wondered how much suspicion it would place him under to go back and retrieve it. He had a legitimate excuse, but that building also housed known weapons.

Sylar had won the fight, so it wasn't like he was revenge-hunting in any way, but the thought that Peter might think he was collecting bats and guns and poisons was not a risk he wanted to take. _Maybe if I ask him…? Ask him? Ask him what? 'Peter, is it okay if I go back to the bunker building to get a book, pretty please?_ _'_ No. He would find something else to interest them both. _Plenty of books in the sea. Fish being…scarce_ _._ While that thought twinged in an uncomfortable Virginia moment, Sylar went back as he heard the toaster spring up.

Grabbing out the butter and strawberry jam, he applied them to his carefully crisped toast; not burned, barely even toasted. _Mom always left it in_ _there too long. And she knows- knew I hate tuna…Why would she_ \- Sylar quickly derailed himself as his teeth began to grind, finishing his last bite. Standing, he went back to the bathroom and went about brushing his teeth with his usual spearmint flavor.

Once finished, he padded behind his desk and cot and dragged out a gray polo, sliding into it, cautious because of his back and grabbing up his coat which he worked his bandaged wrist into. As usual, he had nothing to carry and his internal clock told him it was the upwards of seven A.M, practically sunrise. He knew Peter tended to sleep later, but that seemed to change after he graduated med school.

Peter was alternately was up like a robin before the sun to get to work to save the masses or he crashed out like a toddler back from the playground, all depending on his schedule. Lately he thought Peter had been working too hard and wasn't getting enough- _Really? He has no job - he can't work himself to death. What the hell does it matter?_ Sylar couldn't help that he did worry about Peter's….sanity such as it was here; the kid had never handled neglect, total neglect with grace or understanding.

 _Why is the instant I want and try to change my life, I get Hell instead of a- A what? Normal life? Claire is redundant and blonde on top of that, let's avoid sounding like her. Was it beyond the Band of Heroes to help someone who desired it in a time of need, especially when it would save some lives?_ He supposed it was; he didn't factor in as 'human: savable- please attempt rescue'.

He did so hate karma and irony. So maybe ' _Hell_ ' had a point. Perhaps he wasn't supposed to be saved. Then Peter was…? What? What sin had Peter committed to land him here? Nothing on Sylar's level of sin; that he knew without doubt. It was all a riddle, all a puzzle and if he could just figure it out he'd…have some…closure. Joy.

Sylar sighed deeply, trying to keep the positive (-ish) attitude he'd woken with as he shut the door behind himself, trying to burrow into his coat as he became exposed to more chill air. He went about his way towards Peter's place, expecting to wait…who knew how long until he made an appearance. The medic had tensed up before when Sylar had accidentally made a move towards Peter's door, making his feelings crystalline clear as to just how far Sylar was welcome.

Gray puffs of air escaped his mouth at every breath and he recalled a singular memory of his childhood when he'd seen people smoking outside his middle school; later he'd seen the kids pretending to smoke using twigs and rolled up paper. Somehow he remembered considering joining them at the time, but the school bus was ready for him; and what if someone saw him and told Mom?

Sylar shook his head and tried to maneuver his bound wrist into his pockets to keep his hands from stiffening up in the very brisk morning air. It was December after all. _Shit…birthday. Um…_ His mind hitched over that course of action, but by then he'd arrived at Peter's place, as he'd taken to calling it.

He sat where he had yesterday, on the steps of the building across from Peter's and waited, beginning to count the pebbles of concrete and what few bits of trash and nature that lay around his feet.

XXX

To Peter's surprise, he was alone. He didn't wait, turning and heading off immediately, walking down the sidewalk at a steady but determined hobble. He'd stretched his leg after getting up. As injuries went, it wasn't serious, though it was going to keep him from running for a few more days. Actually everything but the hand wasn't serious. Already the kink in his right shoulder had faded to near-nothingness. Everything else would be down to merely tender in a week. His face looked nasty though - one eye was thoroughly blacked, the other darkened underneath; his nose and chin were swollen, neither all that symmetrically either.

He smirked to himself. For once he didn't need to make excuses for his appearance - not to his mother, his neighbors or, worse yet, his coworkers. That last had been repeatedly awkward. Hesam had seen the bullet scar Peter carried now thanks to Emile Danko. He'd seen it when Peter was changing in the locker room. And then there were the cuts to his face and arm he'd taken from Edgar and a plethora of other unexplained injuries. He smirked again. His mother at least was usually only concerned with his clothing and what sort of an impression he would make to others, not that she obsessed over him to the extent she had with Nathan. Nathan couldn't go out without looking perfect. Peter couldn't go out unless his looks wouldn't be an embarrassment to Nathan. He shook his head as he arrived at the little store.

He got compression bandages and two models of splints. He felt like a shoplifter to be putting them right in his messenger bag, but whatever. _I'm moving imaginary stuff from one part of Sylar's mind to another. It's not stealing_ _._ He grabbed a tube of antibiotic ointment, too, then walked over towards the fruit and vegetable area, wondering where they kept freezer packs. He didn't know, didn't really look, and didn't happen across them either. He picked up an apple and snagged an individually wrapped muffin as he walked out. The apple went in the bag. He continued on, examining the packaging for the muffin.

He searched the entire thing as he headed back, examining it minutely. The sun had risen while he was in the store, but the rays weren't to the street yet. _Still...there ought to be an expiration date on here_ _._ There wasn't, quite stubbornly. He opened the package and ate it. It was good - a little sticky, but good. He reexamined the packaging again. _Still no date. Huh. What to do with it now? I wonder what happens to trash around here?_

He had such a list of questions for Sylar - 'are there seasons here or is it always this friggin' cold?' was the next one. There were palm trees here. It shouldn't be this cold. Curiosity wasn't Peter's strong suit, but there were some things he needed to know for basic life. And while sure, he could find out about the trash one by tossing the wrapper down and seeing if it was still there the next day; and he would eventually find out about seasons with the passage of time, it would be easier to ask the other man. If, assuming, the other man was willing to answer him rather than be an ass about things.

Peter finally looked up, only a half block from his destination now and saw that Sylar was waiting for him on the steps of the building they'd explored the day before. Again, Peter wondered why Sylar picked there to sit - was it because it was across from the door of Peter's apartment building, or was it because it was in front of the building Peter intended to explore? Hardly mattered, he supposed.

A more important issue suddenly came to mind as he played events forward a bit. Now he was in a quandary and it was his own fault. He hadn't put on the compression bandage at the store, thinking he'd go back to his apartment and do it there. If he went up to his apartment, Sylar might follow him. It wasn't that unreasonable, but telling him not to would be awkward. Peter hadn't done that good a job with the cloth strips, so not putting the bandage on wasn't really an option, yet if he did it out here on the street, Sylar might want to help him - also awkward.

Peter huffed. _Let's get this over with_. He was on the sidewalk on his building's side of the street already, so he continued his path. He walked to the steps and settled down, scrupulously ignoring Sylar, who was across the width of the street from him. Peter opened his bag and pulled out the compression bandage. With his left he dug out a multi-tool knife. He looked at it blankly for a moment. _How do I open this with one hand? Dammit. I am_ _ **not**_ _going to accept help_ _._ Very carefully he worked his fingernail into the indentation at the top of the tiny set of scissor and swung it out. It was easier than he'd expected. He began to cut off the cloth strips from his right hand.

XXX

After seventeen minutes and twelve seconds of waiting, a surprisingly short period, Peter appeared, having already been out by the look of the muffin he had in hand. Sylar eyed it with momentary and half-hearted devious intentions; before 'Hell' as he termed it, when he'd had regeneration he'd always been hungry. _Something about burning through nutrients and calories at a super human pace_.

It would be a chore to approach the man until he'd eaten that, even if he no longer had regeneration and the (other) hunger to eat almost anything in sight. Peter, however, appeared oblivious to his presence; not entirely unexpected as he didn't exactly stick out of the cityscape sitting as he was and all. From across the street, unimpeded by traffic, Sylar couldn't tell if Peter was being purposefully oblivious however, something that annoyed him.

It would totally be within Peter's motives to pretend not to see him for as long as possible. _Off to a flying start today, I see_. He fought off the urge to allow his expression to sour. _Momentary set-back, that's all._ He watched the other man, thoroughly engrossed in his ( _fucking blueberry_ ) breakfast, sit similar to Sylar only on _his_ side of the street.

Sylar was left to quirk an eyebrow at that. If it was intentional…he had that much further to go, literally. He stood, but didn't shake his cramping, jittery legs like he wanted (Peter might spook or…see it and take it funny, whatever), instead crossing the street solidly meanwhile thinking of metaphors and tacky unanswerable jokes about chickens…

The analogy caught him as so unfunny as to actually be amusing, so, biting down on his lip, he approached Peter as he began to fiddle with…a knife? His humor dissipated on sight and his brow furrowed, trying to make sense of that. _Oh, right. I-talian Eagle Scout and all_. He rolled his eyes and made enough noise walking over so he avoided startling the one-handed man with a freaking knife.

Peter made a lousy job of springing out the small scissor attachment in the knife before he tried to cut the bandage, Sylar's sheet strips. So he had used them. That made him grin slightly to himself as he murmured a greeting, "Morning," as he sat beside the lamed medic. _Can't use one hand to save people, Peter. No people here to be saved, right? Can't even save yourself…_ The cold was traveling up his legs and butt, the concrete making his back that much stiffer.

XXX

Sylar walked over as Peter got started. This was not a surprise. After all, Peter was here; he was doing something. Were their positions reversed, then yeah, Peter would be over there looking to see what was up. He wouldn't have sat himself down next to someone who had made it so clear they didn't want him near them though, or whom he had a history of killing them, their family members, friends and a mixed bag of strangers. But maybe for Sylar, that just wasn't that big a deal. Peter tensed, hunched and tried to ignore the other man, not even returning his murmured greeting.

XXX

Sylar gazed at the package of compression bandaging Peter hadn't opened and couldn't open. Deciding on a tactic (one he'd…vaguely picked up on from TV pre-Hell but clearer from Nathan and how to…act around a brother) Sylar picked up the package and held out his hand, surgeon-like, for the knife Peter had finished with before he put it away.

He made absolutely sure not to so much as glance Peter's way as he did this, his eyes fixed to the package. His hand remained empty for all of five seconds as Peter processed, but soon he felt slightly-warmed metal and deftly twisted it around in his hand, plucking out the actual knife portion. The blade exposed, he popped it quickly (unthinking of the motion, noise or speed of the action) into the otherwise-sealed plastic. _Heh, that was fun. Oh, god…just let me not turn into one of those kids with bubble wrap, please._

XXX

The medic had sat on the right side of the steps, where there was a raised edge he could rest his right elbow on. He'd laid out his materials to his left. Sylar sat on the opposite side of them and almost immediately picked up the very thing Peter would need next – the compression bandage. Peter glanced over at that and said nothing. He finished cutting free the cloth strips and looked over, beginning to bristle, as what he needed was still in Sylar's hand. Sylar's other hand, empty, was extended to him. He looked between hand and face – Sylar's expression was blank and he was looking studiously down.

Peter realized what was wanted, but it was the body language that defused him, not the offer itself. There were many ways Sylar could have offered to open the package for him that he would have refused, argued, or objected. This was not one of them. He put the knife in Sylar's hand and turned back to his hand, peeling off the bandages from his knuckles while Sylar fought with the stubborn plastic. He had no fear that Sylar would do anything to him with a two and a half inch blade. If he had been concerned, it would have been that the other man would slice himself on the plastic.

XXX

Extending the knife back to Peter, sans eye contact, Sylar dug into the hole he'd made, peeling apart the plastic by main force. The reason he used brute strength rather than the knife is he couldn't imagine Peter appreciating the hacking, sawing movement or the sound since it was one of those _welded_ shut packages. Soon he'd created an opening and tugged the bandage out as gracefully as he could, tossing the container aside carelessly and handed the prize to Peter, staring straight ahead as if nothing had happened because that was the key.

Brothers, hell, men in general did things for each other and either hit each other, laughed it off or ignored it and pretended it hadn't happened. They'd already covered the hitting; the laughing probably wouldn't ever come, so pretending was the easiest way. _Act bored, just act bored. Surely even he can't find fault in that?_

XXX

Peter took the knife back, relaxing a bit more at the continued lack of eye contact. Peter closed it by putting the back of the blade against his thigh, then set it down on the step next to him in case he needed it for anything else. He waited another long beat when Sylar offered the bandage. _No strings attached? Huh_. He took it and began wrapping, knowing he really ought to say something – Thanks, Good Morning – something. He huffed instead and applied himself to his task.

XXX

Peter snatched the bandage away after a pause for those dented cogs in his head to spin around a dozen times or so; almost like he was afraid Sylar would force the damn bandage on him or something. While the thought was amusing and admittedly tempting, Peter was giving him the red light. He could see it; he just usually ignored it; he usually didn't have to pay attention to what someone was feeling.

Contrary to popular belief, he was pretty astute at reading people after having a good twenty-five years or so of hard, day-in/day-out practice with a highly unstable adoptive mother…figure person. And if popular belief were true, as a psychopath he could easily read what a person wanted in direct opposition to what they said they wanted. Psychopaths were _shallow_ , the books said and that had always irked him, almost as much as the label did. He knew he had feelings, people just ignored them (okay, and he sort of hid them).

Psychopaths easily shifted their _shallow_ exterior to adopt what the person needed at the time, rather what they said they wanted. So Peter got his foot of space in actuality, got his knife back and got all the help he would willingly allow himself to receive even though they were both aware that Sylar would assist in binding his hand.

XXX

Peter snugged up the bandage, tested what limited flexibility he had, then set down the rest of the roll. He picked up the splint that would hold his wrist and hand immobile. What he had was more suited to carpel tunnel, but it would work. Maybe in the afternoon or tomorrow he'd go looking for a hospital, pharmacy or hospital supply store. He secured it then reached down to pick up the box the antibiotic ointment came in. He poked in the end with his thumb and fiddled with it briefly until he got it out. He let the box drop and picked up the tube, working the cap with thumb and forefinger while holding it with the same hand.

XXX

 _So far…so good_. The only response he got was a huff, but he was fairly sure it was aimed at Peter himself and not Sylar. It made him wonder though, just how inhuman the Heroes thought he truly was. _Surely Peter…_ He pursed his lips, ditching that line of thinking. It no longer mattered. He supposed what did matter now was how interesting things would get until Peter trusted him. And how long it would take.

XXX

He could feel Sylar's eyes on him during this operation, but he was pretty sure if he looked over, the other man would look away and that was fine. Keeping his eyes on his task, Peter asked, "You ever been hurt all that bad here, while you were alone?" Peter applied the ointment to his knuckles. He frowned down at his supplies. He'd planned – as much as he _had_ planned – to do this in his apartment where he had bandages. _Oh_ _well_ _._ The ones he'd just taken off had been applied less than an hour before. He started putting them back on.

XXX

Sylar found himself watching with only a kernel of curiosity for the process of 'how to wrap a broken finger' and Peter didn't give him an indication that it was somehow wrong or that it was unwelcome. The other man asked him about his previous injuries here in Hell and he glanced up, a little stunned.

 _Odd question….probing for weaknesses?_ He smoothed his face over in case Peter decided to look, swallowed and licked his lips before he answered, "I broke a toe, sprained my ankle, cracked a knuckle, twisted my knee, so no." All his attempts at 'out' or attention from the non-existent populace had ended in a one-sided fight with a face of a building, immoveable and solid. _Doesn't matter now. You're here to take over that job. Aren't you, Peter?_

Sylar made a face as Peter reapplied a used bandage to his knuckles after turning it over and he caught sight of Peter's black eye. Wouldn't it just make more sense to get another strip of fabric or band-aids when they explored instead of using an old bandage? That was Peter's problem since he was not inviting any real help.

"I dropped a plate once, sliced up my thumb and hand…lots of times, actually, with the can opener. Bashed my elbow into a cupboard trying to open some juice; the arm stayed numb for a week, turns out it was fractured. Tried to stay awake to shut myself down, see if I still had….abilities….hit my head in the shower. Got an infection once, lasted about a week. Burned my part of my hand relearning how to cook without telekinesis; it's actually harder than it sounds."

Sylar's voice was similar to someone reading things off his grocery list, trying to keep the emotion from his face as well. It was probably something most people considered 'personal'. To him it was a bad time he'd rather forget. He was totally confused as to why Peter would want to know, unless it was 'What can I expect here?'

Everything had healed over time, not a scar or nick to be found. Somehow the idea of suicide wasn't as prominent as it probably would have been….should have been otherwise. He'd felt a horrible pang of empathy for Claire who had no pain on top of being unmarked. "Nothing changes," he whispered to himself, adjusting his elbows on his knees, his fingers twined together loosely as he looked out over the street wistfully.

XXX

Peter snorted and continued on his knuckles. "How do you cook _with_ telekinesis? I can't even imagine that."

XXX

Sylar made a face, barely holding back a glare. It wasn't his fault Peter couldn't cook or use telekinesis. It was probably too delicate for a messy empath. "Yes," he drew out the word a little slowly, careful to keep anything from his tone. "It's...a hard habit to break. I guess three years learning it and three years going the other way."

XXX

Peter sighed. _More attitude. Well...whatever_. "What I mean is, how do you actually cook with telekinesis _at all_? It's just moving things around. What are you doing with it when you cook? Using it to hold the pans on the burners or something?"

XXX

Persistent. Clearly he wasn't mocking if he was still asking. "Moving stuff around, I can flip a pretty good omelet," he grinned a little to himself, "I never got much chance to use it, you know. I mean, with Ted's power we c- I could technically be the fire while I did it. Great for multi-tasking."

XXX

 _We_ _?_ Peter glanced over. _We_ _?_ That was so loaded he didn't want to touch it with a ten foot pole. "Yeah. So I've been meaning to ask, since you've-" _said you've_ "been here three years... are there seasons, or is it always this cold?" He put the last bandage back on his right hand, smoothing it down carefully, and began to remove the ones on his left. The scuffs and abrasions there were much slighter - hardly broke the skin even. Under normal circumstances Peter wouldn't have bothered with bandages on them, but he'd been bored last evening.

XXX

Sylar sucked on his lower lip instead of biting it as he wished, managing to cover a wince at his lapse. It was just instinct. Most people he interacted with were specials. He had the urge to whistle to distract the other man. He tilted his head, looking around a bit with disinterest. "Eh...seasons is a...relative term. It won't always be cold but the leaves don't turn color, flowers don't bloom..." He shrugged, really at a loss for an answer; possibly a bi-product of having a Petrelli near. He stole a quick glance at Peter's left hand, practically unblemished. While he had his own questions, he knew Peter was the newbie here and needed them answered first; his own curiosity could wait as it had for, yes, three years.

XXX

Peter dabbed ointment on fairly liberally. "Okay. That...answers something else I was wondering about - gardens, growing things." He straightened, rolling his shoulders and looking off down the street like he expected to see something that wasn't there. _I want out_ _._ He sighed, frowned and looked back at his hand. "Do we-" _Now I'm doing it. Fucking 'we_ _._ _' Oh well._ "Do we ever run out of things here?"

XXX

Sylar shook his head sadly. He was no green-thumb, but growing something, being responsible for a plant would be similar to having a pet he imagined. It would have been _something_. Peter began moving around and it made him want to move around; the concrete was no fun to sit on when the cold seeped through his jeans. _I should call him grasshopper. Ha_. Sylar turned towards him, amused and not-so-secretly delighted at the plural pronoun's usage from Peter. "No. I never have to scavenge; not really. It's...it seems to replenish itself. I don't know how or even why." It sucked not having answers, especially when he was being asked for would-be wisdom.

XXX

Peter started rewrapping the bandages on his left hand now, taking care not to get the adhesive fouled by the ointment. "Huh. I guess that's good to know. How about trash? I hadn't really paid any attention to the trash can in the apartment, but," he shrugged one shoulder, "I don't want to be throwing stuff in the street if I'm going to have to walk over it for the next however long." _I am_ _ **certain**_ _Parkman could get me out of here if he tried. This isn't a freaking one-way ability. I must have lost it somehow when I touched Sylar. Maybe I accidentally swapped one of his abilities. That would explain_ _ **a lot**_ _. An awful lot._

XXX

"Disappears." Sylar scratched at his calf through his pants, the feeling uncomfortable in the chill weather. Peter was making him look bad what with his head-to-toe medical care. Sylar took care of immediate needs and immediate pains if at all possible (because sometimes it wasn't) and dealt with the fall-out once he was safe. _That's his job. He can get sued for that kind of crap. When was the last time I was in a hospital?_ "If you did, it would probably be gone within a week or so...it seems to depend on how often you see it or visit the area. I'm not sure why."

XXX

Peter nodded and picked up the tube of ointment. He made a gesture with his right hand - just an odd, abortive motion with it. _Damn it. With the freaking brace on I can't get my thumb and forefinger together anymore._ He picked up the cap to the tube, also with his left, and stuck it in his mouth. He screwed it back in. _I'm going to have to put up with this for weeks? That ain't happening. That's going to get really frustrating, really fast. Next time I go back to hitting him over the head with 2x4s, I swear_ _._ "Well, that's good to hear, I guess. So don't toss things where we go frequently and we'll be fine, huh?" He changed subjects back to an earlier one. "Does it ever rain or get windy or anything like that?"

XXX

"Y-yeah," was his response. He was hesitant to address this one because he had his suspicions about it and it probably showed. Over the years it had finally dawned on him that the weather appeared to follow his...moods, roughly put. He liked to ignore that part of it. Peter was just turning into the act of the day, wasn't he? Sylar's attention was being focused more and more on what Peter was doing (trying to do). "Wind, rain, storms, thunder, hail sometimes...and lightning." He really shied from that one, splaying his hands on his knees.

_XXX_

_Huh. Is he scared of storms? Wouldn't that be a riot? Scary serial killer, frightened by thunder. I'll have to remember that for the next time I think he's going to snap and kill me_ _._ "Okay. That sounds pretty scary. I've never liked tornados myself." He shook his head. "Whirlwinds." It was true; not that it was a crippling phobia, or that he'd had to deal with it much in his life. He realized he was sharing automatically and tensed.

XXX

Sylar caught the condescension at 'That sounds pretty scary.' Go figure his reluctance to address a fucking storm was read as fear. His fear was long since past, the person who had owned the lightning...equally harmless and no longer worthy of anxiety. "Oh, it's completely terrifying," he shot back, keeping his tone within the realm of teasing, but laden with sarcasm all the same.

XXX

Peter shot him a smirk as he gathered his stuff back up and put it in the bag, then stood up. "So, uh... I was going to continue where we left off yesterday." He jerked his head at the building. "Over there."

XXX

As Sylar stood to follow Peter, he got the static again: _/"...Sometimes the cabin gets so compressed it crushes the pilot," he was telling his seven year old kid brother, ever full of questions. Nathan had completed boot camp and was soon to leave again for further training and eventually a post. "What happens to the plane in a tornado, Nate?" He'd asked, so innocent and wide-eyed with fear for his idol. But now it was "Really?" There would be no pulling the wool over this kid's eyes, evidenced by the expressive furrowing of his dark little eyebrows up at Nathan as he unpacked. "Ah, yah. I'm pretty sure they give you a Purple Heart for those missions. If you survive. They happen all the time in the Middle East, Pete. And when they get really bad..._ _"/_ Sylar's balance wavered, but he caught himself and stood straight. "Huh?" He'd missed what his companion said, but clued in at the gesture. "Ah, yeah. Great."

XXX

Peter stretched a little more, taking a few steps and working his thigh from where it had stiffened while sitting. He watched Sylar for a few moments as he did so, wondering if the wavering was due to lingering effects of the concussion or something else. When it didn't recur, Peter didn't obsess about it. _Okay, let's go_ _._ He didn't actually say it, though, because he didn't really want Sylar to come with him. He just expected he would. He glanced over at the other man. _I wonder if it's possible he'll go off and do something else? Nah._ He turned back and crossed the street, looking up and down the empty pavement. _It's really lonely out here. I don't like it. If Matt Parkman can manage to make a place where_ _ **Sylar**_ _is good company, then...wow, that says something pretty twisted about Matt's brain_.

Peter went inside, bypassing the elevator for the stairs. He stopped once inside and stretched his leg again. Yes, the pause would make Sylar wait - or the other man could go around him. If he was going to be following Peter around, then he'd have to put up with Peter acting like he wasn't there. "Do you still think you're going to live forever? In here?"

XXX

Sylar stayed behind Peter as they entered the building. He was surprised by the choice of stairs. _Is he trying to be tough or work out a cramp here?_ He was left to make a quick decision whether or not to hawk over Peter and his leg, risking serious awkwardness; or if he moved on and around, risking the appearance of callousness. He stepped around Peter and continued up the stairs, taking his time, since the motion did unpleasant things to his back _._ _I'm not a mother hen for you, Peter,_ he told himself. So he heard the man's question and it gave him pause. Sylar turned from the flight above the medic to face him. "I think I'm going to live as long as long Hell goes on. In here," he delivered with solemnity and seriousness. _'You don't have Claire's power...I don't know how long you'll last, Peter'_ he wanted to say, but held his tongue. Giving him a weary, pained glance, he headed up to the fourth floor.

XXX

Peter waited until Sylar was well out of sight before miming him mockingly, _'I'm gonna live as long as Hell lasts_ _.'_ He didn't actually speak, he just mouthed the words and moved his head sarcastically. _Yeah, sure. You don't_ _ **have**_ _Claire's power in here_ _._ He sighed. _I should drop it. This place is thick with logic problems. He thought it was real. Might still. Just leave it alone, Peter, unless you_ _ **want**_ _to start another fight_ _._ Slowly, he mounted the stairs, emerging on the third floor. _Which floor were we on last time?_ "Sylar?" He listened. No answer. "Sylar?" Still no answer. _Huh_. He went on up to the fourth floor, stopping with his hand on it. _He's got to be around here somewhere. But if this isn't the right floor, and he's trying to stage an ambush or something, then I'm getting out of here. I wanted to freaking_ _ **avoid**_ _him. Why am I following him anyway?_ He snorted, rolled his eyes, and opened the door anyway. "Sylar?"

XXX

Letting the door clang shut behind him, he meandered into the hall and around the corner, hands contentedly in his pockets. There was nothing here to keep his attention besides Peter. And Peter was being a slow-poke today. Sylar didn't turn as he heard his name called; the source and the source's location obvious. He was visible enough in the middle of the freaking hall. "Lost so soon, Peter?" Sylar gently, very gently teased, leaving out his thoughts on Peter being afraid of the dark...(Also dirt he possessed on Peter's childhood). Wasn't he generous? Maybe he was feeling playful. He opened a door at random and made a mild if facetious gesture of 'after you', tilting his head and letting himself in with a grin on his face.

XXX

Peter didn't dignify Sylar's question with an answer, but he did approach him and looked into the apartment Sylar had opened. After a pause to review it, he walked inside. The set of his shoulders relaxed a little. Sylar had sat next to him earlier, walked past him in the stairwell and Peter passed by him now as he walked into the room. The distance between them was literally shrinking, but more noticeably Peter was not bristling so much and reacting warily at every move from the killer. This was not to indicate any acceptance of the other man's actions, but rather an acknowledgment that perhaps there was nothing to be on guard against here. The back of Peter's mind remained dead-certain that was a " _here_ " condition only – with abilities, outside, Sylar would still be very much a threat and one that Peter was ill-equipped to contain.

For now though, he didn't need to think about that. They might leave tomorrow or maybe in ten years, or maybe Peter would die here (tomorrow, or in ten years, or a hundred – he didn't know). He'd think about it some other time. He was sometimes cautious, occasionally afraid, and tried not to get hurt, but his own mortality had rarely stopped him from attempting something if the cause was worthwhile.

XXX

Sylar prowled around aimlessly, careless of the belongings in the rooms, but then again he'd never been careful with them. He gave only the initial, cursory glance as Peter entered. Peter also seemed to be slowly losing his inhibitions towards it. _This isn't gonna sink in for a while and it has nothing to do with my presence_ , was his insightful comprehension. _It's a nature, isn't it_ , he grumped to himself, wishing he could fast forward it or something. He knew he couldn't expect Peter to just 'get over it'; he wasn't capable of it; he wouldn't _let_ himself 'get over it' either.

 _Is Peter ever_ going _to let this go, not just get over it? It's either that or giving up and he's….that's just not in him_. He knew from experience, even if he couldn't claim it as his. _So much crap so fast_ , he thought. _Mind rape, being a hollowed out husk, then getting my body back, asking for help then…_ _._ this. _I got my body back, now there's someone in the world now. I don't know how or why, but he's here. So….now what?_

XXX

Peter looked around the place and started making judgments and guesses – occupant male, middle aged, middle-income and employed, no pets, no kids – not here at least. He walked over and looked at the books on the built-in shelves, letting his eyes trail over the titles on the spines. "You ever search these apartments yourself, or is this all new to you?" He squatted to look in the cabinet set into the wall under the shelves. There was a photo album. He pulled it out with a surge of enthusiasm, only to find it full of pictures of landscapes. He stared at it blankly. _What was it I expected to see?_

He looked over his shoulder at Sylar, then back at the album. He put it up quietly. _A human face. Whoever lived here. That's what I wanted to see. This whole place, all these apartments, and the only person who really lives here is_ _ **him**_ _. And me, I guess. Now_.

XXX

After he'd perused the bedroom and bathroom, finding nothing shocking or of use; it was a guy's apartment, what could really be interesting in it? Sylar leaned back against the wall and watched Peter. The man picked up a photo album (must've been a girlfriend involved in that one) and he wasn't surprised. _Still looking for people?_ He knew what the medic wouldn't see. He kept his eyes on Peter, not being shy about it this time. "I explored lots of buildings, first just to look for people, then signs of people than for anything useful or a place to crash. I ended up at my apartment, which you've seen," was the answer.

XXX

Peter looked at the back of the couch, then pulled it away from the wall a few inches and peered down between the furniture and the wall. _What am I looking for here? I know there's no one here. (Not that they'd be hiding behind the couch of all places.) Or do I know no one's here? There's Sylar_ _._ He smiled slightly to himself at the thought of pawing through Sylar's apartment like this. The thought of invading the other man's space like that was amusing, not that Peter was about to do it. It was invasive enough just being mired here in his head. _It's not like there's going to be anyone else in here_ _._ He stood up, brow furrowed. _Sylar…was in Matt's head somehow. Then who was in Nath-, uh, Sylar's body?_

He looked over at Sylar and then down, blinking back a moment of sadness and confusion. It wasn't a question he wanted answered yet and he knew it. Even more, he didn't think he'd believe what Sylar had to say. He gave himself a little shake and went on into the dining room. He looked over objects, touching them, shifting them, going through the place one possession at a time, in no great hurry but moving steadily.

XXX

Sylar's brows inched upwards at the couch-wall ratio checking. "It might be New York, but sorry, no rats." _There went his pet idea_ , he mentally sniggered. He found his gaze wandering and what more interesting than Peter; injured, cranky and depressed as he was.

It was difficult to keep his mind off…the things he wished to do, the things he wished he could let himself think about. But he knew once that cat left the bag he could never put it back again. _He'll…come around to something….eventually_. Right? If he could keep his cool, his control and in doing that control his communication which was his biggest problem (and thereby Peter's), he would win him over.

 _So what now?_ He felt something had changed after the fight, not just the lack of death-threats either. Then he caught Peter turning away with a deeply saddened expression. _It wasn't me. I didn't do it. (Did I?)_ It was getting frustrating and he didn't handle that well; violence or snark or even talking someone's ear off to ease his discomfort with a situation and none of it would actually help here.

"Um, Peter…" he began lamely, trying not to belabor 'why the hell are you here' and 'how did you get here' or ask the personal questions that would just get him smacked again, but trying to…be involved. Casually. ( _Involved?_ ) "What was the worst scene you had to clean up?" Whew. Something Nathan wouldn't know, something that was unrelated, casual….safe? _I'm learning something; it's not a failed question_.

XXX

Peter appreciated, probably more than Sylar knew, the opportunity to think about something else, as well as the invitation to talk. The subject itself - that made him smile, and not because he was a fan of gore, but because that was such a popular question. In fact, it was something of a running joke among EMTs. There were many hilarious answers. "Heh," Peter said, wondering if he could pull one off on Sylar, and what sort of reaction the other man would have to it if he did.

"Lemme guess, you don't have any experience with EMTs and what they have to deal with, do you?" He cast a speculative eye over Sylar's response, confirming for himself that yeah, he might be able to pull this off. He wandered into the kitchen and started looking through drawers, one after another. It gave him an excuse to keep his face turned away and minimize how much he was likely to give away.

XXX

"Vaguely, yeah," Sylar nodded seriously, his expression interested and unsuspecting when Peter glanced back. The medico launched into his story, and it was a story. He was a little surprised by that somehow, recognizing he'd asked the man to tell him a _story_ and even more so intrigued that Peter was actually taking him up on it. _Cool_. He nodded and made the appropriate sounds to encourage the man to continue; _oh, please do continue_. It had been a throw away question from him, but Peter took it and went with it and he was getting more than he'd hoped for. It had been the right question.

XXX

"The worst scene I was ever called to was an auto accident, but that wasn't the bad part." He shrugged. "The people in the car, they were fine, just shook up. They'd ended up in the ditch after swerving to miss the body. It was out on the highway; it was dark; summertime; really hot day. Whoever hit him first must have just clipped him. I say him, but it was so bad no one could tell if it was male or female - at least, not from the side of the road. Two or three different cars must have run over him."

XXX

Sylar winced as Peter got to the part about the sex of the person, trying to picture it and not picture it at the same time. "Wow," he murmured. _A whole body? Getting run over two or three_ \- He didn't have time to pick it apart because Peter was already moving on and he was enraptured.

XXX

Peter sank down to open a cabinet, continuing talking in a mostly bland monologue. He shook his head slowly and sadly. "The thing you don't realize about corpses…or maybe you do, really…" He paused considering that most of Sylar's kills had been, as far as Peter knew, fairly clean. He shuddered, not wanting to contemplate that. _Back to the story_ _._ "Anyway, it's the _smell_. The abdomen had been torn open, guts were out there, there's this stench in the air and here's Hesam - my partner - trying to get me to go out there and pull this body off a busy highway at night. _**No. Way**_. I have limits, man." He shook his head again and hazarded a glance back to see how his audience was taking it.

XXX

Sylar did narrow his eyes at the part about corpses, mostly so Peter's spine knew he was onto his brain and mouth's train of thought there. Peter missed it with his back turned, but it was the thought that counted, right? It hadn't been menacing anyway. "Hmm," was his hum of response. He'd read about the smell of the abdominal cavity during autopsies and Discovery Channel animal shows and such.

 _Wait, who's Hes- Oh, okay_ , he wondered briefly, following gamely along. His eyebrows rose as Peter adamantly refused to get the body and that really did surprise him. _/"Triumph of the human spirit?"/_ He could understand the why (not) in this case, but this was still Peter Petrelli, Rescue Hotline One-Oh-One. Even to corpses he was sure, Nathan's memories assuring him of that about the hospice care.

XXX

Peter moved on to another cabinet. "It's not like anyone's life was going to be saved. Dead was dead. We put up some road flares and worked the auto accident until some cops showed up. Then we got _them_ to do it." He didn't think he could milk this much further without Sylar catching on, so he wrapped up (even though Peter had seen a few masterful tale-spinners continue this particular story for fifteen or twenty minutes). "I'll tell you what, there is nothing worse than a dead skunk on hot asphalt."

Peter stood with the punch line in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat, or…really, he had no idea how Sylar was going to take the joke. In retrospect, he suspected this was probably a really dumb idea.


	12. Telling Stories

Day 7

A grin must have stuck on his face for some reason, probably because Peter was good at relaying the events and he was interested to see where they concluded. He chuckled at imagining Peter conniving the police, not the 'rescue' team to clean up a body because it was a mess. And before he could clue in on that fact, Peter delivered the punch line he hadn't seen coming.

He laughed, completely unexpected even from him. "A-a skunk?" he managed around his laughter. Oh, god, he'd forgotten Peter had a sense of humor. Something panged inside him, but he ignored it. He clapped his hands a few times, not really at or for Peter, just in amused reaction. His face felt like it would break since he hadn't laughed this hard since…well….

"Oh, god, Petrelli….You're a keeper," he said once he'd calmed down sufficiently. The words held no meaning and his tone was normal and light. He placed a hand on his stomach for a brief moment to remember to breathe before he straightened; not noticing that he'd adjusted his stance a little. Exhaling, he smiled at Peter, who now stood. "I didn't know EMTs covered the animal division."

Sylar had his own memories of road kill, some that had scarred his memory as a child as the…animal had been still alive and stuck and…But Peter's story brought levity, much needed. He recognized that Peter Petrelli would probably end up doing most of the story-telling here, at least on the lighter side. He interacted with people (and animals) and had actual stories to divulge.

He noticed that had not answered his question by any means, but Peter's reply had been what he needed to hear, not what he'd been expecting. "Good one."

Peter grinned right back and it was a pleasant sight. C'mon, it was a face and it was a nice face. It was smiling because of him and that was a good feeling. The medic went back to rummaging and that was kind of amusing. He hoped Peter didn't think that he considered him….some kind of doll with a pull string, available for cheap amusement. He considered that a moment. Actually….up until now, he almost had thought of him that way.

XXX

Peter gave him an easy grin back, very pleased to have put a smile on Sylar's face. It was so much better than a scowl, or a glare, or that arrogant condescension the man seemed to wear like it was his favorite hat. And he had such a nice smile, which was really surprising. Peter was glad to see it again, but he got his eyes away from it before his attention looked like anything else. He opened a drawer and sorted through a haphazard collection of utensils.

"Good to know you have a sense of humor," he said and chuckled. "I have to tell you I was a little worried there for a moment." _You certainly do worry me. The limits of what you might do are just way off the chart_ _._ He shut the drawer and went on to the cutlery drawer, actually bending down a little - a spot hurt in his back where he was sure he had a bruise from Sylar's elbow - and looking inside, behind the silverware tray. There was a collection of bits of kitchen errata there - a cocktail fork, some straws, and salt packets from a fast food place, among other things. _No cockroaches here. That has its good points, at least._

XXX

The other man chuckled at him, a sound that, in the past, hadn't spelled good things. "I could say the same thing about you." Heh, oops. Was that losing his cool or…being normal to Peter? He recalled several snarkier things Peter had delivered even while they were at odds with each other; enemies; of course he had other sources for Peter's idea of manipulating, teasing, pranking and interacting.

XXX

"I think I'd have to say that every EMT who managed to get past the first breaker - it happens after a couple months in the seat - develops a pretty morbid sense of humor. You kind of have to. Every day, every person you go see, they're always hurt, a lot of the time ungrateful or uncooperative. I'm not saying that's wrong or they're bad people," Peter's voice softened and gentled remarkably, "they're just people." Then his tone went back to normal as he said, "But it wears a person down. You get swung on by a rowdy drunk or cursed at because something hurts and you can't make it stop instantly - there's a certain attitude towards it you have to learn or else the breaker breaks you."

XXX

His companion continued in the same vein and for once (for once in his life!) he didn't care one bit. He did _actually_ want to hear about Peter's job, gone though it may be, it didn't matter at all. He tilted his head and shifted his weight to get more comfortable, watching Peter's face where he could as he spoke and searched. He spoke about breakers. _Wait…breakers?_ That idea confused him coming from Peter.

Sylar watched the man's face and noted the changes in his voice as he talked about people, in general, that were injured and hurt. 'They're just people' stuck out at him, it barely made sense to him, actually. _How... why does he think they're 'just people'? No one is 'just people'._ His gut clenched when Peter spoke of losing someone; first for his own loss, that is murders, which led to the most…prominent and as yet unaddressed kill. Badly he wanted to ask of Peter, 'what do you know about loss?' not including Nathan, of course.

XXX

Peter opened the cabinet above the drawer and found himself looking at drinking glasses, mostly mismatched. He sorted through them with his left hand like he expected to find something behind them, which was absurd, but he did it anyway. "The next breaker comes the first time you lose someone - and not the first time someone dies, because yeah that's hard, but it's the first time you make a mistake and you realize, you _**know**_ , that your mistake killed someone. If you'd done what you were supposed to do, if you'd done something different, they'd still be alive. A lot of people wash out then." He stared at the cabinet without really seeing the glasses anymore. He closed it and moved on to the one next to it: plates.

XXX

Half-aware, he saw Peter 'looking' for something in the glasses before he took on the plates. 'A lot of people wash out then' was so much more true than Peter knew and it made Sylar's gaze fall away from the other man's face, his own flickering over emotions he probably had little right to feel. Still, the former EMT went on, his voice dulling and that made Sylar ache by proxy.

XXX

Peter's voice got a little hollow. "The next one after that is when you realize you're not really making a difference. No matter how good you are at your job, there's always more calls and a lot of the time it's the _same_ people for the _same_ thing." He looked at the counter, frowning. He rubbed the edge of the brace against the counter and sighed. "Makes you just want to yell at them to quit fucking up their lives already.

"If you can make it past all of that, you're usually set until your body starts giving out." _The pay sucks, too_ _._ He smirked and looked over at Sylar, wondering if he should continue carrying the conversation, or shut up, or figure out something to ask the other man in return that didn't touch on the last few years. _I wonder if he's got any cool watchmaking stories? I suppose if he doesn't, I could tell him about that guy in the house on the island, where I had to cross that icy footbridge…_

XXX

_That explains why people yell at me_ , it dawned on him quickly, _but it's not because they care. It's because you're fucking someone_ else's _life up. That explains Bennet and Angela and Peter. They won't help you because_ you couldn't change. His insides were already a little funky from a deep, long-overdue laugh moments before, but this made him uncomfortable, his feet shifting as he swallowed.

Peter glanced back and he straightened, not tensing, just covering up his adverse reaction, nodding at him and forcing a quick grin. _Unlike you, my body doesn't give out. My mind does. When it isn't being swept under the carpet or forced into police officer's heads._ "Totally listening, man," he said, just so Peter wouldn't stop. It wasn't like the things Peter said would affect him permanently, but the medic was so perceptive and he had no idea he was doing it. "I've heard that about medicine." Not detailing the fact that as a kid he once considered being a doctor 'when he grew up'.

_The one and only Brain Doctor, Neurosurgeon M.D, slightly used; a.k.a. the Boogeyman. I'm so special now_ _._ It made him wonder how much he'd thrown away those years ago the moment Suresh senior walked in his door. _Clearly a lot_ , he supplied himself all-too-helpfully. Sylar was aware he'd missed whatever life-train that was supposed to make his stop. There hadn't been a lot of options. Why had every decision, every option always been a catch-twenty-two? In the end, he'd pleased himself, 'looked out for number one' because even when Virginia and Elle had been alive, even when he 'was a Petrelli', that was all he'd had. All he still had. He blinked and tried to focus on something else, desperate to do that.

XXX

Peter was getting a kind of weird 'read' off Sylar, not that this was terribly new as he didn't read people as well as he once did, and Sylar was fairly opaque under the best of circumstances. But this was a different weird than the previous weird. The man's smile was forced and whenever Peter looked over at him, he changed his body language from whatever it was unobserved, to whatever he was trying to project. While Peter considered that, he opened the refrigerator and looked at the contents.

Peter nodded to Sylar's observation. "Yeah, burn-out rate's pretty high." He shut the fridge. "I'll tell you another story." It was something to fill the time and reduce the awkwardness of the silence between them, and maybe even, Peter was hoping, reduce some of the latent hostility in the air. Just because he was talking to Sylar didn't mean he was happy with him, but as long as they studiously avoided talking about anything 'important', Peter could unwind a little and be civil.

He headed back to the bedroom, walking by Sylar and expecting the other man to follow him. He assessed the room, then started in on the dresser. "Last winter we had a bunch of snow, it had melted a lot, then refroze and it snowed again. So we had like an inch of ice under three or four inches of snow, which was also melting now – really nasty. Most people had enough sense to stay in though, for once, and we'd been lucky – me and Hesam, that is – if you want to call 'boring' lucky and a lot of EMTs do. We'd pulled transfers all day and had hardly gotten our boots wet. Transfers are when we move patients from one clinic to another. There's not much work involved, because the nurses will have them prepped and packed when you get there and pick them up at the door when you drop them off. You're just a glorified taxi service."

XXX

Sylar tagged along behind Peter in his search for…lint or his dead pet moth or something, thoroughly enjoying hearing his voice. Not that it was Peter's, but that it was _a_ voice and it spoke to _him_. And on top of that, he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a story beyond _/'My boys have been such a disappointment. But you…I can give you what all boys crave from their mothers; inspiration and guidance'/_ along with his given name from dear ' _Mommy_ '. He grinned as Peter launched into another tale, the ache in his heart slowly fading away due to the amusement in the man's voice, knowing that they could have been brothers or close to it had they met under alternate circumstances.

His expression was open from the stories, even if Peter didn't think he was sharing anything, indeed he probably didn't see it, not that it mattered. Sylar took every word at face value. He chuckled at _lucky_ being the same thing as _boring_ and that struck him as just Peter's speed. It occurred to him to wonder just where Peter found the time to rescue the world (not just New York and his friends and family) and keep a full-time, full-responsibility job.

Sniggering at the image of Peter being a glorified taxi service was really the cherry on top of the story.

XXX

He didn't see anything of interest in the dresser, not even porn this time. He wandered into the closet, avoiding the nightstand for both porn- and gun-related issues. It was a little surprising the place _had_ a walk-in closet. The clothes were all out of date. Whoever had lived here was a big guy, around the middle more than tall. "So there we were, crashed in the break room. I was watching one of the Die Hard movies – it wasn't the first one, which is the best, so I wasn't real invested in it. Hesam was snoring. He'd been out late the night before with his brother at some karaoke club. Then the call came in."

XXX

Sylar kept his grin and moved into the bedroom behind Peter, poking aimlessly around over a bookshelf as the other man took to the closet. He was instantly forced to bite his lip over about a million "closet" jokes. _Oh, Peter…I see what Nathan was talking about with you. So naïve._

XXX

Peter opened some boxes in the closet a bit hesitantly, then relaxed. Bills, paperwork, records. On the last box, he jerked. Porn. _Ah!_ He knew that had to be around here somewhere. He shut the box, shook his head, colored a bit and left the closet, heading to the bathroom. He went on with his story. "The call was for a nonresponsive out in the middle of nowhere. I didn't even know we had a nowhere, New York City, but Hesam said he recognized the address and we went. It was this hilly little undeveloped district and the roads hadn't been plowed yet. On the way there, we got some details: the police had been dispatched, too; the subject's brother had gone by his house that morning and couldn't raise him so he walked around the place and could see in the windows that he was all slumped over in a chair and wouldn't respond to hammering; doors and windows all locked."

XXX

Hearing a sudden movement, he looked to see what the cause could be; Peter merely held a box, exposed for a moment, but he couldn't see inside from his position. The man closed it with an odd look as he left the closet in favor of the bathroom. Feeling sneaky and still able to hear Peter's voice, he padded inside himself, taking up the exact box that made his companion's expression so…whatever. Lifting the lid he was instantly stared in the face by a naked woman…on a magazine of course, but he practically threw it away from himself.

He'd seen women naked a time or two and all that, but _porn_ wasn't…he barely restrained himself from looking around to see if he'd been caught by Virginia. It was just that ingrained in him. A blush found itself on his face at the thought that Peter Petrelli had just seen this same magazine. He'd never owned a speck of porn or anything of the sort. Of course, he had used his library card to read a few romance novels as a teen. They were….cliché and predictable; no characters or real-life aspects to be found. None of it was his style. The magazine…model, he supposed he could call her, had no features on her face, where her face would be rather. Instead it was just blank skin with no hint of nose or eyes or mouth. He narrowed his eyes back at Peter. That probably did cut down on the value for him.

XXX

Peter found a box of bandages in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. A quick glance inside revealed they'd work for his knuckles. He set them out. "So we get there. Hesam's still hung over and there's no way we're getting the rig down this windy little driveway the guy has, so I get out on foot and head in. The police car had gone ahead, but I go over this rise and there it is stuck in the snow, one cop with it trying to get free and the other had gone ahead like I was doing. So it was a good thing we didn't try it ourselves. We'd have slid right down the incline into them. I go on and I'm sure getting my boots wet now, because it was slushy and a mess and I'm having to really watch my step with the ice under all of this."

He finished with the bathroom and headed out, recovering his messenger bag and moving to the dining room with it and the box of bandages. "Because all we need, you know, is one of us to slip and fall and need extraction – that's always embarrassing. I finally look up, because I'd been watching my feet and following the tracks of the other cop, and see that right in front of me is this rickety old wooden bridge – the only way to get over to the house." He glanced up at Sylar. "I kid you not – a freaking footbridge like out of a bad movie, with planks missing and only one rail, which looks on the edge of falling off. The other side has a rope and honestly it looks more reliable. The thing's covered with ice and it's above this little stream – I'd like to say a river, because really, when it's wider than you can jump across, it doesn't matter how much. If I fell in that thing I was going to be drenched in freezing cold water. It was all swollen from the melt."

XXX

Snorting to himself (the blood in his face rearranging itself by now), he moved to the dresser, just to be _doing_ something. Peter gave excellent details and he was able to follow the story, practically see the moment in time for himself and he appreciated that. Sylar wasn't surprised by how animated the other man was; Peter held his singular audience captive regardless. But when it came to the point about the 'river' as Peter dubbed it, Sylar did speak up in its defense: "I think that's a stream, actually," he suggested quietly, his voice quiet because it didn't matter if Peter heard or not. It did matter if he stopped _talking_.

XXX

He took off his old bandages and began to apply new ointment after wiping off the old. "I could see where the cop had slipped a couple times, but he'd made it. I started across. Speaking of the cop, all this time he's banging on the guy's door with his crowbar, trying to get in and all I can think of is how we're going to get the guy back if he's dead or unconscious. Well, actually, all I could think of was if one of these planks was going to break under me, or if I was going to slip on the ice. But I got across."

XXX

Sylar dragged his fingers over the random objects on the dresser without seeing them. Peter seriously did that for a living? Then again, who was he to talk, not that he made a living out of it. Sylar kind of made _death_ out of it. Momentarily he was distracted with Peter's long-gone, rather irrelevant conundrum: how to get the man back over the bridge, but his attention was snapped back once the rescue got within the house in the story. He watched Peter who was now re-bandaging his hand, properly this time.

XXX

"Now it's just me and the cop. Hesam's come over the hill and the other cop has given up on getting his car out, but neither of them are all that interested in trying that deathtrap of a bridge. We manage to force the door and head in. We go through the house – it smells pretty musty, but not bad; it's warm; it's dead quiet. We go in the den and there the guy is, slumped over just like his brother said. But his color really isn't all that bad and about as I notice that, I also notice this huge hearing aid on his ear."

He chuckled. "Cop touches his shoulder. Guy wakes up." He laughed again. "He's perfectly fine. Battery ran out on his hearing aid or something and he fell asleep in his chair. Nothing to worry about." Peter started putting new bandages on his right knuckles, smiling warmly. "Nothing to worry about, of course, except getting back across that bridge." He glanced up at Sylar, really looking the guy over, trying to read if he was still 'off' on his emotional read or if he'd settled during the story.

XXX

At first he blinked. Then Peter explained about the battery and he had no choice but to laugh again. _Peter_ _really is good with people, isn't he?_ Sylar thought to himself, his amusement tapering off and his chest felt funny in its absence. _Look at what he does; easing the tension, telling me what I probably need to hear and probably what he wants to talk about_ _instead of what I asked for._

His head tilted to make eye contact with Peter as he looked back from his self-care, Sylar's own face was still pleased and much more calm. He'd quickly slapped down the memories of Virginia's own hearing loss from his younger days. _Choosing_ not to recall how he'd had to repeat everything in his quiet, shy child's voice and how it annoyed her to anger. It got better after puberty when his voice broke and he rumbled instead of squeaking and whispering.

"Sounds to me like you're the risk-taker of the group," was what he said, thinking, _we're so different, but god, if he isn't just like me in some ways_. He knew that would be a bad case of over-sharing and not knowing a good thing when he saw it and avoided glancing at Peter's busted hand as he delivered his comment.

XXX

Peter laughed off Sylar's comment. "Yeah, maybe, but I've gotten in a lot of trouble over that. I'm not a very good partner…or rather, I'm not good at it the way my partners want me to be." He leaned back, frowning, and reached over to flick at one of the bits of waxed paper from the bandages. Hesam's words came back to him: _'You run off the second we get on scene. I'm a chauffeur.'_ That had stung - really stung. Being called a chauffeur or taxi driver was one of the worst insults EMTs could sling around at each other. Having abilities and concealing them from Hesam had driven a wedge between them, at a time when Peter's only social outlet was his work.

He felt resentful and grumpy about his partners, which was what inspired his next story choice. "Here's one that's bothered me for a long time." Peter stood up and gathered his bag. They were done here, as far as he cared, so it was time to move on to a new apartment. "Maybe you'd like to hear it." He laughed a little hollowly. "It's not like I've ever had the chance to tell it to anyone."

XXX

Sylar swallowed hastily. _Er, what? Good at what now, exactly?_ Peter delivered it so honestly that he was clueless as to how Sylar might be (and was) taking his words. "Last time I checked it was about the patient, not the partner," he replied, voice a little reedy. He watched the man closely out of the corner of his eye as the storm grew in Peter's expression. He tilted his head, eyes widening as his companion (not to be confused with 'partner') was about to let him in on the equivalent of a secret. _Whoa_ _…_ he didn't know what to say or do for that one; it shocked him to the core.

Then it struck him. Peter had nothing to lose now. What good was a fucking secret when there was only one person to know? _He's not entrusting you with anything, get over it_. He did slowly, but his lower lip jutted out a moment as he thought. The creepy laugh put him off and he didn't like considering what this man would have to have seen to utter it so well. Peter was on the move again and he followed as a faithful shadow on to the next frontier, AKA apartment. _Then again….he doesn't have to share this, but he is anyway._

XXX

The next apartment was another messy one, but not with trash. It was cluttered and full of things, very much like Sylar's place, but the objects themselves were different - not books and clocks, but crafts and carved wood and pottery. _Huh_ _._ _Neat_ _._ Peter smiled a little. There was a lot to see here and that pleased him. He started in on the living room while he talked.

XXX

The not-so final frontier was crowded and cramped with something Sylar would have called junk had it not been so similar to his own apartment. Objects littered the floor and nearly every available flat surface and he felt right at home, oddly enough, in the ocean of stuff. Peter looked happy, but Sylar was busy stroking at a carved quail figure. Whoever had lived here before, the guy was into pottery, carving and some leather working and toy-tinkering. In other words, his stuff could be useful. Peter looked around on his own as he launched into his third and probably a genuine horror story. How could he resist?

XXX

"A couple years back, just after I'd started as an EMT, I didn't have a regular partner. I just took whoever I was assigned to. So me and this guy, we got called to a violent psych. There were two cop cars there, a third arriving, and five different people had this one guy pinned down on the grass. We get out and as it turns out, no one's really bad hurt, but the guy's not calming down, and they're going to send him in for evaluation. One of the cops asks me if we have a body bag.

"I say no, because we don't. And I'm not too wild about what he's suggesting, but I know it happens." He looked over at Sylar, realizing he needed to explain that before the other man got the wrong idea. "A body bag can be used as a makeshift restraint. It's thick canvas and it keeps them from thrashing around. We're not allowed to have a guy handcuffed in the ambulance without a cop right there with us and even then it's iffy, but we can have them strapped down and by the law that's fine." He gave a shrug and a roll of his eyes to indicate what he thought of that, then went back to searching, looking at a series of nesting eggs made up to be…dogs in suits? Something like that.

XXX

He straightened up, glancing at Peter as he blurted out something about body bags. _Has he ever been in one? He is on the 'good' side of the law…sort of_ _._ The medic explained the usage of the body bag and he nodded, turning towards a full table, poking around on it. His eyebrows rose slightly as Peter explained the laws, rather, the rights of the 'patient' such as it was. _Well, you learn something new every day_ _._ He agreed with Peter on this one; whatever that law or practice was, it was ridiculous. Not to mention it inhibited saving people. Not that he gave a damn.

XXX

"My partner gets on the line and has them send us over a body bag. I try to talk to the guy, but he's cursing and struggling and really strung out, plus the cops aren't letting up and there's no way for me to get a connection with him. The other ambulance gets there and we get him in the bag, long story a little shorter. Just at the end, he manages to spit right in the face of one of the other EMTs, and after everything else we'd been doing trying to handle this guy, she lost it, tried to kick him, screamed back at him. Now this guy had been saying everything under the sun at us that was offensive and…"

Peter frowned, thinking back on that, seeing the scene, hearing the insults. He stopped looking at things and just stood there tensely, because it was provocative even in memory. "Her partner drags her off; she gets in their rig to drive. Her partner gets in the back of mine, with the patient and my partner. My partner tells me to drive. He knows I haven't been around long." Peter reached up and scratched lightly at the bump on his chin left by Sylar's fist, then up to his forehead in a nervous gesture.

XXX

Sylar engrossed himself physically in sorting through the tools of the previous occupant. He took up a small pick that he knew to be from the leather working and clay-carving station; an awl and he might have a use or two for it. There was a nice sized flat-head screwdriver that he stole as well. _Can never have too many_ _screwdrivers_ _._ Peter spoke on about the experience; a wild raving lunatic by the sound of it causing his medical teams some disturbance. His mouth twitched in amusement at the idea of the medical lady being spat on…and then throwing a tantrum, but he knew the conclusion of the story when Peter said that the partners got in with the loon-patient. _No punch line for this one, I think_.

XXX

"I drive. I hear some noises from in back. I know what they're doing, but I turn up the radio chatter and put on the music. I didn't look in the rear view. We get to the psych ward. Patient seems same as before - violent, psychotic." Peter looked at the ceiling and sighed, then headed for the bedroom. "I guess they didn't hit him in the face. But that bothered the hell out of me."

XXX

The other man moved again, with a sigh, obviously still frustrated over something years past and he tagged behind at a distance, sensing the air to be….potentially unwelcoming. Into the bedroom they went, the exploring part fading to the background of the story-telling. Sylar got his ending, the one he predicted, too. And it was somehow offensive to his idea of who Peter was, somehow that was a little insulting, why he couldn't say. _You're_ _supposed to be the hero_ _._ That seemed to come from the additional person in his head, but he felt the same.

XXX

He glanced back at Sylar. "I try to tell myself that if I'd known what they were going to do, I would have tried to have my partner drive so it wouldn't have happened. But then even after I knew, I didn't stop the rig. I didn't report my partner. I just kept driving. But I never partnered with _him_ again." He shook his head. "There was no one I could even talk to about it." But it felt good to get it off his chest after all this time, sort of like a confession. _What a weird idea - Sylar listening to my sins. Ha._

XXX

Sylar stared head-on at Peter, not bothering to spare him the gaze he'd been told was intense. _For all your morals, you're so human, Petrelli_. The rest of his mind was having difficulty with what he'd been told. It didn't matter now; the loony patient was long gone, Peter didn't work at Mercy any longer and so couldn't report the former partner. Peter had no responsibility to the public any longer and 'people were people'.

Peter Petrelli essentially stood by and watched someone get beaten. From Sylar's perception the incident in and of itself was unamazing. _One_ _guy gets beat and you bottle it up like this? How many years?_ In truth, Sylar would walk by that and not feel a thing other than smug humor and a sense of normality. Peter couldn't see the _world_ , he saw the people in it.

His expression as he pinned the other man with his eyes was probably one of stern question. 'Really?' and/or 'Why?' It set his teeth on edge, making them almost itch in anger at Peter's thoughtless hypocrisy. _'_ _That totally explains your routine with the goddamn nail gun,'_ was so close to slipping out. _It's okay so long as you're_ _not the one watching, hm?_ "Ever consider that he deserved it?" was what he said, stiffly nonetheless. ' _It's how the world works, you innocent kid_. _And I thought that people were your responsibility_.'

XXX

Peter wanted to cringe from that intense gaze, but despite feeling contrite, he wouldn't do that in front of Sylar – glare or no glare. Instead he turned partly away, literally giving a cold shoulder to the stare. He looked back at Sylar's question though. "D-deserve it? No one d-" He looked Sylar up and down with the briefest flick of his eyes, remembering who he was talking to. Stiffly he said, "Not for cursing at people and spitting on them."

XXX

Sylar gave a deadly glare at the shoulder he was presented with. _He thinks he can brush it off? No one deserves it my ass_. He got no response and Peter looked a bit peeved overall, but he didn't chuckle since that hadn't…necessarily been his goal. Peter knew his fault and now Sylar did, they glared, they shrugged, they moved on. _Man-code_ (they were certainly not in the realms of ' _Bro_ -code').

"If you're following the moral straight-and-narrow, your partner, such as he was, deserved something he didn't get from you," he delivered honestly (as if Peter was interested in his warped morality), cocking his head forward and raising his brows briefly to Peter as he knelt to peer under the bed. Weirdos like Samson would probably keep nick-knacks and other useful junk in odd places and it would allow him to avoid eye contact rather neatly. "But I'm sure you know that."

XXX

Peter pursed his lips at Sylar's comment about what Peter's partner deserved. "What?" he said before he could stop himself, but then shook his head and muttered, "Never mind," to head off any potential answer. Instead, he looked down and brooded, taking Sylar's comment to heart and really thinking about it. _What did my partner deserve that he didn't get? My support? I let him do it. My help? Not happening and no, no work partner 'deserves' my help to do something unethical. If he deserved anything, he deserved to get written up for it. Should I have talked to him privately maybe and jumped his case about it? I was the rookie; he wasn't going to listen to me. Of course, maybe I should have said something anyway_ _._ Peter's brows drew together. _It's not about what he hears. It's about what I say._

He leaned his back against the wall, driving his left hand into his pants pocket and letting his right hang. He met Sylar's eyes for a moment, then looked away and down. It was sort-of an agreement. _Okay, I should have talked to my partner. I should have told him someone knew, someone didn't approve. I enabled it by not speaking up. Somehow I doubt that's what Sylar's implying_ _._ He sighed a little, but kept himself from nodding to 'I'm sure you know that.' He suspected he and Sylar weren't talking about the same thing so he was silent, staring at the floor and mulling over the situation from years ago and the words exchanged today. He hadn't told the story with any intentions of drawing parallels between the violent psych and Sylar. _I need to be more sensitive to who I'm talking to_ _._ He frowned, listening to Sylar rummage under the bed. The list of things he couldn't talk about here was pretty long.

XXX

Sylar studiously didn't open his mouth on the other man's inability to speak to someone. _I'm not gonna touch that one. Again with the hypocrisy, too. So horrible when it happens to you, precious Peter_ _._ He pulled out boxes from under the bed, rifling through them for something of technical appeal, ignoring his companion for a few moments.

He brought out a pack of pro-diamond filers, ten in all, a perfect addition to his collection of tools, and a cross peen hammer, then continued on his search. He found various wall hangings, pots, tools, random clothes that slipped under the bed (mostly socks, eck), papers and toys (really how old was this guy?), a guitar…

Something ticked in his head and he drew out the instrument, not quite sure why he did. _Peter plays…sort of_. He exhaled a little in relief at finding something to take away his temptation of anger. _Nathan_ _does come in handy now a days_. "Guitar…?" he offered up hesitantly because he didn't feel the guitar was wholly his gift and that bothered him. It was akin to telling secrets and scars under hypnosis. But as much as he hated it, he needed it, too.

XXX

Then the other man straightened, pulling out something big. He was on the other side of the bed from Peter. Whatever the object was, Sylar looked at it blankly for a moment, then offered it up.

"A guitar?" Surprise flashed across Peter's features, obliterating the gloominess that was threatening to settle there. "Oh wow. Let me see that." He took it from Sylar's hands, eyes for it alone. It was a steel-string acoustic guitar with a light buff finish. He could see a traced pattern on the wood where apparently the apartment's craftsman resident ( _imaginary_ _resident_ _,_ Peter corrected himself) had planned to paint or enamel a design on it. A slow smile grew across his face. "It's been a long time since I've played a guitar."

The warm memories of sitting at the piano with Emma bubbled to the surface along with more distant recollections of the punk band he'd been in during high school. He sat on the edge of the bed, back to Sylar, and held the instrument as if to play it. The strings weren't tight, but that didn't matter. His right hand was immobilized anyway. He rested the fingers of his left on the frets and stepped through a few positions, trying to remember.

"Cool," he said happily. "You know, this would be great physical therapy for my hand in a few weeks." He looked back at Sylar, the previous tension dispelled as if forgotten, and asked, "You said you could play the piano some. Any other instruments?"

XXX

Peter looked up quickly from where he'd been sulking _(_ _wasn't_ my _damn_ _story_ _)_ and cradled the unfinished guitar, that even Sylar could see was beautiful. "I know," he replied, addressing Peter's playing. Obviously that was all he'd intended to say, but his brain wriggled and reminded him that that was privy information, so he hastened to speak up again to cover the pause.

"You look like you know how to handle that." _Oh_ _,_ well _done_ _._ _He won't suspect a thing with that type of smooth recovery. Sound like a girl with a goddamn crush_. He longed to rub his face, but kept casual, leaning against the foot of the bed stand as he watched Peter.

"Guitar is actually doctor recommended for hand therapy, yeah." Peter was instantly sucked in, latching onto the instrument with a passion evident on his face, what little he could see of it through those floppy bangs from his place behind and to the side of the medic. Anything that had gone wrong that day was forgotten by both parties it seemed as Peter chatted a little. Both bodies were relaxed as was the air between the two.

"I played the triangle in band," Sylar deadpanned and nodded with seriousness. He kept his expression one of light accomplishment. Peter was obviously, hopelessly out of his depth when it came to jokes; he hadn't ever joked with Sylar, King of Sarcasm. He held the pick, the filers and the hammer in one hand and went on, "Then came the bagpipes sophomore year. That was hard to practice with in an apartment complex in Queens, let me tell you. The nose flute was always my dream, though."

XXX

Peter felt a prickle of irritation at the 'I know' - Nathan's memories and Sylar's condescension cut at him even through the odd happiness he was feeling. But Sylar tried to cover it, or maybe he was just elaborating and either way Peter let it go. He had the strange feeling the guitar was _his_ , sort of like the bear - something he wanted, something he was going to hang onto. He wasn't normally a possessive type of person, but the whole of this world belonged to Sylar and Peter felt like such an outsider. He felt like he was here at Sylar's mercy, but there wasn't anywhere else he could _go_. Sure, he could go off by himself and be alone. But come on, Sylar was better company than being alone. Most of the time. Usually. Or at least he _could_ be - Peter had seen that in bits and pieces. If he could just get past what was between them and see Sylar as he really was … Now that was a laugh.

Speaking of which: the triangle? Peter looked at him blankly. It was a pretty standard joke. Yes, he recognized it. But although Sylar had laughed at Peter's funny story, their positions were now flipped and it was Peter getting the ribbing. He didn't know how to react at first. When Sylar went on, Peter started to smile and then laughed at the part about the nose flute. Sylar did have a pretty big nose. The mental image made Peter chortle. He wasn't relaxed enough to laugh out loud, but his grin was wide and easy. He shifted to turn more towards the other man, opening up a little.

XXX

Of course he was making that up, but it was to garner a response. Peter asked things and expected things a certain way and Sylar did so love to throw people for a loop, catch them off balance. Honesty did the trick most of the time, he'd found. Well…that wasn't entirely accurate; he himself seemed to throw people for loops and not in a good way.

Without abilities, he was (almost) an average guy…with above average problems. Maybe it was time for Peter to see that. _/"I'm_ _not a good guy…but I'm not all bad either."/ Stupid Sam_. It was uncanny how he knew to sound _just_ like Sylar. _Word for word_. That's what had thrown him. But in the end, Sam was another puppet.

To keep the man's attention where he wanted it, he stood smoothly (more graceful then he felt with a dull pounding in his head and a crick in his back). Bracing his feet shoulder width, sliding his fingers into his pockets, he said in a low, intimate voice, "And don't 'what?' me, sweetheart. I know you enjoyed nailing me more than you let on, Peter Petrelli." There it was; his invitation. Out in the open.

He accompanied it by giving Peter a look that the empath would probably manage to mistake anyway; he allowed need and enough lust into his eyes while they brushed all over Peter. _I could_ _play_ you _,_ his gaze projected.


	13. Dialing It Back A Notch

Day 7

Just when Peter thought things were easing between them, Sylar rose and took up an odd pose - not quite confrontational or defensive, but way too tense. It put Peter on alert. _'_ _Sweetheart?' Did he just call-_ But by then Sylar had delivered the rest of his sentence and " _ **What?**_ " was pulled from Peter's throat despite (or maybe because) of what Sylar had just said. It was almost comical in the startled, yelped delivery. His mind repeated Sylar's line to himself several times as he fairly jumped off the bed, guitar in hand. His skin tingled where Sylar's eyes swept over it and he bared his teeth slightly. His initial expression was somewhere between guilt and fear. It took a little bit too long for 'outrage' to register.

XXX

Peter actually stood in shock, the tone of his voice reading a little offended, too. He grit his teeth and purposefully didn't move a single muscle. The other man was squirming and mentally wrestling with what he'd said, but the outcome was impossible to discern. Sylar fully expected the fastest shut-down since high school with this, but….It had been a week. Which in retrospect was nowhere near enough time; Peter was still a baby here and not sure at all how he wanted or how he needed to handle living his life.

Sylar kept his gaze steady and non-threatening on Peter's face, catching the grimace he made head-on. He hated the prickles of doubt that signaled the loss of hope; it felt like being in a landslide, but he kept on. What more could he do? The check-up look he received was the usual; clinical and heartless. _When was the last time someone checked you out with serious intention?_ He didn't want to consider.

XXX

The need to have a weapon in his hand rose fast in his mind. All he had was a guitar. He liked the guitar. He wasn't going to hit Sylar with it. His eyes darted up and down the other man's form, but there was nothing in Peter's look that spoke of lust. He was just unsure. Sylar's hands were still in his pockets. Peter looked past him at the door. He'd have to walk closer to him to get out. But really, rather than running away, he knew he ought to say something; something other than squawking 'what?' at the man like a dog who'd had its tail stepped on. This couldn't go unanswered. And despite the reflexive desire to meet the statement with violence … they'd been getting along. _Where the hell is this coming from? Wait … was that an actual come-on rather than … some kind of challenge? We_ **were** _getting along - that's exactly what this is. Whoa. Talk about zero to sixty!_

Peter stood up a little straighter and blinked. "Maybe I just enjoy kicking your ass, Sylar. If you want to talk about nailing people, you're the one who went for a hammer as soon as I got here. Let's just dial it back a notch, okay?" Peter thought he knew what was going on here. He moved his right hand in gesture of de-escalation. He was certain he wasn't ready for whatever it was Sylar was implying here, but overreacting to it was … well, overreacting. And that looked suspicious.

XXX

The glance Peter made at the door finally made him look away with a mental noise of 'ah'. _Is it really that bad? He must be more righteous than I thought, giving up a chance to beat the hell out of me and get laid pretty much however he wants. Or he just came from_ Amanda _and he's in shock_. Peter spoke about his enjoyment of kicking Sylar's ass and he was confused, a slight furrow making its way between his brows.

His head tilted completely at the mention of his running for the hammer. _True…Surely he understands why I did it, though…right?_ Then again, this was Peter. He could pull off 'I have no idea what you're talking about' with perfect innocence and ease and no one would ever know the difference. _Is he being dense?_

He straightened a little at 'Let's just dial it back a notch, okay?' While he knew that was just Peter being Peter (a nurse and empath at that), it was still the adult-to-child tone with 'Let's just…' _Is he mocking me? I don't think he knows what just happened. That explains it. Better clarify it for him then_.

Sylar let out a false chuckle that probably read 'real' to someone who didn't know him (i.e. Peter) and pasted a grin on his face, "That's supposed to be the part where you say 'yes, it was amazing' or 'no, I didn't enjoy it.'" His kept his tone almost corny it was so light as to be teasing. He didn't fancy picking splinters out of his face from a guitar from the look on Peter's face. ' _Let's not patronize the serial killer, o-kay?_ '

_Or was that 'Let's not patronize the empathetic crazed nurse (while holding a guitar)?'_

_Oh, screw getting laid for the next hundred years then. No big deal. Never was a big deal. We'll be finding out just how in love he is with his hand until that day comes. Should have fucking waited….what were you thinking?_ Sylar didn't expect much of an answer as he had enough of one, not definitive, so he gave Peter lingering look of 'checking in' and partly turned away after a moment, keeping his face blank.

 _What did you expect? For god's sake, you killed his brother and he probably still thinks you raped his niece. He's not going to fall into bed with you the first damn chance he gets_. Somehow it still confused him a little. The extent of his offer was rather broad…revenge was a kind of given and he was still getting 'N.O.' Actually….he was getting 'grow up and slow down' which wasn't a no…yet. And the lack of specific signal (answer even) was what made him continue with his clarification earlier.

_It doesn't matter. You still have someone. And you still have such a long way to go._

XXX

"You- You … actually want an answer?" Peter looked a little nervous and thrown. He had absolutely no intention of being pinned down on this, because the truth said something about himself that he was really unhappy with. He intentionally stripped out the sexual innuendo and rephrased Sylar's question to something that was … not a lot easier to handle, but he figured of all the people in the world (the real world), Sylar would get what he was saying. "Did I enjoy torturing you and trying to kill you? Well, I dunno. I guess we could re-enact that and find out." His voice rose and he snarled, "In fact, I think I saw a hammer in the other room!"

He leaned forward on the verge of taking a step, before he caught himself. "Wait, wait." Peter raised both hands because this was just about to turn into threats if it hadn't already. He was in no condition to carry them out and even more importantly, the whole reason he was getting worked up was asinine. He looked at the guitar and put it on the bed carefully. He didn't want it involved, no matter what happened, and he'd seen Sylar look at it a couple times like he thought he needed to be wary of it.

XXX

Sylar knew from Peter's face that he'd struck out if not…worse; yeah, there it was. He shrugged at the comment about re-enactment. It didn't faze him. If Peter killed him, he killed him and he would have to live with that. If he didn't, Sylar lived and that was that. Brushes with death…rather, brushes with Peter would be exciting, full of adrenaline and heat with no powers to aid them. And he could really use some excitement.

His companion's voice took on that deeper, close-to-breaking quality that showed he was upset. _And that's the defining moment for my…is it_ our _?_ _Foray onto the mere_ subject _of sex in Hell_. _Well, it made a few exchanges at least. That's looking up_ , he thought dully. Peter made a move for the door, doubtlessly in search of the hammer he mentioned in the living room, so he stood still, impassive, watching as the other man surprisingly stopped himself short. _That's the only way he can control himself; stopping before he starts_. _Wonder that that makes me?_

XXX

"Wait. Please." He hesitated, looking at Sylar's expression, trying to read him. "I do **not** want to go over what has happened between us … before. Maybe for you, it's been three years. For me, that was a couple weeks ago." _I still want to kill you. Maybe a few stories and a couple smiles made you forget that I have some reasons to be pissed at you, or maybe you're such an out-of-touch sociopath that you can't understand why anyone at all would be pissed at you._ Peter's thoughts paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. _I don't think that's the case, exactly. Probably the former._ "I don't know what you're angling for, but whatever it is, I'm pretty sure I don't want to talk about it with _you_." _Not that I've talked about it with anyone else, either._

Having someone to open up to about his life was something Peter badly needed, but Sylar was pretty much at the end of his list of candidates for it. ' _Pretty much_ ' at the end - but it might amuse the other man to know that Peter's mother actually ranked lower than the serial killer. At least all Sylar was likely to do with the information was laugh at him and exploit it whenever Peter got in his way. His mother might ruin the rest of his life with it, and maybe lives of untold others. So … yeah, he trusted Sylar more than his own mother, sad to say.

XXX

Peter asked…told? him to wait; so he replied, completely calm, "I'm not going anywhere." Peter went about explaining himself and he stood still to take it in, his head having turned back towards the man at this time. "It's not a big deal, Peter. And it has been three years," he prompted softly, but firmly, looking up at Peter from under his brows. Of course Peter was still struggling; he hadn't healed yet, not even close. Sylar had been…forced into therapy, such as it was. _/_ _"But today we're gonna course-correct."/_

"I wasn't asking you to talk about it. I realize it…probably…came across that way," his voice shifted back to uncertain and soft, stuttering lightly, "I was...just making an...analogy," he sputtered out a little quickly. "Just forget I said anything, if you can. It's not important," he pressed a hand towards Peter, but kept his elbow close to his side in a placating gesture. He gave a tiny grin just to show he was serious and meant no harm, fighting the need to shrink back and pretend he wasn't there. _Invisibility was always a good power_.

"I'm, uh…gonna go…check the kitchen," _If that's okay_ , Sylar almost added, hooking his thumb in that direction. Ducking his head he shuffled out into the kitchen like he'd said, taking a moment for a deep, shaky breath once he found himself there. His hands shook as he leaned them on the counter top, staring blankly at it as he tried to reassemble after such a botched effort.

XXX

Peter stayed where he was until Sylar left, then sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. _What the hell was all that? 'Sweetheart?' Sarcasm, sure, but even the most snarky wouldn't call me 'sweetheart' unless they were a woman or playing at being gay. Or unless they_ _ **were**_ _gay. Or trying to say they were gay. Or were completely unconcerned about being perceived as gay_ _._ He looked at the door. _O-kay. I think this answers the 'Is Sylar even gay' question._ Peter thought about his own rather broad preferences that didn't have a lot to do with gender. _Hm. Actually, technically, it doesn't, really. All it says is that I'm not outside his range of candidates, which is a little creepy._

He shrugged. Sylar had walked off. Previously he'd asserted he wanted his partners willing. And now, he'd even demonstrated a realization of the awkwardness of the situation, so there was that. Sylar making a come-on was less upsetting than the idea that Sylar was making a come-on by referring to a highly upsetting moment in Peter's life, when he'd pretty much hit his nadir and tried to kill Sylar with his bare hands. More-or-less, depending on how someone counted Rene's ability, but then aside from that there was the nails and a few bits of near-gratuitous torture, which in retrospect bothered the hell out of Peter. That Sylar would even mention it so easily was bizarre.

XXX

Sylar was left totally in the dark if Peter caught his meaning at all. _What if he did_? he asked himself. _It doesn't matter_. _He doesn't want to talk about it anyway. You're going to have to deal with that. He's…I forgot how fragile he can be_. What had gone wrong? Was it the delivery? _Yeah, 'Hey, Pete, remember that time you took my powers and hit me in the head with a fucking 2x4?_

' _Then we beat each other up until you pinned me to a table with some handy nails…I think you wanted your brother back, but you know, that's really Parkman, Bennet and your Mom's fault cause they raped my mind and left me like a crushed, empty beer can. Forgive me for misinterpreting your fucking_ grinding _as_ _sexual when you were_ panting _and_ sweating _over me, eyeing my_ face _like_ candy _. Did I take the whole_ _'_ nailing _'_ _thing too far? I thought it was a good analogy. I've been here for three years and I need a goddamn_ connection _._ _Thought you might be it. We'd fit oh-so-well at the hips; I'm sure you know the_ drill _._ _What? You don't wanna fuck? What's_ your _problem?'_

Closing his eyes he scraped a hand rapidly through his hair, which completely failed at the ideal goal of keeping it back due to speed, but he had other things on his mind. _Shit…now I have to be around him and wonder what he knows? Goddamnit….I had to back off, too_ _._ His knuckles rubbed at his eye socket for a moment, ignoring the ache of the roughed- up knuckles for a moment, his headache screaming at him. _Bastard Peter_ , he thought uncharitably, left to stew on his own.

He heard the sounds of someone from out of sight and he stood straight and tried to smooth his face into innocence in case Peter was headed his way to take up the more painful option he'd offered a minute ago. Even if he had succeeded or had Peter come in, he wouldn't read as innocent, would he? Three years without a single sound hearing something he couldn't see set him off anyway and his nerves jangled again.

Another softer breath was taken before he began to mindlessly go about opening and shutting cupboards, moving utensils and cooking equipment around in the kitchen. He hoped the noise would fool Peter into thinking he was actually looking around in here for something so god-awful important where there had been silence from the kitchen not long before.

XXX

Peter shook his head, got up and went in the living room, bringing the guitar along with him. He searched through stuff a little more - there was plenty here to look at, even though he'd been through the room already. He wasn't really interested in what he was seeing, so he sat down on the chair in front of the crafting station and started tightening the strings on the guitar, plucking at them lightly as he did.

He was pretty much blowing off the whole incident. He didn't see what else to do about it. He wasn't going to forget Sylar said anything, but sure - he could act like he had. The guitar had a nice timbre to it. He looked forward to playing it. He knew Sylar could hear him, so he voiced out into the air, "You know, I think I might be able to play this even with my hand wrapped up, if I worked out some sort of tool to use as a pick. I suppose I'd be pretty lousy at it, but whatever. It's not like I'm going to bother the neighbors, huh?"

XXX

Peter spoke up, loud enough over the noise of the guitar, obviously tightened enough to use now, sort of, and over Sylar's own faked noises, which Sylar paused to hear. _Why do I care, Peter?_ He wanted badly to blurt it, too. "Oh…" he replied at the same volume, "The neighbors, yeah, don't get me started about those crazies." He rolled his eyes at the lame turn in conversation, but it beat silence…and wondering.

It was at times like this he wanted his most prized ability back; telekinesis; for the sole purpose of ripping Peter's head open to see what he was fucking thinking. That way he wouldn't have to worry or guess or wonder at what went on in that twisted gray matter. He would _know_. As a bonus he wouldn't have to feel like a chump for (attempting at) propositioning a man in a world devoid of people.

 _However I got here, whatever Fate or Destiny put me here didn't have my sexual preferences I mind clearly. Sex period, actually…at any time in my life._ Sylar tried not to feel less- than at that. _Fate, honey? I know you can hear me and when I get there I'm going to wrap my hands around your pretty throat and wring the life out of you_ so slowly _it will take me the rest of my life._

XXX

Peter made a semi-forced chuckle at Sylar's answer about the crazy neighbors in this place. "You are sarcastic about _everything_ , aren't you?" he said quietly, in a volume that might or might not carry into the kitchen. He didn't care, as he was talking to himself with that one. He smiled a little and continued the process of trying to get the strings adjusted _correctly_ now that they were tight enough to be usable. Peter didn't have the best ear for it but he wasn't in a hurry.

XXX

 _Oh, so you noticed_ , Sylar thought. He made to casually stroll over from the kitchen to the couch where he sat and picked at a large leather album, hand-engraved and old while he kept his eyes to himself. It was a trick he'd learned as a child: not seeing the other person's disgust helped.

XXX

Peter went back to fussing with the guitar as Sylar moved to the couch. He changed the subject, saying, "I saw a movie once. Guy alone in the world after a d-" Peter stopped, thinking about that vial he'd been duped into retrieving by Adam. _Someday I should tell Sylar that story. He'd probably get a kick out of it_ , he thought sourly. He frowned and went on, "after a disease wiped everyone out. He set up mannequins in the streets, gave them names, talked to them and pretended he wasn't really alone." He glanced up at Sylar, or at least in his direction. "I haven't seen any mannequins around here, so I guess you're still pretty sane." It was an attempt at a distant sort of compliment, saying Sylar had managed to hold it together over several years of isolation, and an oblique way of agreeing with Sylar's earlier assertion that for him, it had been that long. Peter was also rationalizing to himself why Sylar had said what he had just a bit before, in the bedroom.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar made a noise in his throat, "Read about that one, I think. I Am Legend?" The only point in bringing up movies let alone discussing them was for conversation and perhaps a trip down a more pleasant Memory Lane. He went so far as to glance at the guitar Peter held and the mangled paw he tried to strum with at the mention of his sanity.

_Sane as I ever was. We'll wait for him to change his mind the next time I do something that doesn't make sense. Think it was people that sent me over in the first place; he'd be pleased to know. Wait, did he just acknowledge the three years? Does that mean he's coming around?_

XXX

"Yeah, I think that was it - I am Legend. I saw part of it in the break room. One of the guys was going on about the differences between it and the book. I haven't read the book or seen the whole movie, so." Peter shrugged.

XXX

"A disease of super smart, super agile zombie/vampires, yeah." Sylar's hand barely paused over turning the page of the album he'd picked up that was surprisingly not full of photos (blank of faces as they would have been anyway). Comic strips from the newspaper filled it—of course without faces, but still. It had the dialogue bubbles and that was better than nothing.

 _Oh, Garfield!_ He chuckled lightly to himself, his lips quirking despite himself at the overweight, pessimistic cat and his hapless 'owner'.

XXX

Peter looked over, not sure what it was Sylar had decided to look at. It looked like an album, but it didn't hold pictures, he saw when Sylar turned a page. He noticed the lack of eye contact. Sylar was usually scrutinizing Peter closely, eyeing him, watching whatever it was he was doing. Now - not. Well, actually that made Peter feel a lot better, because it was a normal reaction: do something embarrassing, be embarrassed about it, act embarrassed in typical embarrassed ways. _That_ Peter could deal with. He could keep offering up casual conversation, keep inquiring gently of the man and talking about things he hoped were inconsequential and convey that faux pas or not, things were still okay between them. Or at least, as okay as they were likely to be between Sylar the psychopathic serial killer who was even more crazy than usual and Peter Petrelli the reluctant scion and black sheep of what Sylar had not yet killed off of the Petrelli family.

Peter thought, _We're certainly an odd couple, just not in any of the usual ways._

He threw out another invitation to discussion, saying, "I noticed you were collecting up some stuff. Is there anything in particular you'd," _like? Ah, bad phrasing. Very bad phrasing._ "Um, you're looking for? As far as, you know, things go. You had a lot of stuff in your apartment. What kind of stuff are you looking for? Maybe I could keep an eye out for it."

XXX

Sylar meanwhile semi-politely ignored the other man (tried to), perhaps for the first time since Peter had appeared. He was all nerves, still tense, and he wasn't looking for a conversation. "I'm not looking for anything. Tools and books are the things I collect." _And brains, Peter, are you volunteering?_ _Funny how he almost goes from saying I, Sylar the psychopath, am sane to I'm messy almost in the same breath_ _._ He wasn't bothered by it. He knew what his apartment was and he knew what he was.

XXX

"Tools and books," Peter repeated. "Okay. I'll watch for those." _Freaking broad categories. But what he picked up were little bitty tools. I'll look for those._

XXX

Normally Sylar would have smirked at his admitted dick-ish behavior. It would be his way of having fun with Peter. Not giving him specifics on what he 'wanted'—tools and books. He didn't, instead he kept flipping through the comics as if he cared, ignoring the man's tedious and rather useless offer. Sylar mostly hoped Peter would get over what had happened moments before and this was his way of dealing with it.

XXX

At Sylar's moment of silence, Peter resumed the dialogue, unwilling to let the conversation die. "I'm going to need a pick, but those are going to be hard to find," he paused before continuing, "If you have any ideas, let me know, okay?" Peter put the instrument's butt on the floor, bracing it with his right while he iteratively plucked strings and adjusted the pegheads with his left. He was trying to tune it – or at least get it to an approximation of properly tuned.

XXX

Sylar was speaking almost before Peter finished the 'okay?', "If you find one of those dish scrapers, I can cut it for a custom pick for your hand. But that's if you don't find a real one," he said with his attention torn between the comics and his companion as he butchered the tuning, wincing at the attempts.

XXX

"A dish scraper?" Peter thought about that. His dish-washing experiences were even more limited than cooking. "I've seen brushes and scrubbers and stuff, but you must mean something else?" He didn't know what a dish scraper was.

XXX

Looking at Peter for the first time since he entered the room, Sylar's eyebrows hiked up slowly and he blinked once at the man. "I….forgot who I was talking to. Someone alternately too rich or too busy to clean a dish," he delivered with little inflection, "It's basically a plastic chip that you use scrape off dried-on food with. If I cut it, it would make a good pick because that's all a pick really is. It has a nice worn down edge and-" He shrugged, realizing he didn't need explain how it looked.

"'C's right there, stop," his finger tapped the album's cover as Peter stumbled onto the correct sound with the guitar. From there, Peter _should_ be able to find the rest of the notes, but he lacked confidence in the man's ear. Sylar knew Peter was making an effort and he couldn't help the ingrained sense of patronization he was getting, but he knew a lifeline when he saw it. And that's what made him speak at all. Peter was overlooking his…mistake even if he wasn't forgetting it.

As soon as he thought of this he stuttered over it. He _is_ overlooking _? I hit him too hard, that's it_. _Rattled his poor brain_. Sylar blinked at the comics, suddenly unseeing. _I take that back. I was sane before he arrived_.

XXX

Peter stopped when Sylar asked, then twanged the string a few times and listened. _Yeah. Yeah, that does sound right_ _._ "Thanks, man."

XXX

He nodded in reply to the thanks and straightened comfortably in the couch, finally visualizing 'relaxed', not entirely sure if it was genuine or not yet. Really it was in his best interest. For the sake of his eardrums (and latent sanity therein) he wanted Peter to be in key.

XXX

Peter strummed it a couple more times, comparing the sound to the string next to it and beginning to work on that one. "That should make it easier on your ears later." Peter frowned a little and shifted uncomfortably. "You know, if you … I don't know if you … Well, I'm not very _good_."

XXX

Sylar said, "I don't mind. Music is music. I don't care to learn…yet." Give him another fifty to eighty years (not including Peter's presence) and he would be scrambling to get his hands on something new to learn.

XXX

Peter began digging himself deeper _on purpose_ here, playing up his insecurity. It wasn't like he had much of his ego tied up in whether Sylar liked his guitar-playing, but he thought there was a use in showing what looked like a weakness, making an appeal for a reassuring ego stroke or setting himself up for a cut-down. He wasn't invested in either response, but he wanted to know what the response _was_ to Peter being less than competent at something. "Of course you know that," he muttered to himself. "But maybe I'll get better. It's not like there's not plenty of room for me to practice where you don't have to hear it."

XXX

Sylar just gifted Peter with a blank stare with a hint of 'really?' The other man was pushing his bullshit button fast enough that Sylar, rather easily manipulated all-in-all, caught on. Rapidly. "You learned years ago and you probably haven't touched a guitar since then; it's natural and you're hand is broken. You'll get better," his voice lowered at the last sentence, indicating the end of that conversation with light threat.

After a moment Sylar cleared his throat, "Um…how about you? Looking for anything besides the pick?" Sylar felt that weird tickle that seemed to live in his guts at Peter asking what he wanted while he didn't return the courtesy. He would be well within his reason to clam up and not give Peter anything on the communication front, but the man was working whatever Petrelli, empathy, nurse ability that seemed innate to him. And it was working, damnit.

XXX

"What am I looking for here?" Peter set the guitar down and looked around the cluttered apartment. "I know this isn't how you take it, but … for me …" he made an expansive gesture at the place. "This is all your head, your mind, your thoughts, that we're trapped in and for whatever reason - Parkman, your subconscious, or both - this is how it manifested." Peter shrugged. "So maybe I can find out something about you in all of this. Or maybe if I see enough empty apartments I'll get that little voice in the back of my head to _shut up_. I'm sure you know the one - the one that keeps making me want to _look_ for people." He snorted. "Parkman's voice."

XXX

 _What? More about me…why? That doesn't bode well,_ he decided. _Good luck with that_. Sylar's expression did smooth into listening mode as Peter went over what he didn't believe yet again. While he wanted to hear the man's goals, hearing it still didn't help. It still made no sense; yes, the theory behind it was….sound-ish, but he didn't buy it. Three years of solitude said differently. His mouth tightened again, "Oh, I know his voice better than you can imagine." He found his eyes narrowing slightly. "Whoa, wait…" he held out a hand for 'stop', leaning back as he frowned. It took him a minute to actually formulate, "You're changing your story."

 _And don't think I don't know it_. _If_ stupid _and_ gullible _was all you got from the time I was your brother, you're dead wrong. Possibly literally_ dead _wrong._ _You have a cute face and you're empathetic, good at getting your way by being convincing, but your last name is still in the picture here._ "Why…" he shook his head and looked away, dismissing the question. _That made no sense. Had it been 'a few weeks ago' you would have left me to "rot in my mind". Why the hell do you care_ now _?_ _You're not even_ here _for_ me _!_

XXX

Peter replied, "I don't know if my story has changed. It's complicated. It's like the blind men trying to describe an elephant, so if it seems like what I've said at one point isn't the exact same as another point; it doesn't mean I'm trying to lie to you. It might just mean we haven't really explained much to each other because we're both …" He hesitated. "I don't trust you. Trust comes from being able to predict what someone's going to do next and the reason maybe it seems like I treat you like a mental patient is because I don't know you well enough to know what's coming next." He shrugged and straightened a little, lifting his elbows from his knees for the gesture. "I just don't."

He leaned back down. "I came here _to get you out_. It didn't work. We're stuck here. And from what I can tell, I might leave here tomorrow or in ten years or in a hundred. However long I have, my goal is _still_ to get out of here with you and have you fulfill that prophecy that … I saw." For some reason he shied from calling it his mother's power, or maybe it was that he didn't want to mention her name in this. "Thousands of people were going to be saved based on what I saw you do in that dream. And you're right - you don't strike me as the savior kind. Which is part of what confuses me here. I'm supposed to get you and go have you do this, and I don't think you _will_."

He shrugged again. "But … I was supposed to save a cheerleader, too, and that didn't work. She's dead. It's not like the precognition stuff ever made much sense." _Or the time travel_.

XXX

 _Oh, please. Don't bullshit me, man. He doesn't trust me, that sure hurts_ _,_ he thought with a mental roll of his eyes. _Ever occur to you, Peter, that survival is a mystery and I need one to have the other? Besides its…fun_ _._ Peter addressed something important to him and his head tilted in interest. _He_ _admits he treats me like an asylum resident. So he knows. Good_ _._ Annoyed and angry now at Peter's flagrant use of 'you're not the savior kind' despite having been saved at Sylar's hand before…

"That's wonderful, whatever. I'll show you around," he paused to draw Peter's full attention to a (more) serious matter, his voice harsh, probably threatening, not that he cared, "but the deal is you have to stop treating me like a charity case and mental patient. Since there's no one else here, my reputation won't suffer by my telling you I'm not actually _that_ insane." Sylar leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee to get closer to Peter's face in near-threat, "and I hate manipulators and liars." The instant he'd spoken his body language reflected content and he'd settled back to being comfortable, throwing his arms over the back of the couch as if he'd discharged his piece of warning.

XXX

Peter snorted a little and set the guitar aside for the moment. "Is there anyone who likes them? Manipulators and liars, that is?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on knees and making direct, serious eye contact, speaking in a low, steady voice.

He smiled a little, but he was completely serious when he said, "I'll make that deal with you - I'll quit treating you like a mental patient when you stop treating me like a kid." _You keep reminding me of my dad, and that seriously creeps me out. I don't think I can stand years of this arrogant condescension_ _._

XXX

 _I dunno, Pete. I'm looking at one now, to a certain degree_. Peter agreed and he grinned a little; the man's body language amused him in its mimicry and seriousness. _Progress is possible with this Petrelli, the sanest and most reasonable of the bunch._

His new goal _had_ been getting _"_ _help_ _"_ _(what a joke)_ , cleaning up his act, potentially ridding himself of powers if possible and making something of himself that the heroes would find…acceptable. Maybe getting a "connection" on the side, but that was…

The other man stood and Sylar followed with less speed. He held back the snort he longed to make at 'That's not what I'm here for'. Peter mentioned continuing on and he nodded.

"My week is wide open," he said just to irk his companion, waiting for Peter to lead the way out.


	14. Dream Jobs

Day 7

The pair had explored another two floors that day. Each time they left their findings in the hall and went into the individual apartment to search around. The air between them was much more relaxed and Sylar found himself enjoying it. Yes, of course, he'd been effectively stranded for three years and he was starved for companionship, but as much as he wanted to slip into it like the glove companionship or partnership should be, it felt odd. That was someone else's glove; one he wouldn't lie and say he didn't crave.

They parted ways when they reached Peter's door, Sylar following him out of habit it seemed and to get that last minute with the other man before they settled down to sleep and whatever it was Peter did. The medic didn't watch his back almost at all and that made him feel better, not that he'd been on the alert for being attacked particularly, but still.

Sylar trooped back to his apartment after a brief stop at Ralph's to pick up some jam and crackers since he already had his dinner in mind. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. _Not the same like Mo-Virginia used to make. The wrong way, but still_. She'd always used grape jelly. As a kid he'd thought she listened when he said he hated grape and as he grew up he knew she didn't listen to anything he said period.

Sylar climbed the stairs to his apartment as he felt anxiety begin to creep on him again. _Did I push him too hard? He's so young and naïve—those damn rose colored glasses._ Sylar tilted his head to himself in thought. _He seems to be losing those and that's probably on my head. Isn't everyone's loss my doing?_ He entered the hall, slipping into his apartment with relative silence that was inborn, shutting the door behind himself to go into the kitchen.

 _Mom always made the triangles. Five years old, twelve, eighteen, twenty-one; didn't matter to her_. Opening the _strawberry_ jam and stirring it up he got out the peanut butter, specifically the chunky brand his _mother_ hated so much. Sylar thought back to Ma's cooking. _/Strange how for a woman who could have anything she wanted in the world yet chose to cook when she had servants. He remembered getting the random peanut butter and jelly sandwich in middle school before Pete was born._

 _He recalled the parfaits and toast and oatmeal later on. He remembered missing it in boot camp. On the ship had been worse._ _Heidi_ _hadn't been that great of a cook either./_ Sylar blinked. _God, it never gets any less real. If only we had abilities, I could rewrite myself the right way, damnit. If I had abilities I could_ _…_ Could what? Force Peter to do what he pleased?

Something told him he still could as he smeared the thick gooey spreads onto the white bread, slapping them together and biting into it derisively. The food he had to prepare never tasted as good as it did when someone made it for him. Maybe that explained why he liked to eat out when he could afford it; when he was allowed; when he had time; when he could get there.

_Why does this hell seem to have everything I hate in it? No fiery pits or crucifixion crosses, no red demons with pitchforks because that just might make sense, but maybe this truly was Hell incarnate: having nothing of comfort with the illusion of normality. Hell was a slow-burn; it takes thousands of years, right?_

_But that doesn't explain Peter_ _._ Everything came back to that blasted little man. _He's got a gift, that_. Sylar moved slowly to sit at his cot and poke at his watches idly as he chewed. The headache was still present; his back was still out, his neck felt stiff as a board, and his face was swelling and throbbing. The ribs weren't too bad, but his head was a painful mess. Back to the question at hand; had he over played his hand? Had Peter understood? _I offered him heaven and hell in one package and I got…dial it back a few notches, okay?_

The men may have made a truce, no, a deal; it was more binding, at least it implied more bondage. He winced at his own word choice. _Strange how he wouldn't accept me as his brother even when I was the one doing all the good deeds yet I mind my own business for once and somehow end up in Hell and he comes running for me to save this Emma girl he's got the hots fo-_

Sylar head rose, eyes widened as he stared at the wall in sudden understanding. _He_ loves _her. I'm so damn sure he…goes "both ways", but that's why he won't. That and the small account of his brother. And he loves Nathan._ That just made things more awkward. _And somehow funny. What's that about being the last man on earth?_

 _For all I know he could have just come from being with her. It's been a week and he's been hurt and stressed and on his little hero quest I don't know why…But he isn't desperate_. That's _why_.

Sylar still longed to feel another's flesh with his hands, with his body, to taste something that didn't leave a dusty aftertaste on his tongue. He still longed for the thrill that shuddered down his spine and coiled in his loins. He longed to please and pleasure. He still longed to hear another's voice in his ear while he-

He cleared his own throat to remind himself where things stood. Play-tonic: sans any actual play. Hell, platonic wasn't even the right word, but he still hoped. A stray thought passed by about why he bothered to still hope for anything, but it disintegrated quickly.

It didn't occur to him to analyze his actual attraction, if there was any at all. Sylar knew he wasn't hard on the eyes by any means…he had his ways of getting what he wanted and he'd used them before. As his brain worked over his perceived problem and maybe it was a problem, he hit on something less pleasant.

 _The first time I try to hit on a guy with serious intent to fuck or be fucked and be fucked over and I get 'dial it back'_. Sylar couldn't begin to label or process the rejection at that point so he left it unattended because it had nowhere to be filed in his mind.

The knowledge of not knowing what went on in another person's head and for some reason the lack of the option to tear it open for the final answers was throwing him back to pre-Hunger days; pre-ability days where people's thoughts bothered him. To think that was how most people lived their lives…it had already driven him crazy.

Sylar finished his sandwich and dusted his hands free of crumbs into the waste basket because he hated vacuuming and he was no slob, despite his apartment's appearance. Laying back he gently propped a hand under his tender head and stared at the spot on his ceiling that had always reminded him of a set of bowling pins.

 _He has to come around. If you have to stall him from killing himself or play hero-trust-worthy so he doesn't give up and leave…you know you'll do it._ He frowned as he grew drowsy. _What was that he said about 'getting to know me'? Even if what he said is true…he doesn't need that kind of knowl_ \- He closed his eyes; Peter needed it if he was going to be _using_ that information to get him to save Emma.

 _Or….maybe…when he said mind games it went both ways; I don't play him and he won't play me_. That seemed like quite a concept. (If only he could control his inner jester to save his mind. Wasn't Peter here to volunteer his brain to be teased?) And awfully fucked of him to be more worried about being mentally fucked than physically tortured. Apparently being the most powerful man on the planet came with perks of paranoia. Or a paranoia of perks. Sylar's eyes popped open and he flipped his middle finger at the ceiling at Fate. "Suck that, babe. I'm onto you."

He found himself chuckling to himself. _Talking aloud to yourself now. Wonderful developments. Just…plain…wonderful…zzz_

XXX

Peter said his good-byes, such as they were, at the door of the apartment building. He didn't want Sylar coming inside. Later, he considered why he cared as he lingered outside his apartment door, checking the keys he'd picked up that morning to see which fit. He wasn't being territorial because the place was only tentatively his. Rather, he was trying to assert boundaries and see if they'd be respected. Sylar was sort of known for a high degree of home-invasion and breaking and entering, among his other crimes. When he wanted something, no one was safe from him. Not even the president.

But, ' _I wanted my life to change_ _,_ ' he'd said. Peter thought about that as he fished around in the pantry for something to eat. _How serious is he about that? Hm, tomato bisque. Is this one of those that needs milk? I don't think I have milk_ _._ He carried the canned soup over to the refrigerator and looked inside. _No milk. Huh._ He read the directions on the can. _Yeah, doesn't need milk. Dinner in progress._

 _Change how? And why? And does it have anything to do with Nathan interfering with Sylar attacking Mom and me at Thanksgiving?_ Peter didn't think Sylar would be answering these or any similar questions any time soon. He didn't trust. The shock of Peter's first appearance, when Sylar had been a little more forthcoming, had worn off. Of course, the watchmaker had also thought he might be talking to a figment of his own imagination then, so there had been no need to hide.

Peter didn't ponder it too much. After eating, he looked to his hurts, rebandaging everything that needed it and noticing that the blisters on his feet were looking better. He gave one last thought to Sylar opening the compression bandage for him that morning and being helpful, then went on to bed. He laid in the dark, wearing boxer shorts and nothing else, staring up at the bland, featureless ceiling. He had no idea what time it was and he didn't care. _No alarm clocks, no schedule, no nothing_ _._ He smiled to himself and let himself relax more deeply than he had for months. Maybe years.

He slept deeply, waking while it was still dark out. He considered, briefly, getting up and doing something useful with himself, then discarded the idea and sunk back into slumber. This time his rest wasn't as sound. Relaxed, wandering, near-formless thoughts seamlessly slipped into dream-state. He supposed the dream had started with him considering the guitar and what he might do with it. He was back in the cluttered bedroom where they'd found it. Sylar was standing nearby and Peter was trying to put the instrument down. He couldn't manage it for some reason. He kept getting distracted. But by what? Oh yes, that was it! There was a ... thing on the bed, the faceless model from the cover of the porn magazine he'd found earlier. Sylar was tapping his foot impatiently, because Peter was supposed to have sex with … it.

For some reason, this made perfect sense. And just as Peter had every intention of attempting the coupling right in front of the other man, he also had absolutely zilch interest. Plus, he couldn't manage to put the damn guitar down and he was still fully clothed.

The weird scene changed in the abrupt manner that dreams often did. Sylar was gone; Peter was naked, the guitar was on the bed, and his partner was no longer faceless. Or at least, he thought she wasn't, because her face was turned from him. He was unclear as to whether they were having sex or just playing. The guitar kept bumping against them and he kept trying to catch a look at her face. She was blonde and familiar. He was sure he should be able to place her even from the snatches of profile he was able to make out.

She rolled him over on his back and the scene changed again, just as suddenly and with the change came recognition: Elle. _What the hell am I doing having sex with **Elle**_ _? Wait, what? I'm thinking? I must be dreaming_ _._ Peter had had lucid dreams before, but they weren't common for him. More often, the simple surprise of realizing he was dreaming woke him up and ended the experience. But not now. Now he was seeing things from the point of view of the man on the floor, busily engaged in intercourse with one Elle Bishop. An unwanted arousal flushed through him.

His shoulder hurt and Peter knew with certainty that he'd dislocated it earlier, even as he knew it was Sylar who had experienced the injury. A phantom memory of agonizing pain and Elle popping it back into place came to mind. He, or Sylar, had no powers. _The eclipse. I was in Haiti_. Where this memory fell in his internal time line was very clear - something else that was bleeding over from Sylar. Other glimpses of what had gone before flitted through his mind: kissing, undressing, wanting and needing, his hands tweaking and pinching her pert nipples, her tiny hand on his penis, then her mouth. How that had felt - Peter remembered how that had felt. He was hard. And panting. Or remembering panting. Or both.

The memory played forward to this moment: a haze of grunts, growls, groans from him and squeaks and whimpers from her. Peter began struggling for _out_ , trying to wake up in earnest, but his thrashing against the sheets took on a rhythmic quality that was appropriate to the recollection, but not to leaving it behind. He didn't know if he'd waited too long or what, because the next moment he remembered - or rather, Sylar remembered - how _good_ it had felt when he'd burst inside her with a white-hot fire, crying out.

He hung in that instant of ecstasy for a long moment before floating down from it. He felt rubbery and spent. Or maybe he was just remembering how Sylar felt, the other man's thoughts drifting to considering how he hadn't expected his first time to be like this - on the floor in an empty house with only ripped clothing and a sleeping bag. The tiny body that lay on him was warm and sweaty, but it felt great. Sylar held her face and kissed her. Peter made another, less determined effort to wake himself up. Bits of the post-coital conversation came back to him, as well as the striking affection, passion and gentleness Sylar showed his lover. Peter paused to consider that. It was a side of Sylar he had _never_ seen.

He didn't have much time to dwell on it. Elle grabbed her partner suddenly and yanked him to the side, just as a gunshot went off and a bullet crashed through the wood floor where his head had been a half second before. _This_ time, the shock finally propelled Peter into wakefulness. He blinked his eyes open, breathing hard, blood racing.

Day 8

 _That was not a normal dream. That was_ _…_ He wasn't sure what that was. He rolled over on his stomach, feeling a wet patch in his boxers. _Great. I wonder if I should feel like I was molested? I suppose that depends on whether Sylar knows he's doing it. Or knows … hell, it might just be some lousy effect of being here._ He threw the tangled sheets off and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his face. It was getting light outside. He waited, but nothing else happened. He was just alone in his room, the world silent all around him. _Might as well get up._

He went through his morning routine, playing the memory, dream, whatever it was over and over in his head, focusing on details, making sure it wasn't a fabrication of his own imagination. He thought about the other thought-leaks he'd had that had held enough information to matter: the ones of Sylar as Gabriel the watchmaker, or of Peter hitting him (though Peter had been pretty distracted during the last). He had, without consciously thinking about it, resolved to ask Sylar about it. He didn't want to know the sordid details of Sylar's life. Well, he _did_ , sort of, but not like _this_. This was dishonest. Did Sylar even know he was sharing this sort of thing?

Peter took another round of painkillers. The only thing he really needed them for now was his wrist and hand. The swelling was down a tiny bit on his face, even if his right eye was still ringed by a fascinating shade of blue-black. He didn't think he'd ever had his eye this blacked before. The skin under the left side was grayish. His feet were fine and the dull ache from all that walking had finally left his thighs and lower back. He stretched carefully and thoroughly, working on the spot where Sylar had kicked him. The knot there was fading, too; though he still limped and probably would for a week.

He grabbed up his bag and three slices of raisin bread for breakfast, walking out to the stairwell and heading down it. He went down two flights, then summoned the elevator. His thigh was starting to give him twinges - too much, too fast. _Must not have stretched enough._ He did a few shallow lunges until the elevator arrived, then took it the rest of the way down. By the time he was walking out, it was almost sunrise. He finished his bread and looked around for Sylar.

XXX

Sylar woke slowly, stiff, as he was finding himself to be of late but that was probably mostly to be accredited to one Peter Petrelli. Ambling up into the bathroom as he heard a few joints readjust themselves, he used the facilities, wincing at the light, washing up and leaned against the sink counter, staring into the mirror for a moment.

 _Why do I feel a hundred years old?_ The bruises from the fight and the tired circles under his eyes weren't helping him look any younger. Sylar sighed, briefly checking in his hair again to be sure he wasn't overly concussed still then tried to avoid creaking his way to the dresser to change clothes.

Once he'd done that, he rubbed and stretched at his back and neck. _Let's see what new trouble we can get into today just to spite the boredom and remember that we're alive_. It sounded like a good game plan to him, as it usually did. He'd been here a whole week with Peter and the addition was already making his life more interesting, both in good and less-than good ways. As he was leaning over to tie his shoes, he felt a dull pressure shift to the left side of his head, as if there was a bowling ball crushing his forehead from inside his skull and knew it was there to stay.

Sylar then eyed the medicinal cupboard behind the mirror in the bathroom in debate; his wrist was still a concern, too, twingeing painfully as he moved and twisted it. _The headache is just starting now…it's only going to get worse and that's before Peter starts talking._ The question stood however; was it enough cause to take a painkiller in advance?

Ignoring it for the moment, he went into the kitchen and grabbed up a muffin. As he munched on it he considered milk, but his internal clock was telling him Peter would be up by now so he ditched the idea and finished up, tossing the wrapper into the trash. Brushing his teeth quickly he stared himself down in the mirror, spitting and rinsing out before shutting the door behind himself as he left.

It didn't take him long at a brisk pace in the brisk air to reach Peter's place, rough knuckles scraping his jeans as he walked. They were supposed to go on a tour or something for a guitar pick today. He snorted to himself and tried to burrow further into his coat as he approached—it had sounded like a date in his head. How ridiculous.

As he drew closer, he saw Peter was already emerging, chewing on what must have been his own breakfast, but it just made him look a little funny given the dead nerves in his lip. Sylar felt his lips quirking up at the sight and he nodded in greeting.

XXX

He watched Sylar approach, thinking about how the other man had come here specifically to see Peter, to spend probably his whole day with him. He was the center of someone's attention and that made Peter stand up a little straighter and lift his chin. _It's like I have my own private … what? Person? He has nothing **else**_ _to do but come hang out with me. To be fair, though, I have nothing else to do either._

He glanced to the side briefly. _No, there's other things I could be doing - exploring, thinking, sleeping, music, swimming (hey, that sounds good), I could take up jogging … anything to pass the time, really. I suppose he does, too_. He looked back to Sylar. _But yeah, I guess I have to admit that company is better than none_. For the last couple days, Peter had been with Sylar only because Sylar showed up and inflicted himself on him. That was starting to change as he began to accept the other man's presence.

"Good morning," Peter said cheerily. "You still on to show me around?" He paused for some sign of assent, then went on, "I need to find a pharmacy or a hospital supply store, or even a hospital itself. I'd-" Images of fighting Sylar at Mercy Heights ran through his mind. Very deliberately, he ignored them. _That isn't part of this_ _._ "like to know where the closest one is, in case we ever have an emergency. I'd like to see what works there and what doesn't, so I know if there's even any point to trying to get there."

XXX

Sylar felt himself being watched, but for once it didn't seem to be in a bad way, so he watched Peter right back for a moment before looking off to the side as he drew near. He grinned and nodded at the greeting, the other man surprisingly in a good mood for how rough he- they both looked, "Yup. Place to find a pick is on the way. Music store, art district."

He was ready to go and started to turn to walk to the art district, or so he'd named it, when Peter spoke up about additional places. Normally something like that would irk him no end…but he had no schedule and nowhere else to be. Peter had his undivided attention and limitless time. He quirked an eyebrow in question which Peter answered.

He didn't give any indication that the part about the hospital bothered him—it actually didn't occur to him this once. For all Peter's promises he knew they would eventually end up at each other's throats once or a dozen times in the next hundred years, however long they lasted. All that to say, Peter's planning ahead was a good idea.

Sylar assumed Peter was referring to medical equipment 'working' so he didn't press it. He was happily along for the ride since he himself had no needs to meet; not really anyway.

XXX

"There's a music store here?" Peter wondered if Sylar had just thought one up overnight, but decided not to press it. "That sounds cool. A lot better than a dish scraper."

He scuffed his shoe along the curb, looking down. "And I was kind of wondering if there was a hotel nearby." _A hotel will have a pool. So would a school, come to think of it. I'd have to ditch him first. I could go at night. Yeah, that would work._ He moved the conversation along; unable to avoid smiling a little at himself because he knew he looked guilty as hell and for it to be over something so silly was funny. He held up his right hand. "At a hospital or pharmacy, they ought to have a proper brace for this."

XXX

Sylar squared more directly towards Peter as he acted…shy all of a sudden, or perhaps it was avoidance; tilting his head as he waited for some explanation to the behavior.

 _Hotel? Did he change his mind?_ Did _he understand? Or…medical equipment as in scalpels and rib-spreaders and a gurney_ before _the hotel use?_ He brushed it off. It would happen either way and it would happen anyway. _Whatever_. The smile was slightly unnerving, but everything Peter said made sense, perfect sense. Then again everything either of them had ever done, good deed or sin made perfect sense to the one doing it. _Such an odd little man_.

"Sure. There's a hotel between you and the hospital, but the music store is closest. And we can always stop for food on the go or whatever when we get hungry. There's plenty of places to raid for food around here." He supposed that was a small blessing in its own way even if it did drive him crazy: having food at his fingertips instead of having to cultivate it himself.

He turned and walked slowly at first off towards the music store since it was the nearest. Everything else would be circling back towards Peter's apartment. He couldn't think of anything to ask that didn't violate their tentative deal and engage their tempers other than, "So what kind of music do you play?"

XXX

"A lot of different things," Peter said immediately, then gave Sylar a more piercing look. He knew, or should know, from Nathan's memories, exactly what sort of music Peter played. But then again, as Peter looked back down the street, Nathan had been overseas on assignment for much of Peter's late teen years, returning and enrolling in law school shortly after Peter's graduation. For a while they'd been in college together - not the same college, or even similar courses - but it had been the first and only time they'd really shared a life experience. Well, that and abilities.

Still, Sylar had asked. Even if he already knew, it was polite to give him an answer. "I like rock, mostly. Grunge, punk, and metal." He chuckled. "Anything that gets the blood pumping. That's for guitar. But as far as sitting around and playing, I do slower stuff. I learned the guitar doing the Beatles, Paul McCartney, Gordon Lightfoot, all that old stuff-" _What do I call her to him? Ma? Angela? It's not like they're strangers, even aside from Nathan's memories._ "-my mother liked. Of course that's never what I ended up playing with the guys, but I probably put twice as many hours in on the old stuff compared to the new. For the piano it was mostly classics and hymns." _'Church music', Dad always called it._ "It's not like I got into anything exotic with either of them."

XXX

Sylar kept his head down and nodded as Peter began, doing his best to weather the look that was leveled at him. He had no idea what that was about, but the other man continued. He chuckled, too, mostly at picturing Peter and his goofy bangs flying everywhere while rocking out. "That sounds about right for you," he conceded in amusement. "Hmm, the originals," was his desirous reply. He was an oldies fan himself.

His eyebrows did take a hike in that Angela liked something that wasn't Mozart or something upper-class. "Hymns?" Sylar winced a little when Peter got to the part about piano. _Why is that so fitting for him? He is a freaking choir boy; he just wasn't raised as one_ _._

XXX

"I banged around on the drums a little bit. I can keep a beat, but it's not really my thing." Peter looked around as they passed through an intersection, rubber-necking like a tourist. He remained in good spirits. _I have someone who's actually listening to blabber at. That is so weird._ Usually he was the listener, picking up cues, taking in what others said and repeating back to them what they wanted to hear - which tended to be a simple restatement of whatever they'd told him. He was content with that - it worked, and, wow, did it ever work in dating and medicine (with totally unrelated results) - but it sometimes left him feeling unimportant. The attention he was getting now was sort of going to his head, making him more loose-lipped and full of himself than normal.

XXX

Sylar just nodded about the drums, a little surprised, but Peter would probably like to have his hands on or involved in the instrument, not just his fists. Ha.

XXX

Peter continued, "I wouldn't mind stopping for coffee. I didn't make any this morning. I think that diner I've eaten at a couple times now is right up there." _The diner. That night I slept in the furniture store on a recliner. That's the night I had that watchmaker dream_ _._

XXX

Peter chatted away, even going so far as to make a suggestion for coffee and that had Sylar glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. _Sounded like an invitation to me. Is this one of those coffee-use-you-for-the-tour-then-take-you-to-hotel-to-….what? things?_ _Never been out to coffee with someone before_. Sylar began to actively look around when Peter mentioned he ate nearby, a little surprised that he would let that slip, but enjoying the information flow greedily.

XXX

Peter pursed his lips. "There's something else I want to talk to you about, too. If you want me to know about your past - _tell_ me. Just like we're talking now. This is _normal_." _As opposed to some sort of psycho memory insertion. Okay, Pete, you agreed no mental patient stuff. Don't even go there_ _._ He huffed.

XXX

Suddenly Peter's tone changed and he looked over to him, expecting the same 'what do you know about this place?' routine. "What?" He was taken aback and it showed on his face—complete surprise and incomprehension as to the topic. His head reared back as he began to feel some verbal attacking going on in Peter's delivery. _Oh, it's back to 'normal' is it?_

XXX

Peter grimaced, explaining, "I don't want your watchmaker flashbacks. I don't want your … intimate moments, especially with Elle." _Of all people. But that **was**_ _fascinating, to see her being normal and him being kind. Like a glimpse into Bizarro world_ _._

XXX

"What am I not telling- _what?_ " Sylar's own voice rose up, filled with plenty of emotions, namely shock and anger at being addressed that way with some embarrassment at the content. "What did you ca-" His eyes widened and he stopped walking, sputtering a minute for a response. He was ready to start shrieking for a start and then move on to some strangulation, ideally using Peter's scrawny neck for a test dummy.

XXX

"If it was a stranger it wouldn't bother me as much, but she and I …" Peter shook his head. "I'm not even sure you know you're doing it. But you need to **_stop it_**. I do **_not_** want to learn about you that way."

XXX

'My _what_?' was on its way out of his mouth before Peter threw down the gauntlet, a very cold, horrifying mitt that held potential to shatter many of his previous beliefs. Sylar felt his blood stream rush with total rage; that Peter would imply that he should only be sleeping with….less-thans, with strangers. That he should be careful who he fucked to save Peter's precious ego or whatever the fuck; with no real reason when Peter himself had women, patients, and his rescued strays, his precious fucking _Emma_ that he would actually demean Sylar enough to make demands on when, how, and who he got laid with…

"You son of a bitch," was what actually slipped out, his gaze contemptuously raking Peter over. "I don't even want to know what-…" He inhaled on a sobbingly gasped breath, turning away a little to stare unseeing at something else than the object of his homicidal urges, grasping at his hair to try to wrap his mind around what had been _implied_. He was totally acting like a jilted boyfriend, he knew, the whole cliché enchilada with toppings, but…

"What the fuck are you talking about _exactly_ here, Peter? _She_ is not your concern and never was," Sylar turned back to pin the man with his eyes, pointing a would-be deadly finger towards his face. That was all he could say towards addressing…Elle. _How did he know about that? And he called me watchmaker. Did he talk to Bennet? How does he know this?_ _"_ I didn't do anything. I went home and slept _by myself_ and it's not my fault if you hallucinate at night. For once I'm actually not responsible."

XXX

"Whoa, whoa, whoa …" Peter took a step back and put his hands up in what was either surrender or defensive at Sylar's pointing. He did not want this to become violent. This was nowhere on Peter's list of things he was willing to fight for. His standard go-to of what to do when confronted with violence he wouldn't or couldn't return was simply to run away. That wouldn't work out well if Sylar decided to give serious chase. When it looked like the other man was going to keep it verbal, he stopped retreating and listened.

XXX

Something occurred to him and he glared at Peter in righteousness, "You said you had Matt's ability. Learn to respect some privacy— _it's my fucking head!_ For once, as a Petrelli, can't you leave it alone?" _I expected better from you, even your shoddy abilities_. _How did you get them in the first place, you fucking snitch?_

XXX

At the reminder that he had Matt's ability, Peter's brow furrowed. _Is that possible?_ _Could I be pulling memories from him without intending to? Why … Didn't Matt say something about not always being able to control it? I've never had a problem with his ability in the past, but right now I'm … I'm inside Sylar's mind, completely. All of my consciousness is in here. Maybe that makes a difference. It's not like I've been able to use his ability the way it **should** work. _ Peter's face mirrored his confusion and uncertainty. He backed off physically a few more steps.

"I'm … I don't think I'm doing it." _How would I know? All I've been able to get out of Matt's ability is vertigo._ "You're sure … you're not?" _How would **he**_ _know? Dammit._

He leaned forward a little, gesturing earnestly. "Sylar, I was telling you because I wanted it to end. If I was doing this on purpose, I would **not** be telling you about it, okay? And especially not **_now_**."

As if to himself, Peter added, "Of course if _you_ were doing it on purpose, I can't figure out why you'd choose _those things_ to send me."

He eyed Sylar. He'd hurt him, stung him and managed to strip away the man's defenses. Nowhere in his comportment or delivery now was the sarcasm or superiority he'd shown before. He was fragile. Peter didn't want to have done this to him, but a very small part of him smirked at how shaken Sylar was. Peter knew a few disparate episodes in his life, when the man had the entirety of Nathan's life, stolen and stored away in his brain. _Learn to respect some privacy! Ha._

XXX

Sylar threw up his arms in surrender, shaking his head in defeat. "I'm neutered here, man. Three years without sight or sound of another living thing. What more do you want?" Probably something to ease the pain of losing Nathan, he would imagine. But taking away a semi-genuine experience, one-of-a-kind, at least for him was…cruelty he didn't know he could handle. "What kind of…additional punishment would you place on me?" He really did want to know. Nothing was good enough for these people: Petrellis and heroes.

XXX

Peter raised his hands in a calming motion. "I'm not trying to punish you. I'd like to talk about this. It sounds like neither one of us wants this. I think it's been happening every time I go to sleep. I have these weird dreams. I thought at first … that they were, like you said, hallucinations or something." _And then there was that moment during the fight. But … I don't know what that was. You know, if I'm really interested in full disclosure here, I should probably mention that,_ _too_. "And … when you were hitting me. I got distracted. Something happened to my concentration and it happened then, too."

XXX

Something in him felt confirmed when had Peter backed away, and so quickly, too, raising his hands as if Sylar pointed a gun at him. It broke the head of his anger. _'_ _Normal' hadn't he said?_ _What else does he know?_ Was his next capable, rational thought. His hand dropped and he sighed, looking away again as Peter spoke.

"Peter, you're an empath, a very….trigger-happy one at that. You might not be aware of your capabilities or what powers you're using, especially while you're stressed, unsettled and asleep," he felt inclined to point out, keeping the insult from his voice, instead infusing it with statement. "Do you still have Matt's power? Can you use it?"

XXX

"I _think_ I still have Matt's power." Peter pointed at his head. "It _feels_ like I do and I'm sure you know what I mean. It's in there. When you have an ability, you know it." He huffed. "But it doesn't **do** anything. The only thing I've felt from it was when … when I was touching you and tried to use it to get out. I felt a kind of vertigo, like …" He looked away, lips thinned, trying to find words to describe something that human beings felt so rarely that they had no vocabulary for the experience. "Kind of like I was dizzy, except … not _dizzy_ exactly."

He looked back to Sylar. "I have not tried to read your thoughts or push a command on you since I got in here. If I'm doing it while asleep, that's _entirely_ unintentional." He thought about the simple sleep exercises he'd gone through in college, back when he'd been dating Brianna. _I should probably start doing that again: keep a journal, focus on recognizing dreams while I'm in them, wake up for every single one of them and make a note in the journal._ After enough repetition, the mind became accustomed to the new pattern, and each dream state brought with it associations of waking and thinking about the dream rationally, resulting in an awareness within the state of what was really going on. It had been part of a whole phase of tinkering with altered perceptions.

XXX

"I…" Sylar actually did stop to think, his brows furrowing in thought, "I wasn't thinking about her. Of course I can't control my dreams, but that's…." Again, his head shook and he looked back to the younger man. He had been thinking about his watchmaking background when Peter first arrived; he'd asked about his Primatech file. Sylar nodded, his head hanging a little as he bit his lip; Peter was making sense again even if the situation wasn't.

His brow crumpled completely. "I wouldn't…be telling you those things, sending them, whatever." He didn't entirely believe the part about lack of punishment. Sylar closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Peter hadn't answered his more important question, "What did you mean about her, Peter?" he looked up to stare at the man, demanding answer with his eyes. _How does he even know her?_ He dreaded the reply.

"And what did you see?" These were things he needed to know. The idea that someone was…in his head and he was helpless against the loss of information, such personal memories at that was very troubling to him. That Peter would get a head-movie of his life every night was horrifying. He knew he'd get a new disgusted or angry look in the morning and have no clue what kind of battle he'd be fighting.

Having his life picked slowly apart, viewed, experienced and subsequently judged by someone who was still the enemy-of-my-enemy technically; and Peter was upper-class for god's sake, a hero and empath or not; Sylar wouldn't be understood. Was judgment part of redemption? He would become naked and so humanly ugly; Peter…of all people would see him at his lowest points even if it took years of night's sleep.

He made no move to continue walking and wouldn't until he had his answers. Sylar staved off his instinct of panic because once again, he feared losing his mind to another.


	15. Peter's Ponderings Part 2

**A/N: This section is presented very slightly out of sequence, having occurred within the time frame of Peter's second posting for the previous chapter, "Dream Jobs". Sylar last sees Peter as Peter goes inside the apartment building, but instead of going straight to his apartment, Peter has the interlude I relate below first, then goes to his apartment a little later as shown in "Dream Jobs".**

Day 7

Peter felt weirdly cheerful as he headed back to his apartment building. He didn't give Sylar so much as a second look though. The man was not the source of Peter's good mood. He took the elevator up to the eighth floor and then, after setting down his finds outside his door, he began a search for the roof access. He had what was a probably disturbing familiarity with getting onto high places he wasn't supposed to be on, so he wasn't long in looking. He just had to find the right stairwell. Like nearly all the other doors around here, this one was unlocked. His grin widening, he walked out onto the roof.

The sun hadn't set yet, which was what he was hoping to catch. He wasn't a huge fan of sunsets, but there was no TV and really … not much of anything worth seeing. No TV show schedule to watch - not that he'd followed shows for years now; no movies to go to - again, something he'd given up after discovering abilities; no people to call on the phone; no work tomorrow; no schedule to keep; no dates; no obligations; no _responsibilities_. His smile nearly split his face.

It was weird. He _wanted_ responsibilities. His life for the last few years had been a constant reordering and prioritizing of his responsibilities: to strangers, to his friends, to his family, to the whole freaking world. But now he had none and he was thrilled. He watched as the disk of the sun touched the horizon.

He gave a quick mental review of his situation, in case he was missing something he needed to be doing here. He couldn't affect the outside world. There was no one here to save. There was no work to be done. There was nothing here to improve or maintain. There weren't even any novel experiences here that he might need to indulge in just to be able to relate to people. There wasn't much of a point to rigorous self-improvement, though he sort of hoped his efforts with the guitar and maybe the piano would have an effect later, but that was guessing. He'd like to tell himself he was going to work on music for some practical reason like physical therapy or self-improvement, but really … really he just wanted to _play_. He wanted to do something for no reason other than to do it, and he finally had a chance to do just that. After years of burning himself out, he had no choice but to reinvigorate. It was an enforced vacation. And God, did he ever need one.

The sun slipped below the horizon. He was still smiling. He leaned over the edge and looked down. It was a long way - maybe a hundred feet. Definitely lethal. No, he had no plans of jumping or killing himself. He'd been threatening Sylar, and not even very seriously. After that episode with the stuffed bear, Peter wanted Sylar to know he wasn't just a helpless victim plopped down into the man's prison. He snorted, sure there was some cool prison analogy he could make about Ben Dover and being locked in the same jail cell with a psychotic serial killer who had it in for your family _in_ _particular_.

He turned to face 'east', looking across the roof towards the gradually darkening sky. So what about Sylar, really? He reacted badly to compliments. He was staggeringly intelligent. Peter felt like an idiot around him, which wasn't entirely a function of his intelligence. More, it was a function of Sylar being an asshole. Peter had been around brilliant people who actually left him feeling smarter when he left their company, proud of himself and like there was a meaning to everything that happened in the world, if only he was clever enough to see it. Being around Sylar made him feel stupid, depressed and angry. His smile finally slipped from his face.

He kicked at the roofing material. _Yep._ _That_ _'_ _s_ _about_ _the_ _long_ _and_ _short_ _of_ _it._ He looked at the door that led back inside the building, suddenly less enchanted with being up here, wanting a change of scene to change his thoughts. He refused to be run off though by the mere memory of dealing with the man. He took a stroll around the roof instead, looking over the edge to see what he could see on each side.

So what else about Sylar? He reacted especially well to gratitude and while everyone wanted to be appreciated, this was stronger than usual. He was insecure, which wasn't surprising with that over-inflated ego. That he wouldn't accept ego strokes made him difficult to deal with. He wanted only sincere appreciation and even then it needed to be carefully delivered. He was sensitive - very sensitive - to being manipulated and used. Peter reminded himself yet again to cut it out on the casual maneuvering. If anything would get him abused and killed here, it would be doing something that Sylar interpreted as a betrayal or a lie.

He sighed and stopped at a corner, leaning on the edge and picking at the concrete with his fingernail. He'd come here with the express intention of manipulating Sylar into something - saving Emma, saving the rest at the carnival. But Sylar would not be handled. So how to get him to do it? Peter frowned. He could ask and he had; Sylar could say no and he had, more or less. And that was it. He couldn't see what else there was to do here, except pass the time until someone outside managed to get him out. He could try to tell Sylar about the people he might be saving, but the only one Peter really knew was Emma and he was loathe to tell the man too much about her, or anyone who had an ability. And as for those without abilities, he didn't think Sylar would _care_.

The smile began to creep back on his face. Yes, that was the long and short of it: there was _absolutely_ _nothing_ he could think of to do here except whatever he damn well pleased. He pushed away from the wall, grinning again, and went back to his apartment.


	16. Coffee Confessions

Day 8

"I wasn't thinking about her either, man. At least I don't _think_ I was." He gave Sylar a sidelong glance at the man's renewed intensity when he asked what Peter had meant and what he'd seen. Peter turned to the side and paced a little. He gave a little evasion to that question - but only a little. "I was having a dream at first, a normal dream. We …" _Hm, this has the potential to be embarrassing fast unless I watch my words_ _._ "You and I were exploring apartments." He waved a hand generally back the way they'd come. "Then you were gone and she was there, but I was having trouble seeing her face. I …"

Peter stopped pacing and drew up. "I **_tried_**. I tried to see her face and I _focused_ on her. Then everything shifted and I remembered …" He looked over at Sylar thoughtfully. "I remembered the image of her face from your memory." Of course the image of her inflamed with passion would brand itself into Sylar's head. Maybe that was his single strongest memory of her, or maybe it just correlated with Peter's because of the sexual content of Peter's dream.

He chewed his lip. "Maybe I _did_ do something."

XXX

Peter's descriptions didn't match any of Sylar's memories—it sounded more like a dream. It was very likely Peter was (literally, this time) dreaming it all up. _Her face from my memory? You expect me to buy that?_

Sylar couldn't help but roll his eyes at the man's density and long-winded, rather unnecessary explanation. If the ability didn't work, it didn't work and as he would never know the difference (honestly the idea of _Peter_ with telepathy was bad enough); there was nothing either of them could do about it. He waved a hand in the air towards the other man, dismissing. "That's wonderful; I can't prove you wrong otherwise. And that's not intimate, Peter." He and his tone moments ago implied Peter had seen something potentially graphic.

His thoughts stuttered off the track. _Has he seen me naked through…memories? How much more awkward…Can you focus on nothing else? Really._ _That is the least of your problems_. _He says he's not doing it on purpose; he says he's not doing it at all; so why would he purposefully go through your mind for anything with bare skin? Then what would he have been looking for?_

 _This_ _-_ he _is worse than Lydia!_

"What did you mean exactly about _you. and_. _her_ _?"_ This time his voice telegraphed that he wasn't messing around. Asking the man directly would surely yield the answer. _I can always rebreak his fingers; I can always rebreak his fingers_ _…"_ How do you know her? You have a history? What?" All this was useless in the present, sure, but it meant that his one halved-relationship might be…what, tainted? Not what he thought it was, regardless. His only consolation at this point was that Peter didn't know that it had been his only significant 'relationship' of sorts to date, meaning he still didn't know Sylar was kinda pathetic on that front. Yet.

"You said….you said something about….watchmaking," Sylar purposefully avoided saying 'you said something about ME being a watchmaker", but the last word did exit his mouth a little whispery, trying not to call attention to it. _These are the things I need to know. For god's sake_ _,_ tell me _! Am I gonna have to stay up at nights so he doesn't fucking dream? Or keep him up? His ability is so busted his powers won't work, he doesn't know what he has, he can't use them and they're probably using him!_

He was completely frustrated, Peter was being frustrating on purpose probably in hopes of avoiding letting something slip that Sylar would find…a need for violence in. Annoyed and on edge were his coinciding emotions as he considered the depth of the damaging leak that had mysteriously sprung between them.

Peter could potentially know everything about him if this continued—every one of his regrets; suicide attempts and murders; all of his feelings; how he thought; what he desired; the things he liked and those he didn't; how he'd changed and why; the things that bothered him and set him off; how he groomed; how he ate; how he slept; the things that terrified him and what kept him up at night; worse still, his history, the people he'd known. Hell, Peter might manage to dig up the things Sylar had totally forgotten, childhood memories that he himself didn't even possess. Peter would essentially be inside his head, just wandering instead of looking for something specific to pluck out and ogle.

His breath escaped him in a small sighed gasp. _Guy's gotta have some secrets_ …

XXX

Peter eyed Sylar at his insistent question about what was between Peter and Elle. He didn't say anything right away. It gave Sylar time to elaborate and he did it with enough apprehensiveness that Peter knew what he was dealing with: _jealousy, insecurity, and fear_. Peter knew he had a knife in his hand, metaphorically speaking, and Sylar's heart was bare. He remembered himself years before, standing invisible on a rooftop, watching Simone with Isaac. Claude had been standing next to him radiating ' _I told you so_.' Even though Peter wasn't the jealous type, he'd still felt hurt that she'd dumped him a second time.

"You remember that I said I was locked up by the Company for months, right?" He spoke slowly, giving himself time to think about his choice of words, what to say and what not to say. It also gave him the opportunity to watch Sylar's face. "She was my jailor, most days. It was usually _her_ bringing me my neutralizing pills, clothes, and food." He looked off to the side briefly, then back, meeting Sylar's eyes without blinking. "She had a lot of time to torture me. It didn't leave a real good impression. So yeah, she and I have a _history_." He looked away again.

He _was_ leaving out something important here - kissing, playing (a dangerous game; he had been at a dark point in his life), and being toyed with. But Elle did not _belong_ to Sylar, not that Peter had ever been all that respectful of such boundaries anyway, as Isaac could have attested, had Sylar not murdered him, too.

How did this work for Sylar anyway - him and Elle? Did he trust her? What was he afraid of discovering between her and Peter? Peter was too much of a Petrelli to leave this alone right away. "You _know_ her. I saw _that_ well enough. What do you think she'd do with me if she had me locked in a Company cell?" He looked back, eyes slightly narrowed. Peter was locked here, with Sylar. There were parallels, which had a lot to do with Peter's paranoia. There were no cameras, no guards and no Daddy Bishop to encourage Sylar to treat Peter well. And of course Sylar had been in a Company cell as well. Peter knew his own treatment, as a son of one of the directors, had been VIP compared to whatever Sylar had received; so he was interested to see what Sylar imagined had happened. Peter had, after all, spent a little time as a Level Five detainee, a nobody named Jesse.

"As for the watch-making … Yeah, you were working as a watchmaker. You were younger, I think, or at least you sounded younger, thought … well, you were younger. You were working on a watch. A guy came in." Peter made an empty gesture with his left hand. "You told him you had his order ready and you rang him up." It wasn't a big deal. Everyone had something in their past. What, did Sylar want people to think he'd grown up as a rabid serial killer, terrorizing his school and secretly offing the other kids in Gifted and Talented class? Sylar stressing over this would be like Peter getting bent out of shape that someone knew he'd worked in a pizza shop briefly in his freshman year of college, until his father caught wind of it. Honestly, he'd just been trying to fit in. He tried a half-smile. "I don't really think I got any deep secrets about you out of that. Nothing embarrassing happened." _Come on, man, it was nothing that like that crap with the bear you pulled. That was mean. And on purpose._

XXX

Sylar grunted in response; he recalled being a little surprised that the Petrelli clan hadn't yanked him from his 'self-imposed' therapy or whatever Peter saw it as. _She was his what?_ Sylar hadn't gotten so much as a visit from her and he'd been there probably the same amount of time Peter had, all in all. _Not a good impression_.

As much as he longed to relax, forgive and forget over that, something wasn't hitting him right about Peter's demeanor. He snorted in partial amusement, but failed to look away from Peter. Maybe staring continuously at him would prod any lingering…guilts. _He placed emphasis on 'history'._

"I don't know, Peter; that's what I'm hoping to find out. Clearly your eyeballs aren't ash, so she didn't rough you up too bad," he delivered with a hunk of snarky condescension. Again, he doubted Peter had been fried inside-out at any given time. Of course, Peter didn't _deserve_ it. "So how did you escape? Or did mommy pull strings when she got sick of you? Did Nathan sue to get you out?" He highly doubted it was the last two.

Elle would have thought him quite the pet—amusing, probably squirming and screaming just right to keep her interest, funny, dramatic, trapped, and what she would have labeled 'a cutie'.

Basically, Peter was a potential threat to Sylar's memories as he was attractive, available and, as far as he knew, virile enough to do the job. Yes, the idea that they'd fooled around was prominent on him mind. It didn't fail to make him queasy. As far as Sylar was concerned, she'd never treated him like a 'pet'. Not really. She knew when not to fuck around on someone after the first time, but fool him once…

Social graces were demanding he relinquish his hold on the conversation and its subject, so he did, if only temporarily. Peter suddenly got dodgy about it so he hadn't reached the bottom of the barrel yet. He released Peter from his piercing gaze to at least affect at relaxed as Peter touched on the secondary subject of watch-making.

 _Would he lie about this? Is he really just pulling my leg, getting a kick out of this while feeding me a story?_ Peter seemed determined about his innocence, rather, the innocence of the dream's contents. His lips pursed for all of two seconds when Peter stumbled on the part about 'deep secrets'. _Wonderful, so he's onto it, too._

He kept his body language, though calm, at an 'in charge' tension to let Peter know he wasn't through with this talk as he began walking again, shaking his head. Sylar now had to sort through the information and his feelings, the instincts he had on it. Peter was smart, smarter than he looked, anyway, and if he'd been doing his 'empathy powers activate!' thing he surely picked up on the fact that it was sensitized content.

He might also have passed up an opportunity to do real emotional harm to Sylar, something that hadn't been covered in their agreement on mental patients and adult-to-child behaviors. _Is he sparing me something? If so what was it and why was he doing it? Does he know she's dead?_ Was the next thought in his head. Maybe that explained Peter's apparent befuddlement as to why Sylar cared. Then, _Should I tell him?_

Sylar heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky as he walked, quite sure Peter was tagging behind him since he wasn't looking to get away, exactly—he just needed space. "She's dead, Pete. About four years ago. She won't come back and fry your balls because you told me something," he said quietly, loudly enough for Peter to hear.

XXX

When Sylar turned and began to walk away, _that_ was when Peter started to worry. He bared his teeth and looked around for … a weapon, a defense, an ally … something. Anything. There was nothing. He had a moment to decide whether to stalk off on his own and hope for the best, or to try to recover this. After a beat, he hurried to follow, trailing a little behind though. He hoped like hell he wasn't letting Sylar lead him to something lethal and that this was just a normal tense, pissy moment - always questionable when dealing with a killer.

Sylar was just walking down the middle of the street, so it wasn't like an attack was imminent. Peter went back over the conversation. _Maybe if I just answer some of his questions? I'm **already**_ _answering some of his questions though. Not telling the whole truth though and obviously he can tell that. I'm a terrible liar. Why am I not being totally forthcoming here? 1) That wasn't the agreement - Bad form, Peter. That's petty. 2) He's a murderer - which should be, you know, all the more reason not to cause problems without good cause. 3) I'm embarrassed - um … yeah, I think that's accurate. 4) I'm not sure how he'll react - so? See reason #2._

 _I've got one decent reason: it's embarrassing that I tried to seduce her and she turned on me. I failed in manipulating her and I was willing to use sex to do it. To someone as damaged as she was. That's low. I **should**_ _be ashamed of that._ He eyed Sylar's back. He wasn't feeling particularly inclined to confess another sin at the moment.

That was when Sylar made his addendum to the conversation. "What?" Peter said, surprised. "She's _dead_ _?_ " _How_ _?_ He remembered the bullet that had slammed into the flooring a fraction of a second after she'd yanked Sylar out of the way. _Then? Wait, **four**_ _years ago?_ His brow furrowed. _No, he must be counting three here. So one year ago._ He pondered, but couldn't place the news. Of course, he hadn't exactly kept up on the life and times of Elle Bishop; ever.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said in a quiet, sober voice. _Did he kill whoever did it? Was it just an accident? Was it whoever was shooting at them in that house? Was it Sylar?_

"She didn't rough me up … that much." _Of_ _course, I had Claire's power, even if the pills were keeping it down._ "As for how I got out, there's a trick to swallowing pills and being able to retch them back up. I had plenty of opportunity to work on it. Once I figured it out, I just walked out. They couldn't stop me." Of course it helped a lot to have Adam's advice.

XXX

The walking did help in easing Sylar's worries. They were still irrelevant here and today. While he couldn't explain his need to know, at least, not in a way that wouldn't sound crazy to the psyche ward that walked behind him, it was what he felt. Sylar kept quiet as he walked; attempting to leave the subject behind as he they moved on, but he was almost relieved when Peter piped up again after a few moments. The silence had been strange, probably uncomfortable if he had to label it; the lack of sound had been filled only with the sound of their footsteps, echoing throughout the city.

He let out a shuddering breath, letting Peter come to terms with whatever he needed to. She didn't help Peter out and that made him feel a little better. _Yeah, you're jealous. She's dead; it's over. You're callous enough to make moves on him, too, so you're not so fucking righteous._ _God, what happens tonight when he sleeps? Does he get the night at the beach? How does it operate, is it based on what one or both of us are thinking when we sleep? Do we…meet up in dreams or something corny?_

XXX

Peter walked silently a little further, still unnerved by the lack of engagement. While Sylar was talking, venting and giving him reactions, Peter was fine. The silent act unsettled him, especially the 'going away mad' part. Even though Peter's overactive paranoia had calmed down, he still wanted to get things back to where they'd been before. He felt deflated. For a few minutes there, someone had been paying attention to him. Then he'd run his mouth without thinking first and now he was trailing along behind the other man like a lost puppy. _I'm not even sure where we're going_ , he thought with a pout.

"What is it you really want to know here?" He didn't expect an answer, but he thought maybe he could toss that out there and see what response it garnered.

XXX

Sylar stopped then, not suddenly, but at a normal speed, almost hesitant, half-turning towards the other man, his hands long since returned to his pockets to walk. "Did you sleep with her?" his voice was pitched low and unhurried at a conversational volume, wavering only a little as an eyebrow quirking slightly, his face disguising hurt with _question_. He internally braced for the answer, determining himself that it didn't matter. _Of course it wouldn't matter if the closest, most real relationship, (which isn't saying much given the circumstances) I've ever had with someone has been ruined after/before the fact by_ him.

Peter Petrelli, the man who could have anything and the odds of him screwing something over for Sylar, unwittingly, for his own gain was…actually a long shot, but it might have happened _._ _God, how ironic_. "I….I don't know what you saw, Peter, and what you've mentioned is a lot of private stuff you're getting into. I've never had my mind fucked over then had someone…question me about it like this." Nathan didn't count because that wasn't _Sylar's_ mind, in a sense; it wasn't his own consciousness. The overall point he was trying to get across was about how he wasn't sure at all how to handle this situation.

He'd also never been _able_ to talk to someone about _girls;_ or Elle; or sex; or why he didn't have someone to call his own (which should be fairly obvious) or what he could do about that. It felt like such a normal thing to do, something that happened all the time and should happen all the time, but for someone special and as power-hungry as Sylar it felt out of place and he had a feeling it wouldn't be taken well by his audience. A sort of 'So I'm supposed to feel sorry you screwed up your own 'best-shot' at a relationship when you killed my brother?' thing. Heck, even 'you have the right to have something private after what you've done? Go to hell!'

"I don't…appreciate mind-fuckery in any form and I'm not…I'm not accusing you of it. But it's still there and I can't change it," was the closest explanation he could make, a sort of apology in it as well. _I can't change much of anything in here, Peter, wish though I do._ He knew the 'walk-away' trick worked when one was upset—it helped avoid damaging his only companion over a suspicion. _She wasn't ever really yours, either, you idiot._ _You've had years to think on this, don't let whatever he says deter your making peace with it._

XXX

"I'm not trying to fuck with you," Peter answered quietly and steadily. "I have absolutely no interest in that. I know some people think that sort of thing is funny – I never have." It didn't keep him from trying to get people to do what he wanted, but that was different. Peter tried to be careful about his goals there and let that guide his actions. Of course Peter also had a sense of humor, but this was not the sort of circumstance where he let it out.

He looked down for a little bit. _I ought to just tell him. He knows now and he's not doing anything. At least, I don't think he's going to do anything._ Sylar's calmer demeanor was reassurance of that. _If I don't come clean, he'll always wonder. There's no reason to let the uncertainty tear him up. Hell, he should be **happy**_ _with the answer. Am I not telling him because I'm **trying**_ _to be cruel and make him think I did something I didn't?_ Peter frowned for a moment, brows furrowed. That last thought made up his mind for him.

He cleared his throat and smoothed his expression. "Okay. About Elle," he looked Sylar dead in the eye again. "No, I didn't sleep with her." Then he looked away, eyes darting uneasily. "We … we played around a lot though." He gave a quick, wary glance back at Sylar, then looked down, ducking his head in guilt. A little more quietly he added, "I tried to use her to get out. It didn't work." He sighed and muttered with disgust, "God, I sound like _Nathan_."

XXX

Sylar gave a snorted chuckle. _Yeah, 'some people' like me_. Peter still hesitated and the longer he took to 'answer' (if he even would), the worse Sylar dreaded anyway. He nodded, still facing partly away, slowly turning as Peter spoke. Peter was too honest to lie about fucking him over; he was, after all, a (rather) straightforward man. The medic had passed by multitudes of opportunities to fuck Sylar over and it was beginning to sink in that he wouldn't. Sylar looked Peter in the face as the other man did the same, his gaze merely searching this time and he found it odd that he wasn't missing his lie detection.

A muscle in his eye twitched without orders at the news, but the worst was unconfirmed and he could live with that. He would have had to in either case. His eyes tracked Peter's guilty movements before he nodded once. He knew the other man was paying attention to his response. _You just told him that she was something to you. Eventually he's gonna ask about it. Or see it in his dreams_ _._ He knew there was nothing he could do about it, so he might as well not worry about every single eventuality.

A copious eyebrow raised at a second (third?) confession. _Okay, not that you wouldn't have done the same to get out of there, even if it had been another girl, but from him…?_ Suddenly he found himself laughing aloud; yeah, kind of at Peter. "Nathan? You? Oh, Peter…" he shook his head, smiling to himself since Peter probably wouldn't see the humor.

XXX

Peter turned and walked away several strides, fussing with his hair compulsively. He swept it out of his face, then carded it back with his fingers, then tousled it a little, then carded it back again and made motions as if to push it off his forehead, but no stray hair was there to be pushed. He put his hands down to stop himself from fidgeting. It occurred to him that Sylar might not even understand why Peter was upset by the whole episode. He was upset by his own conduct and no amount of pointing out to himself that he thought he'd killed Nathan, thought his powers were out of control, thought maybe he'd gone crazy … none of it justified trying to play on the affections of a woman who appeared vulnerable and needy and twist that to his own ends. While he would have tried to get her out as well (and he believed she was trapped by the situation and her oppressive family much as he was), it didn't change the essential nature of what he'd been trying to do. He'd been trying to do something _wrong_.

He sighed and turned back towards Sylar. _Why do I end up confessing these things to **him**_ _? Is it because he's done worse and I feel like I won't be judged too harshly?_ That was funny. Sylar struck him as nothing if not judgmental. _Of course, if you want to build a link with someone, if you want to build a bridge with them, you do it by sharing your weaknesses, not by flaunting your strengths. Maybe if he thinks I'm a fuck-up, he'll have a little more empathy with me_. He swallowed and fell back into step, mulling things over, mentally chipping away at his own pride and self-righteousness.

XXX

The empath then began pacing, nervous and guilt-ridden over something that really didn't matter anymore. _Very strange that you're the one who's brushing things off like this instead of guilting over them for a few years like you used to_.

Sylar thought on that for a second, but no more before mentally instructing himself— _with great growth comes great forgiveablility._ _Oh, if only that were true_ _._ "Relax, man. There's a reason I call you the Boy Scout. You said you tried, you failed. In the end, she's not your concern." _Or_ _mine_.

XXX

 _It's not about **her**_ _!_ Peter wanted to snap, but he kept his mouth shut. ' _It's about me_ ' sounded self-centered to say, even if the subject at hand - his adherence or not to moral behavior - _was_ all about him. He didn't expect Sylar to understand why that mattered so much, so Peter dropped it.

What he picked up loud and clear was that Sylar wasn't going to kill him over him being with Elle in some manner. The other man had been pretty heavily freaked out there at first. He'd calmed down and at least appeared to be dealing with it. Peter studied him, trying to get a feel for the other man's emotions. Was he genuinely calmed down, or was it an act?

XXX

"Now, we're gonna go get you a pick so you can mangle the hell out of that poor guitar, okay?" Sylar said by way of soothing Peter's feathers. "I'm not much of a shoulder to cry on, but if it helps…" giving a light shrug, Sylar's voice was miming sincerity, which in a sense it was, but it hid sarcasm designed to give Peter a moment of 'Ugh! You sicko!' to get back to himself. He didn't anticipate Peter having a breakdown in front of him (the phrase 'of all people' was kind of meaningless now), but if he did, Sylar would do his best to help. _Does he know about that scientific study about tears being a turn-off?_

Something in him felt the need to go over and grab Peter by his shoulders, get very close to him for the Petrelli shoulder squeeze. Sylar walked over with a purpose, extending his arms at the proper time and laid his big paws over Peter's admittedly buff shoulders, giving him a light squeeze and shake—it felt familiar and natural to him and he didn't question it. He gave the smaller man a serious 'get it together' look and hoped it didn't come across as giving him 'kid brother'. _Do_ _I remind him of his brother? And dear god, I am not coping a feel on him, I'm not…_ Because, oh, how easy it would have been to do that.

XXX

Peter nodded briefly to the comment about the guitar, giving a small smile. It chilled a bit with the next statement, trying to sift through fake sincerity and actual sarcasm to divine if that was a joke because Sylar was trying to make light of it; a joke because he genuinely didn't care (which would be creepy), or a calculated affectation because Sylar was boiling inside and was just sociopathic enough to hide his feelings behind a convincing mask.

Peter's doubting expression must have been clear on his face, because Sylar came over with intent. Peter stood straighter, eyes darting and hands raising just a bit when Sylar extended his. Peter canvassed the man's face and body language again - the set of his shoulders, angle of head, the way he was reaching, his posture and footwork - and by then Sylar's hands were closing over Peter's shoulders in a reassuringly firm, but not threatening, grip. Peter relaxed. Sylar gave him a shake and the empath even smiled a little, letting his too-alert eyes fall to half-lidded. "Yeah, okay," he said easily, not even completely sure what he was agreeing to. His empathy had informed him all was good, without giving him much of an intellectual explanation to go on. That was okay. He didn't need one.

Peter started to turn and Sylar removed his hands. Peter made a jerk of his head. "How about we stop over here and get some coffee?" He gestured at the diner. "You say the first place we're headed towards is the music store?" They walked along beside each other down the street, nearing the place Peter had indicated. "What kind of coffee do you drink, anyway? I don't think they have anything special in here. It's just kind of a greasy spoon."

XXX

Peter affirmed that he would let it drop and take it easy on himself, so Sylar nodded and moved back, falling into step beside the other man as they had before the whole incident began. _His shoulders sure felt- Eh-hem? Do you mind? No, I really don't mind. No wonder his family can't keep their lecherous hands off him._ Sylar couldn't help his hands, aching for more, but he ignored them.

The other man seemed at ease enough as they walked before he brought up coffee again. _Coffee?_ Had it been anything closer to a normal situation, Sylar would have gaped and thought something along the lines of ' _Coffee? With_ me _?_ _You're crazy'_. But Peter was equally alone. It wasn't like it was a date or a get-to-know-you event.

"S-sure," he choked out, his surprise just a touch evident. _I can just go inside, let him get his coffee_ _._ "Yeah, that's right." The pair walked meanwhile in the middle of the road, something rebellious and uncaring and somehow resigned in the act. Taking up all the would-be used space here in New York and Peter seemed to be settling into that reality.

Peter wasn't nitpicking or demanding they walk in the sidewalk, he was marching down the centerline like it belonged to him. He found himself wondering if that was an ingrown Petrelli mindset (he doubted it, at least for Peter. To a degree)

The medic led him towards the diner and he followed gamely behind. "Um…not much of a coffee drinker, actually. I was…kind of raised with the idea that it would stunt your growth and rot your teeth. Kind of had to drink it four or five years ago…well, more like six is when it started. When you're on the run and all that." Sylar didn't add the part about living in _hotels_ and his victim's residencies, even whatever car he'd stolen on occasion.

XXX

"Yeah, I heard that stuff about it being bad for you, too." Peter paused to consider the thought of Sylar 'on the run.' Peter assumed he meant after getting his ability and roaming around looking for more. ' _Why?_ ' ' _How?_ ' and ' _Did you have any control over yourself?_ ' came to him as questions. When he'd had Sylar's ability, everything lined up in his head as a neatly logical progression that _just happened_ to include picking up abilities from everyone he ran into _except_ for Sylar. He didn't really understand that - the one person responsible he didn't feel any hunger towards, although Peter's willingness to dish out violence to the man had gone through the roof.

XXX

Sylar continued, "I like it black; sometimes creamer and sugar if I'm not in the mood for the full kick," he gave a small chuckle as they passed through the door, "I like the smell and taste of coffee beans." Perhaps because they were a wholesome, ancient ingredient and it was generally considered to be something to look forward to in the mornings when all he usually had was a road trip by himself. And it wasn't something that was really found in Virginia's household when he grew up.

"And you?" _This is…surreal. I already know the answer, but still that I'm asking Peter Petrelli about his coffee…_ Sylar managed to bite his tongue over spewing out Peter's response before he voiced it. It wouldn't do him any favors.

XXX

Peter walked behind the counter, heading right to the coffee machine. He shook his head, popping in a new filter and pulling out another coffee pack. "I _prefer_ a café mocha or a cocoa cappuccino, and most of the lattes are fine, too." He pressed the button to get the machine started. "But black's good. I suppose all I really want is the caffeine and sugar. I never got into all the different kinds of beans and roasts, but I've had truly fresh roast a few times and wow, I see why that's a big deal." He hadn't seen a coffee house around here, but he knew how to operate a cappuccino machine. Should they find one, he'd be set.

XXX

 _Huh?_ Was Sylar's first reaction. Nathan filled him in on what they tasted or looked like respectively, but Sylar didn't have the first clue as to what the drinks (he assumed) actually were. Literally hundreds of coffee opportunities—outings, dates, meetings, casual hook ups, heck, just by himself; Nathan was a real coffee man, but Sylar suspected it was a tool like everything else in that Petrelli's arsenal.

Nathan liked it for the caffeine and the act of holding a mug or cup in his hand. "I've heard that about fresh roast, too," he nodded, "Supposedly better health benefits or something; I could be wrong. But the bean probably does make a difference."

Pausing in thought, he recalled something he'd read about once. "Dark roasts have less caffeine than a medium roast because the heat burns away the caffeine," Sylar frowned to himself a little. _That was informed of you_. "The human body can take in about three hundred milligrams of caffeine, about four cups before it stops having any effect. And coffee is made up one-thousand two-hundred chemical components, half of which make up the taste itself."

Sylar finally had to make an effort to stop jabbering Peter's ears off, rubbing at a deep scrape in the counter top, eyeing it intently for a moment as the other man worked around. Peter's preferences were good to know in any event.

It still struck Sylar as odd to watch someone else do what he did—waltz around and use the objects around like they belonged to him. Something about the etiquette of it perhaps. He sat on a stool and plopped his elbows onto the bar counter, watching Peter's hands mostly.

XXX

Peter turned around and stared at Sylar when he started spouting weird facts. _Encyclopedia, much?_ After a long beat, he grinned and shook his head. "Wow. You are _really_ smart." _Too bad you didn't use that brain to accomplish something. Actually, you did. You became probably the most powerful man in the world. How's that working for you, Sylar? Of course, even Einstein had socialization problems. Come to think of it, a lot of smart people do. Then again, so do a lot of dumb people._ He smiled again suddenly, an uncommonly warm and friendly expression even from Peter, like he had found or made some empathic connection, which he felt he had. "That's cool, man. Keep the facts coming. Maybe I'll learn something."

XXX

Sylar gratefully missed the stare; it would have made him shrink more. _Really smart. It's only gotten me into lots of trouble_. The words 'wow' and really smart' in the same sentence failed to read genuine. He supposed it was intended to be condescending or sarcastic; then again, that wasn't something Peter excelled at necessarily, so he let the statement lie. He blinked at the response he garnered verbally. Ducking his head he chuckled a little, "Coffee wasn't something I studied religiously, not being much of a coffee worshipper, but okay."

XXX

Peter set out two cups next to the coffee machine. He turned and found a canister of sugar on the counter. He set it out in front of Sylar. "Maybe I can teach you something, too." The words just slipped out and he _thought_ he'd meant them innocently. _God, that sounded almost flirty_ _._ He caught the other man's expression. _No, that sounded definitely flirty_ _._ Peter turned away and found something else to do immediately.

XXX

Then _, T-teach me something? Like what?_ Sylar raised his eyes from the bar's surface to give Peter's…back a rather heated look. _What did you have in mind, Peter Petrelli?_ By some small miracle he kept his gaze from wandering over the other man's body.

The other man disappeared for a few moments and Sylar ended up chuckling to himself behind his hand. Was Peter deliberately teasing him? Probably not…but he was still teasing and he could make use of that. When Peter returned with a pitcher, it was back to business and so was Sylar's face, although it hid his glee (some arousal) and humor behind it.

XXX

Peter left entirely, fleeing the scene. He went back into the kitchen on the excuse to himself of searching for cream or half and half. He found something that had to be either in one of the industrial/commercial refrigerators the place had. What he found was thick and cream-like, in a small pitcher covered with cellophane. He brought it out and set it in front of Sylar; eyes down, face straight, studiously minding his own business and not making eye contact.

Peter spoke nervously, "You want anything else while we're here? I think I'm going to have a piece of toast. What about you? You want one?" He dug out bread and put it in the toaster like he owned the place. That still felt weird to him. It did not feel weird to be offering to serve Sylar, even though he was picking up that the other man was put-off by it. At some point he figured their positions would flip. He recalled how put-off he'd been about Sylar's invitation to lunch the first day he'd been here. It wasn't that Peter was feeling friendly towards the other man, but simply getting resigned. As long as Sylar was polite … well …

Peter glanced over at him. Yeah, perverse and strange as it was, he didn't think 'friendly' was going to take too long to arrive. If he really was going to be trapped here for years, the idea of spending all of that time seething with anger just wasn't realistic. Peter knew how people worked; how emotions worked. The rage he felt inside, the ache, the hurt - it might last forever, but lashing out because of it wasn't going to.

XXX

"No thank you, Peter," he said quickly and quietly, "I already ate." It felt weird for Sylar to be asked if he wanted anything. By Peter Petrelli no less. Perhaps it was crossing his mental boundaries when it came to gifts and food and people and the like.

It sucked to know Peter's favorite foods already. That meant he would have to ask something Nathan did not or would not know. "You should probably eat more, Peter. I know you're not working any more, but still." Sylar still didn't eat as much as he should either, but that was different. "I didn't mean to make you nervous…you know, earlier," he said a little absentmindedly as he watched the ingredients Peter put on his toast.

XXX

"Nervous? Sylar, you make me nervous all the time." Peter said that perfectly matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. "Why do you think I'm so jumpy around you?" _I keep over-reacting. Maybe that's it. It's just an over-reaction_. He tended to his toast. He took one of the little single serving jelly packs and peeled off the top. He spread the grape jelly over half the toast, then opened another and doubled it.

Peter said, "I ate some at my apartment. I'm fine." _Little weird that you'd worry about me though. Not sure what to make of that_. He licked the jelly off the knife. _Wait, did that just look suggestive? I'll bet that looked suggestive. What the hell am I doing here? Just stop it!_

XXX

Sylar tilted his head, "That bad, huh," he said in partial question, frowning slightly. _Oh, so…you're eating again…okay, makes perfect sense_. _Grape, too_ , he thought. _Go figure. I guess he isn't completely like me then after all, he'll be thrilled to hear._

But Sylar let it pass. Food, healthy food at that, was good for Peter whether he'd bulked up or not. The hero-drive would be harder to kill and he kind of assumed and pieced together that Peter was rather lax in his eating habits. Which had…suddenly become Sylar's business overnight. _Fuck_. He knew who to blame for it.

Sylar's attention wasn't caught by the empty diner and its kitchen, surprise, surprise. It was too interesting watching Peter- _Uuh_. His mouth dropped open a little at the sight of the other man's tongue doing some very interesting things to the knife. _I think most people would suck that clean, but that wouldn't help his case any_. Sylar made it a point to swallow and shift on the stool, clearing his throat as Peter turned, a little embarrassed _(_ _so he knew!_ _),_ towards the coffee. _Screw the coffee, Petrelli, do that again_.

Sylar bit his lip and prayed to whatever god of coffee not to get any physical reactions what would be visible to…uninterested and probably unsympathetic eyes, namely Peter's.

XXX

Peter didn't look at Sylar, turning to look back at the percolator. "Ah. Coffee's done." He poured up two cups and put one in front of his companion. He blew on his coffee a little and sipped at it, then grimaced, either from the heat or taste. "Gimme that cream when you're done with it, will you?" _Wait, is that suggestive too? God, Pete, quit it!_ He shook his head, his expression caught between frowning and smirking.


	17. Fallen Angels

Day 8

Peter turned with two cups and, before Sylar could gather his brain cells to protest, had poured into them both. _Huh, looks like you are drinking coffee with him today_. He didn't feel the need to reject the…gesture.

He grabbed up a pair of mini-straws (the kind you couldn't drink out of to save your life) and began to stir his coffee. Peter blurted his third come-on, to Sylar's ears, but in reality it was just that, something he'd blurted out that sounded sexual to a very deprived man. 'Gimme that cream' Thank God Peter wasn't paying a whit of attention to him because he gasped and quickly brought his coffee closer so it would look like he'd burned himself or something while regions below his belt experienced a flood _(_ _oh, who cares? Surely Peter will understand…?)._ _He-he wants what now?_

Keeping his eyes glued to the pitcher, he quickly poured out what he needed into his cup and slid it slowly towards Peter, just slow enough to get the other man to clue in. "It's all yours," he murmured then took his first drink to hide his absolutely delighted smirk in the cup. _Note to self: Discussions about sex give him a loose mouth…and possibly turn him on._

XXX

Peter watched the gradual progress of the cream pitcher, waiting until Sylar's hands were entirely off it so as to avoid any possible touching. Not that the empath usually cared about that kind of thing, but he was sending all the wrong signals at the moment and obviously Sylar was picking them up. Given that the other man had made what might have been a pass at him the day before, this was starting to be very awkward. Peter set his teeth together and managed to say, "Thank you," mostly without opening them. He poured generously, feeling a heat across his nose and forehead. _Blushing. Awesome,_ he thought to himself sarcastically. _Fucking awesome. Why don't you just tell the guy you're interested in him while you're at it?_

XXX

And just like that Peter was done playing. Part of him was left to wonder— _Am I that toxic?_ Then another small voice spoke up from far back in his head, _Yeah, you are. You leave a bad taste in everyone's eyes when they look at you_ _._ He ducked his head and went back to stirring the coffee he hadn't intended on having at all. It took some self-control not to bite his lip, but he pulled it off. "No problem," he mumbled in reply.

Playing was all it was; that was all it could be, but he'd enjoyed even that for the brief moment he'd been given the falsehood. Sylar usually preferred some sugar in his coffee, but Peter had set it out of reach and he wasn't about to ask for it and make the poor, clearly shame-faced man push it over or look at him. And Peter was feeling awkward at the very least; it read in his body language and in the tight voice he'd used. _Nothing if not good at picking up those unsubtle hints_. It succeeded in making him feel awkward about it, perhaps even awkward about having enjoyed it.

XXX

Peter stirred, tasted, added some sugar, stirred and tasted again. He added a little extra and set the sugar canister aside. He picked up his toast gingerly, balancing it on his left hand and took a bite, keeping his eye line well off to the side of Sylar, trying to think about what he should say. _Ask if he has any siblings? No - Nathan. And if I think of that immediately, so will he and I don't want to invite that discussion. Yeah. So no. Other family? Does he even **have** any family? He can't, really. It wouldn't work. If he had family, he wouldn't have been so quick to accept Ma telling him he was a Petrelli. He has to be a foster kid, or adopted or something. There would have been **some** question otherwise. And that means he wouldn't have any siblings either - same reason - Ma would have said, 'You're a Petrelli' and he'd have been 'Oh really? Is my sister one, too?' But not a peep._

XXX

Lifting his head again Sylar stared straight ahead and neither of them addressed whatever it was that…might have happened. _So it's going to be like that. Pretending you don't exist while you sit right beside him_ _._ Idly, he sipped on the coffee to be polite, and not because of the lack of sugar, while he kept his own eyes focused straight ahead back into the kitchen. The medic had most obviously gotten Sylar's half-worded attempt at a sexual invitation otherwise the words wouldn't have bothered him.

 _You Petrellis have a gift for making people feel less-than,_ he thought a little bitterly, _right after you give them at least a hint of something they want._ Frustration boiled in him but there was no help for it. Sylar wrapped his hand loosely around the rather warm cup, eyeing the mocha liquid inside as he thought to himself. _Yet his family isn't labeled psychopathic for having and knowing what a person wants and abusing it._ Wasn't that how it went?

XXX

Peter reached down and took up his coffee cup, blowing on the hot liquid and then sipping at it carefully. _Of course, maybe he had a long talk with Ma about the details, but I don't think so. I suppose that means Ma knew of his family situation, or lack of one. That would kind of suck, being alone like that._ He sighed, remembering telling Sylar on his first day here that the other man should have tried to find more help when he had trouble with his abilities. Nathan had been a huge help to Peter, more than once and even though his mother hadn't … helped, per se, she'd been there and provided a sort of stabilizing influence. _That, and she set me up to destroy New York, but that's not the point._

 _How would things have been different though if I'd had no Ma to worry about, no Nathan to tell me it was all crazy talk, no Claire to tell me I was her hero?_ He crunched through more of the toast. _I wouldn't have been out there killing people, but …_ His eyes flicked to Sylar, then away. _It would have been different, all right._

It was an uncomfortable subject. He sought a new one. _How many blocks away is this music shop? Nah; pointless. I'll find out in a little while anyway._ He wanted to ask something that told him more about who he was dealing with, but he didn't want to be invading the man's privacy. He thought back to things Sylar had said he did around here and asked, "You said you liked to cook to pass the time. Do you have a restaurant or somewhere you go to do it, or is it always in your apartment?" He gestured at the diner. "I came down here a couple times and fixed breakfast. Seemed more convenient than doing it in my apartment." _Plus, of course, I didn't **have** the apartment the first time, but whatever._

XXX

The one time Sylar glanced at Peter he appeared to have something on his mind and that didn't bode well. He chose to pretend it was a comfortable silence ( _yeah right_ ), until Peter spoke after a while of chewing on his toast, the crunch oddly satisfying from his standpoint. Then again, Peter eating had always deeply amused him (Peter doing any action that required contortion of his poor lip). Sylar deeply suspected that came from Nathan…at least he hoped it did. Even he wasn't that depraved as to think Peter eating for fuck's sake as ' _cute_ '.

_Oh, there it went. Wave bye-bye to your masculinity, please, because it just dumped you._

He exhaled an amused breath, one that failed to make it to chuckle status, "Yeah, I cook sometimes. I mean, I cook to eat, yes." Sylar made a face, considering the question. "I used random restaurants when I would wander too far from…home," his pause was brief. "But I usually just cook at home. There's less room and you still have to clean up, but hey, it's something to do, you know." He shrugged. "A restaurant would have more equipment if you're a gourmet." That drew a more amused sound from him at the thought.

 _//"Do I like sushi?" He'd asked Ma after she caught him staring at the clumps of raw fish on a platter. "You're the one who had a craving for yellowtail. I wanted Italian," had been her succinct yet questioning reply/_ and before that he recalled her near threat of _/"Nah. I never kid about family brunch."/ That just shows you,_ he thought.

"But I forgot, you can't clean dishes, can you, Peter?" was his gentle teasing in the other man's direction, chiding him lightly for not getting his hands dirty (perhaps not being able to grow up).

XXX

"I thought maybe you _were_ a gourmet?" Peter said half questioning, half teasing, finding himself suddenly trying to fall back into that same openness, same reaching out, poking and being friendly. Or rather, too friendly. He dialed it back. It would take a while to find a balance. A little more stiffly, he added, "You said when I first came here that you liked to cook and spent a lot of time doing it …?" _I was listening to you, you know?_ "I suppose at home you know where everything is at."

He chuckled at Sylar's light taunt about the dishes, taking it in the not-mean-spirited way he hoped it was meant. "I can, I just …" He shrugged, finishing the last of his toast. He washed it down with a larger sip of coffee. The drink was just starting to get to the top of the drinkability range of temperature. "Well, it's not my favorite thing to do unless someone's there doing it with me. Same for laundry. We always had scrub-" _He'd know that, from Nathan's memories. Actually, would Nathan have ever noticed what we had in the kitchen?_ "-brushes at home, and sponges. And those little bristly green scrubbing things. I'm sure they have a name." He looked up at Sylar, eyes making a quick circuit of the man's face, expecting that he'd know this sort of thing.

Peter took a larger drink of his coffee and frowned briefly at the toast crumbs on the counter. _I wonder if I leave them there, if they'll disappear like trash? First time I was in here, I didn't clean up and it was still messy when I came back._ He walked over to get a wet cloth, then cleaned up.

"If someone's helping though, dishes or laundry or whatever, it's a nice way to spend the time." He'd enjoyed working with most of the staff his parents employed. He remembered his mother being absolutely scandalized one evening when he'd been helping Sarah and carried out a tray of hors d'oeuvres she'd prepared. That Angela's guests saw him serving had struck most of them as charming. She'd tried to laugh it off as that, but Peter had been banned from gatherings in future if he couldn't 'control himself.' That wasn't much of a punishment, really, but Sarah had caught hell for it, too, which _was_. So after that, he left to hang out with his friends to late hours, or wherever. Sometimes he'd chase down Nathan and inflict his sixteen or seventeen year old self on his brother.

XXX

Sylar's face turned dubious and amused. "Sorry to disappoint," he chuckled before Peter seemed to shift again. _No more so than Nathan was a gourmet._ "I was…never really exposed to it." He just took the next half-question Peter posed him, letting it and the delivered tone slide past him. Those had not been his words and he wasn't sure where Peter had gotten the impression he was suddenly Miss Martha Stewart;HomeGarden and Cooking Channel. Like he'd said just before; he cooked to eat.

Peter went about cleaning up and Sylar thought he was just doing it because of the discussionary topic. Dish washing was next and his eyebrows rose. _Was that an invitation?_ He thought he'd clarify, "You wanna see my dirty laundry?" and laughed a little to show he was actually joking since Peter seemed to be having difficulty loosening up again. Then again, the instant it was out of his mouth he knew it probably wasn't the right kind of joke to accomplish that. It was adding to the problem. _Okay…no more flirting._

"You like the 'I'll wash, you dry' thing," he nodded with seriousness, trying to picture who Peter had ever done that with. "Laundry is just plain boring. There's only so much motion sickness one person can take, man."

XXX

Peter was thankful he wasn't drinking coffee at the moment Sylar suggested they do laundry together, or whatever he was implying. He choked anyway, half laughing, half scowling. "No!" Peter stared at Sylar apprehensively after that. _Did I say something suggestive again? Dammit. I don't think I did. I think he just has a dirty mind. Or is this the dirty-mind-version of the sarcasm/snark, and now that I've got him thinking that way he's going to keep at it? Well… if that's the case, then just calm down. No more reason to take offense at that than to the sarcasm, even if they're both annoying._ He relaxed and nodded in agreement to Sylar's 'you wash, I dry' line.

"I meant the folding part," Peter murmured around a careful drink after Sylar mentioned motion sickness. "Never mind," he added, considering the other man might take that too as an invitation to fold clothes together sometime.

XXX

Peter's face had been amusing when he protested togetherness and laundry. Sylar had given a quiet, "Oh," of response. _Folding, of course_. He didn't even notice the other man clearing up the 'invitation' in question. It appeared like he was adapting, like it or not.

On the heels of thinking about Peter's supposed inability to clean one damn dish, his lack of job skills (or so it seemed), the inability to socially flourish at the hands of his parents; Sylar finally looked up at the other man, having a good question to ask at last. "What made you get into medicine?"

XXX

"Why did I get into medicine?" Peter snorted. "I didn't want to be an attorney." He took a drink of coffee. "Or worse yet, join the military. I needed to do _something_. I was flunking out of pre-law." He looked at Sylar for a long moment, holding his cup halfway to the counter, assessing and judging with an intent gaze. He caught himself and looked away. _What to tell? What not to tell?_ He felt defensive, but he forged ahead even as he shifted his weight uncomfortably and started glancing at Sylar more often while he talked, weighing his reaction.

"Tim talked to me about it - that's Uncle Tim. He told me to find my passion, do what I liked. He said that-" _there was no point to having money if you didn't spend your time wasting it._ _Entitled son of a bitch._ Peter eyed Sylar. Most people would not take Tim's philosophy well and he suspected Sylar would be no different in that regard. "He said that I should make the most of my opportunities and that I didn't have to be prelaw. Dad disagreed." There had been quite a few fights about it that summer, but ultimately although his father could force Peter to go to class and even pay attention, he couldn't make him like it and he couldn't (or at least didn't) invest the level of obsessiveness necessary to run his son's life to that degree.

Peter looked at Sylar briefly out of the corner of his eye. "Would you believe it was actually Linderman who suggested medicine?" It was kind of a faux-embarrassing secret, something he'd not told the rest of his family. Arthur had drug Peter along on their Fourth of July party and made something of an issue to his friends that his son needed career guidance. Arthur had clearly and explicitly encouraged his friends to steer Peter in the expected Petrelli course. Daniel Linderman had been coming to Petrelli events for years. He'd even been there when Peter brought out the hors d'oeuvres tray years before. He'd taken Peter aside, listened to him to a creepy/disturbing degree and advised him differently than Arthur had intended, ending with honeyed words about the shit Peter would catch if he shared their 'secret.' It had skeeved Peter out, but he hadn't told anyone. He had to get the money for nursing school somewhere.

XXX

Sylar's eyes then dulled over a little as Peter addressed his choice. _Boy, can I relate_ _._ It made him (and Nathan) sympathetic…to a degree.

Both (all three) had been shoved into a…'job', not necessarily a _career_ , one that they hadn't (necessarily) wanted, whether they liked it or not. In two of the three cases it was my-way-or-the-highway 'choice'. Peter just…hadn't mattered much in /Dad's/ plans and Martin was disgusted with and perhaps envious of Gabriel. Yet Peter was the only one who was alive, out of the enforced occupation with prospects. _Lucky son of a bitch._ Clearly the trick was having an older brother.

"You'd make a horrible lawyer. It's a good thing you didn't go that route. I think I-" _shit!_ "Arthur would have had you put away for being a disgrace," Sylar said bluntly, neatly avoiding the potential landmine. _Maybe /Dad/ kind of did?_ He snorted at the idea of Peter being in the military, the stint inHaiti notwithstanding.

Sylar kept his head down not to upset the medic with anything that might and probably would pass through his eyes (Mom had always hated that until he learned that little trick) trying to just listen as the other man spoke. Sylar's lips pursed, mostly for himself, but Nathan in him did the same. _Find your passion my ass. What a dreamer. He's lucky he fucking found it. And that's its legal._ Peter had it so easy and he had no idea. At the mention of Linderman, someone, the name he only knew through Nathan, Sylar looked up at him.

"Is that so." A healer, who was probably aware to some degree of Peter's ability (as if it wasn't obvious), suggesting medicine to an empath. A literal perfect fit except for Peter's suicidal urges that he liked to disguise as his hero side-job. Gabriel had killed to get that kind of ear time, literally; Chandra hadn't listened, so he'd paid the price almost the same as his first kill, Brian. Nathan recalled that party, being particularly (politely) drunk and seeing Dad hanging onto Peter's shoulder for the night—poor Pete hadn't been able to move from his side. Poor Pete wishing he could be (possibly not-so-politely) drunk.

 _Technically that's…a dirty little Peter secret, isn't it?_ Sylar concluded. _Really? What the hell do I care?_

"Full of secrets, you are. Your family," was his delicate phrasing for 'Nathan', "doesn't know about that one." The lawyer and intuitive in him connected the dots in Peter's lack of job and sudden funds for med school. Baby brother had never made a peep about his wallet or payments now had he. Nathan had always wondered distantly about that when he had time or when he was reminded of the fact. _Smart kid—man, smart man_. _Goddamn age gap._ But Peter would have gotten himself in deep had Linderman and/or Dad not died, been killed…whatever.

XXX

He nodded to Sylar's comment about Peter making a poor lawyer, thinking, _Yeah, I'd probably end up doing all pro bono work._ Sylar pointed out that Peter's family hadn't known about where he'd gotten his money for his education. Peter looked at him steadily, the right corner of his mouth twitching upward along with his left brow. He didn't blink. _Yes, you know a secret about me now. But the only person that you would mean anything to is Ma and not only would she not listen to you, I don't think she'd really care. But does it make you feel that I trust you a little that I told you that? Because I do. Just a little._

He went back to his drink silently, putting off the somewhat threatening demeanor he'd just shown.

XXX

"Couldn't just get a job, could you? That's not good enough for your kind," Sylar forced a grin and he didn't bother putting enough effort into it to make it appear real. He was insinuating plainly that a 'job, just a job' was too good for Peter. "Arthur probably wouldn't let you just travel and you would be bored or…be unfulfilled with that. It had to be a _career_." It was his turn to exhale and shake his head into his cup.

Sylar stood and had been about to pass by the medic when he'd gotten the stare of a lifetime. It read 'watch your next step, _buddy_.' Or more accurately in Sylar's case, 'watch the next evil words out of your mouth'. He met the stare and paused, letting Peter finish the coffee and unfortunately it gave him time to tense up about something.

XXX

He listened to Sylar's quip about a job and felt his hackles rise, along with his blood pressure. Peter took a bigger drink and looked away for a moment, hanging onto his emotion and working it out before he said something undeserved. Sylar's jibe was irritating, but Peter's sudden and intense surge of anger was out of proportion to the comment.

He set to cleaning up, sort of mindlessly while the semi-red haze over his mind started to lift. The other man took his cup and Peter flinched very slightly from the motion. "Sorry," he muttered and got out of the other man's way. He exited the kitchen as soon as Sylar went past him. He went to the door when he saw Sylar was coming out, and made a jerk of his head towards the street. When he saw a sign of assent on the other man's face, Peter went out.

XXX

The tension led to a flinch as Sylar took the cup, gently, brushing by the EMT uncomfortably in the tight aisle that was the waiter station to wash their cups. What was there to be done about the empath's aversion to Sylar doing…anything? _Nothing_ , he knew the answer was. Sylar returned and they exited the diner, he caught Peter's gesture to continue on and nodded, relieved the man had calmed down, presumably from his fit about having 'a job'.

XXX

Once they were walking again, Peter felt some of the tension passing. He felt he needed to explain his sudden emotion, because it had probably been obvious - Sylar was no slouch on detecting such. "' _Arthur_ ' wouldn't let me work. I had a job freshman year. He got me fired from it." And he forbade Peter from getting another one while he was in college, or something to that effect. At the time Peter had been furious (he still was), but he followed orders like he always did when his father got in his face and was explicit about what he was to do. In retrospect, having had an ability that allowed him to push thoughts and deliver mental commands, he knew what had happened. It made him no less angry.

XXX

Sylar's eyebrow quirked at 'Arthur', an intentional use he didn't need as Sylar knew Arthur in many ways by now. "Owch. That's…almost- no, it is ridiculous." Sylar felt a wave of sympathy for Peter at that. That was like…being castrated or something, socially. A grown man that 'wasn't allowed' to hold a job for his father's fear of embarrassment was…jeez. He could seriously empathize with that sentiment.

XXX

Trying to change the subject, Peter looked over and asked, "So, can you tell me about your jobs, or career? From … before, you know?"

XXX

At the question, Sylar's hands found his pockets, "Oh, sure, I can tell you." _Question is—will I?_

"You kind of already saw it, so you say. I, um…" he hedged, still eager to avoid the subject. _Please don't blush_. Peter was someone who, had they met differently, Sylar, or Gabriel rather, would have looked up to. In a way he still did. Peter Petrelli was everything Sylar should be and he wasn't anywhere near close—he was off that rock by a few hundred miles. Normally it was an embarrassment to him, significant shame being his mindset about that time, mostly due to his social class (lack thereof) and family situation (same thing).

Normally he could say it to the average person and be able to get through it. Bennet made a mockery out of his name, tried to belittle him, set him back and that was the issue with it. He wanted Peter's approval on something that was really nothing. It was a nothing topic; it didn't contribute to him today, not really, but at the same time it was everything to him; it had _been_ him. _Wait, I want Peter's approval? For what? It's come and gone before you ever knew him or knew what you could be. Still looking for that 'it's okay to be a normal goddamn watchmaker' line?_ With Peter he…it put him further away from his misguided attempts at heroism. But he'd learned his lessons well: there would be no hero acts on his part ever because he was tainted. He held back the question, _Why can't I be like him?_

XXX

When Sylar began to speak of his job history, it looked like he grew embarrassed. Peter gave him a small smile and for a moment, more attention. Then he looked forward with a general nod, trying to encourage without putting the man in a spotlight. Peter didn't ponder why he did that, except that it seemed right and he wanted to dispel the discomfort. He wasn't going to shame or mock Sylar about his job choices.

 _What could the man have been doing that was embarrassing?_ Honest work was honest and Peter respected it a great deal, all the more for his own (historical) lack of contribution in that area. Peter drew a lot of identity from his work as a nurse and paramedic. Those were very important to him and to who he was. He knew that wasn't the case for everyone, but Sylar's bashfulness about it made Peter think that this past of Sylar's was equally important to _him_.

XXX

"I repaired time pieces—watches, clocks. I-i-it was my ability," Sylar tried to reason to the other man's understanding, "I can tell the time without a clock, keep track of it and…I can tell how and why the clock is broken." _That's right, yap it up. He'll think more of you if you elaborate and talk yourself up, I'm sure._ "I was kind of…dead locked."

He paused, inhaling while he considered diving into the increasingly pathetic story of his life to the last (or was it the first?) person he wanted to do that to. "It was just…complicated." _Ah, the Mom attribute_. It drove him insane with rage when he thought of his choice of killing that punk Trevor, the manipulation behind it, years of active manipulative work in the making. _Bennet just had to have his monster. If you'd just been stronger…_

XXX

"Dead-locked?" Peter repeated curiously, wondering what he meant by that. Did it mean Sylar was bored with his job? There was no career advancement? _Huh. He repaired watches; I repaired people._ He wanted to say that and point out the similarities, but people were so much more valuable than watches. The comparison might offend even though Peter didn't mean the value difference. He mulled over if there was another way to say it while Sylar paused and told him it was complicated.

XXX

Sylar watched his feet for a little while as they walked, Peter thought and he spoke. "Yeah," he said simply, but didn't expand on it immediately.

XXX

"You said it was your ability, but …" Peter's brow furrowed, trying to work out what Sylar meant by choosing to use that word, 'ability,' that so often meant more between them. He couldn't get out of his mind how a future version of Sylar had had Peter repair a watch in order to access Sylar's ability. Was he saying they were one and the same somehow, for him? Was it like how Peter had always felt that vague and sometimes not-so-vague yearning to help others, like Peter didn't _matter_ unless he was giving?

"I'm trying to think of how to say what I want to say here. I guess … did you do anything else, from … you know, high school on? Because if that was your 'passion' like my uncle was telling me - I know it was corny, kind of entitled advice," he looked aside with a brief frown, then back at Sylar with a clearer expression, "I don't know. I know that once I was in nursing I really felt like I was doing the right thing. Or at least - no, what I mean is I was doing the right thing for _me_ and I'm wondering if you felt like your work was the right thing for _you_ , if you felt the same way?"

"What do you mean that you were dead-locked?" Peter tilted his head and furrowed his brow, acutely interested in the conversation and how Sylar's ability reflected on who he was as a person; especially who he was as a person _without_ it, as he was now.

XXX

"My ability is…seeing how things work, seeing what's wrong or broken," he supplied, "Didn't you know that?" Sylar asked right back, confused if that was the case. Peter knew that, right? "I can look at your watch right now and tell you that it's been stopped since you've been here without seeing the face."

Sylar pointed to the man's wrist, "The battery is still good, too, and it always ran slow and made you run to catch work. The point is I was better than my d-…the owner because of it. It was a good fit despite anything else." This was probably just creating way more questions than Peter probably wanted. Definitely more than he himself wanted.

He watched Peter as he searched for words, interested in what the semi-wise younger man had to say on the subject. Once it was clear that the medic wouldn't be slamming him on it, of course. "No, nothing else." Sylar listened as Peter tried to, what, validate his occupation without knowing the particulars? He spoke quiet and slow next, still considering, "It…it was the same for me, yes," he found himself admitting slowly, almost in spite of himself. His opinion of it was…cloudy.

_/"You should call Mr. Bilger, that man from Smith and Barney. You fixed his Rolex." Mom bustled into the kitchen to make him the stupid sandwich he would be forced to choke down._

_"Why would I call him?" he'd asked, distracted, barely, barely listening to her drone._

_"Maybe he could get you a job!" He'd set down his tools, closing Dad's clock and pulling off his loupes._

_As he stood he gave a contemptuous roll of his eyes, his body tense in annoyance and frustration. And he'd been home all of five minutes before she set in. "I_ have _a job. I fix watches," he spat in his controlled way._

 _"That's a_ hobby," _she put it down so quickly, "Investment banking is…a_ very _lucrative field."_

_He turned from replacing the gorgeous clock back on the wall, "I can't be an investment banker!" his voice rose and his hands spread out in plea._

_"You can be anything you want!" she insisted._

_"Mom, he wouldn't even remember who I am!" His final defense was adding 'Mom'…like that would help._

_"Who could forget you?" she asked in her falsified innocence, completely genuine._

_"Mom, you're not even listening to me!" he whined, all out begging. That got the attention he shouldn't have to beg for, but it wasn't real and he knew it. He stared at the floor, knowing he'd already lost. It was all over but the shouting._

_"I am listening," Mom's voice shook as she gave that protest of offense because, yes, he'd offended her by saying that. But really, she wasn't._

_"No." Quietly he spoke again, dared to speak again, "You're making a tuna sandwich," he looked up and gestured at the damn thing, sneering at it. Oh, he was going to hell for speaking up, wasn't he? He'd spent too much time away, busy hurting people and being hurt to be special for Mom. Too much time spent away that he could no longer play his role and receive her…acceptance, her blessing. His reward._

_"So?" She was shrieking now._

_"I asked you not to!"/_

Sylar closed his eyes. The memory spoke for itself. And, joy, one day Peter would probably end up seeing that one, too; unless they figured out what was going on and stopped it. That is…if Peter wanted it stopped at all… "It could have been, but there were…lots of…other factors." Peter reiterated his earlier question since Sylar had glossed over it. "My mom, okay? My life. Family…" he waved his hand, "shit, family issues, drama. The job wasn't…it was a responsibility," he whispered the last, "a hobby."

 _She said it was a hobby. Why couldn't anyone just let me be about it?_ In his own way he was happier being special, unemployed, on the run and on the FBI's Most Wanted list. Was his life better one way or other? Not really—both were lonely and both had their perks. One was exciting and one was comfortable. And neither worked out the way he would have liked.

XXX

At Sylar's mention of Peter's watch, he looked at it, then held it to his ear. Not a single tick; not a single tock. Peter smiled happily. That pleased him to no end. He listened to the rest of Sylar's words and his expression sobered quickly.

 _'It could have been … the right thing?' I think that's what he's saying - that watchmaking could have been as meaningful to him as nursing was to me, it's just that something else happened; something with his family, his mom?_ Again, Peter's thoughts went to the lack of mention of other family when Angela had introduced Sylar as his brother. It didn't fit, if Sylar's mother was still in the picture.

"My family didn't exactly react well to my ability either. My mother tried to make me a mass murderer." He snorted. "You know all that, though," he said with a liberal dash of resentment about Sylar's illegitimate knowledge. He didn't know what he was resentful about though - Sylar hadn't asked for Nathan's memories. Maybe he stole abilities, but the memories had been forced on him.

XXX

Sylar was immediately amused, even if he didn't show it, that Peter tested out his watch, going so far as to smile about it for a moment. It made him feel better even if he didn't understand the reasons behind it. Maybe Peter understood something of the significance of time and clocks. Sylar exhaled, "Yeah, you got the shaft on that, t-" He clapped his teeth shut quickly, suddenly aware at Peter's tone that he was treading on thin ice that didn't belong to him. It wasn't even his fault. He hadn't brought it up! _So it's my fault now for listening to him? This is unwinnable._

Thus far he'd contained himself and his curiosity (not an easy task); specifically avoiding the subject and not giving indications that he knew more than he did…even though both men knew what he knew. Now he was getting the ax because Peter felt he should which was equal parts unfair, expected and understood. _I don't know what he expects me to do about it, though._ Was he back at the reevaluation stage? Was Peter?

_My mom called me damned and tried to throw me out then kill me. I already was a murderer and she didn't even know it. Or maybe she did…I know how veteran soldiers feel now; duty discharged and ready for some kind of homecom- welcome to get…that. Hey, another murder checkmark for your bed post._

XXX

Trying to change the subject, Peter asked in a voice that was somewhat clipped and too fast, "So, tell me about your mom. What happened there?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he'd used the wrong tone - too cavalier, too indifferent - and triply so if he really thought Sylar's mother had died sometime in the last five or six years. Sylar had been opening up a little here and Peter … Peter had just stepped in it.

XXX

There was a strained pause of silence as the pair turned a corner at Sylar's direction, pointing to the shop in the middle of the now-upcoming block. Peter's voice caught his attention before the words did and he turned, but the topic had changed, almost to his surprise. One, Peter had let it drop, lucky enough for him. Two, he was inquiring about something…personal. Very personal. _What?_

In that voice… _where did I go wrong here? I didn't say anything that was that god-awful bad…did I?_

Then it hit him. He'd been over-sharing. Sylar lacked any other social experience other than do what the person wanted, inquire and get to know them and keep his mouth shut in order to befriend someone. The other way was obviously not going to cut it—it rarely ever did. _Empathizing_ , he realized it was, by sharing experiences, different though they be. _Go figure he doesn't want that. We've been through this before: he is not here for therapy._ It sucked all over again because from here Peter sure looked like an angel. _He's really lost his way if he's here, then. Snowball's chance in a basket._

He bit down hard on his lip. 'What happened there?' _Nothing that you'd care to hear, Peter Petrelli. I won't put my problems and my…feelings such as they are; I won't put_ my mother _on trial to_ _you just so you have something to talk about_ _._ He swallowed and watched his feet eat up the ground. _He'll see what he sees in his dreams and you can't anticipate or prepare for that, so let it happen. And keep your fucking mouth shut. No one's ever asked me about that…_

"We're here," he croaked tightly, opening the door for Peter to lead them in, what with the broken hand and all. Politely giving Peter, and himself, an out. Sylar lingered in the doorway as Peter walked further into the store, seemingly not noticing that he hung back. As soon as the angle would allow, he sunk to pretzel his legs on the floor. _You won't find understanding with him_ _,_ he thought; and on the heels of it came, _I miss you, Mom. I got sent to the wrong place just like you always said. /"You're damned."/ I hope that makes up for something._


	18. Braced For It

Day 8

"Thanks," Peter said to Sylar for getting the door for him. He headed inside the music store. Peter walked further in, looking around for … something he wasn't seeing. It struck him as odd for a moment, until he realized that he normally looked for _people_ when he went in a store. Not seeing anyone, the only thing left to see was the wares. He turned to look back. Sylar was out of sight. He blinked at that and walked back until he saw where Sylar had elected to sit on the ground. _Huh. O-kay_ _._ He was a little surprised the man hadn't come along with him. _Guess I pissed him off a lot._

 _Oh well. It was Sylar._ Peter turned and ambled to the guitar section, mulling that over: 'It was Sylar.' _Does that mean its okay to piss him off? To be rude to him? (To use a nail gun on him and try to obliterate him?)_ He let out a deep breath and shot another look back at the entrance. He was still alone. He shook his head in negation, even if he couldn't yet bring himself to think it.

Instead, he moved on to looking at the guitars. There were a number of them – different styles, designs and sizes. He ran his fingers over a few of them, but none appealed to him much. He really liked the one they'd found, even though it was very basic – maybe _because_ it was basic. He didn't need anything fancy.

XXX

 _Doing a great job of telegraphing your soft spots, aren't we?_ Sylar thought while he struggled with his anger; rage, actually, and grief as he thought of the woman he'd called 'Mom'. He sat inside the door, with legs crossed under him and his hands clasped loosely in his lap, staring down at them, trying to think straight. He did so hate being made to feel worthless even if Peter wasn't aware he'd done it. _Why would Peter ask that? At all or…in that way?_ Was Peter trying to ask something of him or just be polite or…genuinely trying to rib and dig into the topic with that _tone_?

XXX

Peter looked at the picks next. They came in different colors, styles and materials; with skulls, Hello Kitty and flowers on them, or plain, or tortoise shell stone. He rifled through them casually, seeing nothing that grabbed his interest until he moved some aluminum picks aside and saw a set of five striated zebra wood. _Cool_ _._ He snagged them without wondering why they, of all he had to choose from, practically screamed ' _Pick me!_ ' to him. He picked up some extra strings, too. On the way out, he pondered over sheet music. _I suppose if I can practice and get better at something, then I should be able to learn something new, eventually, if I work at it_. He picked some out, bagged his finds and turned to his companion.

XXX

Soon enough Peter returned with his finds—a wooden pick, strings and music from what he could tell. Sylar kept his face turned away, not glancing at Peter any more than the initial perfunctory evaluation. _Son of a bitch. How dare he ask about my mother? And like such a dick, too. Yeah, HIS mom is off limits._ That didn't hide the fact that Sylar was glad his mother wasn't…around, not only not to see what he'd become, but so Peter and his kind couldn't use her.

Sylar stood and opened the door again.

XXX

Sylar had remained quiet. Peter considered what they might talk about on the walk to wherever – he supposed the hospital was next. _Talking. We're going to be doing a lot of that_. Restless and uncomfortable with the quiet, he asked, "Do you mind me asking about you - what you like, what you don't like, favorite color, whatever?" He glanced away, then back.

XXX

The pair began walking as the Peter blabbed on about something or other along Sylar's lines of thought. He kept his hands in his pockets and guided them towards the hospital. He exhaled a breath, nearly a snort of amusement to show the request was hardly a no-fly zone to him. "No, I don't mind that." In fact it was encouraged.

When he was sure Peter wasn't looking he rolled his eyes. "When you've been here for a year, I think you'll see that things like that won't matter, but in the interest of the here and now, that's fine by me."

XXX

"Okay. Are there certain questions I shouldn't be asking you? I know there's things if you asked me, I wouldn't answer - like I'm not going to tell you anything about other people with abilities." Peter chewed his lip a little. _I hope you understand that?_ "And I don't want to hear about ... what you've _done_ with your ability. So are there areas for you I need to stay away from, in the interests of, uh," he laughed a little nervously, trying to inject some levity into an otherwise very serious request, "not punching each other in the face?"

XXX

 _Doesn't want to hear what you've done with your abilities? That_ was…a little offensive. _Surely Peter wants to know if I ate the goddamn brains? What is his problem? He's a medic but he can't handle one little special lobotomy or twenty? He is no fun at all._

Sylar's desired reply was an extremely juvenile ' _oooh, whatcha gonna do if I don't, Petey?_ ' and his jaw ticked at the urge. _No duh, Peter. Like, how about every subject on the planet is off fucking limits?_ His fingers itched to find the soft flesh of Peter's throat in frustration yet again— _What the hell does he want from me? There's a reason I don't or can't make friends; why can't he just see-?_

"I can just let you ask all the questions then. I'm sure the Geneva Convention won't arrest _you_." In typical Sylar fashion he was being (mostly) humorous—another thing Peter would have to learn. It also signaled that he would probably cough up whatever answer to whatever question Peter decided to ask. _Somewhere someone is laughing at me over this. Stunned he thinks I have or need verbal boundaries. No, I take that back…you did hit him for giving you…funny looks._

_XXX_

_Passive aggressive much?_ Peter thought. "There's no one around here to arrest either of us, man." _We can beat each other until we're broken and bloody. No one's going to punish us for it except each other - and ourselves_ _._

XXX

Sylar muttered, "I hadn't noticed. You know, I've really turned into a crazed klepto these last few years and I was wondering when they'd catch on," unable to resist rolling his eyes at Peter's need to point out the obvious. If Peter kept putting himself out there like that, Sylar had no choice (no real desire to censor himself) but to inject his humor into it. _Snark the dumb out of that boy a bit._ _Expose the Boy Scout to some new cultu—no, you promised to see him as a fully consenting adult. Meaning he's getting what's coming._

XXX

Peter gave a brief half-smile in recognition of Sylar's humor, then went on, "It's a lot easier to be civil if we just don't discuss certain things. I don't want to talk about my family either - any of them. That includes Claire and Meredith." _Don't care so much about Tim and Cheryl and the rest_ _._

XXX

"Really? Meredith?" His voice was a mix of things as was his face, screwing up in humor and disbelief, "She's not really related to you in any way." _And she's…dead, too; yeah, 'dead'_ _._ "How the hell do you even know her? I was looking forward to giving you dirt on-" _your brother_ , he caught himself as the words were on their way out of his mouth, "something you didn't know." _Like, was she a moaner or a screamer, I'm sure he's asked himself this many times._ A mental growl of displeasure went up in his head.

Barely, just barely Sylar managed to stave off that little…interlude because gold diggers just weren't his thing. _Next you'll be speaking Nathan's filthy memories, popping boners in front of his baby brother from lack of stimulation; no thank you._ And there were way too many people with a Texan accent around for it ever to be vaguely appealing to his libido…such as it was now. Then again…if Peter did it…

XXX

He glanced over, noting there was no mention of a similar list of topics from Sylar. _Fine_. _Probably afraid I'd use it against him_. He declined to answer about Meredith for the moment, not wanting to get derailed from setting boundaries in the conversation. "If you want to think of it that way, I'm giving you a list of how to push my buttons. I'd appreciate it if you _wouldn't_." These weren't great secrets, from Peter's point of view. Anyone with a shred of empathy and Nathan's memories would know exactly how to torque Peter off - the stunt with the teddy bear proved Sylar was not without that shred. Such an emotion worked both ways - it gave Sylar insight, but it also gave Peter a lever.

XXX

Sylar sniggered lightly, quietly, "I don't need a list, man. You telegraph yourself just fine." And Peter did. The looks he would get were priceless and half the reason for Sylar's button-pushing. Messing with people was always fun and Peter made it oh-so easy and even more tempting. He didn't need lists, Nathan's files, or Peter's face to tell him what would have Peter looking like a Universal Pantone book.

He felt the other man's gaze on him and turned to meet it, quirking an eyebrow in classic 'duh'.

XXX

Peter studied Sylar yet again, trying to figure out what he was dealing with here, attempting to figure out how best to use that lever, because life here was going to be pretty awful if he didn't. This was his worst enemy he was hanging out with, struggling to make nice with and set up some rules that didn't include Sylar getting pissy about Peter blundering into a personal trigger for him and taking that hammer in his apartment to Peter's head. _No lying, no manipulating_ _._ Peter was making an effort, but he had no idea where he was supposed to draw the line between 'no manipulating' and trying to get Sylar to act right towards him.

"So, okay. Enough of that." He grinned easily, changing the subject to something less emotionally charged. "What _is_ your favorite color? Inquiring minds want to know."

XXX

Peter's seamless switch had him chuckling, mildly at first, but as the man continued, he was left laughing as the chuckle reached a crescendo. As if it wasn't obvious? Sylar eyed Peter on the sly, enjoying the view a little as it were. "Black. Contains all the colors and covers-" _well, blood_ , "all the colors." _It's really all I wear. Black is conservative, serious, conventional, mysterious, sexy, sophisticated, rebellious. Black is for bad guys._

_/He recalled Peter replying when asked what his favorite color was, after some additional thought, "Wainbow. It has all the colors." Nathan had laughed and ruffled his hair at the silliness his brother presented, "Rainbow, eh? Not just one color in the rainbow for ya?" Pete had shaken his head, first to right his hair and as an answer, "Nope!"/_

_Yikes…that's…not intentional, I liked black long before I knew…any of that, in my defense_ _._ "I'm here to satisfy your curiosity," Sylar smirked to himself before inquiring, "And yours?"

XXX

"Hm." Peter nodded at Sylar's response and looked ahead, seeing the hospital in the distance. The structures had a characteristic look no matter where they were, but he recognized this one specifically. He'd been to it before, in New York. It wasn't Mercy Heights, but EMTs defaulted to delivering patients to the closest facility. His mind pulled up the faces of those who had worked there - but it would be empty today. _Oh, the question. Yeah. Color._

He gave it more thought than such a query probably deserved. Kids asked each other favorite colors all the time, considering the virtues of different crayons or markers. Adults only really brought such a consideration up when discussing clothes or cars. Or wall color, or house paint. But in those cases it was the purpose of the coloring that mattered. An eye-catching green was good as a shirt, but gauche for your house. So without going back to ask what application Sylar meant, and taking the question like he would if he were a kid considering Crayolas, what would he pick?

"Red, I think," Peter said. "It's had a lot of significance for me … lately."

XXX

 _Red?_ Sylar made a face at first, automatically assuming blood. He hadn't been expecting baby blue or dinosaur purple or anything, but still. He would pick…one of those middle colors, between warm and cool for Peter. A 'just right' color that went with everything and blended in but stood out uniquely. _Enough about that_ …he'd managed to embarrass himself to _himself_.

Red; it made sense as he thought on it; Peter was a medic and he dealt with blood, maybe to his mind it was a heroic color for courage or something. He failed to see how that would make a hero's favorites list since blood was universally ' _bad'_ , this he knew well. Sylar tilted his head in question at 'lately', but it went unanswered, sort of. _Nathan bled out…_

XXX

Peter looked Sylar over briefly, then himself, inspecting for the color. Neither of them were wearing it. His mind flashed next to blood - as a paramedic, and the amount of it he'd come across in recent years, his own and that of others. "It's not the blood. It's more like paint, or a kind of weird highlighter. Ever since I had Isa-" He hesitated and his eyes darted uneasily to Sylar. _Did he have Isaac's power back then? Yes, he did. He killed him. So he had it._ "Isaac Mendez's power, I started noticing … I don't know. The color just stood out to me more. It's vivid, like it's emphasizing things for me. Even after I lost the ability, I still look for the color."

 _\'What do you think?' Nathan asked him. 'Red or blue?' Peter glanced between the two ties, put off to be asked such a trivial thing when he was bursting with the need to talk about what was happening to them. Peter knew he'd changed inside. He was elated. He had to tell someone about it. Nathan understood - he could tell he did. But he kept denying. What did Nathan want him to pick? 'I don't know, blue?' Nathan looked at them soberly, as if this was the most serious question of the day, far more critical of it than if he or Peter could defy gravity and fly. 'I'm gonna go red. The president wears red.'_ \ The color had meant something even then, Peter suspected, but he hadn't been able to see it at the time. He hadn't met Isaac yet. He wondered if he would have picked differently if he had?

XXX

Red is Cupid and the Devil. Red is Power. Red is anger and eroticism and war.

Isaac Mendez…that horrible ability. He'd painted himself in the White House; Peter Petrelli; then the two of them at Kirby. Red. The color of Mom's blood. Why hadn't he painted _that?_ The color of Mom's blood as he'd painted out what he now saw was the final masterpiece of their—

 _Oh god_ _…_ Sylar swallowed and paled; images of red scrubbed hands, raw and chafed from hot water and soap and a furiously dirtied hand towel in the bathroom… _Forget about that, there's….nothing you can do about it now. He doesn't know and didn't mean anything by it._ In a strained voice he replied, honestly "I…know the feeling," Oh, that gut-turning, empty feeling. He didn't realize he'd probably broken the rule Peter had just laid down: No ability talk.

"Huh," he grunted with muted interest in the back of his throat. _Have to think on that later and maybe ask- no, can't ask him about it. He said not to. Urgh._ "That's interesting," and his tone conveyed his intrigue, but the lust and power-hungry sound was no longer present in his voice. Sylar had already replayed all Nathan's memories, feelings and recollections on the color; cars, advertisements, photos, lipstick, dresses, lingerie, shoes, ties most importantly for him, or rather to him. Nathan himself preferred blues, always had.

XXX

Peter circled back to Sylar's earlier question. "I never met Meredith. But …" He chewed his lip and looked away. "She was important to … my brother." _Of course, he never mentioned her, in all those years. Or actually, there were times when he did but I didn't know enough to understand that's what he was saying. How important **was**_ _she to him? Sylar would know. He'd know, the bastard, and I won't. I should have talked to Nathan about it when I had the chance._ He swallowed. "At least for a little while." _She should have been. I hope she was_ _._ "I don't want to hear you talking about her. Or any of my family. I'm … getting wound up right now just thinking about it." _And it's not actually your fault_ _._ Peter put on a gentle, if forced smile. _I don't want to fight with you. That's the point._

XXX

Sylar glanced away as Peter mentioned some words that were painful to both of them, more so to Peter, ' _my brother'_. No, he wasn't pained because of guilt or because Nathan left everything but his body and his will in Sylar's head. He was pained with jealousy. He instantly wished to have what Nathan did with Meredith, whatever that was, whatever was behind it because whatever it was…it had been real enough for the couple.

Only distantly was he aware of what it was like to become a father, to have a baby, to be married. Nathan was never really into that, not until it was too late. He didn't own the feelings, the memories. _Guess that means we'll both die childless and happy_. Peter would say 'good riddance and serves you right, that's what you get', but he was sure Peter would make a good father (if only he could restrain his hero-wanderings).

XXX

"So let's change the subject, okay?" Peter said.

XXX

"Okay," was Sylar's bare hint of a whisper, for once wholly in agreement because his own emotions were strung up in the conversation for the same or similar reasons. _Goddamn empathy, jealousy, whatever the fuck_. He was still frowning as Peter miraculously dragged a smile from somewhere and somehow he felt relieved, almost a little forgiven. "Yeah," Sylar cleared his tight throat, straightening his shoulders as they approached the building.

XXX

Peter offered something else to discuss. "What's your favorite food and what do you like about it?" _And please, please, **please**_ _do not say 'brains'_.

XXX

"Food…" Sylar exhaled. "I wasn't raised to be…big on food," that was putting a few things mildly; being force-fed as a freaking adult and made to clean his plate as a child amongst a…strict diet. "But, um…spaghetti," he finally decided, "Fun to eat and gross to watch." He shrugged, cheered up once again, "Its _pasta_!"

XXX

Sylar's exuberant delivery for the phrase made Peter laugh a little - a much desired bit of levity. "Pasta, huh? My favorite, too, but I prefer linguini or angel hair." He glanced over at Sylar and added, "Spaghettini or capellini." He was looking for recognition of the words. They weren't mainstream unless someone was Italian or a determined pasta aficionado. "And I like white sauce more than red, even though it's a heart attack on a plate. I don't eat it very often, which is probably why I like it so much. Just about everything I really like to eat isn't good for me."

XXX

He chuckled. He'd made Peter laugh, just a bit and he didn't know how he'd done it. " _Capellini d'angelo, il mio veru del uno amore_ ," he replied seriously. Sylar laughed himself about the health factor, nodding, "'Don't dig your grave with your knife and fork'….and that coming from an Englishman." He smiled, "That's why we eat it— _because_ it's bad for us. If it wasn't we wouldn't get nearly so much, if any, pleasure from the act."

XXX

Peter pondered for a moment. "No, I take that back, there's a vegetable stir fry I get … used to get down on Larson Street that uses really fresh vegetables and has this incredible peanut sauce." Peter waved his arms a little in emphasis, relaxing a bit in the pleasant memory. "It is out of this world fantastic. You-" _ought to try it sometime_. He caught himself on the verge of pseudo-inviting Sylar to go … out. Somewhere. With him. _Weird_.

He dispelled the momentary letting down of defenses and managed to salvage it with, "-wouldn't believe how good it is." He puzzled over his lapse. _It's really good food_ , he rationalized. _Even a serial killer has to eat. Maybe if he had more good experiences in his life he wouldn't be out there causing such misery._ Peter pushed out a larger breath and gave his head a little shake. _Yeah, that's gotta be it._

_\'What's for dinner? I'm **starved**_ _.' 'I remember … wanting my life to change.'\_

Peter huffed. He wanted to believe. He didn't, but he wanted to. Actually, no - he believed that Sylar _wanted_ his life to change. Peter just didn't believe it had. He'd seen little in the way of proof (not that it was all that easy to prove you weren't a serial killer in a world with only one other person in it and no abilities - but hey, he hadn't killed Peter yet; that was saying something, wasn't it?)

XXX

"Hmm," was all Sylar had to say to that. He was connecting dots with (some assistance from Nathan) regards to Peter's preferences. Nuts seemed prevalent, almonds and peanuts. He stored that away for future use and possible research.

XXX

Peter went back to learning more about his companion and making conversation. "You said you read a lot. I used to read for fun when I was a kid. I liked adventure stories, a lot of action, heroes-saving-the-day sort of stuff." He chuckled a little at how stupid that sounded. He remembered blathering on to Nathan so earnestly about how he thought he'd been charged with saving the world. He wondered if he had. He sure hoped so, but really … he had no idea. A cheerleader was dead and Claire wouldn't have died anyway, so how was he to tell? And it wasn't exactly a divine prophecy either - it was just what a future version of Hiro said and Hiro was good-hearted, but no wiser than anyone else. The whole time travel paradox thing hurt Peter's head.

' _All we can do is take what we have been given and do the best we can with it._ ' He took comfort in the quote and looked ahead. They were nearly to the hospital. "The stories were always kind of black and white. Life isn't really that way." _Even if I keep wanting it to be_ _._ He looked over at Sylar for a long moment, then shifted his shoulders uneasily.

XXX

Sylar thought, _Black and white…ironic my last name is Gray? Is that saying I don't fit in his world? Rather that he doesn't want me to. Am….am I always in the wrong by nature then? Or does he somehow….have to learn to see the gray? Understand and accep- Oh, please._

His lip quirked into a nano-second acknowledgment; otherwise busy in his own thoughts. "Be great if life was that way." _I could fit into your world then and all this world would just be…some kind of hero test. Or villain's graveyard_.

XXX

Peter reached up with his left hand and rubbed his neck, ducking his head a little. In a slightly softer voice, he offered up something more personal. "I went into nursing partly because I was trying to find a place in life where things _were_ black and white - where people needed help, and I could help them. It was simple. I felt like I was making a difference and doing right. Seeing a patient … get better … it made me feel good about myself."

He stopped and looked up at the empty hospital. _No patients here to help_ _._ He supposed that was good in a way - no suffering for him to avert, but it left him feeling a little purposeless. Peter turned to Sylar and resumed his strides. "What kind of books do you like to read?"

XXX

When Peter paused, Sylar stopped after a step further, staring at Peter, probably looking like he was seeing the medic for the first time. The insight was wonderful and haunting at the same time.

Sylar tilted his head as he watched the man, a small grin on his face even as his thoughts were elsewhere— _And I'm the exact opposite. I feel good by killing, at least…something to that effect. I'm driven, I'm not happy; yeah, a little at first, but…_

Sylar realized he'd been caught staring (it was a nice day and Peter looking happy in sunshine was…c'mon) so he smiled and walked again, "I draw the line at Stephanie Meyer and Stephen King. If I had to choose topics…astronomy, science, history, literature, biology, but that gets boring. Some medicine, anatomy, cause/effect and cure that kind of thing."

"Horology, but that's pretty limited, um…Art to a degree. I'm kind of in a Stephen Hawking phase—he's the guy who said basically that black holes have temperature and they can emit radiation, which is Hawking Radiation now. His stuff wasn't new, but I'm getting into detail on it. I might get into some stuff on string theory because it's not like I don't have time on my hands. I've always been curious on quantum—Higg's Boson? I've been studying that."

He nodded and concluded that he needed to shut up. He amused himself with looking around the hospital a little, asking "What catches your eye in the library?"

XXX

"You do realize you lost me in there, right?" Peter said with something of a smile. He took his eyes from Sylar to glance at the signs giving directions to the various parts of the hospital. He wasn't familiar with the main entrance of this place, but the layout was standard enough. "That way," he said, gesturing to his left and heading off that direction.

"I'm not sure if it was the Italian earlier - you really speak that?"

XXX

"Sorry," Sylar muttered and considered adding, ' _Only happens all the damn time. Not just about what I like either, but about what I want and what I nee-_ _'_ "Hmm. No, not really. Always wanted to learn but never got around to it. I should do that now, I guess."

XXX

"Or maybe it was the whore-ology - you really study that?" Peter grinned a little wider now, because he knew perfectly well what horology meant, just as Peter himself spoke Italian, albeit brokenly. Sylar was being such an insufferable know-it-all show-off though with Hawking-this and Higg's-that that Peter couldn't help but go to the opposite extreme and pretend to be ignorant. "I didn't know they had a whole field of science on how to make time." He tried to keep a straight face, but failed.

XXX

Peter's next words had him gaping. And blushing. Sylar had no idea how to take that or handle it _._ _He just called me a whore?_ Somehow that was slightly flattering to the social outcast that he was, perhaps surprisingly to people like Peter, he wasn't actually the most sexual man on the planet. He still had urges, plenty of those, but… The ego boost (that he could purposefully go out and bag someone, although not for pay) was unexpected and nice.

Sylar ducked his head and tried to walk in a straight line and reduce the color in his cheeks. Sputtering quietly for a moment, he ended up barking with laughter at Peter's pun. "No, that's just the IA," joking back as well as he could manage at the moment around his humor and embarrassment. Implying he knew all there was to know about sex because of his ability? Yup, and quite shameless about it. To be fair his experience, such as it was, and his knowledge was limited to one sex.

XXX

As for Sylar's earlier question, Peter snorted a little and said, "I already said what caught my eye in the library, in case you didn't notice." _You're so smart, you figure that one out_ _._ He did spare an eye for Sylar's reaction. It wouldn't do to find out the man reacted violently to being the object of fun. He did note the emphasis on medical training and filed that away for future reference. _Is there anything this guy doesn't know how to do? Tie knots. I'll bet I can tie better knots than he can. Yeah, way to go there, Peter. That'll be useful if I ever need to tie him up_ _._ His mind tried to offer up a few suggestions. He tried to ignore it.

It wasn't hard to ignore as they had arrived at the emergency area.

XXX

They walked around in the hospital and he looked around briefly, cataloguing in case he (or more likely Peter) ever had an 'accident' or had an emergency. Sylar knew Peter had some of those 'what haven't you stuck up your ass' patient stories logged away somewhere and he was _not_ asking about them.

"I have a lot of time on my hands-" he broke himself off as it occurred to him that the words were suggestive in light of Peter's jibes. He tried again, trying to 'clear his name' even though he knew Peter wasn't serious. (If he was, the medic would have swabbed and prodded him to make sure he was 'clean' to inhabit the same space as Peter). "Three years is long time, it's natural to try to fill it up with- Oh my god…" he trailed off in light exasperation. Sylar then pursed his lips _._ _You only read black and white fiction? Comic books? Alright. That's your lack of options not mine._

XXX

Peter looked over at Sylar and arched a brow. It was not as prodigious or expressive a gesture as when Sylar did it, but it conveyed his 'oh really?' thoughts nonetheless. So Sylar was intimating he'd spent some time here jerking it. _Hardly surprising, or shameful. Man's gotta do something to pass the time._ Not that Peter didn't feel a twist of uncertainty about whether it was alright for _himself_ to do that here, in Sylar's head, but that was an issue for another time. He appreciated looking at Sylar's form, but that was as far as it went (aside from having explicit memories and sensations inflicted on him, entirely unasked for). _What else was that he said? IA? IA … I-A … what the hell is that? Damn, that's familiar._ It tickled at the back of his mind, then finally clicked. _Wait … that's his ability! Intuitive Aptitude. Yeah. But … what does that have to do with it? His ability, studying time … nothing to be embarrassed about … I don't get it._

Peter completely missed the reason for Sylar's shame-faced, exasperated reaction and so he filed it away as another mystery about his companion to be revealed or puzzled out or simply forgotten. More immediate was his goal where they were, at the hospital. Here Peter was on more familiar ground, passing immediately back into the treatment area, ignoring the 'authorized personnel only' and 'no unescorted patients' sign. He opened a few cabinets at random, then shut them again. Everything seemed to be where it belonged.

Much more serious now, Peter said, "The storeroom should be back here off a side corridor. What I'm looking for is …" He pointed at a room that clearly said X-Ray on the door and finished, "that right there. I want to be sure of what's broken. And then they'll have a better splint here than this ergonomic, orthopedic thing." He raised his right hand demonstratively and then paused, looking at it. He looked past it at Sylar, his face even more serious for a moment, penetrating eyes trying to read the other man's character, because what he was about to propose might affect his mobility with his right hand for what would seem like years, even if it was only imaginary. "You offered to help me the other day, with this." He sighed a little. "I'll need help putting a proper splint on and getting it right." He opened his mouth to ask, then shut it. He couldn't quite do it. His meaning was clear anyway. Sylar would figure it out. Suddenly Peter regretted making fun of him a handful of minutes before.

_If he says no, that's fine. It will probably heal okay with whatever I can rig myself._

XXX

Peter's attention was back on task and Sylar focused in as well. "That's an X-Ray machine, Peter. It uses radiation to look at bones," he teased right back. If Peter was going to open himself to pretending to be 'stupid' he'd happily oblige. "Where would those be do you think?" he asked, trying to be (seriously) helpful. It eased the blush. Peter gave him some directions and he was about to move when he caught Peter's intent eyes on his face.

That made him stop in his tracks and look back. _Oh, that's what you're 'asking'_. He stood still to accept the look and hope Peter saw what he wanted on his face because there was nothing else he could do about it. "Okay," he said simply after debating whether or not to force Peter to say his request aloud using his own silence. In the end, he saved them the trouble. Peter still needed the good faith and a boatload more of trust.

XXX

 _'Okay'? He said okay_. Peter felt oddly grateful. He nodded and turned back to the x-ray machine. There hadn't even been a sneer or an uppity look. Sylar was being … well, nice. For the most part, Peter reflected, other than moments of anger, Sylar **had** been pretty okay since the fight. Neither one of them were trying to kill the other and that seemed to be something that was sinking in. _I said that when I showed up - that I needed his help - but I can't blame him for not trusting me. Not after … everything that's happened between us._ His mind skipped quickly over some of the more bloody incidents between Sylar and himself. Trust would be hard-won, he knew.

XXX

Peter got that glazed look and Sylar rolled his eyes, allowing whatever moment to pass (whatever thought to be processed into Peter's brain) by going off in search of the storeroom. He found it where Peter said and went inside, almost expecting to be avalanched with equipment (and possibly a bowling ball if Peter worked here). He remained safe and whole as he passed through.

XXX

Peter looked up from his momentary reverie to see Sylar leaving without explanation after agreeing to help. He poked his head out of the x-ray room to see Sylar heading further in, towards the back of the emergency ward. For a moment Peter was perplexed, then remembered mentioning the storeroom was back that way. _Maybe he's getting me a splint? Or maybe he's just exploring. The splint seems more likely. He doesn't seem all that interested in exploring, really. It's all in his head anyway, so there's not much point for him, I suppose._

Peter stared until the other man was out of sight, which didn't take long. _Serial killers have no right to look that_ _fine._ He gave himself a shake. _And I have no business looking at him like that either_. He rubbed his face vigorously with his left hand. _Focus_.

XXX

Sylar began narrowing the medical stuffs down by category, which was easy enough.

Passing over cardio, allergy/poison, diabetic care, first aid, a few things for maternity, ER and OR supplies, the usual needles and heart pressure pump, blankets, pillows, bed pans, all sorts of monitors…He finally came to the 'bone' section. There were plenty of braces, tapes, gauze, bandages, cements, splints and the like. There had to be a billion different kinds for every bone and joint that was possible to break and be held in place.

It didn't take him long to locate the 'hand' division. _His_ _right hand. Got to get one for mobility or…easy access or…easy adjustability_ _._ Most of the equipment was in plastic bags, individually wrapped in little plastic tubs with a label and some medical jargon or other, some of which he understood. He understood enough, clearly. _Really, what's not to miss about 'phalanges- finger stabilizer' And...bingo_.

Drawing one out, he looked around for a secondary piece for compressing and protecting the hand and wrist itself.

XXX

Peter moved over to the machine, trying to recall how to use this thing from the times they'd used a similar model during his medical training. It had an adjustable bed with a telescoping arm holding the projector above it, so it could be moved to whatever portion of the body they needed a picture of. Peter took off his messenger bag and put it on the bed for the moment.

He made sure the machine was on. It hummed slightly, but the touch screen stayed blank. That was his first sign something was wrong. "Crap." He toggled the power switch again, but other than seeing the green light of the 'on' setting light up and go out, there was no response. He sighed in exasperation, already knowing how this was going to turn out. Regardless, he went through the standard checklist of unplugging and replugging everything. _This is just like the freaking stereo, and televisions, and radios, and whatever the hell else doesn't work around here. Dammit!_

 _No cars, no way out, nowhere to go, no one here …!_ He straightened from attempting the last bit of wiring-fu he knew. The screen was still blank. He kicked the machine angrily, which, of course, did no good at all. Made his foot hurt a little.

XXX

There were several types of braces with various straps, openings, padding and support so he grabbed three of the most obvious choices and meandered back to the X-ray room in time to see a dazzling display Cro-Magnon man. He sighed at Peter, making his presence known as he entered, "To think that geneticists would call you evolved," and shook his head at him good-naturedly, half tossing, half setting the medical paraphernalia on the bed. He then stepped back so he could view the selection. _So powerful, yet he breaks his own hand using my skull._

"Though, I think that's even funnier given that the Petrelli clan is upper crust," he chuckled, leaning against the wall. Never mind his own displays of testosterone-frustration filled violence because he'd never thrown a crow bar, bashed a map, smacked a table or even thrown a chair, no sir. Maybe he just made it look better. _And I'm more evolved anyway._

The lack of function in the X-ray machine, or so he assumed given Peter's reaction, didn't bother him. He was going to go the arrogant route and say that he didn't need an X-ray machine, even if the other man (thought he) did; therefore it was useless and attempts to fix or use it were a waste of time. It was really just that simple.

"Didn't know which finger/fingers are busted, but I know it's in the metacarpals," he waved a hand generally over the bed and the braces and splints, "judging by the swelling and continued use of the fingers themselves. I figured a hand/wrist brace is better long term," Sylar stated simply about the options, watching Peter's pent-up face quietly after that.

XXX

Peter sighed, looking at the pieces Sylar had brought. He reached up and rubbed at his face with his left hand, gripping his chin with it. "Yeah. Yeah," he said a little vacantly. Nothing at all was running through his head at the moment - at least not in any sense he could express. He shook his head sharply to get back on track and reached out to pick them up, one after another, and to examine his options. "Thank you," he said quietly, not vacant this time. He settled on two designs right away and glanced up at the ceiling. He scooped those two up and said, "I'm going to go find a light. I haven't really taken a good look," he sighed a little. This was going to hurt. "And I need to." He walked out into the main emergency area.

XXX

This whole thing managed to be exciting for Sylar and he knew that was incredibly pathetic, but it was a fact nonetheless. "Yeah," he replied to the thanks, taking it in stride. He actually…feared when the time would come when Peter wouldn't have anything to be grateful for. The medical man didn't understand that soon even the exchange of words would become unnecessary in its own way. Of course, that would be around the year 5224…

"M'kay," Sylar tagged along behind him at an acceptable distance.

XXX

"I haven't been all that impressed by the one geneticist I've met." Peter grinned suddenly and glanced back at Sylar. "And I am too evolved! I was kicking an _x-ray machine_. Human beings have made some pretty cool stuff, even if it doesn't work all the time." _Or here_ _._ He considered responding to the dig at his family, but decided to leave it alone. He'd said he didn't want to talk about them, which meant not to talk about them, although Sylar's comment was impersonal enough that it, by itself, didn't bother Peter. It didn't mean he wanted to invite more discussion that way though, so he'd changed the subject.

He went to an infant examination area and drew up a stool. It was a narrow, waist-high table with rails, in the middle of its own space. He'd picked it because of the lights over it. He flicked those on and sat down. _At least the lights work_.

XXX

A bark of laughter was his response about Mohinder; it had to be about Mohinder. Peter had no idea. Road trips with the Indian were…really something and it was NOT on his do-to _or_ wish lists. Peter had been decent enough to stick to fists (granted he'd landed a few nastier hits) instead of resorting to foot long needles. The more he thought on it, the less he knew which he preferred of the two; weapons, not men. He knew which of the latter he would choose again if he had a choice.

"I would argue that with the invention of the internet, while people," he didn't say 'we', "have progressed technologically, they are devolving socially and biologically." It was one of his prized pet theories, more of a fact, actually, one he would get to bore Peter with soon. "Whatever makes you feel special, Peter," he chuckled lightly, trying to keep levity and help Peter along—he seemed to be having brain-mouth, brain-hand coordination communication issues. _It's this world we live in now, Peter. It will sap almost everything in time, I think. Fear that day_ _._ He felt a little uncomfortable to be in the infant station, old habits making him uneasy and out of place in such an environment, no matter how dead.

XXX

Peter grunted and frowned in response to Sylar's theory. He disagreed with it pretty strongly, but this wasn't the time to discuss it. Instead, he put his right forearm on the table and stared at it a moment, focusing his attention on what he needed to do. _Yeah, this is going to hurt. There are painkillers here. … No_ _._ Or rather, he wasn't going to take anything stronger than the ibuprofen he was on already. At least, not yet, and mostly that was because of Sylar and Peter's lack of desire to be impaired worse than he was. Besides, he needed to actually feel what he was doing here.

He unstrapped the brace he was wearing and set it off to the side, looking up to see what Sylar was up to. "I don't know what's broken either. That's why I wanted an x-ray. Since I can't do that, it's back to a manual examination." He started unwrapping the compression bandage, grimacing a little as each unwinding jogged his hand. He stopped. "Could you find me some trauma shears?" He waved in a general way towards the front bank of the nurse's station. "Just check the drawers. If you can't find any, I've got those little scissors on my pocketknife." He dug out his knife anyway, in case there was nothing better.

XXX

Sylar lingered in the door, considering asking Peter if he needed something to bite on for the pain that was coming, but decided against it. He didn't want to imply that Peter was weak or required an aid somehow. _Then again, he does scream like a girl…_ The memory of cutting open the man's head in Mohinder's apartment flashing past him quickly and he didn't stop it for closer examination. He was interrupted by the man's request, nodding, "Yeah. Ooh, they even get their own name…special shears," he chuckled to himself as he ambled back out, aware that his own watch repair kit had instruments with their own specialized names. 'Trauma' and 'shears' in the same sentence brought up bad memories and he focused behind the counter, opening drawers rather carelessly until a pair slid towards him.

Returning with it, he held the blades in his hand so it wasn't a weapon other than blunt 'trauma' shears, waiting for directions. Peter was going to need help cutting the bandage as painlessly as possible which meant minimal contact with the hand and wrist itself. Slowly stepping into the man's bubble, he kept enough inches between them for the other man's comfort, but not his own, particularly. Sylar placed the protected tip at the beginning of the bandage at the forearm. "I regret your arm hair loss in advance," he murmured and snipped in long, upward strokes. He maneuvered the scissors over towards the thumb to avoid putting pressure directly on the top of Peter's hand where the fingers were damaged. In minutes the bandage fell away and he set the scissors aside.

XXX

 _My arm hair? Ha._ Peter appreciated the distraction of humor and watched Sylar work without comment. There was nothing to say - Sylar did a good job and Peter didn't mind the proximity, given the context. His brain coded it as necessary and normal for medical care, without considering that Sylar might not be similarly inured to it. With the last of the wrapping set aside, he stretched his hand slightly, eyes narrowing and lips thinning. With his left, he felt up his right forefinger, testing each section for tenderness or misshapenness, skipping over the still-bandaged knuckles. He moved on to the index finger, then finally … the ring finger. He tensed, drew his knees up and made a slight sound even as he felt each section. He stopped to breathe, shut his eyes briefly, and then stare blankly at his hand. _Oh yeah, that hurt like a bitch._ He swallowed and repeated, very gingerly, on his little finger. Voice tight and a little forced, he said, "Fingers are fine. Not broken."

He rested his left elbow on the table and put his forehead on his hand. He looked at his right. "I don't see any angulation. It's probably just the one that's broken. Or I can do a manual examination of the metacarpals and be sure, but that doesn't change that I need that splint there," he pointed to the one that didn't immobilize the fingers as firmly as the other. That had really hurt and he hadn't even been directly touching the bone that was broken. "I … this is where I need your help. I need this on and I need it wrapped and fastened securely. I can't do that very well with one hand."

XXX

Sylar winced a little in sympathetic reaction as the medic's body tensed all over in very obvious pain. "That's good news. I think." Maybe it was his turn to allow Peter his ego-stroking points. Something Sylar didn't know would surely be of use or of interest to Peter. "Hmm, sure." Taking up the package, puncturing and tearing off the plastic to be tossed away, he drew out the brace itself, eyeing it for all of two seconds before opening the straps and laying it flat for the arm in question. "Not sure if you know how to work one of these; it's pretty simple," was his (he thought) unneeded intro, but it was to ensure that Peter didn't get a Nathan vibe from Sylar and assume he was just trying to kid/son/baby/brother him.

 _I don't think I am, but…who knows how he feels. Better to be safe than sorry in this case._ _"_ Fingers go in there," he pointed, allowing the man to place the indicated fingers into the strap, pushing down the bottom tab for Peter to tighten as needed. When that was accomplished, he did the same for the middle palm strap; letting Peter fasten it himself after they'd lifted the brace and hand to allow the fastening strap to pass underneath. Last was the largest wrist strap that also had to be lifted.

He didn't step away, mostly to see if Peter would notice or do or say anything about it. The entire exchange was kept light and professional, but he had brushed Peter's hands a few times and the contact was wonderful. _You should provoke him to hit you more often so you can take ca- fix him and have an excuse to touch him up. He's only making me wonder how soft his skin is everywhere with this…_

XXX

When Sylar said, 'fingers go in there', Peter snorted and just barely caught himself from replying with Zorro's corny line about 'the pointy end goes in the other man.' While it made sense in context - in both cases someone giving tutelage to one who didn't need it - it was far, far too easily misconstrued as something else entirely. He kept his mouth shut and put his hand where it needed to go. Getting the shorter strap between his ring and index finger hurt like hell, again. He shifted uneasily and breathed a little harder, ducking his head. _Done, done, that part's done_ _,_ he told himself. _That's the worst. Don't know why I have him over here really except for moral support._

His hand was throbbing and a slight chill went over him. For a very long moment, he sat and did nothing but stare at his hand, his brain dulled by pain. But he knew that if he didn't do something pretty soon, Sylar would, so Peter pulled in a deep breath and started adjusting the straps to fit. _Moral support's nice. Sylar: moral support. Very strange to have those in the same sentence_ _._ He let out his breath and blinked. It was done.

He lifted his hand. The splint stopped immediately below his wrist, rather than going halfway down his forearm. It also left his thumb, forefinger and index finger free. Experimentally he made a pincher motion. "Ow," he said blandly. Now that it didn't hurt as bad, he didn't feel like such a sissy for saying anything. Also, he thought he needed to say something to communicate, 'yeah, that still hurts.' It wasn't terrible though. "This needs to be a little tighter though. Here, along the bottom." Peter held the upper part of the brace to keep it immobile and let Sylar change the fit where he'd pointed it out.

Sylar's adjustment of the wrist strap involved a little more touching than was strictly necessary. Peter didn't mind. "Okay," he said a little louder after that was done, with a tone of finality. He glanced up at the man who was still right there next to him. "I was thinking of putting together a first aid kit while I'm here, maybe a trauma bag." He stood up, thinking about Sylar's response at Mercy Heights to the drugs Peter had taken with the intent of sedating him. (\ _"Is this all for me? You shouldn't have. No, seriously. You really, really shouldn't have"\ )._ Well, a trauma kit included nothing injective - no needles at all - even though there were some Peter would like to add to such a kit if he were assembling it.

XXX

When he finished, Peter's voice said 'you're done' and he took the hint. No more touching despite the legitimate excuse. _Or is that because I have a legitimate excuse?_ Sylar tilted his head just slightly at the thought of a first aid kit. While he knew it wasn't a threat of any kind, and he knew that this was the man's calling in life, it still struck him slightly odd.

The question sat on the edge of his tongue, ' _Why do you think you're doing to need one?' He won't renege on the deal, but what could he possibly be expecting here? Rabid rats? Just…accidents, right?_ Sylar almost let out a sigh at that. _Every time I think I make progress it's…always reinforced in the opposite direction._

XXX

Peter started around the table, talking as he went. "I ought to be able to lift one already assembled from one of the ambu- oh. No cars; no ambulances. Huh. Well, maybe they have one already together in the supply room?" He glanced at Sylar, trying to read if Peter's intended acquisition was setting off alarm bells for the man or making him wary. It wouldn't really change what Peter was going to do, but he would make more of a point of what exactly was in such a kit if it was. He glanced down at the shears, electing to put the most weapon-like thing in it in Sylar's hands. "Bring the shears, would you? An extra pair of those is always useful."

XXX

Sylar blinked once, "No…no cars. I would imagine the supply room, yeah." His face was pensive and mostly introverted at the moment, thinking. Sylar was snapped out of it by the mention of the scissors again and he snatched them up by the handles first before cluing in that he shouldn't hold them that way. He stared at the instrument again, turning absentmindedly to track Peter's movements. _I hate these things. The one goddamn murder weapon that was an accident and not my fault had to be a normal household item_ _._ Not trauma shears, of course, but scissors.

"I suppose that's fine, sure," he said as if giving permission to the search and rescue of the first aid kit. At the same time he was positive that Peter didn't need or want it, yet he'd given it anyway. They began walking in the direction of the supply room and he'd broken his staring match with the scissors as he thought, finally switching his grip to 'blunt' instead of 'sharp' just in case. _Don't run with scissors…and all that bullshit._

Clearing his throat, Sylar asked of the other man, "What's your favorite ice cream flavor?" While it wasn't on a common 'get to know ya' questionnaire, and it wasn't relevant and he didn't want to seem too random in the inquiry department (which he had a tendency to do; randomly speaking his mind), he knew it was a kind of ice breaker. But he was also assuming that it wasn't too personal or dangerous territory. Sylar supposed he'd be finding out either way.


	19. Of Favorites and Storefronts

Day 8

"My favorite ice cream flavor?" Peter asked with a little bit of a smile as he walked into the general emergency area. He gestured towards the x-ray room. "Let me grab my bag from in here before I forget it." He had things he wanted in his messenger bag; a couple pieces of raisin bread, more pain pills, a few bandages and the antibiotic ointment. Of course there were the guitar picks and music sheets, too. He snagged it before heading off towards the storeroom.

"I dunno. I like a lot of different flavors. I probably get something different every time I buy it. I like Neapolitan. And Rocky Road. I don't like anything with fudge in it. Or bananas, for some reason. I mean, I like bananas, but not fond of it in ice cream, you know? I had cookie dough ice cream once. Didn't care for it much. And I don't like really dark chocolate."

XXX

Sylar stayed in the hall as the other man grabbed his bag. "I agree; there's too much that goes into ice cream that shouldn't. But fudge isn't one of those things, Peter," he declared seriously, intending to be humorous with the mimed threat. "Fruit is all too easy to get wrong because it's all fake in products. Even juice is partly fake and you'd think that would be one of the things you don't screw up." _But, boy, they have the wool pulled over our eyes, haven't they?_

XXX

"There's something about fudge I don't like," Peter answered, "It kind of has a plastic taste to it. I like chocolate fine. Maybe, like you say, there's something fake about it. I never thought about that with the banana – probably fake, yeah. I like strawberry fine. Though I prefer it with actual strawberries, now that you mention it." Peter liked food with little bits you could pick out and savor – just a weird preference.

XXX

"More fudge for me, then, you poor misled fool," Sylar stated firmly with a slight nod forward.

XXX

Peter snorted as he pushed open the door to the storeroom and looked around, walking in a little to clear the way for Sylar. "I guess that sounds like there's all kinds of things I don't like." He looked at Sylar for a moment instead of the shelves of medicines and supplies. "You know, I don't think _anyone's_ ever asked me what my favorite kind of ice cream is." He shook his head, muttering to himself, "I never even thought about it."

XXX

"No one's…ever?" Sylar asked or stated slowly, coming to terms with that idea. His head tilted as he thought on it and felt a thrill of satisfaction; delighted to be the first of something to Peter, in a good way. A very good way, he decided. While he heard Peter's mutterings, he let the man have his moment of self-conversationalism, thinking, _Someone should have, Pete._

XXX

"Ah, there," Peter said, going to where there were prepacked trauma and first responder kits. He pulled one out in its canvas bag, dropping to his knees with it on the floor. He opened it and sorted through the contents. He knew exactly what was in such a kit. He went through it wordlessly, mostly for the benefit of his companion - and it had been drilled into the medic over and over to always check medical supplies, especially if you weren't the one who had packed them.

"I'd like to add a few things, as long as we're here. I want another pen-light, some quik-clot, and some extra analgesics. See if they have some burn relief gel, too." Peter stood and, instead of scanning the shelves for what he'd listed, walked down to the closed metal cabinet at the end. He reached out and checked it - unlocked, just like most things. He opened the door and looked in at the restricted materials, usually kept under lock and key even in a storeroom restricted to authorized personnel. He shut the door without comment and turned to find the additions he wanted.

XXX

Once in the storeroom and Peter found the area he was looking for and knelt down; Sylar moved over to get a good view of what was inside. Habit, potential threat and need, but mostly his driving, killed-the-cat curiosity drew him to watch, intently, the items Peter pawed through. "Quik-clot?" he blurted out before he could stop himself. _What's he planning to get into- a fight with a pack of razors? Does he expect me to throw nitrogen on him?_

XXX

"Good question." Peter turned and rummaged through the shelves. "Here, this is quik-clot." He handed Sylar a packet. "Anything that bleeds a lot and looks like a simple compress won't stop it, we put that on it. I had a call once where a guy nearly bled to death from cutting himself opening a toy for his grandson." He shook his head. "Of course, it wasn't helping that he got upset and lost his head about it." Peter glanced at Sylar, thinking immediately of the practice of removing the tops of people's heads. _Poor choice of words_.

XXX

Giving first the packet, then Peter a bland look, he controlled his annoyance enough to reply in barely contained tone, "I know what quik-clot is," some defensiveness and derision creeping in regardless. He assumed Peter would be clever enough to follow the string of logic to the actual meaning behind his (blurted) question, once Peter ruled out ignorance; but he didn't press it. "Damn," he said about the story, however brief. His lips quirked into a smirk, catching the pun. _Definitely unintended._

Sylar then asked, "You ever broken bones before, Peter?"

XXX

Peter swung to face him, a series of expressions crossing his face one after the other: surprise and outrage ( _what the hell are you implying? I'm some sort of psycho who fucks up his patients? Why would you even **think**_ _that?_ ), then mystified ( _that doesn't make any sense at all. You **wouldn't**_ _think that_ ) and finally, realization. "Oh! You mean have **_I_** ever broken **_my_** bones …" He laughed a little nervously. Peter might have adopted a friendly, open demeanor, but he had **not** forgotten who he was dealing with here, or what Sylar was. "If I've had any broken bones other than this, then?" He lifted his right hand demonstratively.

XXX

Sylar leaned back as Peter gave him a sudden look _._ _It was something I said, yeah?_ He watched; standing rather still as the medico's face shifted around through his thinking process before his expression loosened as he came to an understanding. "Yeah," he said in a way that conveyed 'duh, what else?' He nodded, _of course other than your hand, silly Peter_.

XXX

"Aside from, you know, being thrown off stadiums, out of seven story buildings and hit with parking meters you mean?" Peter smiled a little to convey he wasn't harboring grudges for any of that. He was upset about a lot of things Sylar had done, but the violence wasn't one of them. "I broke a finger skateboarding when I was thirteen. That's all, far as I remember, until I had abilities." He reached up without thinking and rubbed the left side of his chin, under his lip and over the nerve-deadened area. His mind shied away from whatever connection his subconscious made. "What about you? Favorite ice cream, ever had any broken bones, that sort of thing?"

XXX

"Yes, aside from those," Sylar admitted with an amused sort of annoyance, giving Peter that point almost with a grin that failed to be sadistic. "Ah. So this is nothing new for you then." _Just a new way to do it in._

Something ticked in his head at Peter's reply, but more so from the man's gesture—rubbing his insensate lip. Nathan knew about it, of course. Sylar knew it was a cover story, the typical Petrelli lines:

_/Nathan walked through the front door, calling out "Ma? Pete?" Dad walked past the hall between the stairs in the solar, reading glasses on his nose and papers in hand, looking up at the sound of his voice to greet him, "Nathan, you're back." Loud thuds and thumps of lumber and hammers, some metal clangs in the mix that sounded out through the house; Nathan winced and Dad sighed. "What's…goin' on?" he asked and his father began to answer him, "Ah, your mother has been harping on me to fix those rotten boards on the back porch, so I-"_

_"Nathan?" he heard his brother's whispery voice, quiet, suddenly so quiet._

_"Pete? Hey, buddy, what's-" Then he caught sight of his brother's lip and knew something was wrong with it, but not necessarily with the situation. Kneeling, he frowned in concern at the nine year old who seemed very withdrawn and shy, words not used to describe Pete. "What happened to your lip, Pete?" he asked gently._

_Poor Peter had just blinked, licked his lip and Nathan saw that the left side didn't move as it used to, as it should. "I…fell. Off the bike. That's what Mom said."_

_Dad sighed again in the background, "He was fooling around the construction. You know how young boys are, Nathan." And looking back, he knew it had been some sort of dodge. Peter suddenly hugged him and shuddered a little and it only served to amp up his worry. "Shh, I got ya, Pete."/_

Until the day he died, Nathan never got the full story out of Peter, if there was one to be had or if Peter himself even knew it.

The other man inquired about his favorites and he paused, thinking back _._ _/Mom had taken him out to ice cream, a few months after Dad left. She'd muttered something about 'going against God's will' but he knew that was just Mom-speak for 'make him jealous', how he didn't know. In the end it meant a whole lot of nothing because Dad was gone, not…dead or whatever Mom liked to fool herself into thinking._

_He'd stopped asking about Dad, didn't really care; he didn't want to deal with the 'why' (Mom had made it abundantly clear_ why _he'd left) or the fallouts Mom would have at the mention of Dad. He didn't want to hear the blame. Sure, Mom was hurting and now she had no one else to turn to (or blame), but…somehow he was just expected to deal with it. He hadn't realized it yet, but he was the man of the house now. And that was really scary. It terrified an already quiet boy into irreparable silence when faced with his needy mother and absent ("He's not gone, Gabriel. He's coming back.") father._

_"Gabriel, quit your twitching," she'd hissed at him when he shifted, "Behave, we're in public." As if he didn't know that? He was too self-conscious to go out with her anymore, no, at all now. It wasn't he that embarrassed her; it was the other way around. When did shifting his weight qualify as 'twitching'? Since Mom wanted control of a situation, a person, she couldn't._

_He stared blankly down at the treats in their round buckets in the display, tuning out his mother's crazy-voice next, "Ooh, which of the pretty flavors do you want?" The server didn't miss the switch his mother made, oh no. No such luck. The teenaged server just shook his head at the pair, mostly (he hoped) at his mother and went about scooping the ice cream into bowls, not cones – "You'd ruin your clothes, Gabriel."_

_Vanilla had been the answer because everything else would have a fault in it somewhere. /_

"Vanilla, actually," he said softly, not entirely returned from the memory. _I could have anything in the world and I pick…that. That's really messed up, even now, especially now._

Sylar didn't give himself time to think that over, didn't want to. "Broke my wrist, hairline fracture to my forearms, some knuckles and my foot. I can't actually remember if I've broken my nose or not, same goes for my collarbone, but I assume you don't mean having my neck snapped or-" _pushing you to drop me off Mercy Height's roof_ , "things that have happened here, which I've already told you about." His delivery was, again, that of reading off a list with some bitterness.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar got lost in memory and then gradually pulled free of it. He didn't think it was the question about broken bones. Sylar's face was smooth and distant; his breathing regular; his stance the same as it had been before. Questions about past injuries made people tense up and give tells. EMTs were trained to watch for those abortive indications of past trauma. Someone who spoke of an affliction without the right body language was probably lying or exaggerating. And sometimes people's words became confused when they were in pain or agitated - they might say they broke their hip and point at their knee, or tell him the pain was on the right side of their chest and lay their hand over the left.

So it was the ice cream. Too much the empath, Peter made a deliberate attempt to pull the other man out of it. "Vanilla, huh?" he said as Sylar finally came back, mostly, from his reverie and spoke. "That's weird. I would have pegged you more a 'chunky monkey' kind of guy myself," he lied easily. He exaggerated it to make it clear he was ribbing the other man. "You know the type - drowning your sorrows in a tub of ice cream, every time you had setback or things didn't go your way." He laughed. "Nah, you've accomplished a lot with yourself. I don't think either one of us are the sort to spend a lot of time sampling ice cream flavors." _Even if most of what you've accomplished has been pretty awful, it's … undeniably an accomplishment._

XXX

Sylar blinked and turned to face Peter, unaware how of how much time (he assumed some) had passed. He blinked again, this time in surprise before he chuckled, almost a laugh as he shook his head, muttering, "Chunky monkey…" _Oh, that's totally me. Wind up in a cell block? 'Can I get a bucket of chunky monkey, HRG? Pretty please?' Get stabbed through with a samurai sword, wake up in Mexico? 'Where's the goddamn chunky monkey in this god-forsaken country?'_

Sylar raised an eyebrow at the other man. _Accomplished sounded like a compliment of sorts, in its own weird way to me, Pete. Go easy or you'll break my ego_ _._ Of course the hero medic disapproved and hated Sylar because he was on the receiving end of some of the intuitive's…accomplishments.

XXX

Peter zipped up the trauma kit and stood with it. He shifted it around uneasily, trying to figure out how to carry it and keep his hands free. It was fairly light, but bulky. He considered the other things Sylar had said. "For the injuries, I wasn't counting what's happened to … us … since getting abilities." He opened his mouth for a moment, not sure what he wanted to say, but it had something to do with Claire, getting hurt a lot, and getting numb to it. "I suppose I've …" he looked off to the side for a moment, then smirked at the floor. "I suppose I've gotten kind of heedless of getting hurt. I didn't used to be like that."

He gave himself a shake. "So, this was everything I wanted here." He patted the trauma kit. "On with the tour, huh? I think you were going to show me a hotel or … wasn't there somewhere else we were going, too? Any big tourist sites around here we could go look at?" He grinned at the idea.

XXX

Sylar still held the shears in his hand he realized rather late (hopefully not too late); it had him shifting and sliding the sharp-ish ends into a back pocket of his jeans. It wasn't a holster; it was just to keep his hands free.

"Of course not," Sylar shook his head at the idea of post-ability wounds, looking towards Peter as he cut himself off. He wanted to think on that fact before he voiced anything about it. Because it was the same for him as well—the numb, carelessness of regeneration.

"The show must go on," he delivered, inhaling then exhaling the breath, turning to leave the store room and head for the exit, the same way they'd come before, finding his direction with ease.

Laughing genuinely this time at the idea of a tourist attraction, he answered with, "You've already seen the biggest one—my apartment," voicing it with a certain arrogance that was partly true. Being the only inhabitant made him pretty darn special alright. Yay him.

XXX

_Does everyone around here end up in your apartment, Sylar?_ Peter itched to quip back. He wasn't always slow on his feet verbally – usually it was more that his mind just didn't work that way. He couldn't entirely suppress the smirk at his thought. Sylar's tone of voice just begged for a response. Peter chewed on his upper lip and fidgeted as they walked out. He looked back at the hospital as they left it behind them. He managed to keep it all inside – the words at least. He didn't want a repeat of the flirtiness that had marred the diner experience earlier in the day.

XXX

After they'd walked a bit, discussing random, inconsequential things intermittently, Sylar noticed something up ahead as they approached. Glass strewn on the concrete, almost anything in the store that was breakable was destroyed, warped and bent or shattered and crushed. A chunk of…a parking meter lay amidst the glass on the sidewalk and he frowned. "Peter…" he slowly pointed to it, as it he'd seen a ghost.

Was…someone here? Was it Claire finally? Or…He looked to the other man. He'd had plenty of opportunities alone to do the damage and he didn't know why its existence irked him, but it did. Sylar found himself annoyed at the medic for his temper.

XXX

"Uh … em … yeah." Peter looked at Sylar's face. Clearly, at first Sylar had no idea how this had come to pass. Just as clearly, he figured out the obvious suspect. In a world where there was just one other person in it, it was pretty easy to determine the guilty party for these things. "I did that," Peter confessed, trying to look at something other than Sylar. He was _not_ proud of himself at the moment.

XXX

"No, really. I thought the glass fairy was responsible," was the dull, sarcastic reply. _Quit now, while you're ahead_ , his subconscious warned him because he was a second way from placing his hands on his hips and giving Peter a purely Nathan look while probably sounding like Arthur or the former senator. Something about the 'you know what you've done, now fess up this instant' vibe that was Sylar's own for a start but was being overrun by the 'other person' in his head. Maybe it was the 'it's my town, don't fuck with it' male possessive trait was acting up which really made zero sense. Well, maybe it did if he counted that there might be a chance Peter would lie to him for some reason.

XXX

Peter looked at the scattered glass, broken out window frame and where even a few chunks of masonry were missing. _Yeah, kind of made a mess. Why didn't this disappear like trash does?_ It had certainly stuck in his memory more firmly than whatever he'd last thrown in a trashcan - which he couldn't even remember, now that he thought of it.

He felt compelled to make some explanation, nonsensical as it was. He didn't want Sylar thinking he'd just snuck out here one night and attacked a random storefront. "I was … angry. I couldn't get out. My … my ability wasn't working." _Well, Matt's ability. Whatever._ He swallowed, looking at the surrounding buildings. What he'd said made it sound like he'd done this after the first day, when he'd failed to get Sylar out. He hadn't intended that implication, but it had more of a ring of dignity to it than the truth: that he'd been petulant he couldn't find Sylar easily enough for his tastes and had lashed out with malice and impatience.

He looked back at the ruin. The head of the parking meter lay conspicuously in the middle. It was possible, he supposed, that Sylar hadn't gotten a good look at that pipe Peter had been carrying when they first met. It seemed probable even that if Peter put on his game face, that he could bluff his way out of the worst of this. But that was lying. He'd promised not to, hadn't he? Or, no. He hadn't. He'd just promised not to treat Sylar like he was insane. It was Sylar who had offered, stated, that he hated liars and manipulators above all.

XXX

Sylar blinked once, slowly, listening and just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching the other man's face as he paced. The sequence of events as Peter painted it was not lost on him _._ _You saw him trying to get out right in front of you in your apartment, it's no surprise that he goes out nights to beat the shit out of something (surprisingly enough, it's not you) because he can't "get out"_. "I'm sure," he said stiffly, voice arch as his lips pursed. _Not that I expected better…I just hoped._

XXX

Peter sighed and reached up to push his hair out of his face. He paced away from the mess, from Sylar, perpendicular to their previous course. "This was … it was before. Before I found you. I thought I wouldn't be able to find you and I … I'd be stuck here. I got mad and," he waved vaguely in the direction of his rampage, "did that."

_I should have just lied to him. I could have. It's insignificant! It doesn't matter whether I convince him that I was angry I couldn't get out or that I was upset that I couldn't find him. They're both the same … except that I'd rather be cast as angry than desperate. I'd rather him think I was frustrated and enraged I couldn't get out than throwing a juvenile temper tantrum because I couldn't find him right away_ _._ He huffed. _Why didn't I just lie to him?_

His question, even to himself, was rhetorical. He knew the answer. It was because it **did** matter. He looked around for the address and tried to fix the place in his mind. He had an intention of cleaning it up, but at the moment he said nothing. He was wondering if there was any way to fix this. He knew nothing of setting glass. It occurred to him, belatedly, that his original intent in smashing the storefront may well have come true - maybe he'd managed to damage some small corner of Sylar's mind, and now he had to live in that mind and deal with the consequences.

_Thank God it didn't occur to me to try to set fire to the place._

XXX

Peter was acting very strangely today; flirting and inviting him to coffee, allowing him to help with his hand, asking (semi) personal questions, and now acting upset as near as he could tell over this. Sylar chalked it up to Peter adjusting _._ _Five stages was it? He must be getting panicky_. But no. The medic elaborated on the sequence and Sylar tilted his head, eyes narrowed, already fishing for the lie. _I miss that ability. Don't lie to me, man._

He knew misinformation, while probably not very effective against Sylar (who held Petrelli's dead brother's memories), would probably be and feel worse than no information at all. A lie meant motive and in such a limited space both men were likely to get very edgy. Were still edgy. A mystery would be fun, sure, but when it was something that was…teetering on the important scale, he would not find it amusing, never mind how many years or beatings or other underhanded attempts he might make to find out the truth. He'd do it, too; just to find out if Peter really did prefer strawberry ice cream over pistachio. _Boxers or briefs._

He frowned, mostly in momentary confusion as Peter claimed it was…Was he hearing this right? A glorified temper tantrum over Sylar? "Huh," was all he said aloud, chuckling to himself, completely pleased that he'd caused such a reaction for several reasons. First that it was Peter, which was self-explanatory. Second that Peter the empath had lashed out in rage. And thirdly that he'd done so out of a desire (okay, _drive_ ) to find Sylar himself. He grinned but as he thought further, it slowly slid away, his expression sobering.

Walking up at an angle where he would walk past Peter rather than stand in front of him and play the aggressive dick, he paused about a step diagonally from him and stared at Peter. "You must really care about her." Sylar kept his expression at (somewhat falsely) understanding…hoping to understand, something along those lines. _That you would do something like that for someone like me? Well, just me period. She sounds like a nice lady. No wonder he's worried sick. He thinks she's still around and he doesn't actually want you close to her._ Sylar stood there, pausing long enough to ideally wring an answer from Peter before he moved on, casual as could be, but for now he waited.

XXX

_Danger. Danger, danger, danger._ Peter realized he'd painted himself into a corner. All the blather about favorite whatevers - in and amongst all of that, somewhere he'd decided Sylar was worthy of trust and Peter had exposed what really mattered to him to Sylar's penetrating, judgmental gaze. Fear passed over him like a deluge of icy water. His whole point in being here hinged on whether Sylar would help Emma, among others.

There was a right answer, and a wrong one, to Sylar's question. Sure, it didn't sound like a question, but there was a question in there anyway. Very slowly, Peter said, "I've told you, from the beginning, that I wanted your help in saving her. And it's not just her, but thousands of others." _More people than you've ever killed_ _._ "So yeah, I care about that." He swallowed. "I care about the people _I can still save_ , Sylar. The people _you_ can save." _Unlike Nathan, who's dead. And gone. If I can prevent one other person from losing their brother, son or father, sister, daughter or mother, then it was worth it._ His throat was tightening with emotion. Voice earnest, he tried to make it a plea. "That's why I'm here. I saw that you would … do something good. You'd save her and all of those others. I couldn't … not … try to save them." _No matter what's between us._

He looked past Sylar at the wrecked shop. "I'm sorry about that over there. I'll clean it up tomorrow. I was … angry." _At you. Trying to hurt you. Still wanting to torture you. Still do, to be honest._

He had no idea if he'd given the right answer or not. He didn't know if it would make sense or not to the likes of Sylar, but the other man now knew, if he hadn't before, that he held ultimate control and power in this situation. His consent was what Peter was begging for, his assistance, his willingness to reach out his hand to help others. It was a stupid request, Peter knew. ' _I'm not the savior kind_ ,' Sylar had said. More likely, now that he knew what mattered, he'd taunt Peter mercilessly and dangle it just out of his reach. Peter sighed. He didn't expect things to be easy, but it would be nice for a change.

He looked off down the street in the direction they'd been heading. _Can we just go?_ He wanted nothing more than to put this behind them and go on acting like nothing important had been seen or said. Because really, hadn't Sylar realized this before? Why would Peter come here if not to help others? If he hadn't cared he'd have taken his mother's advice and stayed in New York! Maybe Sylar just hadn't understood how Peter was willing to put aside _everything_ that had happened, everything bad that Sylar had ever done, in order to give him a chance to do something good. In Peter's scale of morality, saving a few thousand lives vs. refusing to let Sylar help out of spite? No contest, as much as it stung.

XXX

The other man went still as Sylar's eyes bored into him, standing unmoving himself. Sylar had specifically not phrased his words into a question since he felt they would be better answered as a statement that was clearly a question. Peter seemed to get the message, or part of it, because his 'answer' was…wandering and repetitive. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. Again.

Licking his lips, he exhaled, glancing away briefly and rolled his eyes _. I wasn't asking about all those 'other schmucks', I was asking about_ her. _Tell me about_ her. Perhaps it was because he wanted to know about the one person he could and Peter knew her. Right?

Bitterness passed through him like a flash flood. He noticed the other man's wording ' _I care about the people_ I can still save _,_ _Sylar_.' It served as a good reminder, again, that Sylar wasn't the desired target rather the tool. He was instantly segregated in that one sentence; it did not escape him. It hinted that Sylar himself was past saving; he didn't or couldn't even register for it. He was already counted among the lost.

Yet he would be expected to save people and…what? _Want me to pretend to be your other brother again? Get my mind wiped again? Be your wet works man? Disappear? Die? Be imprisoned? There is no pay off here, Pete; can't you see that? God, I'd rescue two thousand people and guess what? I'd still get the psychopathic monster label. It won't change anything. He'd still drop me like a hot potato._

He wanted to smack Peter upside the head and shake him around, make him listen— _I'm not a good guy! Why are you here? Why do you persist in thinking that I'm going to save boatloads of people? What if there are specials there? I'm just going to repeat the cycle. And why in god's name now? He said he dreamt it with his mother's ability and nothing good ever comes from that._

"I'm no Balboa, but I didn't think I hit you that hard at Mercy," Sylar said succinctly, walking by the man and the mess he'd made towards the hotel. _Besides, I was the one who got smacked around and dumped off a building_. Peter would doubtlessly follow him, so he continued.

"I know you have difficulty controlling your powers, man, but picking up a rerun of Sixth Sense was probably not a great career move. If there were people who needed saving, I would be able to see them." He was meanwhile thinking, _Oh, shit…he's sucking up. He's handing himself over for my help. It's not human to be that…caring for the world and its problems. I would know. It drove me crazy._

_Does he feel the need to heal everyone and fix their problems because he's guilty about something he did or what? People do not get fires lit under their asses for this kind of shit, especially not when they're not getting paid enough for it. Is someone paying him to care? No. Is his bitch of a mother in on this? Possibly. Is this an illusion?...Possible. Is someone using him? Possible._

_Son of a bitch. This is like some fucked up game show. Why ask me to do something I can't do anyway? Peter, listen to me. It does. not. matter. here. No people, no saving, no heroics. Even I can let go of my Hunger because there is a personal benefit to doing so._

"I do not understand you, Petrelli," he said over his shoulder as they walked, "And that's why I'll ask you about your dream vacation. What activities, who you'd take and where you'd go," he glanced back genially.

XXX

Peter mulled over what Sylar had said. _He thinks I'm deluded. Well, at least he doesn't think I'm lying. Or if he does, he's not mentioning it. And he doesn't think I'm trying to manipulate him. If I was, I wouldn't be telling him what I just did, that's for sure._

He remembered a day in his father's study in the summer of his eleventh year. He'd been too big for the chair and the cool leather stuck to the backs of his legs where they weren't covered by his shorts. In his lap he'd held one of the books that had been required reading: How to Win Friends and Influence People. It was a nice book, about being nice to people and paying attention to them, but it had struck Peter as just so _calculated_. Of course, that was the point.

_\His father came out from behind his desk, changing his tone from the usual stern pattern to something more friendly and warmer. Peter had already had the speech about tone of voice, so he caught the shift. He had also had coaching on position and body language. Behind a desk was distant and authoritarian. Now his father was pulling over a chair to be chummy and close. Peter swallowed nervously. It was tough to keep all of these things in mind. Arthur had told him that with repetition and practice it would eventually come naturally._

_"Now then, let me tell you a secret," his father said, leaning in conspiratorially. "The way to get people to do what you want them to do is to tell them they'll be important if they do. Everyone wants to be special, Pete. If you want to sell them something, tell them you'll offer them a bluebird special."_

_"What's a bluebird special?"_

_"You see a bluebird fly by and you tell them what you're selling is on special. Limited time offer. Be special! Buy it now!" He leaned back a little. "They all want their moment in the spotlight and you tell them the one sure way to get it is to buy what you're selling, because we're **all**_ _selling. You have to find their emotional levers and **pull them**_ _. The payoff is guaranteed. That's how people work. It's all coded in our genes."_

_He studied the uncomfortable boy for a moment, then dug in his pockets. "Here. I'll show you." He produced some coins and fished through them. He pushed a nickel out of his hand onto the end table next to Peter's chair. "See, that's just some old, nasty-looking nickel. I don't want that. Ah-hah! Here's what I'm looking for. See this penny?" He put the rest of his change away and held up a fairly new looking coin. "It's bright, it's shiny, it's in spectacular shape." He leaned forward, his eyes mostly on the penny but occasionally going to Peter's. It drew his son's eyes to it._

_Arthur smiled a little and spoke softly, in awe. "There's no other penny like this. It's special. See how new it is? Yeah?" Peter nodded, brows drawn together a little with a serious expression that was almost comical. "See this 'D' here? That's for the Denver mint. They don't make many of these. It's a very, very limited run."_

_"It's got a scratch on it," Peter pointed out._

_"Oh no! That's not a scratch! That's a milling mark. That's why I'm carrying this one around. It's very valuable. The person who owned this would be the envy of the numismatic world!" Peter perked up. He wanted people to think he was … wait. Wasn't that his father's point? And why would he be carrying this collector's item in his pocket with all his other change?_

_Arthur smiled as he saw the realization on his son's face. He set the penny down next to the nickel. "Those nickels - everyone has a nickel like that. Now which coin do you want to put in your pocket?"_

_"Neither," Peter said sullenly._

_"That's my boy," Arthur said, and his approval made Peter feel ill_.\

So. No, Peter wasn't trying to manipulate Sylar. If he were, he'd be telling Sylar this was his chance to be a hero, to be a good person, that it wasn't too late, he could be special, revered, appreciated, adored; that Peter would be thankful, that people would be convinced he was a new man, trustworthy and strong. Peter had said none of that. He'd spoken to his own feelings, his own motivations, and left it at that.

Now Sylar thought he was seeing dead people; that he'd been touched; that he'd been hit too hard. _Great_ _._ But … well, it was better than Sylar thinking Peter was selling to him. "I don't think you'd want to understand me," Peter murmured. More loudly, he said, "How about you go first with your dream vacation, then I'll tell you about mine."

XXX

_This isn't my idea of sharing…This isn't what I want to be sharing (so why'd you ask him?),_ Sylar thought to himself when the question was turned back on him. "Heh. Honestly…I've never thought on it. I mean…I may be action oriented, but the location never seemed important to me." _Besides 'away from goddamn Queens'_. "Um...somewhere with nice weather, obviously. Somewhere with some nature and some sights. Maybe Venice. I always wanted to just…take pictures there. I know everyone always says Paris, but that gets cliché. If everyone is going there, you've got to head somewhere else, you know?" He asked, slowing his pace to allow them to walk evenly alongside each other, turning to look at Peter.

"Maybe some water activities; boating, fishing, scuba diving, jet skiing, wave riding. I like museums oddly enough, maybe some original art galleries. I like science, so maybe seeing the LHC in Switzerland…there's Swiss watches, too. European watches in general," he shrugged, aware that he was babbling, but he didn't actually have a goal in mind, no ideal vacation. _European women general_ _,_ he didn't add. _Because let's face it, the only way I'm going on vacation is without the Hunger, when I have a sex drive._

XXX

Peter nodded once as Sylar slowed enough that they were walking abreast. It was an acknowledgment of sorts. Peter still felt embarrassed about the storefront, but Sylar was giving him what Peter had wanted - moving on. Peter listened to Sylar's idea of a good vacation. It was more of a list of what he liked to do, without caring about where, but Sylar was right - the physical location wasn't the important part.

XXX

"Always kind of wanted to go camping," Sylar added. "Something about…seeing what you're made of in that setting. The total guy thing." _I know Nathan's been with him so it's nothing new to him. He probably thinks that's stupid. 'Ooh, camping. Big bad killer wants to go camping,' god…that's so …so…Peter of me._

XXX

"Testing your limits," Peter said quietly of camping. As an activity itself, Peter could take it or leave it. He didn't adore the Great Outdoors like many did, but he understood the appeal as a lens with which to see your own character.

XXX

Sylar paused for a significant moment to think of the other part of the question. "Once I wrangle up someone who's into super-powered killers, I'll write you about what my 'type' is," was his succinct reply. All that to say, were there people around (and he wasn't too sure Switzerland or Italy were still around to be honest) he lacked any kind of ( _goddamn_ ) connection to take a friend or lover anywhere. Relatives, those who still lived, were, frankly, on his little black list of hits. The only way he'd get anywhere was by pretending to be harmless and fucking 'normal' until he fucked it up somehow.

"Your turn," he handed the ball back into Peter's court. They were within sight of the hotel, just a few blocks away.

XXX

Sylar finished. Now it was Peter's turn. He sighed and said, "Yeah, that's certainly an issue - finding someone who's into … well, not 'into' into, but is safe with, able to deal with, that sort of thing … abilities." He frowned, not sure that statement had made any sense. Peter grimaced and scratched at the new brace on his hand. His hand was twingeing. He suspected the painkillers he'd taken early this morning had worn off.

XXX

As for testing himself in the wild as he'd mentioned—Sylar wanted to know, but he was afraid to look. And no one went camping by themselves which made the entire argument/activity a large circular problem. Peter addressed it from a different angle. "Um, not much of an issue. You find someone who has an ability," he said simply, stating it how he saw it at least. Normals weren't….they were sheep, plain and simple. To spook them with something 'supernatural' or 'divine' or 'paranormal' would send them running to authorities or to check their prescriptions.

It would land them in a mental institution or get bills passed that would make the existence of specials a known fact, not too dissimilar to what Nathan tried to accomplish. _That stupid bastard. Your dad does a bad deed and you take it out on all of us? Your own daughter? Your own brother? Mother? What about those brats of yours? 'Simon and Monty'?_

XXX

Peter went on with "My answer five years ago would have been totally different than it is now. Then it would have been tourist sites, clubs maybe, never been to Rio and always wanted to go, went to Mardi Gras once and that was an absolute blast … Totally different now. Now I just want to be left alone. Or get some answers. Or both." He frowned and looked away again. _I want to be alone; I can't stand to be alone. I can't be me when everyone else is around; when I'm alone I don't know who I am._

"I'd like to go visit the Dalai Lama," he said, looking back to Sylar. "I've never been over there - to Nepal, Tibet, the Himalayas. I'd like to go. And I wonder - if there's people like us in the world, and there's been people like-" _Does he know about Adam?_ "Like Claire, but born earlier, back in history, then I wonder if maybe, if I were to look in the right places, maybe I'd find answers. Answers to the bigger questions of existence and meaning, that sort of junk." He opened his mouth briefly to say more, then shut it. He'd never been one for talking about religion with people. It was a resolutely personal topic.

XXX

Sylar raised a brow _._ "Mardi Gras, huh? _"_ _Dalai Lama? Interesting choice_ _._ He'd been about to open his mouth and correct Peter that the Dalai Lama was from Tibet when he cleared it up himself. "I think they'd just love you over there. I doubt you'd be able to get back and your-" _brother_ _,_ "family would have to bail your ass out," he chuckled, amused by the image. Then "There are other immortals? Like that…Adam guy?" _That I haven't heard about?_

_Poor Peter wants to be left alone? Find some answers? Well, boo hoo._

XXX

_Well, that settles whether he knows about Adam_. "Yeah, like him."

Peter chewed his lip briefly. "So I just wonder if some of the stories in history about people who had special abilities might be true - saints, religious figures, heroes? If the story of the Dalai Lama's power is true, then maybe he'd know something." Something more than Adam, who had known a great deal, but it was like pulling teeth to get any of it out of him. Peter looked ahead at the hotel rising above them in superfluous splendor. "Even if he didn't, it would at least be an interesting place to visit."

XXX

"I've wondered that, too. Abilities in different countries. I met a girl from South America, well…" Sylar exhaled a sigh, "her twin brother, too. They both had powers of a sort." _Guh, next topic please!_ _There's Mohinder and Hiro and Linderman and that Haitian guy that aren't just 'American'._

"I mean…I know super strength seems to be common, but…that's interesting," he murmured the last, genuinely curious from an intellectual point of view, keeping the desire from his voice this time. It wasn't hard, actually. He no longer possessed the Hunger and it showed. Whether he liked it or not. It was very pleasant to be able to just…talk about being 'different', about having powers with someone else and not having them. Also not having to worry, honestly, about having damage done to him or inflicting damage himself. It was a huge relief to him even though he knew it made Peter uncomfortable.

XXX

Peter looked down at his feet briefly. "Really - South America, huh? But you're right. There's not really anyone I could take with me on that sort of trip." Claire maybe - actually, he thought she might be a really good choice were it not for his already not-entirely-pure feelings about her. Being on the road for weeks together might be too much. There had been way too much chemistry there for him to pretend that wouldn't be an issue.

He looked at the hotel as they approached it. It actually took him a second to remember why he'd wanted to come here. He made a soft grunt as he recalled it. "This is a nice place." He debated trying to conceal why he was here, but no good excuse came to mind. "They'll have a pool."

XXX

He tilted his head a little in surprise. _No_ _one for Petrelli? The world really has come to an end then_ _._ "Yup." Sylar actually spared the hotel a glance before moving his eyes over to the over man. _That's_ _it? A pool?_ "Wait, that's all you wanted to do?" _No root of all evil towards yours truly? What is this world coming to?_


	20. Pools and Pelicans

Day 8

Peter sighed a little. "Yeah, that's all I wanted to do, really. Me and my great subterfuge, hidden agenda and all that." He tried to smile a little and make a joke of it. "What did you think? I was tired of that apartment already and was looking for new digs?" He snorted.

XXX

 _What did I think? Nothing decent, Peter, that's for sure_ _._ "No, not that," Sylar said and left it at that.

XXX

Peter went on, "No, I just thought I might want to go swimming eventually. And after all that walking I did the first couple of days here, a hot tub would have been heaven, but I was too busted up to go looking for one. Next time I'll know where to go." _Not so much a next time of walking, but hot tubs are nice_ _._ "I'm sure there's a regulation pool around somewhere, but I figured a hotel would be easier to find. Let's go look inside. I want to be sure of what's in there." He started inside.

XXX

"Oh, I see." Peter and pools? Worse, hot tubs. _Oh, god_ _…_ Sylar swallowed. The idea of seeing that much foreign flesh exposed…while wet…"Totally," he ended up squeaking, "The hotel's the place to be," voice rasping as he cleared his throat.

XXX

At Sylar's strangled tone in regards to the pool and hot tub, Peter thought, _Oh my God, he's into me. He's … whoa, **really**_ _into me_. It wasn't a complete surprise - Sylar had telegraphed his interest already, but this wasn't just interest. It was a _reaction_. And Peter, instinctively maybe, wanted to make Sylar react again and again. It was very flattering, after all. It was an effort not to follow up on that. _He's probably just lonely and it has nothing to do with **me**_ _. Get over yourself._ That thought calmed Peter down a lot.

He walked into the extravagant lobby, looking around for placards that directed him to the pool and fitness area. He started that way, then detoured unexpectedly into the food service area. "Hang on. Something else I want to do." He put down the trauma kit and fished through his messenger bag, producing a pill bottle (and this one with a normal cap). He poured out four pills into the lid and went to get himself a cup of water.

XXX

"Yeah, yeah, sure," the pair passed into the building _._ _Something else? I knew it_. The other man set down his bags and left for a minute and returned with water after removing some pills. Sylar was still a little confused because he was sure Peter wasn't just here for the pool, but…okay, whatever.

XXX

Taking up the conversation from before, Peter said, "Yeah, there are other immortals, like Adam." He watched the water fill the cup, thinking over how much he should share with Sylar about Adam. _Is he safe from Sylar because Sylar already has Claire's ability? I suppose I could ask …_ "So what happens if you get more than one copy of the same ability? Is every ability different, just a little? That was the way it felt to me - every ability seemed unique." He picked up the pills and knocked them back, following with a long drink.

"I'm not going to tell you about people if there's a good chance you're just going to track them down later and kill them." It was incredibly blunt, but Peter didn't see any point to being indirect about this one. _Though, come to think of it, Adam would probably be safe from him just because of his ability. Claire survived. Though it still wouldn't really be right to point Sylar at him and set him up for assault. Adam was a bigger villain than Sylar, but that doesn't mean … does it? No, it doesn't. No more than Sylar deserves to be hurt._

XXX

Peter mentioned Adam and Nathan's memories corroborated. _Aha_. He blinked and pulled his head back, insulted even though he understood the need Peter had to cover for his buddies. His face reflected it with a clenched jaw and tight mouth, but his eyes were kept blank as he took the (over)precautionary measures from the medic. That was like throwing the three years of forced/enforced chastity back in his face. _And really. No one here, Pete. No. One! Your worry is totally freaking irrelevant._

"Yes, they're all different. Genetics. I've never had any repeats, even after I lost them all and…well, you know." _Went on a rather bloody trip all fucking over again_. "I imagine they would layer if the person's brain can adapt and handle the addition which is pretty much a exercise in futility to even say because to gain another ability as far as I know you have to already be able to access that part of your brain. We both can. If you can't, say you're born a special," because he was aware of that…vague line about Nathan being a tube baby, "and you're only born with one, the odds of you genetically mutating to be able to use an additional ability are…astronomical assuming the original ability isn't genetic mutation itself." He shrugged slightly. _I hope that didn't sound as Mohinder as I think it did…I know when to shut up and he doesn't, so there._

While he wasn't a big pill-popper, he was pretty sure Peter was abusing the dosage on the painkillers. He said nothing, just watched. "Does it look like it matters now, Peter?" he gestured loosely around the hotel. "I'm not interested in immortality again. I shouldn't have taken the first one. There's no one here to track down so your 'buddies' are safe." _Because, yeah. Healing is sooo much better than fucking regen_ _._ "I'm not a liar," he seriously added, his voice dropping in octave to display his sincerity.

Sylar turned away after he was sure Peter got the point, licking his lip as he visually explored the large entry foyer, all glass and gold and faux marble. After that he wasn't expecting Peter to fill him in on immortals. Anyone with abilities, actually. Ever. _Big deal. Just think up another question._

XXX

Peter listened to Sylar's answer about abilities. Peter was feeling the emotions and … goddammit he wasn't following the words. Peter stood there, very focused and a little tense, trying to decipher what the hell Sylar was trying to get across with … all of that. "No, I don't think you're a liar," Peter said quietly, looking down a few times so he wasn't staring so fixedly. Now that Sylar was turned away though, his eyes came back up. _You're not lying. I just don't understand._

"So," he started slowly, thinking maybe it would be smarter just to dismiss the whole topic but … well, he actually wanted to know and this was something Sylar might very well be able to answer. If Sylar had an area of expertise, the gaining of abilities was it, and the other man was managing to discuss it without even mentioning murdering anyone. "So, what you're saying is that yes, you and I and anyone suited to have … anyone who is … well, you and I, could gain multiple copies of the same power, but for anyone else, it would be astronomical odds for them to just happen to manifest more than one power, and even more astronomical," _is there a word for that? I'll bet there is. Bet he knows it, too. Bet he also thinks I'm an idiot._ He sighed and went on, "even more unlikely to get the same power all over again. That's … that's what you're saying, right?"

XXX

Sylar was forced to cover his mouth when Peter reworded Sylar's own dialogue back at him. _Oh, Peter_ _…_ It took a lot not to at the very least chuckle at the uncomprehending medico. He nodded, serious. "Exactly. You got it," he encouraged rather helpfully, if he did say so himself. Which he kind of had, but whatever.

XXX

He gathered up the trauma bag, contemplating what Sylar had said. _So you're saying that you wouldn't go after Adam and you think that should be enough for me to trust you? No, you're not saying that. You're saying you wouldn't bother … you **can't**_ _right now because you don't have your ability. But if you got it back, and you didn't think you were trapped in here forever, then … you really aren't saying what you'd do then. So I can't test his sincerity here, because he's not going to run off to find Adam any more than he's after **my**_ _head, because he's missing his power. It's no good._

Peter pushed his hair out of his face, feeling frustrated and like he was back to square one. _I want to talk to him, but how the hell do I figure out how to trust him? This is all false! All of this conversation isn't about what matters! What I really need to know is what he's going to do when he gets out of here. How the hell can he be so human and yet I can't rely on him to **act**_ _human? I know he **can**_ _. He did in that future. I know he wants to. I can almost feel it._

XXX

Peter started making his 'I'm thinking' face as he took up his bags again and Sylar followed him around until they found the pool area. _That's what I'm talking about! I wonder what the odds are of…either stalking him here or just waiting here for him to catch him._ "It's been a long time since I've be-" he began before Peter swung around and asked him a rather random question, from his standpoint at least.

XXX

Peter pushed open the door to the pool area, looking at the clear blue waters and catching the scent of chlorine. He looked it over for a moment, then turned to Sylar and asked, "How much can I trust you?"

XXX

 _How do I answer that?_ He thought a little helplessly. _Does he mean with the pool or in general or…the other specials he thinks still roams this earth…?_ "I would say as much as you want. That's not….exactly something I can control, now is it? I mean, I'll help you blow up your water wings, but I'm not going to drown you or anything." Sylar gestured at the water, trying to make a light analogy. "Peter, whether you like it or not, we're the only people here. It's in my best interest not to…" _what? Not to what?_ "screw things up beyond measure." _Further, that is, of course_.

'I like trust' he wanted to add, 'trust is good!' but it would mean little to the wronged Petrelli. His hands found his pockets again as his body decided to hunch itself to be smaller. It was a real uphill battle. _Yesss, trust me! I killed your brother and your dad and tried for your mom and niece. I'm a known killer and you're here all alone with me. Are you afraid yet?_

"You used to swim, right, Peter? What's your favorite stroke?" _And don't give me that swimmer's joke, please. Just my luck he'll say 'breasts!' and leer. Does he even have swim trunks? Who needs swim trunks…Or better yet, fuck it, strip and get in the water!_

"Doggy paddle?" he guessed, teasing with a minor grin to show it.

XXX

"Yeah, okay, it wasn't a fair question and I knew that when I asked it. I don't know what's wrong with me." Peter stared at the water, thinking about how relaxing a swim would be, if he were alone, just him and the water. His eyes snapped back to Sylar. "Don't tell me, thanks," he said with a smile to soften it.

"I like the backstroke - just being propelled along, looking up, watching the ceiling or the sky go by. It's kind of like flying. Really slow flying, I guess." He tried very hard to purge thoughts of Nathan, and borrowing West's ability after the funeral, from his mind. It was tough. "Before I had my ability …" _But you know this. Damnit. I get to say it anyway. Fuck losing half of every conversation because you already know my life story. I want to actually say things and be listened to!_ "Before I knew I had my ability, I was having these dreams of flying. It was like swimming through the air."

XXX

Sylar nodded and let it pass, allowing Peter to take what he would from his response to it. He swallowed his laughter, but some escaped as a highly amused chuckle. The other man answered and Sylar tilted his head to eye him in curiosity. Part of him answered 'really?' while the other half said 'I know' at Peter's…strangely precognizant dreams. Sylar tagged it that Peter in fact possessed Angela's ability before he knew of flying, which made sense. Nathan of course…had his head up his own ass, busy pretending he was your average card-shark, double-dealing lawyer running for senator.

"I always liked the butterfly," he stated a little randomly, "Something about…the power behind it, using lots of muscles to propel yourself out of the water. I mean, everyone loves the freestyle, because of the glide and the water rushing past you so easily. Maybe it's because the fly takes timing." He thought about his preference from Peter's point of view: _He's power-hungry and he's a watchmaker—what a freak. Yup that about sums it up._

XXX

Peter gestured at the far end of the pool. "I think there's a kiddy section over there. They always have them at hotels. I think I'll be safe if I just stick to the shallow end, don't you think?" He looked at Sylar with a fairly straight expression. "Thanks for the offer on the water wings though. That's very thoughtful of you." He knew he was teasing back and getting dangerously close to those mixed signals he'd been giving earlier in the day. _Fuck it._

XXX

A confused frown twisted over Sylar's face. _Kiddy_ _pool?_ It only grew as the younger man, while no giant, was no child (even if he sometimes played pretend more than Sylar (and Nathan) thought he should). Peter's face gave him nothing, but he continued on about water wi- _ooh!_ His own expression eased as he chuckled. "No problem. It's the least I can do for a midget with three limbs." Raising a brow, he gave a slight smirk and stepped towards the pool, crouching down, his back to the medic, to insert a hand into the aquamarine liquid that reeked of chemicals for a temp test.

It didn't really occur to him that he might be exposing himself to being _pushed in_ ; he was confident he wouldn't be attacked, however. "Hmm," was his voiced approval of the temperature. "It's not bathwater, but it's over-chemicalized. If you want to swim in a good pool, I'll come fool around with the chemicals—using less, I mean." In case Peter worried that he would try something sinister, he quickly clarified, "Otherwise it's actually unhealthy."

XXX

Peter watched Sylar crouch down to test the water, admiring the way his body curved and bent. He was flexible, a part of Peter's brain noted. The empath walked a few paces away, saying, "You are just begging to be kicked in there, you know that?"

XXX

With his back still turned, rubbing his fingers together wetly, Sylar allowed a genuine, full-bodied smirk to himself. "I'll touch up the kiddy pool for you, too."

XXX

Peter turned back, seeing Sylar had not reacted defensively. The other man seemed very certain he was safe. The back of Peter's mind was telling him that a good dunking was physically harmless and Sylar deserved it for being such a smug bastard. That was why Peter had immediately removed himself to a safe distance, where he couldn't do it without telegraphing his approach. And why he'd said something about it. So, yes, Sylar's read of the situation, and Peter, was spot-on. Peter itched to do it though.

"I'm not worried about the chemicals. You can do what you want to it, as long as it's still swimmable." _This is all in Sylar's head anyway. I suppose if he thinks the pool is unhealthy, then maybe it is. Whatever. Knock yourself out, dude._

Sylar stood with his back fully turned to Peter, still poised, almost balanced, at the edge of the pool. A muscle in Peter's jaw jumped. _He's gotta be doing this on purpose, just to test me. Dick. I ought to go push him in just because_ _._ Instead Peter turned and walked back to the doors out. He waited there until Sylar finally joined him, which seemed to take abnormally long. Peter was feeling a bit cranky, thwarted and put upon by then.

XXX

As Sylar had expected, Peter did nothing. Now, he wasn't assuming it was an easy move to avoid making, not at all. Nor did he actually do it on purpose. It had been a long time since he'd swam and he was eager to swim once in a while, too. Not with Peter, obviously; he didn't think the poor man could relax if he was around. No such luck.

Sylar genuinely desired to test the temperature and he'd been satisfied.

XXX

Peter adjusted the straps on his bags and said, "Well, that's all I wanted to see here." He turned to head out. "Was there anywhere else we were going today, or just heading back? I've got some stuff I've been wanting to do in that apartment anyway." _I need to get some of that crap out of there. And then see if I can actually strum the guitar with this splint on. That might be pushing it a little too fast. I should probably give it a few more days. But I could just try … just a little. That wouldn't hurt anything, would it?_ Peter almost smiled. He'd heard the same justifications from plenty of patients to recognize it. _And then,_ Peter wondered, _what will I do after that?_

XXX

Sylar then stood, utterly serious and turned back to the other man. "I can show you the library if you want," he shrugged, "I've got no agenda." Peter's potential rearranging, which may or may not involve power tools, piqued his interest.

XXX

Peter gave him a quick nod and said, "Library's fine. Let's go. You mentioned board games the other day. What did you find? What do you like to play?"

XXX

"Games? Oh, mostly the basics—Life, Clue, Monopoly, Scrabble, Pictionary, Yahtzee. But my favorites…I always really liked Scotland Yard and Stratego. And Clue, Scrabble and….Tripoly," Sylar eventually finished. He didn't dwell much on the why, and he certainly didn't linger on the memories surrounding them. "What about you?" Sure, he knew what ones Peter preferred over others, but his favorites? Those he didn't know.

XXX

Peter shouldered the door open and headed out, letting Sylar catch up with him for once. He slowed down though when Sylar started talking about the games. He calmed and tried to pay attention, rather than being awash in an unfulfilled desire to assert his dominance with a swift shove to Sylar's exceptionally well-formed posterior.

XXX

The medic was moving away, deeming the library an acceptable destination and he shrugged at Peter's back as he hurried behind the man, catching and slipping through the door before it shut.

XXX

"I take it you really like Clue. I think its okay. I liked Scrabble a lot. Battleship. For kid's games I had loads of fun with Sorry - but that was more because of the way we ended up playing than anything else. Nate and Ma would end up 'sorrying' each other all the time and me and Maggie - she was one of the maids who used to play with us - would work together and one of us would win. Civilization was cool, when Dad didn't play. I hated playing games with him. He's the reason why I hate chess."

XXX

"Scrabble's good," Sylar chuckled. Peter had no idea how sunk he was with that game, "I've only played Battleship a few times, but I know how it goes."

 _Kid's games?_ he thought then. For some reason that struck him as a very odd turn of phrase. All the games he could think of easily off the top of his head were all for children and adults alike. They could be played by nearly any age (provided a player wasn't in diapers and didn't try to eat the pieces or snack on the board or something), played and enjoyed equally. The only games Sylar considered childish, rather, for children were things like playing dolls and house _._ _And Candyland_. 'Match' was another, only due to its tediousness as a rather ingenious adult, but he had great memories of wearing that game out. Again, he had to choke back a snigger _._ _Oh, god…what if I'd said Operation?_

Sylar soaked in the information, of course some of it was actually new to him since it came from the present Petrelli (not the dead ones). He chuckled at the pleasant images, nodding at the ones that weren't. He couldn't picture Arthur as a real team player; that much he knew as fact.

XXX

Peter added, "Monopoly is okay. So's Yahtzee. Never played Scotland Yard or Stratego."

XXX

"No? They're lots of fun," Sylar chuckled, recalling how ' _into'_ the games he could get. He took them rather seriously and he suspected he still would. Sylar's challenging nature was sure to wave its flags at the nearest opportunity and he made mental notes that if he ever managed to lure Peter into a game of…well, anything, to rein in his current, rather aggressive playing tactics. Surprisingly enough, he'd never once thrown a game board away or at someone, so it wasn't that he was violent with it.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a wondering look. _What kind of a loser is he? What kind of a winner? Does he cheat? Does he spend the whole game trying to tell other people how to play? Or does he play like Ma and I always did when it was just the two of us, messing with the game while we talked?_ Nathan had been a poor loser, but an okay winner. His father didn't seem to notice whether he won or lost, too wrapped up in pointing out how everyone else needed to play. Nathan sucked it up, followed instructions and won; Peter would play contrary just because.

 _I'll bet I could learn a lot about him by playing a few games._ With deceptive mildness, Peter said, "You'll have to show me how to play a few of those. It'll pass the time, I guess."

XXX

Grinning at Peter's hint at interest in the games, Sylar nodded, happy as a clam. "Sure," he replied, trying to keep his enthusiasm from his voice, the satisfaction and desire to play a freaking board game with Peter Petrelli. ' _You'll like it'_ sat on the tip of his tongue.

XXX

Another question came to Peter's mind that might indirectly give him some information he'd been wanting. "Did you mainly play with your family, or with friends?"

XXX

Sylar found the last question to be an odd one, but he assumed it was because of his own upbringing. Nathan wouldn't have batted an eye at it—that's just how he'd been raised, basically with other people around, exposure.

"Family. I did play a few games of various things at school sometimes." _But really I can't figure what he's gaining with my answer_ _…_ "And you? Family or friends?" _Because it will totally make sense if he answers it. Right._

XXX

"Both," Peter said. "We used to play on Sundays after church if we didn't have anything planned and the weather wasn't good for going out. Or sometimes one of Dad or Ma's friends would drop by and Nathan would set up a game with me to keep me busy." That had been mainly while Nathan was in college and would meet them at church in the morning, go to lunch with them and then drop by the house for the early afternoon before taking off again.

"When I was older I'd have friends over and we'd play." He paused for a moment, then said, "Those games were different though. When it was just a bunch of us, all the same age, friends playing, we had a different style to playing. When it's family and really different ages, people play differently. Like when my parents played cards with their friends, my dad didn't tell anyone else how to play and Ma sure didn't go light on anyone."

XXX

 _Angela going light? Okay, maybe on Peter, but… /"She warms up…sorta."/_ _Different games? Oh, I'm sure_. The Petrelli virus had had killings committed in their own pool. Sylar purposefully avoided thinking of another house murder that hit him closer to the heart, whatever heart existed. Kelly was just a girlfriend, but Virginia…Both were accidents, he knew. As a lawyer and a morally ambiguous killer, he was aware that none of the actions on his or Nathan's part had been premeditated.

XXX

'Family' though wasn't the answer Peter was looking for. _Fine. I'll get to the point_ _:_ "Did you have brothers or sisters?"

XXX

 _Ooh, so that's what he wanted to know._ "No. At least…none that I know of," Sylar winced at how that sounded, especially to someone of upper class like Peter. "I hope not," he muttered _._ _I'm too old to play nice any more, yet here I am. I couldn't…couldn't do it for family. Not again. Clearly Peter isn't family so we're all good._

Honestly there was a time when he suspected a kid by the name of Luke Campbell might have been his half-brother at one point on a road trip to find Samson. The kid was a pain in the ass, unlearnable and more than a little crazy and that all added up that the boy hadn't, _hadn't_ been related to him. He had to pause his own thoughts; what if it had been a sister?

Somehow he pictured something between Lydia, closer to him in age and temperament. Or Claire, young enough to be his daughter—ha! And perfectly annoying, whiny and bratty as could be. Or maybe that girl Molly. That was disturbing to him on many levels and he dropped the thoughts immediately. So what if his eyes had lingered on Peter when he'd thought he'd been a Petrelli the same as the medic? Peter was the only one who almost gave a shit, but didn't give him an ounce either _._ _Such odd…family dynamics_ _._ "I didn't grow up with any," was his clarification.

"Sorry, you struck out on that count," he droned _._ _I found my father and almost wished I hadn't, but Peter doesn't know anything about that, neither does he care. It probably shows, too. Sibling interactions show up in how the person, me, handles social dealings. Peter's probably all over that._ He was tempted to blurt ' _your mom hasn't found anyone to replace me?_ ' intending it as a slightly suggestive comment, but he didn't voice it because it would only get himself smacked.

"No, I just played with my mom or with myself." _Again, with the wonderful imagery Peter's getting here. Should I add that I don't 'play with myself' in any form at this current day and age? Well, I do, but….ugh!_

XXX

"So, uh, library. We already, I guess, kind of talked about books. You got a lot in your apartment. Not that it's a crime or anything, what with," Peter waved vaguely at their surroundings, knowing that he meant the imaginary aspect of the place and that Sylar would probably think he meant the absence of people, "everything, but do you just take the books you like back your apartment?" _Stupid_ _ass question. What the hell am I supposed to say here?_ He studiously avoided looking at Sylar's face for the moment. It seemed safest.

XXX

Sylar glanced at the other man out of the corner of his eye, noting that the other man was ignoring his presence for the moment. It only amused him more. "No, actually, I eat the books and hold them in my throat," he gestured to his Adam's apple, looking towards the other man, "like a pelican, just because it's easier to keep your hands free for more books and opening doors and things like that. Then when I get home, I just reach in and pull them out. It's a really neat trick." It was complete, glaringly pure sarcasm and he'd come up with a shitty reply to a rather- no, it was a dumb question. His tone was informative, which worked in his favor because it wouldn't piss Peter off tremendously and would reinforce the sarcasm via seriousness.

XXX

Peter reached out without thinking and shoved Sylar on the shoulder with his left. "Like a _pelican?_ " He laughed and rolled his eyes. _You are seriously messing me up. What the hell am I supposed to do here?_ It was tough to stay angry at the other man when they were both so determinedly avoiding the reasons why Peter might be angry. And so he avoided them now, too, focusing instead on how funny Sylar's comments were.

XXX

Sylar was sent stumbling, but not tripping, away in an elongated step before he caught his balance solidly. Eyes wide and shocked, he looked at Peter, wary, but more so surprised by the shove that had been, for him, completely out of the blue. They were both New York boys, they knew that drill. Sylar had been away from any form of civilization beyond Frito-Lay chips and skyscrapers for three years, so any touch was like a blowtorch. That was probably also accurate given the other man's affinity for power tools.

XXX

Peter looked over at him and grinned, seeing uncertainty on Sylar's face. The empath let his grin fade to a mere smile, nodding slowly and looking away. There was nothing in Peter's demeanor that was threatening or bullying. "That would be a really neat trick, yeah," Peter said. _Give a whole new meaning to 'deep throat._ _'_ Peter started snickering to himself. _There is something wrong with me. Seriously, something is wrong with me. I've been trapped in here too long. Matt's ability is making me nuts. Sylar's brain is making me nuts. I think I'm going crazy._

Peter let the chuckles subside. He actually _was_ worried about his sanity. He wasn't unaware that he'd been having mood swings all freaking day, but he didn't know what to do about them. He didn't want to be friendly with this man, but the other choice was being a rude asshole and sabotaging the very mission that had brought him here. Things were very much not helped by Sylar expressing an interest in him and then backing off, leaving Peter unthreatened and wanting more, but not getting it. It left Peter kicking himself for liking the attention. It was almost enough for Peter to think it was calculated. _Maybe it is. Maybe he's trying to pull a mind-fuck on me_. That sobered him.

His mood did not swing to the opposite side this time. "You could have a pouch in there like a kangaroo," he offered, finding a non-sexual take on it to mention.

XXX

Peter was grinning and it was genuine so Sylar immediately relaxed what little guard he'd raised, several steps brought him back to his previous distance from the medic, grinning back a little himself. _Hey, I made him bust a gut_ _._ His own chuckle rumbled from his chest, getting louder as Peter's did, following it down into eventual silence. "Yeah, a pelican. Kangaroo crossed my mind, too," he admitted, feeling warmed from something good-natured. "What can I say, I'm a regular Reed Richards," Sylar gave half an effort to appear modest, but it was another joke of course. _I hope he doesn't take that one…funny, either. Why is everything out of your mouth suddenly all about…that?_

"I never really fell into video games, but I can ask about any of your favorites," he asked after he allowed his pelican-snark to sink in a moment.

XXX

Moving along to the next subject, Peter said, "I didn't hang around arcade halls a whole lot. No one in my family liked them for some reason, but there was a game next to the band room - actually, there were a couple of them - but the Mortal Kombat game was different. Someone had pried the back off and someone small, flexible and not afraid of getting electrocuted could crawl in there and manually trigger the credit counter by toggling this switch. I suppose I should be embarrassed to say I ended up doing it most of the time. I didn't play very often, but I'd fit back there and I spent a lot of time in the band room goofing off, so …" He shrugged. Free games for everyone - not very honorable (which was why he always paid for his own games), but even as a kid he couldn't turn down the opportunity to be everyone's hero.

XXX

 _The Petrelli clan looking down on arcades? This surprises him? Then Peter being a sneaky little cheat? I have some new respect for him._ Somehow Sylar, and the man's brother, weren't all that surprised by the admission. The empath would risk electrocution and even go against his morals, sacrificing for others despite any consequences. _What a weirdo_ , he thought, but at the same time he was left wondering how effective that…lifestyle plan was.

"Okay, so…what was your most exciting day at work? And by exciting I mean…doing plenty of good deeds _,"_ _or whatever the hell it is you consider to be an 'exciting' day. C'mon, it beats asking about his worst day…because I think I know what that one is._

XXX

Sylar's question put Peter off a little. The empath briefly gave him another of those piercing looks, with just a hint of ' _are you fucking with me?_ ' before Peter blinked and decided Sylar was being completely sincere. It wasn't like Peter hadn't been asked similar questions before. 'Have you ever saved a life?' was neck and neck with 'what was your roughest day' as common questions, though both paled behind 'what's the worst thing you've ever seen?' Those were asked equally innocently he suspected after a second, more observational look at his companion, but it struck him as weird to be coming from _Sylar_.

 _Why would he ask that? Good deeds? … Sylar?_ Peter's mind flashed to the wall of clippings he'd kept for so long, trying to remind himself that he really did make a difference, trying to dig himself out of the pit of depression he'd found himself in after the debacle of losing his ability and Nathan selling out everyone who had powers. _Why does he want to know what I've done that's worthwhile? Does he think … I've done good things? As opposed to being an annoying pain in the ass to him? What does he see me as - 'Nathan's kid brother, the one with the ability I want'?_

Peter cleared his throat and pulled his thoughts away from that. "Um, uh." He reached up and scratched at his forehead with his right. The rest of his hand gave him a mild, dull ache just for flexing his fingers. He ignored it and went on to push his bangs off to the side. "Well … I guess it would be that train derailment they had a few mon- um, yeah, a few months ago. Years ago, to you, I suppose," Peter conceded with an apologetic look.

XXX

Sylar stared right back, unfazed by Peter's disbelieving look, but why he was given it, he didn't know. The men's mutual gaze was broken and he wondered why Peter seemed so stunned or…offended, maybe? by the question. _Or was that one of those things I have no right to be asking?_ He let go another one of Peter's mistakes—months in "Peter's time", based on what he'd said earlier, weeks having passed since Mercy, would equate to people still roaming the earth, Sylar amongst them, supposedly.

XXX

"It was in New York. I was on shift. We made seven different runs to the accident site. At the time …" Peter paused, doing a quick mental check of whether to mention his ability du jour, but Jeremy was dead, gruesomely. Peter risked no one by mentioning him or his power. "At the time I had an ability that let me heal people." He paused to chew on his upper lip. "I've run into limits with abilities before of course, but that one I ran into time after time. It seemed to work okay for one or two people a day, but … uh … I was trying to use it a lot more than that."

XXX

 _Ooh_. See, now, that was a much better ability than regeneration. Sure that came in handy when one would have otherwise died instantly—pencils, glass, knives to the head or by bleeding out or being charred like a burnt steak even, but it spelled immortality. It had sounded a wonderful idea at the time—he'd wanted to avoid his sins, hell, permanent death, retribution. It was highly useful for that sort of avoidance behavior, but it (he chose not to notice what people had told him was 'guilt') was proving to be inhibiting to living his life. Yes, he could wait until everyone he knew died off (minus the obvious few), but he feared then that there would be no one to help him, like he'd been told he needed help. No one to run from…no aid to be given and still connection-less.

XXX

Peter was quiet for a bit, thinking about his patients that day. His expression was introspective and somber. He could still remember them, as he'd always had an excellent memory for people, especially his patients - Patrick, with the broken spine; Scott, the young man who died of cardiac arrest; Patricia, who had had the broken ribs; even Megan, though Peter didn't credit her save to himself, but rather to Emma.

He spoke up finally, getting back to what Sylar had asked, specifically. "It was exciting. A train had derailed and hit another. There were four or five hundred people affected." Peter's memory for numbers wasn't as good as for names. "Nearly two hundred were transported and treated, I remember them saying. A lot of people died. I overused healing until I blacked out a little. It wasn't enough." _It's so fucking easy to hurt people. So fucking hard to help them_ _._ He sighed, thinking about how easy it had been to wreck that storefront and how the damage might be basically irreparable.

XXX

But a train accident would have been something to see, even in ruins, a real crash and burn. He opened his mouth to add something about how he thought the person's own limits would be reflected in how they used their abilities. Peter wasn't a great thinker so cerebral abilities weren't his forte, but healing….Sylar would have thought Peter would be able to go all day. _Unless…but of course…something in him is still broken; he should be able to use it day-in-day-out._

XXX

Quietly enough that Sylar probably had to strain to hear, Peter said, "I think I did some good deeds that day." He cleared his throat again. In a slightly more normal voice, he added in a tone that was half-joking, "After it was all over, Hesam asked me, 'Can't you even go to the bathroom without saving somebody's life?'" He laughed just a little. "That's because when I went to the supply room to restock, I found a little girl in a pink outfit, passed out. The next time we needed stuff Hesam went to the supply room. He told me that with his luck, he'd find someone in there passed out, too, but it would be a big, fat, ugly guy - but still in a frilly pink outfit." Peter grinned.

XXX

Two hundred people, wow. Sylar tried to wrap his mind around the possibility of saving so many, but of course the medic informed him that there had been heavy casualties. He stopped breathing to listen to the other man's whisper and somehow it made him feel better. _/"Tell me something, anything; just make me believe you're not the same as me!"/_ That Peter could believe he'd done some good, in spite of all the damage Sylar had done in contrast made him feel a little less…hopeless. Peter blacking out to do it was worrisome, but he ignored that for now as it was irrelevant.

 _Hesam….oh, yeah, his partner._ Sylar laughed the same because Nathan knew Peter wouldn't break to use the urinal until he knew everyone was safe and happy. _What was a little girl doing in a store room in a hospital? Don't they code-lock those things?_ Sylar would have suspected an illusion had he been the one to come across that. He broke down and sniggered, "He sounds like a nice guy, Hesam." _Funny at least._

XXX

Peter tried to think of what to ask Sylar in turn, but he sort of doubted the opportunity for 'good deeds' came up much in watch repair. And he certainly wasn't going to ask about Sylar's most exciting day. It probably involved killing people. He grunted, something occurring to him that struck Peter as neutral, yet interesting. "What's the most expensive, complicated or unusual watch you've ever worked on? Or clock, if you did those, too."

XXX

Sylar's reverie was disturbed by the man's next question. _What….does that have to do with anything?_ _And why does he wanna know?_ It was his turn to give Peter a calculating look for a moment before he gave a decided 'what the hell?' "Um, I've had an IWC Grande Complication that's worth about two-hundred eighty-thousand. Six-hundred fifty-nine parts with seventeen functions like chronograph, perpetual moon phase, small seconds with a stop function, four-digit year display, perpetual calendar, minute repeater… parts of it are gold, yellow gold or platinum. The one I fixed was self-winding and the band was alligator." He shrugged. "Something as simple as a tourbillion that needed to be fixed, but it was a very nice watch."

XXX

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You … need to repeat that. Two-hundred and eighty-thousand … dollars? Was it covered with diamonds or something?" He'd seen expensive watches, but the priciest he'd ever seen anyone wear on a regular basis was a high-end Rolex Linderman had worn. It was something like thirty grand - the subject having come up after Peter criticized Nathan for wearing a five thousand dollar watch their father had given him for his birthday. Nathan had laughed and pointed out that it was hardly expensive as watches went. Peter was happier with something that didn't ostentatiously proclaim his wealth to all and sundry. If he was going to be differentiated from the crowd, he wanted it to be based on what he _did_ , not what he owned, or wore.

"Are there people who actually wear those regularly, or are they just stage pieces? Or … what's the word I'm looking for … like the jewelry actors and actresses wear to promote a brand? Maybe that's it - promotional pieces. People do not-" He caught himself. Sylar worked on watches. Sylar knew a lot about watches. Sylar, despite having listened attentively earlier, probably did not want to hear Peter talk about how the cutting edge of his profession was a form of conspicuous consumption that Peter disapproved of. He immediately changed what he had been about to say.

"People do not take the sort of care with the things they wear day to day, to justify putting something that valuable on regularly. It must be like a work of art." Art, Peter was more forgiving of. It could inspire and uplift, give meaning and show depth. No one argued that a bunch of tinted petroleum on a canvas had much in the way of practical value. People paid for it what they thought it was worth, either in the regard others would give them for owning the piece, or insomuch as they thought they would enjoy looking at it personally.

He smiled suddenly, head jerking back towards Sylar as he realized something. "So, does that make you an artist?" Segueing smoothly into a similar question, he asked, "Can you draw, or paint? I'm pretty lousy at both, myself. Unless I have an ability that grants it. It was all stick figures for me until I got Isaac's power, then suddenly I was _good_ at it." That was one that hadn't entirely faded, Peter had been pleased to note. There remained some residual sense in his mind of how to frame a subject, shade a scene and draw the eye; much like how even without flight he remembered the sensations and experience.

He listened to Sylar's answers with an active, engaged interest, his own words punctuated by loose gestures. Peter was getting more relaxed with his companion.


	21. Swordplay

Day 8

"Hmm hmm. Oh, that's nothing," Sylar intoned, "The most expensive one ever made was a thirty-three Patek Phillipe, twenty-four complications, sold for eleven million at auction. No diamonds," Sylar chuckled. "Complications are…basically its how many functions the watch can perform. The most expensive clock I ever fixed was probably… an eighteenth century grandfather clock made in England worth probably a hundred thousand." That kind of piece coming into his store for repair was pretty rare, but he did have some of the more high-end pieces come in—it was New York, after all.

"I'm sure there are the people who do have fifteen different and equally expensive watches that they interchange, but I imagine for most it's just for show." _He asks like you know something about it?_ Sure Nathan was into expensive anything—women, clothes, cars, life style choices…and kids, but Sylar knew nothing about that kind of living. 'Before,' he'd had anything money could buy at a fingertip and it was kind of ironic it came at a time when it was barely useful.

He supposed it helped his lack of anxiety that he didn't have a wife and kids, family, mortgages and loans and a job, house and car to worry about, but his monetary needs were few. And honestly he liked it that way. When he'd had everything but the wife, kids, car and his 'house' was an apartment and he was trying to buy back his store he'd learned that it wasn't fun and games. Someone like Peter probably would have limited knowledge about things like that.

"People don't what?" Sylar left off the other man's name. He's been sensing an aborted attempt at shoving the medic's foot deep into his own throat—his Nathan-sense was tingling. Of course Peter would think it was a gaudy waste, a trinket token of wealth. Well, Peter could think whatever he damn well pleased because his opinion affected neither Nathan nor Sylar beyond annoying them for different reasons.

"That's true," he agreed congenially as Peter finished his sentence. _Art?_ Sylar frowned at Peter. He snapped his teeth over a rather threatening reply and moved on with the additional questions after that since they were more to his taste. "I can do both passably, yes. Except watercolor—that's a tricky one. Art wasn't a big…deal."

Not to mention nothing good came of that damn Mendez ability. It was a good thing he hadn't wanted to go into art because it had been a swiftly closed door in the Gray household. Virginia pretended to enjoy his art when he'd brought it home from class for all of a second before asking what the heck it was or why he hadn't listened; mostly why he hadn't done better. _What an art critic_ , he thought.

"I'm left handed primarily," he held up his bandaged wrist which still throbbed on occasion, "and we generally don't make the best artists, give or take Michelangelo and da Vinci. I mean…I can do it and I think I do it pretty well and all that, but it's no Thomas Kincaid," Sylar explained. "Always preferred just…pencil or pen and oil paints." In the end he just shrugged. 'I totally buy that you can't draw' he wanted to say to Peter.

XXX

Peter listened, but this time there was no question in return for him to answer and so they walked along together in silence for a while, their strides eating up the distance. Thoughts stirred in his mind as the quiet gave him a chance to contemplate something that had been bothering him all day. It was the root of his mood swings. He saw the library up ahead and strangely, he didn't want to go there. He didn't even want to be _going_ there. _What the hell am I doing, wandering around with **Sylar**_ _, of all people, discussing … what? Art styles? My favorite ice cream flavor? What the hell are we doing?_

XXX

Sylar didn't pay the silence any mind; instead they just kept walking towards the large library building. Out of the blue, Peter stopped and faced him dead on and that stopped Sylar.

XXX

Peter turned to his companion and asked, "What's going on here, with all of this … questioning? All this discussion, this talking?"

XXX

"Well, what else are we gonna-" Sylar began.

XXX

Peter cut him off, saying, "You used to _kill_ people for a living." _And you were still doing that, as little as a few months ago. I doubt Nathan was your last. You almost got Matt shot to death._

XXX

The 'you're a murderer' place-card stopped Sylar for a moment. _Ah. That's how it's gonna be, is it_. That was no surprise, really, he'd been shocked he'd gotten this far. He'd been so sure Peter was relaxing… _What went wrong? I just answered the question he asked…_

XXX

"Or a _hobby_. You said you wanted to change your life." Peter waved vaguely at the city around them.

XXX

"Yes, I do want to change," Sylar said in a tone that combined anger, determination, and 'so there!' _Hobby? He thinks I do this for_ \- Sylar's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits at the man. He was being mocked at the very least.

XXX

"Is this the change?" Peter asked. "Are you all trustworthy now and if we somehow got out of here you'd go help stop that atrocity at the carnival out of the brand new goodness of your heart, or maybe some sort of common decency you've discovered?" _Since getting Nathan's memories maybe? Since obviously you couldn't find it on your own._

XXX

Sylar's voice was rising in indignation, "Oh, yeah! Because this is totally what I think of when I think of change! It's a total beach resort plan!" he left of the 'you moron!' part.

Sylar pointed an impotent finger at Peter and stepped closer, standing taller, "And what the hell do you know about anything, Peter? I've saved your life out of common decency, but in hindsight that was probably a bad move." Of course he was completely avoiding his own selfish ends that naturally went unfulfilled by saving Peter. It wasn't even out of the duty he claimed it to be at the time. But if Peter wanted to fucking nitpick, he would fucking nitpick right back. "God, does it really fucking matter why I do a good deed? Are you some motivational police?"

XXX

Peter railed right back, "Seriously, what do you think's going to happen here? Is it that you think that one of these days I'll forget you killed my brother and tell you it's all okay, because a few hundred discussions about 'favorite this' or 'worst that' have ground me down to where I don't care anymore?"

XXX

Sylar faltered, but covered it quickly, hoping Captain Motivational didn't notice because that would be bad, very bad. "I- no!" the fib was quick out of his mouth before he could stop it and he wasn't big on lying, either. He hoped it hadn't sounded too quick or too high-pitched to read as an obvious denial or lie.

XXX

Peter continued on, "You're a smart guy - really smart. Do you really think that's going to happen?" _Or are you just taking what civility you can get while you don't have your ability eating you up?_

XXX

Then Peter went about claiming that if Sylar believed that, then he was just stupid, rather, choosing to be stupid. That kind of accusation had him shoving Peter back, lightly enough, both hands to his chest, but the action read as 'stay back' and ideally, 'shut your mouth'. It was a warning and it also covered his lack of answer.

XXX

Peter seemed unfazed by the shove. "You're going to get out of here one of these days and I have no guarantee that you won't go right back to how you were. I'll probably be victim number one and I know that because I've **_had_** your ability. It's not like Nathan ever went light on me either." _Just make a clean sweep of us. Go after Ma next (again!) and you'll have wiped out the whole family. Probably better for the world, really._

XXX

"Again, Peter, what the fuck do you know? You had it for, what? A day? I'd be interested to know how you got rid of it. There's no way you're still controlling it, and, oh yeah, your ability is fucking broken! You get to trade off abilities, I don't!" Sylar was glaring and looming over the shorter man _._ _He's right—Nathan loved him as his precious baby brother, but I'm not so inclined_. "And that's my fault? What do you want, a fucking Hare test?" he spat about his 'recovery' or whatever Peter chose to label it as.

XXX

Peter glared up at him, unmoved by Sylar's height. "I have no indication here that you've gotten 'better.' You talked about getting control, last year. I know it's possible. What happened to all of that? Did you just give up?"

XXX

Every movement in Sylar stopped as the annoying medic touched on something closer to home. Head tilting, a sure sign he'd just stepped up to the plate, he stared down at the man. "No, Peter, I didn't give up. I got screwed by all of you," Sylar delivered, voice low and calm, not a hint of psychosis to be found in it before he roared, " _AGAIN!_ Each and every one of you—Matt, Bennet, Angela, you, Sam and Claire. I _went_ for _help_ _._ _Again_! _That's_ what happened!" _And now I'm here…I'm the most powerful man in the world, now one of two men period and I'm just as trapped. I'm always so trapped_ _…_

Sylar walked past his companion, smacking shoulders with him on purpose as he went, snarling and baring his teeth. "Don't fucking preach to me about help. Fuck help! The only help I get comes at a price and that's not including your entry fees. It's not just 'sell my soul again', its humiliation, degradation, lies and manipulation when I'm not being locked up, drugged up and killed on a daily basis while you plot my demise or my usefulness. So tell me, why the hell would I go back to that?" It hardly mattered if he could do it on his own, he had no reason to. The whole 'my life is my business' thing. It was a horrible Catch-Twenty-Two, being unable to get help period, being unable to get help without being screwed and being unable to help himself, hell, being unable to really care much about it otherwise. Tears pricked at his eyes at the horror of the choices he might someday have to face again.

Something bothered Sylar that he hesitated to ask about 'I know it's possible'. "It doesn't matter if it's possible any more, you've got one ability in your head right now and even if I held you down and cut in to get it, I wouldn't get it because my head is clear! My head is clear!" He'd turned back to give Peter some kind of look, but what it said, he didn't know. Sylar just knew how it felt—relief. He could feel and think and…attempt to interact without drooling and manipulating and jumping a target, or even someone who stood in his way. Perhaps he was begging to stay this way, but…he did want people around _._ _I'm fucking clean! I can feel it! I know it! I can't hear the Hunger here…why….why, oh why would he drag me somewhere for therapy for no reason?_

XXX

Peter growled in frustration. All of this talking and being chummy, letting Sylar help him with the brace, an injury that stemmed from a fight Sylar had provoked, sharing stories and facts that Sylar almost certainly already knew from his unearned memories - was this some mind-game Sylar was playing? It was no better, really, to think that the more likely answer was just that Sylar was lonely and planning on using Peter to while away eternity. Peter didn't intend to stay here forever and he wasn't all that interested in being some sort of interactive television for the other man.

"That's part of my problem, Sylar. Your head … How do I know, that when we get out of here, that your mind will be any different than it was a few months ago when you were all set to make yourself _President of the United States_?" _Other than, you know, having Nathan's memories in your head now, and Nathan wasn't all that trustworthy either, really. So, great - not only might you still want to be president, but with Nathan's background you might be able to actually pull it off!_

_XXX_

Sylar was a little surprised Peter didn't react physically, but then again he had a gimp hand. As the man spoke, he stopped his vulture-like circling, standing beside the man, staring at him as Sylar's own attitude shifted. _Ooh, your problem now, is it?_ "People…told me things that…changed the game plan. I'm not interested in being President. You can't know and obviously you don't know." _I understand that. So help me, but I do._

XXX

Peter exhaled forcefully and took a different tact. "Maybe you had trouble finding help," he admitted grudgingly. "It's not like," Peter frowned and looked off to the side, "like there's much in the way of resources for … people like you. Or me."

XXX

"Well, you'd think for the worst man of all, he'd get some help at different stages from people who claim to be in the business of helping. Unless of course you needed your 'bad guy'," here Sylar pointed to himself, "to keep your damn jobs." _Think, just think, won't he, of all the good I could do if-_ "I think you like having power to lord over who gets your accepted/pass stamp and who gets the 'shoot on sight' label." _So sue me if I wanted some 'political change', too. Maybe set the hunt on the Heroes, see them run from agents._

Licking his lips quickly, he went on, "I know for a fact that you had options, Peter, they were just difficult ones. This is totally different." _So Nathan was hunting Peter's ass. He'd go to a nice cushy penthouse cell. He still could've gone to Angela. Or Heidi. Or Uncle Tim_ _._

XXX

Peter looked back, his gaze implacable, unblinking, because on this next subject, he did not forgive Sylar. "But by the third time, you should have _done_ something. The first maybe was an accident. I can buy that. I've felt your ability. Maybe you didn't understand it. The second time, maybe you thought you could _control it_. The second time could have been a mistake. Those _happen_ ," he said, voice clipped. He paused, still without blinking. "But before that third time, you should have **_done_** something. Their lives were worth no more, or less, than yours. Two-to-one. You should have _stopped_ it." Finally, Peter blinked. He looked away and took a deep breath.

XXX

The medic began jumbling up his thoughts and it was difficult for Sylar to follow with all the number jumping, but he managed to keep up. Sylar's eyebrows went up. "I don't understand my ability? So you're saying three-strikes-you're-out. Just up and stop, huh?" He burst out again, "I'm not interested in their lives! I'm interested in mine!" _Oops, did that change Peter's outlook? Will he still help now that you're 'selfish'? Again, what does it fucking matter why I do it?_ "I can't…." he took a calming breath so he didn't freak himself out or work himself up. "It ends…badly for me and I'm trying to…stop," he concluded lamely. Surely a little honestly would get him somewhere, right?

Sylar sighed and glanced aside as well, finally speaking a low voice that said he was imparting a secret, "I…I was at Parkman's house to get him to…" he waved loosely at his head, "take them away." _So I attacked his wife, she snuck up on me! I never harmed a hair on her head and I really fucking could have._

XXX

Not looking at Sylar, Peter said, "Degradation, humiliation, get killed a few times, drugged daily - yeah, sounds familiar. Lies and manipulation by people you thought you could trust?" Peter looked back at Sylar, feeling rage boiling up, but he knew the emotion had little to do with Sylar this time. "Being used as a tool to advance other people's corrupt power plays, then trapped and locked away when you're inconvenient? Yeah, _real_ familiar."

XXX

Suddenly Peter was making a lot more sense than Sylar had thought possible and he really didn't want to consider it, but there it was, in his face. "That just shows that I shouldn't trust you people and I'm back at square one. I should have added torture to the list," there he gave Peter a pointed look to indicate how lightly he surely got it, a little Elle amusement notwithstanding. "Because what they did was against a hell of a lot of human rights, broke the fucking Geneva Convention in half."

XXX

Peter shook his head. "None of that justifies being a **_murderer_**. Not on the scale you are." _And it's probably kind of stupid to be standing here provoking him. What have I got to lose though, really?_ Peter snorted a little, feeling his momentary wrath ebb. Sylar wasn't the cause of it, so he put that portion away for now. Other emotions were vying for the moment anyway.

XXX

Sylar then gaped that Peter thought he was looking for an excuse or justification for his own deeds. That was simply not true. His eyes read of shock and surprise as he stared back at the empath, "Justification was not my point. Nothing justifies what I've done. I'm…" he hesitated for only a second, just to ensure that his voice didn't betray him, but it probably did waver and dip roughly anyway, "very aware of that." _Shit, now this is all going downhill. My 'scale', like he thinks I'm too stupid or too- that's it, psychopathic to understand just how deep in I am._

XXX

Peter's voice took on a slightly less hostile tone. "Maybe your head **_is_** clear if you realize what you did was wrong. But," he paused, brows drawing together in genuine question, "is it going to _stay_ that way? Or is it that, all by yourself, here in this fucking prison, is the only way you can be someone who isn't a menace to society?"

XXX

To himself now as he turned away enough, Sylar whispered, "Peter, I've always known," before other man hit him with a freight train of reason. He curled in on himself, shoulders dropping fractionally in a way he prayed Peter missed. _Oh, god, no, not that…_ And it hurt. Sylar pulled an inhalation-sniff to cover his emotional reaction and straightened from his slump, clearing his throat. "It's not like my future was looking too bright anyway. Lucky you, you're pretty safe." _By default_ , he didn't add.

XXX

"Am I? _Am I_ ** _really?_** " Peter hesitated for a moment, trying to study Sylar's features, what of them he could see. The man's body language at least was apparent. As he had been doing for the entire argument, Peter stayed exactly where he was, not moving a step. "I kind of have the feeling here that I'm only safe because you have a use for me, which is keeping you from being bored all the damn time. What would happen if I _wasn't_ interesting to you anymore? Or if one of these days you decide that having someone around isn't worth all the trouble?"

XXX

"Well, what the hell would you do, Peter, were you in my place?" He genuinely wanted to know. Peter, the empath, the people person—if he was somehow left in a wasteland and Sylar appeared…he would do the same exact thing. "I've been here three years alone and…that long is too much. I've already proven I won't kill you," Sylar referred to the fight with a raised brow, regaining some footing on his reactions and his grasp of the conversation. _And I'm not getting what I want right now._

XXX

"You're so pissed off about people manipulating you, you seem to have overlooked that it's what people _do_. The only ones who don't are _helpless_ , and they would if they could. _Everyone_ is trying to get something from everyone else. That's life. That's humanity. I'm trying to get something from you. You're trying to get something from me." He bit back the urge to be completely brutal and add 'entertainment.' "The difference is if I don't get what I want, I'm not going to kill you over it. I am seriously worried about what you'd do. _What will you do_ , Sylar?"

XXX

"And you've clearly made your peace with that fact of life," Sylar sneered in a display of doubt; Peter just claimed to know the manipulation drill that specials like them received on a daily, hourly basis. He was drawing lines between Peter's hero-ing and empathy and his supposed, completely false acceptance of it as human nature. The empath was human and he felt, possibly more deeply than Sylar. "I don't understand why I, and you, Peter, would be manipulated to explode a city; to become a monster; a danger to others when we would otherwise find our own way of…of…healing, of compromise," _suicide_ , he didn't add. "There is no reason for that except causing chaos and pain." Sylar hoped he wasn't sounding…stupid by basically asking an elaborate 'why?' Peter probably didn't know or he'd be off healing the problem.

Sylar pursed his lips, "I'm not so sure you wouldn't kill me if you don't get what you want. You'd never let me walk away in one piece, not after what I've done," he shook his head, almost back to his amused, Hungry self. "I've grown a lot more patience, Peter," here he stared the man down with a slow-burning heat in his eyes. It was claiming that it would wear Peter down to get what he wanted and more. After debating whether to remind the EMT about _'I like my partners willing'_ , he murmured confidently, "You have no other choice, so you'll come around eventually and give me what I want." Promising another eternity filled with…all things companionable? Quite possibly.

XXX

Peter looked off in the direction of the library, then back at his companion. His gaze was pitiless. His anger had largely defused, but what was left was an unflagging disgust with the choices Sylar had made in his life. He had a strong urge to put Sylar to the test and just walk away. He teetered tensely on the verge of doing just that, looking briefly off in the direction he imagined their apartments to be, shifting his weight without moving his feet. He didn't know the best route back, but it wasn't a real city. He was confident he couldn't really get lost. And even if he did, so what? The worst that could happen was he might get stuck for years alone, like Sylar. He tried to tell himself that was better than being the man's captive audience. Peter strongly suspected he, himself, wouldn't be able to tolerate that, but stubborn wasn't something Peter was short on.

He decided against leaving, for the moment. There were still a few bones he wanted to pick. The concession that Sylar knew he'd done wrong had taken most of the wind out of Peter's sails. "If you knew the killing was wrong, then why did you keep doing it? So we agree there's no justification. What's the _explanation_ , at least?" He was honestly asking and listened to the answer carefully.

XXX

Sylar noticed the other man glancing around, his intentions were quite clear, but he stood still himself. Sylar shrugged, simply, "I couldn't." But then he struggled to put his hazy realizations into words, "That…portion of my ability…affects my brain and I lose touch with….a lot of things, out of necessity." Things like emotions and reactions, pain tolerances. _So many things…It's an addiction; how many people does he know that can face one without so much as a self-help book?_

"I should not have to explain myself to you; you've had it. Who did you kill while you had it?" He raised his head to look down at the slighter man. _Peter has less control that I do, there's no way he didn't lose it at someone_.

XXX

Peter was following Sylar's words, mind busying itself with them. _He couldn't? He couldn't what?_ And yes, Peter could remember the complete lack of connection between the person he used to be, with sense and reason and compassion, and the person he was with Sylar's ability. _Why did it work that way?_ It was almost worth it to borrow the damn power to turn it on Sylar and figure it out, but Peter suspected that was just an echo of the Hunger still buried in his own psyche.

Sylar went on about not needing to explain himself. Peter grimaced slightly. It was an unpleasant memory and Sylar was right, there was- He flinched hard like he'd been slapped as Sylar's next question broke over him: 'Who did you kill while you had it?' Peter tensed all over before dispelling it. _It was just a question!_ He shot Sylar a quick angry glance, then looked away - again, much like he'd been hit and had elected to weather it rather than retaliate. Because the wrong-doing there wasn't Sylar's, not even in bringing it up, much as Peter didn't like the subject. The blame was Peter's, and even if it was a future reality that wouldn't come to pass and so would never have any consequences, it had still been Peter's hands that did it. He did not let himself off the hook any easier than he did Sylar.

XXX

Sylar thought, _Oh, that just got interesting_. Peter practically jerked away from that line of questioning which meant…it was someone close to him. Again, Sylar raised an eyebrow, mostly to be a dick, as he received a much-less-than-friendly look. _Who could it be? A lover? A friend?_ _Certainly not family_ , Sylar crossed that off the list immediately. Although, he had to wonder if Peter sliced into Claire's skull…well, would the girl mind for a start, at least, would she be so hell-fire bent on hating the man? His main question was that if Peter had hurt one of his kin, would he still carry the weight? But everyone was accounted for, more or less.

Sylar asked, "What stopped you from killing me? Just take the radiator pipe and shank my head, easy enough. You didn't want another brother, so what was there to lose?" He'd easily switched into interrogation mode himself.

XXX

Peter stared at the rough surface of the asphalt, trying not to see Nathan's face, while Sylar asked his next questions, just as insightful as the last. Peter looked up at him with slightly narrowed eyes, his trademark brow furrow in place. His eyes slid a little out of focus at the rest of the man's words, then he looked up at him again. "Radiator pipe? What do you mean?" He wasn't placing it. All that came to mind was a car radiator and cars had never featured in their fights. Sylar had fallen on one after Mercy Heights, but surely he wasn't implying Peter should have … what? Taken flight before he fell so he could fly down after him and …? _Maybe there was a radiator in the construction area there and I should have immobilized him to deal with later?_

XXX

"Pinehearst; the hallway? I tried to stop you from doing something stupid," _no_ _comment from you, lost-conscience_ , "You, uh, found your way around me, to phrase it lightly. There was a radiator you could cut apart and used for a stake," he put it simply. Peter wasn't particularly violent, true, but the highly-motivated would be looking around for ways to end the all-evil Sylar once and for all. "I didn't have shape shifting then," Sylar clarified for the other man who still wasn't following him well and he followed it up by making a jerking, shoving motion towards the back of his own head. "I couldn't have moved the spot yet. I know you know about the spot." He was making intentional and potentially dangerous use of Nathan's memory to the medic _—_

 _/Remembering his baby brother's death, seeing his face pale gray, sallow and blood streaked. The worst was the eyes. Sure Nathan had seen corpses before, but it was usually immediately after they'd died or been killed. This was hours after death and those beautiful, lively, sparking irises had filmed over as a cold, haunting display of death. All he could think was 'God, not like this, not him, not like this…it wasn't supposed to be like this…' His baby brother snuffed out in the prime of his life doing God knew what…He was barely able to begin grieving at all, let alone properly with his iceberg of a mother present. The familiar form in his arms not hugging back, but limp and lacking human warmth. 'He just can't be gone, I should have…' Nothing but a wave of numb horror filled him./_ Sylar meanwhile swallowed down his reaction, still staring back at Peter.

XXX

Peter nodded, then gave Sylar a long, level look, blinking once as he began to speak, "I _accepted_ you as my brother. What I _wanted_ didn't have anything to do with it, true or false." He hadn't believed it (the brother part), but he'd accepted it. Hell, he supposed people could be adopted at any age, as long as everyone was good with it. No one had ever asked _his_ opinion.

XXX

"'Stop calling her that, you are not my family'," Sylar parroted back Peter's words from years ago, slightly smug to be proving him wrong. In mocking doubt this time, "If you say so." _Total acceptance. If that's his idea of acceptance…He's making Mercy look like a welcoming committee._ Sylar chose to be…merciful himself by not including Peter's own sneers at Sylar's…'Gabriel's' concern for Angela's comatose state; Peter choosing to ignore Sylar's warnings and urges about the Hunger, about the things that were doubtlessly sounding oh-so-good in the medic's head at the time… It wasn't the subject at the moment.

XXX

 _Did I say that?_ Peter wondered. _Christ, I think I did. Dammit_ _._ He changed the subject. "As for what stopped me from killing you …" Peter looked introspective, then frowned, shaking his head. "I don't know. I had more than one chance. When I got the ability in the first place was the other chance and I didn't want it then either. Maybe it comes with an aversion to itself. Or," he shrugged, not sure how to express himself on this, "or something like that." Of course Noah had been there, the four year old, but Peter knew that wasn't relevant. The hunger didn't discriminate based on the presence of children, no more than it did for Nathan being his brother or Angela his mother. Though Peter had to admit even now, completely beyond the Hunger's active influence, that both of them had sort of had it coming. He smirked. His attacks had been completely wrong, but he could see a glimmer of humor there, morbid and dark like some of the paramedic jokes.

XXX

Sylar's face turned into a frown as he too thought on that. He hadn't felt the need to exterminate someone else with a copy of his own ability. That was completely out of character, odd, and strange given his outlook on abilities, given the ability itself. _Why was that? Other than the drive to be a good boy, a good brother, a good son of course_ _._ "I…didn't feel the drive to kill you either," Sylar mused aloud, only partly for the other man's benefit.

XXX

Peter was calming down a little, feeling better for having let out a tiny fraction of what he carried around bottled up inside. Sylar hadn't given him much in the way of answers or explanations, but at least Peter had gotten to vent.

XXX

It was Sylar's turn to look around, glancing up towards the looming library building, now unsure how the rest of the day was going to play out. _Looks like the honeymoon is over_ _,_ he thought with some regret. _Oh well. It's not like the alternative is something new and strange_. He then thought back to how Peter had been just as violent if not more so after Nathan's death. "I don't see why anyone would want it, really," was what he finally said loudly enough about IA to be rejoined to the conversation. Peter had said 'no ability talk', but Sylar wasn't really one to follow preferences like that. A little stuck now, between whether to stay or go from the library he remained in place, waffling about what he himself wanted in that regard.

XXX

"Your ability?" Peter asked. Sylar's expression was affirmation enough and Peter nodded distantly, in agreement on the matter, but surprised that Sylar felt that way. A great deal of his life recently had been tied to that feature, but then again if Sylar was telling the truth about wanting to change, then maybe he'd also had a change of heart on his ability.

XXX

Sylar sighed, thinking, _He's the best of his fucked up family. I wonder if he knows_. The Petrellis had their evil deeds, trick cards up their sleeves, but Peter did stand out and it had saved his life a dozen times now. He wondered at the man's trick to being…well, less fucked.

Quietly Sylar spoke after a beat, "Do you want to see the library?" Shrugging a shoulder towards it, expecting a flat out 'no'.

XXX

"No, not really," Peter said, unknowingly giving Sylar about what he expected. "Maybe some other time. You go on though. I need some time alone." Peter turned and walked away with little other explanation than that. His emotions were in tumult whenever he was around the other man. Maybe the answer was just to stay away. He doubted he'd manage it for long, nor did he intend to. He just wanted some alone time, even if he could already feel the oppressive nature of the place weighing on his shoulders. He adjusted the straps on his bags restlessly and glanced back after he'd walked for a minute or two.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes. _Should have known better. He was fishing for something to do and wasn't into it to begin with. He can't handle boredom and he thinks you're a date machine_ _._ Sylar realized he'd have more amusement, hell, more luck in stalking a lost Peter. Maybe the man would break down and ask for directions. _Now wouldn't that be something to see?_ He chuckled aloud, laughing into the open air from his own thoughts, something, he was aware, that always unsettled other people. Sylar began walking after the medic, a good distance separating them, but a loud voice would carry to each other's ears, should they care to speak.

XXX

Peter was irritated, greatly so, to see that he was being followed. If Sylar had been closer, he would have turned on him and told him to fuck off, though probably not so directly. But he wasn't going to yell back at him - that struck him as immature at best - and he sure as hell wasn't going to stop, inviting Sylar to get closer just so he could tell him to go away. For the moment, he decided to try to ignore the other man.

Peter pondered his situation. Argument aside, nothing had really changed except that, yeah, he had more of a feeling that he could provoke Sylar and survive it. The day's conversation had shown him that his suspicions about Sylar's psychopathy were probably (mostly) misplaced. He seemed normal enough, when the man didn't have his ability eating away at him.

Peter still had his doubts. Had he known the true extent of Sylar's acting ability, he would have had more. But beginning to believe in basic sanity for his companion was a good start. Of course, even if Sylar were completely normal, Peter wasn't deluded enough to think this meant the man would go out of his way to save Emma and the others. Peter supposed it might be better if he offered Sylar something - appreciation, promises of putting the past aside, granting some sort of pardon or 'sentence served' and letting Sylar start from a blank slate. Peter snorted. He wouldn't let _himself_ start from a blank slate, nor his mother. As much as he loved her, as much as he understood the circumstances around his own actions, it didn't excuse them. It only explained them.

 _Explanations_. Everything Sylar had done seemed to boil down to his ability, according to what Sylar had said. It was as if, without that power urging him on, he would have been … what? a humble watchmaker? Peter's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the pavement he was walking over, head down and lost in thought about this. Had there ever been a moment of culpability, where Gabriel had reached out for power and become what he was now? Or was he always … blameless?

 _Maybe that's what's irritating the hell out of me. None of this is his fault. Or … he says it is, but that doesn't seem to mean anything. It's like coming upon a murderer standing there covered in blood, knife in their hand, saying blithely, 'oh yeah, I stabbed him to death. Sorry. I knew it was wrong, but I had to. All forty-seven times.' He's too calm about it. But it's been years. Maybe he's just given up fighting it, gotten jaded and it isn't something that upsets him anymore_. Peter's thoughts turned to veteran paramedics. Even the most unflappable and calloused of them were still moved, at times, but what they encountered. They were still human. Sylar's attitude … something about it didn't work for Peter and he couldn't tell if it didn't because he didn't want it to, or because there was something off there.

He lifted his head to watch the buildings he was passing, noticing that he had no idea, off-hand, where he was. He'd been past these buildings before a few times, but he couldn't recall how they fit in with the rest of the local geography. _Oh well. I've got most of the day to find where I want to go._

XXX

Sylar thought back to their 'argument', rather, he was sure Peter would term it a 'disagreement' (while Sylar may have been a problem solver, Peter was always looking for a happy medium or some shit). The empath was surprisingly….right. At least, he'd brought up some interesting, if uncomfortable, contradictory points to Sylar's own argument. Yes…of course it was true, it was human nature to manipulate; it was…socially expected even.

He now had to reevaluate his reasonings: _why would you expect something more of people you don't know, even if they admittedly knew you or knew of you? They were strangers to you; there was no relationship whatever. Are you just…taking their 'hero' status and including yourself under their supposed jurisdiction because you've been wronged? So Angela has a dream and Bennet carries things out so that I become their monster. So I saved Peter, but….things wouldn't have gotten to that point if I was still a watchmaker in Queens! Hell, I might be dead in Odessa or Kirby. Surely I didn't make that much of a difference that…the fold of reality rippled._

_Being special either pays…or it fucking bites where it hurts._

He shook his head, for the most part watching where he walked, not interested in watching Peter 'walk away'. The other man had stunned him, flipped things over onto the intuitive and then blasted him with an obvious fact of life, one that he clearly already knew. _Is_ _that what people really think of me?_ Sylar literally shook off his own line of questioning. _Of course they do. Easier on their consciences if I chose my path, which I did. I did. I know that. Does an addict ever really have a choice? I had the choice to show Elle my ability on hidden camera. I somehow don't think that would have changed anything._

Sylar cleared his throat as an introduction. "Know where you're going?" Oh, he knew for a fact Peter's map-reading skills were crap. It was probably the reason he was in the passenger seat of the ambulance. As taunts went it was limp, but Peter might have counted that exchange as a win. If Peter glanced back, he would tilt his head and raise one of his broad eyebrows to make it extra mocking.

XXX

 _Okay_ _,_ Peter thought. _This is not going to work_ _._ Simply asking to be left alone and then giving the cold shoulder wasn't enough. He glanced back. Sylar had closed up the distance a little bit, but not by much. He was still too far away to confront easily. Peter could stop; Sylar might stop. Even if Sylar didn't and Peter let him come to him, there was a certain degree of acceptance and allowing an approach in that which Peter didn't want to do.

He made another attempt at getting what he wanted verbally. Without turning, Peter said loudly, "Sylar, stop following me. _Go the fuck **on**_."

XXX

Sylar just chuckled to himself. Peter didn't even bother to turn around to deliver his….request. "But I've already seen the library." He knew his words and actions would determine whatever outcome. "There's new scenery to be had," he smirked, pleased with himself as they walked. Maybe it was Peter's figure or maybe it was the absolute thrill of having his wit sharpened against another human being, who knew? His adrenaline was beginning to perk up; it almost tingled through him, flushing through his veins.

XXX

Peter gritted his teeth and went on. After a handful more strides, he glanced back. Still there, and perhaps it was just Peter's imagination, but it seemed Sylar was even closer. Of course he was longer-legged and Peter was not putting on a scorching pace. He refused to look like he was running away.

 _If I'm not going to run and he won't back off if I ask him_ _…_ He began to look around at his environment. Perhaps a more forceful display of threat was called for. Not a mere threat either - he fully intended to be willing to carry through. Something as simple as disregarding 'leave me the fuck alone' seemed like a small thing to have a fight over. Peter's mind hesitated over just how far he was willing to go over something trivial. It didn't _seem_ trivial.

He was walking down a four lane street with sidewalks. Trees were spaced semi-regularly in planters along it. As usual, the place was scrupulously tidy. There was nothing here that might work as a weapon. Well, there were things - tree branches, parking meters, signs … he could probably kick a brick off a planter, but nothing showy and intimidating like Peter wanted.

Peter looked down the street at the next intersection at the new stores presented to him - King's Products, SmartBuy Gifts, something with a small, difficult-to-read sign, For Lease, Hookahs!, Import/Export Emporium, and Auto Parts Accessories. He huffed. They were strangely generic and if anything reinforced the subconsciously surreal dreamscape of the place, that did. He supposed maybe the auto parts place would have … _Wait_. He looked back and to his left at the bong shop. He'd been in a few bong shops, having personal experience with a range of recreational drugs. The style of merchandise carried by that sort of place had a certain uniformity and it almost always included prop weaponry. He stopped, wheeled and headed back.

XXX

Sylar noticed the other man's head beginning to turn, looking around, or so he assumed. Peter suddenly rubbernecked after almost passing an intersection before he turned back and went down it, turning left from where Sylar was walking currently. He frowned and watched, but didn't hurry his pace. His goal was to annoy the hell out of the medic, not attack him. Not a moment later Sylar reached the intersection and looked down it before he turned onto the new road.

Peter had disappeared. Not into thin air or anything, no, no. Was Peter hiding? Sylar laughed aloud again, tilting his head as he began walking, slowly down the pavement. "Oh, Peter…." He said softly, as if the man could hear him, chuckling louder, highly amused at the chase, "Is this how you want to play it?"

 _Huh_ , his mind decided now to activate his safety net _,_ _the last time you said something like that you ended up getting crucified in a construction site. Oh, yeah. And that was after you got brained with a two-by-four_ _._ The sudden urge to look behind him was sated as he checked over his shoulder and let out a breath of relief. _Hmm hmm, totally buying that no-violence policy, you see._

He knew his next bet was to determine which store Peter was barricading himself in and…a whole lot of nothing. If he had to guess he would check the auto store first, then maybe King's Products. Hide-and-seek would be fun and amusing and all, but the idea of combing through an entire city for one rather small man was daunting even for him.

He replayed the image of Peter's turn to try to predict his trajectory. It hadn't been near the mouth of the intersection, it was in at least two or three buildings. He still refused to shout for the other man. _C'mon, Peter…come out and play with me…_

XXX

Peter walked further into the narrow shop, scanning the walls. He saw what he wanted almost immediately and walked past counters of carved meerschaum pipes, expensive scales and novelty water bongs to arrive under a display of gaudy, medieval-style weaponry. Most of them were replicas of weapons used in movies, large and intimidating. He wanted intimidating; large, not so much. He frowned. He had only his left hand to devote to this. His right might be useful for balance but that was it. _Maybe this is a mistake_ _._ His mind flashed to Nathan repeating to him one of his father's sayings: ' _Never point a gun at a man you aren't interested in killing.'_

It was funny how much embarrassment factored into his decision - more sad and disturbing than humorous, he would later think. He didn't want to walk out empty handed and invite speculation from his all-too-sharp-witted companion, who would either arrive at the correct conclusion that Peter was seeking to endanger him, or conclude something humiliating about Peter and harass him about it until the real explanation came out. Or maybe such an expectation was just Peter's insecurities coming to the fore.

In any case, he knew what he would pick as soon as he saw it. The unwieldy-looking highlander sword wasn't useful, nor was the Lord of the Rings style dwarven axe or the collection of throwing daggers and ridiculously oversized shurikens. But the katana there in the middle … small-handled without a lot of ornamentation, light and yet still long. It was not too different from the bokken he'd sparred with briefly fifteen years before when he'd taken martial arts lessons as a teen. He grabbed it up off the stand and hefted it briefly. All he cared about was that it was real metal and looked basically serviceable. He recalled Hiro carrying a similar weapon, even running Sylar through with it at Kirby. Surely that would reinforce the impact of it.

He heard Sylar's voice outside, and heckling laughter. That turned Peter's mind back to the idea of reasserting his right to be alone and away from considering the consequences of his actions. He took off his messenger bag and the trauma bag, hanging them by their straps from his right forearm. Laying the blade over his left shoulder, handle in his left hand, he walked outside with a grim expression on his face. He dropped the bags immediately to free his arm.

XXX

Sylar turned and saw Peter dropping his bags with… _is that a sword?_ His eyes widened before he raised them to stare at Peter's eyes. _Is_ _this a joke?_ Sylar didn't know Peter well, okay, at all, aside from the addition in his cranium: he doubted it was a joke, but he was beginning to doubt the validity of Peter's actually existence here. It was like a nightmare, literally—being rejected and left alone, tortured by a dead man in his head….the beating he'd received felt real enough, they still felt very real. But the appearance of the katana Peter now held threw everything back to 'I wanna wake up now'. This was not Peter's brand of humor.

Needless to say, Sylar stopped dead, otherwise unmoving except to tilt his head. Strange how exploding and being turned into a nuclear waste site, being turned into dust, shot/shanked and otherwise incapacitated in the head didn't scare him. But that damn katana… He knew now that he'd been injected with the Shanti Virus, Mohinder had called it, so a needle was involved in screwing up his little vacay in Mexico. Collapsed lung, unhealing chest, eight surgeries to survive as nothing but a normal human, like everyone else. Yeah, the katana scared him a little. It took guts (no pun intended) to approach someone armed with a three foot razor with no protection and no weapon ( _hell, no abilities!_ His mind spoke up then).

He couldn't stop his eyes from shifting between the blade and the man's unreadable eyes. Now he had to consider how sharp the thing was. He was aware of a false-edge, which was usually sold in stores, but the question was…was this katana one of the few genuines? That was a difficult fifty-fifty shot. Without abilities there would be no stopping a real razor's edge from cutting him in two (provided Peter could manage the force required for it); he could lose a limb in an instant and bleed out. If he took a chance and the blade was fake, he would only suffer flesh wounds or lose an eye at the worst.

XXX

"Sylar," Peter said in a tight voice, feeling adrenalin starting to spiral through him.

XXX

Stranger still that Peter was now willingly picking up a weapon after having a gun in his hand and setting it aside, but Sylar hadn't been riling him up then either. Clearly being stalked wasn't on the medic's wish-list. "Peter," he replied, voice lowering slightly at the threat. Something else he had to take into account was whether or not Peter was even serious. He could still be bluffing, probably was, at least that's what his gut told him. (Would Peter really kill him? He now knew what the world was like, would he truly risk being here alone, with no 'help for Amanda', here?)

XXX

Peter continued, "I told you I wanted to be left alone. _Leave me **alone**_." He did not brandish the weapon, as of yet, and he stopped walking only a few strides beyond the store. "Just turn and walk away," he directed. His skin tingled and nervousness ran through him. He did not want this fight and he was feeling that very clearly now that he was facing his opponent. They'd been talking just earlier - surely there was a more reasonable way to assert one's rights than threatening a life-or-death conflict? _Is this something I'm willing to die over? Whether I can walk down a street without him following me?_ Then he thought of that mocking laughter.

XXX

"It's not like I suddenly turned into bad company," Sylar pointed out. _He knew who he was with the entire fucking time, this changes nothing!_ "Peter, one might think you're upset about something. Now what might that be?" Sylar took a step forward, hands sliding from his pockets as his posture shifted.

XXX

Peter knew this was not going to turn out well when Sylar took that step forward. His thoughts immediately began to turn on themselves. _Oh boy, this was a phenomenally bad idea. What the hell was I supposed to do? Keep walking? Run away? Go play hide and go seek through the buildings? At least this is honest._ Claude's taunting voice sounded in his head: _'Here lies Peter Petrelli – he died honest.' Great._

XXX

"Just turn and walk away, huh?" Sylar gave that a disbelieving tilt of his eyebrow that clearly delivered 'yeah, right'. Sylar had enough (probably too much) pride and enough male ego not take up on the most-likely-generous offer. It was insulting that Peter thought he'd actually back down from something admittedly exciting and completely dangerous, something the younger man appeared to think Sylar couldn't handle. Peter had no idea he was only tempting the intuitive, forcing Sylar to test the limits.

He took another step, waiting for any shifts of posture or signs of qualm, hesitation. Petrelli's voice was forced, but that could mean a lot of things. "Do you think I'm your dog or something? 'Sit, stay, heel'?" he asked, putting on more of an offended, jeering tone than he truly felt because it was an honest question to him, but that brought up if Peter was still manipulating him still, lying about their arrangement. _Sure as hell doesn't think you're much of a human, so maybe he does_.

Peter moved, taking the sword from its place on his shoulder to point it at Sylar, keeping the hilt low at his hips in a theatrically correct pose. Sylar took a few more steps, now rather committed. _Strike me if you dare_ , he thought, but in the back of his mind he was screaming at himself, _this is ridiculously stupid! You could lose your hands, your life over this ridiculous display of male dominance and possession!_

XXX

"You're sure following me home like some kind of stray." Peter circled suddenly, unhappy with having the storefront so close at his back and his bags on the ground within a step or two, just waiting to trip him up if he tried to maneuver. He moved sideways and out, onto the street and if his motion increased the distance between them he told himself that was just wise and inadvertent.

XXX

Peter made a strategic move in starting to circle, mostly to gain more space, but Sylar stayed put in the middle of the road. Sylar grimaced at being called a stray, his expression caught between a snarl and a wince. "Some kind being…?" he prompted further, "I'm sure you have your own creative vocabulary to label me, Peter. Unless you stick to the accepted basics; what kind of stray?" Sylar was sneering, aiming to make the other man feel lower despite the fact that the empath wasn't being called names _._ _I knew it, and I'm sure he wants to say it aloud. Why is it he only swears at you? Never calls you a psychopath or a monster…_ Now wasn't the time for that, so he put it aside.

XXX

He licked his lips, really very nervous about this whole thing. Peter had faced certain death with much less reservation than he had now, but that was precisely because he had less reservation in those circumstances. He was standing up for no one but himself here, and not even for anything tangible like life and limb. Plus, he was threatening his mission here. He wasn't stupid enough (or good enough with such an unfamiliar weapon) to expect to be able to inflict some kind of superficial flesh wound and as a paramedic, he knew how unpredictable injuries were. This was not heroic. It was just … _stupid_.

"We have _got_ to back down from this. Stop- Would you stop walking closer?" The end of the sword was wavering. This was going from bad to worse and he knew Sylar was going to get emboldened pretty quick and press him. And then what? How would Sylar react if Peter ran off? Peter was not one to generally stand on his honor, but he was not going to be stalked and _hunted_ here. He'd rather stand his ground _now_. Which might entail killing the very man he'd come here to get. _Shit_.

XXX

"'We' do? Says the man with the sword." _I'm just standing here_ , Sylar thought grim and smug. "It's a free world; I can stand here." _Or walk at you_ , Sylar thought, _Hopefully that implies that I'm not going to stop just because he's holding a katana_ _._ He glanced down a few times at the blade, noticing it shaking around a bit—hard to hold one handed. Or…Peter was super nervous _._ _Cha-ching_. His gaze instantly went up to the other man's, sensing weakness and opportunity, his own expression surely expressing his solidification of control and victory in and of the situation.

XXX

Peter looked at the wobbling end of the sword, then past it at Sylar's oh-so-mocking face. _Is that the expression he wore when he faced Nathan?_ The blade stopped shaking and Peter relaxed into his stance. He dropped the tip of the katana so it was pointed at Sylar again, as he had unconsciously raised it out of position before. _It wouldn't really be that much of a loss to kill him._


	22. Standoff

Day 8

Peter, he saw, had already made his decision. Sylar snorted at the display—Peter sinking down into a battle pose, the blade going still and raising back up to point at the intuitive. _What did I say about lying?_ " You are the lousiest assassin ever, Peter, you know that?" _The_ _females of your family do a better job of killing me than you!_ He had the urge to smear him with _'_ _loser!' Stupid fucking Petrelli—is the truth anywhere in your DNA?_

Sylar held his arms out, clearly taunting, eyes dark and blank with a hint of disdain, "Hmm? You know you want to…" _/'Emotions make you sloppy.'/_ Sylar didn't think he was suicidal, not particularly. He wasn't testing for the 'would he' any more, but the 'will he'; as usual, he was doubting that it would come to pass. The idea of Peter having the balls and guts enough to stab someone and deal with the consequences he preached about but never seemed to observe was an obsessive interest of his _._ _Maybe it would make him feel more at home, more at ease if I attacked him?_

XXX

Peter was relieved that Sylar had, at least, stopped advancing. Even if he was making a showier invitation to harm now than before, this was something Peter could deal with. Letting the man walk up on him was a lot worse. Sylar was well within range to rush him and although of course the man would risk getting run through, he almost certainly knew Peter was no swordsman.

"Think about it, Sylar. _Think_. If I wanted to kill you, would I threaten you in the middle of the street with a _sword_ _?_ " _Or would I get a rifle and set up down the street from your apartment?_ "If I wanted to kill you, if I even wanted to hurt you," _which I do, honestly, but it's stupid and I don't want to right now … we had a pretty good conversation today and even if we argued it turned out alright_ , "this is **_not_** how I'd do it.

XXX

Sylar gifted him with a dubious look, his arms still spread wide. _How the hell would I know how you'd 'prefer' to kill me, Mr. Murder-Is-Wrong? You're a very fucking creative empathetic Petrelli; it really is beyond my powers of deduction_ _._ "That may be so…but I could make push you right past that little moral boundary you seem to be happy to cling to. I could make you," he promised. _I could make you want to do it; I could make you do it without lifting a finger or touching you. You're right, Peter. You fancied that gun a lot more._

XXX

"I'm no assassin. I just wanted to be left alone." Peter dropped the tip of the sword abruptly to where it was only a few feet off the ground. He drew himself up a little out of the stance, but not so far that if he were charged he couldn't still react. "You tell me what I need to do to get that." _I tried asking. Didn't work._

XXX

Sylar snorted, he couldn't help it. _'_ _Wanted'_ to be left alone? Peter shifted into a more relaxed position and Sylar's head tilted, his arms moved closer to his sides, but not dropping completely. _He is really going to pass this up, isn't he? The little…twit._ That managed to annoy him, but not enough (at the moment) that he would continue to physically provoke _. Not even a few slices? Nothing?_ Nothing set his bullshit meter off faster than something that appeared…merciful or kind. Not from this man. A Nathan-based comment was itching on the tip of his tongue as he stared Peter down, eyes flicking over him in search of….something.

Sylar expected more out of this. A second wave of provocation came to mind, this time featuring Peter's woman-friend, the damsel in distress, Amanda. He was opening his mouth to snap something along the lines that not killing him wouldn't help her because she was already dead, but he was cut off by Peter's request. Stunned by it, actually. Sylar's head slanted much further to the other side, studying the hell out of Peter. _I can think of a few things_ , he thought. _Then, why won't he play my game? Who cares if it's deadly; he's busy hero-ing and I'm…well, I'm just jaded and I don't care._

Sylar was silent for a long moment, watching Peter watch him _._ _Um….I don't know? I didn't plan on this…_

XXX

Peter watched Sylar's perplexed expression as the seconds ticked by. He was amused by that, really, and would have shown it if the situation wasn't so sensitive. It told him they were in the same boat here, Sylar no surer of how to handle things than Peter was.

XXX

Finally Sylar said, "If you're not going to use it, you can start by putting that down," he glanced at the sword for clarity, his arms coming to rest at his sides at last. He decided he'd get comfortable and shoved his hands into his pockets, ignoring the wince he would have liked to make at his wrist being tilted around. He sure as hell didn't make the motion to set the other man at ease, oh no. _Stupid Peter gets so twitchy. Does he always have to act like I'm…yeah_ _._

XXX

Peter eyed the blade. _Of course, disarm myself,_ Peter thought sarcastically. _No surprises that you'd want that_ _._ But … why not? It wasn't like Sylar had been threatening him before. He wasn't threatening him _now_ , if you didn't count 'threatening to make Peter stab him,' which Peter didn't.

 _Am I going to get my way without it?_ he thought of the sword. _Was I getting my way **with**_ _it? Maybe I've made my point, which is that him following me leads to things I don't think he wants. It's not like I can't find something else to clock him over the head with later, if it comes to that. Clock – heh._

Peter lowered the sword with a brief, upward quirk of his lips. He waved it back and forth for a moment, holding it down and off to the side so there was no chance of it being interpreted as threatening. He was just getting a feel for it. He hadn't taken the opportunity before. He wasn't an expert on such things, but he didn't think it was balanced very well – but maybe it was that he was using it left-handed. He made a few shallow hacking motions with it and snorted softly. He was sure it would hurt like hell to get hit with it, but it wasn't a work of art – not that Peter expected high standards for bong shop wall decorations. He supposed there was probably a real weapon shop around here somewhere. _Or a real gun shop_ , his mind supplied. _Which is an even stupider idea than a sword, precisely because I'm more likely to be able to kill him with it. Idiot._ He wasn't sure if he was thinking about himself or Sylar with that last.

He looked up at the other man, studying Sylar's face. Sylar had been patient while Peter made up his mind. Peter shifted his weight uneasily for a moment out of an ill-defined desire to move and be restless. He stifled the urge before he did more than shift, lest it look like he was going to do … something. He lifted the weapon and tossed it to the side, away from the store, letting it clatter against the pavement and roll a few times. He looked at it a moment, then back to Sylar.

In a mild tone of voice he used when he was trying to be calm but really wasn't inside, he said, "I'm going to go get my bags. Are we done here?" He raised a brow and began walking towards the mentioned articles.

XXX

Peter grinned once, quick and swished the sword through the air at his side, doubtlessly testing the weight…or being a boy with a sword. Sylar gave it only a brief glance even as Peter hacked at the air, instead watching Peter's face as he eyed the blade. Sylar hadn't moved otherwise but to stare, head tilted slightly. He knew he'd won – Peter was playing the submissive dog now, running not only from a fight he would win, but from vengeance Sylar knew the man longed to enact. _Why the high road, Pete? Where has it ever gotten you? Besides Hell with me, that is._

The medic's lack of aggression annoyed him deeply. _What is his problem? Why won't he do it?_

Peter tossed the weapon and Sylar didn't blink at the loud clang it produced on the pavement. He straightened and smirked into Peter's face.

"You're pathetic," he spat lowly, raising his head to look down at Peter literally in addition to his height and posture. "You won't even take a slice at the monster who butchered your brother and for what? Some girl? I mean," Sylar chuckled without humor, "whipped much?"

XXX

Peter managed to get three steps towards his bags, walking on through 'you're pathetic' and 'you won't even take a slice at-' before stumbling abruptly on 'butchered your brother' as adrenalin kicked in and everything seemed to narrow and sharpen in focus. The rest of what Sylar said washed over him, hardly registering. Some automatic part of his brain probably recorded it, but he was too busy reacting emotionally to Sylar's bald admission and the psychology of his word choice. _'Butcher' … like you understand how awful what you did was? How it wasn't just hitting someone with a car and 'killing' them, how it wasn't getting angry and 'murdering' them, but how it was cold-blooded, calculated and completely unnecessary, taking a life just because it amused you to do it, like killing an animal … 'butchered'?_

Having regained his footing, Peter just stared at Sylar for a moment while those thoughts ran through his mind, his eyes wide and hurt for that second. His heart was pounding in his ears. Without thinking his words over, Peter said with complete and biting honesty, "I'd rather be pathetic than what you are." _Take a slice at you? 'Butcher' you? Kill someone because I'm angry?_ Obviously it was in Peter to do just that, but that was a part of himself he tried to rise above.

He stood three-quarter turned towards Sylar, next to the curb but still standing on the street. His hands were at his sides and he was still somewhat in shock to have been hit over the head emotionally like that. _He's **trying**_ _to provoke me,_ Peter's mind supplied as it slowly came back online. _Why?_

XXX

Sylar smirked at the stumble, his eyes tracking Peter as he walked. _Oops_. Peter then turned and gave him this look – like his heart had been ripped out. It was probably true, the blind, trusting sap. (He crushed the twist his gut made at the sight). _Aww, boo hoo._

Sylar couldn't help his arms folding over his chest in typical 'oh, yeah?' but his smirk didn't falter. Keeping the expression generally did its job in bugging the hell out of someone which was his current goal. _Wouldn't everyone?_ Was his first mental thought to Peter's reply.

"Tell me something new, Petrelli. You're no better than I am," his voice lowered, "deep down inside that twisted cranium of yours." Sylar flicked his eyes over the other man's barely visible forehead mostly hidden in all that ridiculous hair.

XXX

Peter stared at Sylar, his brows drawing together and an expression of anger settling over his features at the assertion Peter was no better than Sylar. _Yes, I am! You're a murderer! I'm … not. But … really, we're both human. Everyone's the same. That would make me … no better than him._ His expression shifted slightly to include mild confusion at his own contradictory thoughts. Sylar went on speaking though, giving him a wash of more provocative words and every one of them stung.

XXX

"You're a cheap fake, trying to do a bigger man's job. Let me know when you hit puberty and want to play with the big boys," Sylar snarked, flipping him off in a gesture that wasn't really his own, turning to walk away finally.

XXX

Peter stood perfectly still, watching Sylar's face. The words stung, but none of them sunk in. Instead he found himself wondering what had caused this verbal attack. _I hurt him, somewhere, earlier. That's why he's doing this. Revenge. Did I frighten him with the sword? Or was it that I was walking off in the first place?_ His eyes jumped to the single finger and he frowned, saying nothing as Sylar turned and strode away. Peter badly wanted to throw a rock or something and hit the man in the back of the head. _Walk away from me, will you?_ But he did nothing. He looked over at the sword. _I wanted him to leave me alone. This way he feels like he's the one leaving me. Insecure asshole, isn't he? Just let him go._

Peter took a deep breath and let it out, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. _Nathan …_ He shook his head. _There's nothing to be done about it. Just … deal._ He sighed and swallowed, walking over to his bags. Resolutely he picked them up and began the long trek back to his apartment, wherever it was in this place.

XXX

Sylar exhaled as walked, slowing to 'meander' as he was out of sight of the other man, sparing half a rubber-neck to see that he in turn wasn't being followed. _Let Peter be lost._ His posture slumped. He tried to think why….where along the road Peter had gotten under his skin enough for Sylar to stalk him and provoke the empath like that. Sure, Peter had implied things – a bunch of things that were common misconceptions Sylar had to deal with and to be fair, he'd never really bothered, never really put much effort into correcting those false ideas. His words had fallen on deaf ears as usual and misconceptions like that never failed to grate on his own eardrums.

_So I'm an addicted murderer who enjoys killing and who only does it for personal gain. That's not new, I don't….think that was the problem I had with it….Maybe because it was from Peter, someone I expect more understanding from, more, well, empathy from. No, that's just….Nathan, talking._

Currently he missed the Hunger, it could excuse almost anything and he was very used to having that alibi. His equally evil and uninhibited subconscious coiled around his brain to whisper something to him. _I don't feel important. I don't feel feared._ Peter thought he could assume those things, voice them, and give orders when all the medic wanted was assistance in rescuing an imaginary girlfriend. _And I wasn't expecting a sword…_

XXX

 _How did I get stuck here … with **him**_ _? Why did this seem like a good idea? Why didn't I listen to Matt? Why didn't I listen to **Ma**_ _, even?_ Peter sighed, not bothering to try to answer himself or defend his reasoning. _I'm here, that's that; what am I going to do about it? I've got to do something about being so fucking moody. Getting away from **him**_ _is a good start._

 _I can't figure out how to react to him. I'd like to cut him to ribbons. I'd like to get him down and carve his eyeballs out_. Peter grunted. _You wouldn't do that, Peter, so don't even talk to yourself like that_. He smirked and raised his head, looking at the buildings he was walking past. _Wouldn't do it? More like shouldn't do it. I dunno. I hope I wouldn't. What did he say, something about me having a twisted cranium? That's brass._

 _How the hell am I **supposed**_ _to react to him? I need his help; he's not helping. He's an asshole. But then he wants to talk and hang out and be all buddy-buddy friendly because he's lonely … hello? Earth to Sylar? You wouldn't be lonely if you didn't kill everyone who associated with you!_ He huffed, aware that his mischaracterization was probably not true. _Well, he hasn't killed **me**_ _yet. Which is kind of weird, but whatever. I'm not too keen on finding out if getting killed here wakes me up in the real world, or if it makes me brain dead._ He looked down at his broken hand. _Evidence favors the brain dead part._

XXX

Never mind that Peter had won nearly every encounter between them. Sylar had felt the burning need to lash out at him and what better tools to use than the man's family and friends? Hell, he'd gone light actually, not desirous of a drop-kick fight with a katana in the area. He had plenty more to say about the former senator. _I'll break him tomorrow_ , Sylar thought of Peter, kicking at a pebble on the pavement before him, hands having been buried in his pockets after he'd left his 'companion'.

 _I wanted that fight. Why wouldn't he even attempt to hurt me?_ Sylar was left angry, forgotten and very confused. _It's like he's tempting me. Challenging me? What a foolish, foolish boy. Hasn't he learned?_ Sylar raised his head to look around him. _He will._

XXX

 _Whoa, where the hell am I?_ Peter stopped and looked around at the buildings that were getting less familiar with every stride. _Yeah, okay, must be back the other way. This is my chance to see if Asshole is still following me._ He felt a surge of irrational fear and anger at the very idea, not sure what he could do to impress his seriousness if Sylar **was** still following him. Various half-baked scenarios filtered through his head. Peter made an abrupt turn and headed back the other way, eyes sharp, but saw nothing untoward - no villain lurking in the shadows, cackling his arrogant, heckling laugh and sneering. _Yeah, really want to carve his eyeballs out,_ Peter thought, frustrated by the memory.

 _It wouldn't kill him. He's not even really here ... Stop it, Peter. Don't even think about that shit._ He gave himself a shake and resolved not to sink to Sylar's level. _I am not the same as him!_

XXX

 _Son of a bitch doesn't want to listen to the truth? Fine. I'll just make his life hell._ Sylar snarled to himself, his feet hitting the pavement harder as his thoughts spiraled down darker, deeper, more violent and generally "evil". As there was no human, vehicle, not even bugs he could destroy, Sylar darted into an office building, slamming the door open and going straight for the reception desk he saw to his right.

When he reached it, he took hold of the basic gray keyboard, splintering it against the wall, creating a solid dent in the fancy wood. With barely a sound from his thinned lips, Sylar continued to bash the hell out of the communications implement until he broke the lower half on the desk's edge, creating a quarter of keyboard. Throwing that away, he kicked at a heavy file metal cabinet, bruising his toes up as it failed to budge.

He growled at it, changing his balance for his foot, resting his hands atop it and giving it a death glare like he would love to be giving to Peter right then. "Son of a-" he rasped out, a little breathless from injured toes, pivoting and using the sole of his foot to crash the cabinet onto its back, a loud echo emanating through the foyer in the otherwise-quiet.

Using his hands he swiped his hands to clear the desk of the computer's monitor and tower creating more echoes, throwing blank papers and pens to scatter over the floor as his mind was able to blank into pure violence for release. When his mind cleared somewhat, clearer than it would have been without the Hunger of course (he was grateful), Sylar stood panting in a silent, messy and dented room feeling…forgotten. His breathing hitched as he tried to get control of himself. _That implies that someone was there to think of you in the first place._

 _Fucking Peter. Why is he here? Son of a bi-…_. _He wants to point goddamn fingers at people who can't help but be what they are? He's a GODDAMN PETRELLI! I need no other argument!_ Sylar clawed back his hair, a little static-y now, just as frustrated, but less enraged.

XXX

It was getting on towards the dinner hour by the time Peter found his way back to his apartment. He didn't mind the journey so much. It was nice to just wander, without Sylar there requiring observation and response, without feeling any driving need to escape the place and being hounded by the constant fear of real-life suffocation. _I'm really glad that's over. I've been here a week or so. Whatever's happened in the real world has happened. Time here is either really funky or … wait, watchmaker. **Watchmaker**_ _. What if the time thing has nothing to do with Matt at all, but has something to do with Sylar's … hobby?_

He stood on the front step of his apartment building mulling that over, but he couldn't figure out if it meant anything. Finally he shrugged and opened the door, glancing inside with a weird feeling there might be an ambush within. The world seemed … sort of hostile. He couldn't put his finger on it, exactly. There was no ambush, though. He shrugged again, shut the door behind him and took the stairs to his apartment. He enjoyed the strain in his legs by the time he reached the top; the throbbing of his hand, not so much.

He dug out several more slices of raisin bread, noticing he was nearly out, and ate it left-handed as he surveyed the apartment he'd finally decided to make his own. As soon as he was finished eating, he washed down more painkillers. Without waiting for them to kick in, he began determinedly, stubbornly, moving furniture out of his apartment and into the one across the hall. The first things to go was everything from the second bedroom, bed included. Next was the coffee table, an end table, the overstuffed chair (he kept the couch), two of the four dining room chairs and a plethora of cooking utensils and devices he had no idea how to use.

He didn't bother to put the things away in any order, not that it was really possible to be orderly when stuffing half the contents of one apartment into another. He wanted it _out._ He wanted the place to be _his_ and not Sylar's. It didn't bother him that this was some kind of metaphorical pissing-in-the-corners. _If I'm going to live here, it's going to be **my**_ _space, not **his**_ **.** Peter worked late into the night making it that way.

XXX

Sylar blinked, long years alone making him comfortable enough to relax somewhat to feel tired. Or maybe drained. That was it; Peter was draining, the filthy little leech. His lip twitched as he stared blankly at the destruction. _Plan, I need a plan. A….goal, where's my fucking drive?_ Peter had mutilated that and set them back the progress Sylar thought they had made when the medic tried for 'smart'.

He thought back to earlier that day. Peter had also gone on a rampage with the storefront. _He said he was angry that he couldn't find me…and that he was stuck. He must know he's stuck._ There's no rescue, Nine-One-One hero response. He snorted to himself; the irony that everyone's favorite hero was being left out to dry.

His concussion's headache was back as bad as the day it happened and it was crippling and made him cranky and unbalanced. His back still ached from where Peter had run him up the bedpost and not in a sexy way; his knuckles were still scabbing over. All the sensations, aches really, joined to make him focus, through or over his complaining nerves.

 _Peter threw down the gauntlet. He's turned me down and belittled me and he has no idea just how dirty I can play._ As he thought, he'd wandered slowly back outside, limping once he'd made sure Peter wasn't around to watch that. Turning home absently he continued to think, continued to try to hold back his aggressive urges. His plan didn't take long to pull together; it was merely a reiteration anyway: _He's all mine and he doesn't know it yet. I need to mold him into shape…_ Such were his thoughts as he found himself in his apartment, fixing a meal and attempting to read the night away with mixed results.

Day 9

Peter woke with a start, disoriented by the very fact of being asleep. _Whoa. What am I doing in bed?_ He rolled over and sat up, fully clothed. The room looked different, but of course it would with those boring landscape paintings off the walls. They were bare. The whole place was bare. He rose and scratched at his scalp, trying to remember going to sleep. He couldn't, but he decided not to obsess over it. _I'm in a false reality. It shouldn't surprise me that the place is weird._

He chuckled to himself as he finished the toilet and stripped for a shower. _I'm weird. Sylar's weird. 'Course the place is weird. 'Weird' - just another word for 'special'_ _._ He put the usual gallon sized plastic bag over his right hand, secured it clumsily with a rubber band, and got in the shower.

After toweling off, Peter walked, naked, into the now-empty second bedroom. _Looks like I slept right into late morning. Well, I didn't really have anywhere to be, did I?_ He stretched as something nagged at his memory. _I oughta drag some free weights up here. Ceiling's not high enough for a jump rope. I could do push-ups, though_ _._ He looked at his bum hand. _One-handed push-ups_ _._ He smirked. _I could get all lop-sided and Sylar could make masturbation jokes. Oh, wait … Sylar … that storefront. Oh, yeah … that's what I was gonna do._

 _Yeah, right._ A certain lack of enthusiasm permeated his thoughts. _Right after lunch. And painkillers._ Lunch consisted of celery, carrots and peanut butter. He would have liked to added apple slices to that, but there was no way he was going to try to handle a knife with his left hand. He had plenty to eat otherwise. Hygiene addressed, food eaten and put away, painkillers taken and taking effect, clothing donned, Peter had no more excuses for delay. He packed a couple apples and the last two slices of raisin bread into his bag, along with keys and pills.

He paused with his hand on the door, thinking. _I'm going to go find the place and … no, I should stop by the janitorial closet here and get a bucket, a dustpan and a broom. I think I'll just be getting the debris cleaned up today. I'll worry about fixing stuff later. For now just get rid of the trash._ He paused. Sylar was a looming, unasked question in his mind. _I told him to leave me alone. But this is a new day. There's no reason why he'd think I meant **forever**_ _, and anyway, I didn't. I'm going to have to get used to him eventually. Maybe better though if I can just take him in small doses._

_Yeah, right. Let's see how well Sylar cooperates with that plan, Peter. He's always been so cooperative in the past, after all._

XXX

Sylar woke up groggily, his head pounding the instant he lifted it. Blinking, it took him a moment to place himself, disoriented from his headache and something he couldn't quite place. _That's right. Peter._ Sylar gave a grunted growl with his dry throat, slowly rolling himself to stand. Once there his back twinged and he made a noise, trying to rub at it lightly enough as he made his way to the bathroom for morning clean-up.

Dressed and fed, he didn't glance at any of his clocks or his prized watch for the time – the sunlight when he'd woken told him what time it was as did his brain and the ticking surrounding him in the room. He knew Pete wasn't up yet. He forced down memories of waking the boy as Peter had grown up, the funny little 'h-hu-uh?'s his kid brother would make on greeting the day, his hair stuck a million directions and those big eyes still stuck on sleepy.

Walking downstairs to the road heading not for Peter's place this time, but the storefront Peter said he'd clean today; Sylar rebandaged his wrist as his only maintenance for his injuries. Any discomfort was a reminder of being human and of being alive and again he found himself slipping into empathizing with Claire. He took a breath and exhaled it shortly in the brisk air, seeing only the barest cloud around his mouth from the chill. Everything would heal in its own way, rather, in his own way.

He arrived at the broken store, taking more time to look around at its contents seeing as Peter hadn't arrived just yet. _No katanas, guns, bats, or teddy bears,_ he noted instantly of the women's clothing store. Peter had fucked up the mannequins pretty good, most of the glass was missing but the window's edges were still prickly. Sylar stepped lightly around in the display case, idly checking out the racks of products just in case Peter decided to wait around the proverbial corner for him.

XXX

Peter arranged his supplies as he stood in the hallway outside the janitor's closet. He had a bright yellow bucket more accustomed to a mop than the handful of rags and a dustpan that was in it now, and a fairly newish flat broom. He balanced the broom over his right shoulder and lifted the bucket with his left, looking off in the direction of the entrance. He'd already looked outside - Sylar wasn't there, or at least he hadn't been when Peter had looked. He still had this urge to slink off out the back way.

 _And why would that be, Peter?_ he asked in an internal voice that annoyingly sounded like Sylar's. He leaned heavily against the wall and groaned at how his conscience was truly sadistic if it was going to sound like Sylar. _I really should have listened to … but on the other hand,_ he sighed, _since when have my mother or Matt Parkman been fonts of wisdom and good advice?_ He shook his head and started for the main entrance, determined to do what he _should_ even if he didn't like it. _I don't want to go out this way because I'm embarrassed about smashing the storefront, that's why. I got mad and broke stuff because I was frustrated and it felt good to do it. **That's**_ _what I'm guilty about - the feeling good part._

He paced off down the street, lost in thought about his decisions and why he'd made them. Peter classified the choice to destroy the storefront as a 'decision', even if it wasn't the most well-considered. It hadn't been reflexive. Few emotional outbursts were. The emotion might be uncontrollable, evoked by circumstance and the events, but what a person did as a result … that was something he held them, and himself, accountable for.

He found his way to the building in question without much difficulty. It was four or five blocks from his apartment. He hadn't really kept track, which was part of why he was kind of lousy at finding places. _But I'm getting better! I didn't even get lost getting here!_ He paused at the corner, looking over the street warily _. I kind of thought Sylar might be here. Guess not. Good. Maybe we can work something out then, if he'll give me space when I need it._ He walked on, approaching the mess, eyes on the ground. He was looking at how far from the building the glass was scattered, mentally working out where he needed to start sweeping from to work his way in.

 _I probably need to pick up all the big pieces first, which is what the bucket is for. I should have brought a glove._ He set the bucket down and looked up, intending to find a spot to prop the broom against the building while he worked. **_Sylar!_** Peter sucked in air in a sudden, noisy gasp and nearly jumped out of his skin. The creep was lurking just inside the store, totally still and silent, like one of the mannequins Peter had trashed before. The resemblance was so uncanny that for a fraction of a second, Peter's brain wasn't sure it _wasn't_ just a Sylar-shaped mannequin standing there.

XXX

Sylar heard sounds and turned towards the open display to see Peter walk up with his gear. He couldn't help feeling totally validated at seeing a Petrelli looking like a janitor – there was something supremely ironic and satisfying at the sight. In addition to the little voice chanting in his head _Peter screwed up! Peter screwed up! Not such a golden boy after all!_

If there was one thing Sylar felt better about it was bringing all the high-and-mighties down to his level where they really belonged. And Peter was the best of the best, almost holier-than-thou and that had never ceased to get under Nathan's and Sylar's skin. He stood still, curious to Peter's reaction time or reaction period on spotting Sylar. It took less time than he thought.

Peter went still, partially bent over after setting the bucket down and still holding the broom with those soft brown bangs covering part of his face. A few seconds passed and Peter still didn't move, staring at him as if he was some apparition or illusion. Sylar felt that he should be flattered. As for holding still himself (and seeing just how long he could string Peter's paranoia along, however tempting), a slow smirk spread across his face unbidden. Fear was such an ego boost and it only fed the intuitive's addiction. He wasn't sure if Peter could see it given the lighting differences between the outside and indoors, but he didn't care.

He took a long, slow first step towards Peter, speeding up the second just for show and, again, that lovely reaction. Peter had been leaning next to the corner of the window, looking for something just inside it so when Sylar got close, he decided to fuck with Peter some more (admittedly risking bodily harm, but what the hell, it would be fun). Sylar walked up to Peter who had straightened up to stand, and slid between the space the man and the window created, bringing their bodies into close enough contact for Sylar to be thrilled and Peter to be….well.

XXX

Peter could see that something about Sylar's face changed, but he couldn't make out the expression immediately. It didn't matter - the other man was the real deal, not a mannequin or a hallucination signaling Peter had lost touch. _At least, I don't think I've lost touch with … reality, such as this is. I don't remember going to sleep, but it's usually the waking up you don't remember if you're in a dream, isn't it?_ He blinked a few times and fell back a step as Sylar took one forward, feeling that hindbrain fight-or-flight instinct telling him to _Run!_ when Sylar's second step was faster. _Which is probably why he's doing it, the asshole._

Peter set himself then, resisting the urge to take the broom in his left hand like a weapon. One - it wasn't that heavy-duty a broom. It would make for a shitty, undignified and unintimidating weapon. Two - he'd already seen how trying to escalate with Sylar worked out, and that was 'badly'. Three - his face still hurt from getting tagged time after time a few days ago and his fucking hand was still broken and going to stay that way for a long time. Fighting almost certainly equaled losing and Peter was not fond of losing. Especially when there was nothing much other than ego he was fighting over.

But knowing all that didn't stop the adrenalin, or the stiff posture, or the accelerated breathing, or the thinning of his lips. He stood his ground, refusing to move, making Sylar turn sideways a little to brush past him. Which might have been Sylar's point, but Peter wasn't about to let that goad him into doing something that looked like backing down.

XXX

Sylar spared a nano-second glance for the broom as he passed it, noting with sadistic amusement that Peter didn't shift it around. _Learning his lessons, I see. Good._ Peter made a face which Sylar was happy to ignore. _Not here for your pleasure, big boy,_ Sylar mocked in his head. Peter didn't budge and Sylar was forced to tilt his lanky body around to get by, but he made contact and thus was satisfied in his effort. He moved to stand a few feet (in range of the broom, should Peter choose), facing and beside Peter.

Stepping out of the display, brushing past the medic, he stood on the sidewalk and eyed Peter, snarking, "If you wanted to cross-dress, you could have used the door, Peter."

XXX

Peter snorted at Sylar's comment and quipped back immediately, "I went to a party once in drag. Got some action. It was pretty cool. You ought to try it." He regretted his words almost instantly, because … well … they were mean. And it said far more about himself than he'd intended to be sharing with this particular audience.

XXX

Sylar's head inched to the side after he gave a slow blink in response before answering, "Try what? Going in drag or getting action? I, unlike some, don't have the face to pull off the first one. And I don't actually have to troll to get laid," Okay, that was an exaggeration if not an outright lie. He had reasons for not looking and not being interested. IF he so desired, he could snag any person off the street to the nearest hotel (or alley) and….Sylar crossed his arms in front of him, standing straight in smug assurance although his brain was still turning over the whole drag secret not even Nathan knew about. Then he really, really tried not to picture Peter in… _Holy shit. Focus._

XXX

Peter had turned mostly to follow Sylar's progress, but still had the broom over his right shoulder, balanced under his right forearm. He figured it was way too late, but he tried changing the subject anyway. "Um … I mean, good afternoon to you, too," he said rather lamely, pretty sure he'd just ruined any fractional chance he'd had of getting out of this encounter without _some_ kind of fight.

XXX

Peter then switched tactics and went for polite, if faked and it had Sylar's brows arching slightly. _Wait, was he implying that he just ignored my comment and thought I was greeting him? That's…that's….clever. Would have had more punch if he hadn't spilled his…that whole thing._ Sylar was eager to both know more of and ignore the information.

He grunted in reply, looking out onto the street and away from Peter, rolling his eyes.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a very long look, exhaled disdainfully, and slowly unlimbered the broom. He set it against the wall like he'd been planning to do anyway, and scooped the rags and dustpan out of the bucket. His motions were gradual and a little exaggerated even. But then he changed pace and tossed the brown, plastic dustpan at the base of the broom, in a sudden flick of motion. It was hardly dangerous, but he kept a particular awareness of Sylar in his peripheral vision to see if the man was jumpy or not. _Not happy about him standing right there, kind of on top of me. There's no reason for him to be here at all … or at least no good reason. He's just here to pass the time and getting in my face about things is probably the most entertaining thing on his schedule._

XXX

Sylar felt the look, but ignored it just to be a dick. He mentally crowed when no response came, Peter taking the insult like some kind of annoyed housewife. _That_ image was certainly amusing and Peter's own admission of dressing like a fucking woman wasn't helping the medic's case at all. If anything, it only fueled Sylar on with more ammunition. He made sure to check on Peter with a side-glance as the man moved and he allowed himself to feel some gratitude at the speed. A sudden move with a broom would certainly set him off and Nathan knew enough about prison, both military and domestic, to know a few gay broom jokes.

Sylar turned his head a little fast at the faster motion Peter made in throwing the dustpan, his eyes staying on it for a second before glancing over Peter once and looking away again.

XXX

With a little huff, Peter stuffed the rags in his left pocket and moved the bucket over next to some of the larger pieces of glass. He squatted, pulled out a rag, and picked one up, using the rag to avoid cutting himself. He looked at the fragment, eyes narrowing, a memory coming to him of looking around Mohinder's apartment in desperation, at the realization a second too late of what a somewhat younger Sylar intended to do to a somewhat younger Peter. He'd seen the field of glass suspended in the air. He'd turned and started towards the door when … his life ended for the third time.

XXX

Peter crouched down and Sylar moved over to the outer edge of the building just beside the broken display, leaning a shoulder against the store to settle in and watch Peter work. Oh, yeah, he really was going to sit and watch. He initially had thought nothing of the glass shards until he saw Peter linger. He was in no position to see Peter's face in any detail so he couldn't divine what the other man was feeling, but he could sure guess at his thoughts. _Oh, yeah,_ Sylar chuckled to himself inaudibly. _What the hell did he need to see stupid 'Mohinder' for anyway?_

XXX

Peter shuddered and dropped the piece into the bucket, moving on resolutely to the next. _I hate glass._ He tried to ignore that he was being watched and probably gloated over. It really wasn't an experience that Peter had much parallel for in his life. Even when his father (or Nathan) had stood over him to make sure he did something, there had not been the feeling of sniggering self-aggrandizement he suspected Sylar was getting out of watching Peter clean up his own mess. Peter wasn't sure what to do about it, but it was making his skin crawl.

XXX

"Maybe you should shop here. You've never worn this much black in your life." _And I think I know why. I think I'm the reason, too._ "I bet that drives your mom nuts you dress like her, black and in size twelve." Sylar rolled his eyes at the unflattering image. _I also imagine your mom doesn't- well…actually she might know about all the dirty little things you've done with her eavesdropping, mind-fucking, life-ruining, retinal-scarring ability. Serves the bitch right._ He would have continued on, asking if Peter had "borrowed" Ma's makeup or stolen his own. _Freak's probably got a bunch of gay friends, probably bummed it off them. Not worth asking about. Wait…that makes him gay? Ugh._

XXX

 _She has good taste. I could do worse._ Peter sighed, his mind simultaneously trying to come up with a clever retort and shut down that line of thought as he continued working silently. _There's no point. Don't argue with him. Don't be his entertainment._ He kept moving along, picking up pieces and tossing them in the bucket, then rising and moving to a new spot to do the same all over again.

XXX

Peter was apparently done "sharing" after he'd blurted out his naughty little secret. _Oh, if only Nathan was still alive, I'd torture him with images of Peter getting laid dressed like a girl. Ha._ The man was studiously ignoring him and that made Sylar acutely annoyed and determined to get a reaction. He licked his lips a little, dreaming up an insult while Peter shuffled around. _Cleaning up after his own damn self._

XXX

 _Why does the color of the clothes matter?_ The answer came to him immediately and he said it out loud without considering the implications, "You said black was your favorite color." Peter glanced down at his outfit - a long-sleeved black, v-neck cotton shirt, jeans (also black), and his customary, thick-soled work shoes (also … yeah, well, black). While there were a number of good reasons why his wardrobe had shifted to darks lately (beside the fact that this was what he'd found in the apartments he'd raided), and those reasons were related to the color of his work uniform, the desire to avoid sweat marks and a lack of appreciation for how heavily bleached clothes felt against his skin, it didn't change the fact that he was entirely dressed in Sylar's favorite color, the day after Sylar had told him that. _And … I just made sure to point that out. Great. Just great, Peter. Sounds like I dress this way just to thrill him. Awesome_ , he thought sarcastically.

He stood with a sour expression, rubbing the spot on his thigh where he'd been kicked. It was fine now for walking – hardly a twinge except when he'd taken the stairs the day before – but the successive, deep squats he was having to do were something different. He gave Sylar his least appreciative glower.

XXX

Sylar sneered back in reply to Peter making faces at him. "Yeah, so-? Ah." No sooner was the question voiced then the answer presented itself to him. His eyes shifted aside as he thought. _Why would Peter think of that first thing? Because I said it the other day? Still…_ Sylar's eyes toured over Peter's body and not wholly for said clothes.

His eyes were significantly more amused when they returned to Peter's face. _That means something, doesn't it? Dressing like a girl might make things weird, might have difficulty hitting him, but he's not getting any special treatment unless he asks nicely. Who are you kidding?_ "You don't have to glare. I know; it's black, size fourteen," he smirked. Peter the clam was no fun. "Black is my kink, Pete. You can't have it."

XXX

Peter snorted. "Tomorrow I'll wear yellow, or maybe green. It'll go great with the eye-makeup you gave me the other day." He gestured at his raccoon-faced visage and smiled companionably. Most of the people he'd been in fights with, he'd had to keep dealing with day after day. The best way to deal with it seemed to be to make light of it and go on, and hopefully the other person would recognize that he was trying to leave the animosity behind and play along.

 _Size fourteen instead of twelve? Ah, it's a fat joke. Didn't catch that the first time around. 'Yo mama's so fat …' Meh. Might be funny if Ma actually **was**_ _fat, or even a little fat. Since she's not … kind of falls flat._ Sylar's repeated insults to Peter's family were starting to get under his skin regardless. _Asshole._

"Don't call me 'Pete'," he tacked on in a less friendly tone of voice, going down on one knee for what would probably be the last batch of glass he needed to pick up instead of using the broom. He picked up one piece and then scooted it over, using it to lever up two other pieces. There was a sharp, brief pain along his knuckle. "Dammit," he muttered, picking up all three pieces and dropping them in the bucket. He looked at his left middle finger, which now had a thin line of blood forming. _Should have worn a glove._ He got back to his feet and picked up the bucket, otherwise ignoring the cut.

XXX

Sylar leaned over a bit, towards the window to see what had Peter muttering to himself. He caught the slightest flash of something red on Peter's hand. _Blood. /I am not a religious man. But there is one thing I do believe in: Blood./_ Ironic that Peter had, in a way, drawn first blood and that it was his own by his own faults. He watched as Peter stood, doing nothing more than observing. _Why am I not pounding the shit out of him again? I should be. He deserves it. (Or does he?) What's stopping that?_

"What are you gonna do about it, Petey? Act like a brat in a candy store throwing a temper tantrum and I'll call you whatever I want. I see not much has changed since you were….well, born." Peter was worth protecting, Nathan knew, but really there was only so much he could do or put up with; especially when Peter was a legal adult and began to threaten the family's status and Nathan's own career. Nathan had stung back at Peter every time his kid brother got out of line…and then some. The leapfrogging between the brothers for attention, morality, power and politics boggled Sylar's mind. At the same time he understood that the atmosphere that had been bred into them had come from the Petrelli parentals. Kind of a lose-lose.

XXX

Sylar had Peter's complete and angry attention. _I haven't been called 'Petey' since I was a kid_. He took a deep breath, bristling and glaring. 'Petey' was more derogatory and more of a slur, but somehow it didn't tread over into Nathan's memory as heavily as 'Pete' would have. As that thought occurred to him, it was swiftly followed by the realization that Sylar actually had done as Peter asked and not called him 'Pete'. _Well, the wonders never cease!_

It was a small consolation, but it _was_ a consolation. It calmed him down a little and, probably more importantly, loosened his tongue. " _'A candy store?_ ' I think the stakes are a little higher than that, Sylar." He walked over and put down the bucket, picking up the broom instead.

XXX

Sylar raised a mocking eyebrow at the bluster Peter presented. "Could've fooled me," he snarked with dead seriousness, "Notice how you preface that with 'I think' because all of this is speculation to amuse you in circles, Petey." His brows lowered almost in disbelief as he saw Peter heft the broom handle. _Seriously? I know you're a stubborn son of a bitch, but you need to learn when to stay down because you don't hold a candle to me for dishing or taking pain and coming back for more. Stay down, Peter._

XXX

Peter turned to face Sylar, some ten feet from him, holding the broom perpendicular to the ground and punctuating his statements with it as he continued, "Where do **you** of all people get off on lecturing _anyone_ on temper tantrums?"

Peter was arguing mainly to argue and he was aware of that. Although he figured Sylar would eventually go away if he simply refused to respond, he was weirdly cheered by getting his way, even if it only meant Sylar chose something different to insult him with. But he _had_ chosen something different and so Peter felt like communication wasn't necessarily off the table. Even if, at the moment, it was angry communication.

XXX

Sylar's look shifted to annoyed when it came back to Peter's face."And where do you of all people get off on bashing me for having a temper when you've had my ability?" He paused a moment as Peter went on (Sylar was partly surprised he was getting dialogue at all).

XXX

" **Me** of all people?" Peter snorted and looked around rapidly on the ground, spotting where he wanted to start sweeping and taking a few short steps over to it. "You've had your ability for **years** , Sylar! Are you trying to tell me that _every_ person that you ever killed, you did it because your ability made you do it?"

Peter stopped there, really, _really_ wanting to go on and tell Sylar he thought the man had gotten used to killing, probably felt he was above everyone else, and might even have enjoyed it if that nasty smirk he always wore said anything about it. Peter stopped though because he wasn't sure what Sylar's answer was and he genuinely wanted to know it. It wouldn't necessarily be the truth, not even as Sylar knew it, but Peter wanted to know what defense Sylar was putting forward for actions that just the day before he'd admitted were irredeemably wrong.

Indistinct, half-processed memories of killing Nathan in the future tried to surface in Peter's head. He pushed them away. He didn't want to deal with it. He didn't want to ponder Sylar finding, or trying to find, an area of empathy with him, some shared horror. If Peter could keep pretending _only_ Sylar had done wrong … Peter grimaced, recognizing how hypocritical and self-serving his own desires were on this, but not sure he had it in him to do anything about it. He made a few tentative, one-handed sweeps at the ground, watching what he was doing rather than Sylar, although his mental attention was very focused on what the other man had to say.

XXX

"Did I leave you with that impression?" Sylar snorted, honestly amused. "I won't pretend that. I've killed lots of people because they had it coming or they were in my way….self-defense, too. You'd know some of them," he hinted, aware that this honesty would probably come back to bite hard. Chandra (Peter wouldn't know him personally); Arthur; Nathan; he'd almost killed Samson; Virginia; Peter himself a time or two. Sylar's eyes slid to the side as he contemplated, not much showing on his face but a slight smirk, a little lost in thought.

Dozens of agents, civilians, police officers, special ops; Bob Bishop (although the allure of his handy ability had made it sweeter); Maya and Alejandro (the annoying bastards); Isaac might have been a throw-away of sorts; Trevor…the list went on and there wasn't a prevalent amount of guilt present in him. That list was black, secret, and small. On further thought, he'd never been around people long enough to rattle off his accomplishments. _Should have done that with Matt, sent him right over. First time for everything, Peter._

It was a lifetime's worth of compressed hot air, rage, and bitter, ugly feelings that made him do the things he did. A personality flaw or a learned trait, he didn't know. He would guess that it was an inherited genome given his father's rather scummy existence, but he couldn't say for sure. It sounded like he was trying to lay blame and that generally wasn't something he did – looking for ways to dodge accountability, however, was very much his forte.

Sylar could not be blamed if the majority of his problems as a genetically enhanced man stemmed from a single family and their endeavors and business interactions. Peter knew lots of them, really. "You've got anger issues, too, man, so knock that halo off your head." _Part of me wants to, Peter; the ability….makes it happen._ "There's a lot about abilities and how they affect people that you don't know."


	23. People You Might Know

Day 9

' _I'd know some of them'? I'd know some of the people you've killed? Ya think, Sylar? Why the hell do you think I'm so pissed off at you?_ "Anger issues? I'll give you some anger issues - 'They _had it coming?_ ' Are you _**serious?**_ That would be funny if we weren't talking about **PEOPLE'S LIVES!"** Peter ranted towards the end, gesturing threateningly with the broom. He wanted to hit Sylar with it, but it wasn't stout enough to do more than annoy the man. "You might be able to talk me into self defense. In certain circumstances maybe," _like that scientist you threw against the wall at Pinehearst and he happened to hit things and died. You threw Mohinder, too - he didn't hit anything. Then he got up and bashed your brains out. I can see how that would be a deterrent to not finishing people off in future._ "But ' _they had it coming'_?"

Peter gave a harsh, ringing laugh, turning to sweep energetically and this time doing a better job of it, left-handed and awkward though it was. Whether or not people 'deserved' certain treatment had always stuck in his craw - that a prostitute 'deserved' to be beaten by her pimp, that a criminal 'deserved' to be raped in prison, that a terrorist 'deserved' to be tortured for information … Whatever evil was visited on them might be _expected_ , maybe they should have predicted it and known it would happen, but it didn't mean they _deserved_ it. People who said others deserved it or had it coming were just excusing their own failure to do the right thing.

"That is so fucking entitled. Do you _really_ think that way? Is that …" _Oh my God, it might be. Is it?_ "Is that another effect of your ability?" Peter asked, his voice turning from shaming to … actually a bit curious. "Does your ability make you feel entitled to kill anyone you think 'has it coming'?" _No, it can't be. Lots of people are that evil without abilities goading them on_. Peter's voice shifted back to accusing and angry. "Or were you always this kind of self-righteous prick and just didn't have the power to act on it?"

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows lifted just slightly as he watched Peter put on a show. To someone who didn't know him, Peter's emotion might have read 'anger' – Sylar knew he wasn't in any real danger….yet. Peter was just venting and Sylar suspected the awareness of safety came from Nathan. Sylar didn't give any other sign that he was even affected by the hot air blowing past him.

 _What does he mean, do I really think that way? Why….I don't…._ Sylar was struggling inside to make sense why it, apparently, didn't make sense to Peter. _He'd have me believe….all the shit I grew up with I don't deserve now I'm a murderer? I deserve it now; it was just a down payment all that time._ He frowned and blinked at Peter, strangely hurt at the idea that he _didn't_ deserve what he'd gotten, but he couldn't place that. _Then how does it work?_ He decided to ask.

"What other way can it work, Peter?" He snorted to hold off a more vulnerable expression, "Yeah, I think that way." _Unlike you, Peter, my parents felt I deserved shit and I wasn't anyone's golden boy to prove them wrong._ Sylar's expression took on genuine confusion, probably telegraphing just how far he was out of his depth in all matters moral (Of course, the perfect person to be in said argument with – Peter Petrelli). _What does my ability have to do with that? I have….what is he talking about?_

"Don't display your ignorance, Peter. I was always this self-righteous, as you put it," _another powerfully useless and telling bit of honesty, way to go!_ Sylar mocked himself internally. "Powers manifest from….somewhere inside you, your greatest desire in a sense. You, you want to help people and heal the world. Save the goddamn cheerleader and all that. Nathan wanted to fly high and avoid his problems, avoid his family. Claire doesn't want to be hurt. Look what abilities you've all manifested from that. It's not just a random draw, even if your genes are," Sylar finished off his impassioned speech, pulling away a little since he was sure to get bashed for that and the people he'd used as examples. Maybe throwing them out for examination would help him avoid the spotlight on his own manifestations.

XXX

Peter kept sweeping, working his way across the sidewalk, getting closer to his companion as he did. He glanced up at Sylar's first words, taking in his expression, and didn't answer right away. That was okay, because Sylar went on. Peter's expression turned from mostly contemptuous but a little contemplative, to merely annoyed and somewhat patronizing as Sylar confessed to being self-righteous and began to lecture about powers. Then Sylar mentioned Nathan's name and Peter almost stopped moving, looking up, eyes narrowed, poised like he was going to attack. Sylar's words passed through him without pushing any buttons. Peter reviewed them internally again, and then again, glancing away, looking for the barb. _Huh._ He was kind of surprised there wasn't an insult there. _Just an observation. Not the most complimentary one, maybe, but Nathan had his flaws. Who better to know them than the guy with his memories?_

"Yeah, yeah, I suppose that's true about Nathan," he conceded, muttering almost too quietly to be heard. He went back to sweeping, giving himself a little shake. He thought, really thought hard, about what Sylar had said. When Sylar finished, _'I was always this self-righteous'. Ha. Self-righteousness as a power. I'd think that would be my dad, and that ability he had to issue commands._

When Sylar finished, Peter sighed and stopped sweeping, pretending to lean on the broom a little but not actually putting any weight on it. "Okay, I'll agree there's _some_ link between personality traits and abilities, but that's sort of like saying there's a link between a person's job and who they really are, inside. Not everyone ends up with a job that plays to their strengths. Lots of people have really strong emotions and never manifest abilities.

"There's nothing special about the way we - people with abilities - feel, or who we are. We aren't _privileged_ or have moral superiority over others or have some divine right to kill or let live. We _happen_ to have abilities," Peter pointed briefly at Sylar in emphasis, although for the most part he'd calmed down, "just like you _happen_ to be healthy, intelligent and mobile." Peter shook his head briefly. "Those aren't traits everyone gets, any more than they get abilities. Some people are sick all their lives, are mentally handicapped, or crippled. That doesn't mean that someone like yourself is a better person than they are. They don't _'have it coming'_ just because you decided they do."

XXX

Sylar knew speaking about the brother-that-shall-not-be-mentioned was a bad idea, but he was a good example. "Well, if you want to be simple minded about it. I know how you feel about abilities, Peter; 'meant for something bigger', 'why were we given these unless they have a purpose?' We _are_ privileged, like it or not. Let me know if you get any divine intervention for our grand purpose on this stupid rock." Not that it mattered. _I sure haven't had any luck figuring it out and fate seems to favor him so if anyone's getting a damn answer, it would be Wonder Breath. God, that's so unfair. The one person with debatably the least amount of brains always seems to be stumbling one step ahead of his betters. Then he wonders why he annoys the hell out of people?_

XXX

 _Those aren't your memories!_ Peter wanted to snap at Sylar repeating lines Peter had spoken to Nathan. Instead he just moved restlessly, going so far as to shift his grip on the broom before shaking his head at himself and going back to sweeping. _It's not his fault. He didn't put those memories in his own head. He's just talking._ He huffed. "We have abilities. That's ..." he struggled to find a difference between 'privileged' and 'different'. "That's not the same thing as having a right to dictate other's lives." _I seem to be arguing as much with dad here as him. I wonder how much they talked?_

XXX

Lots of memories of saving Peter's ass from walking off rooftops and getting mixed up with /Dad/ and Pinehearst rushed over him. All those times Peter tried to prove something to something unseen, try and find his purpose or whatever and he, Nathan, was always left to clean up the mess.

As if to back up his main point, something from inside him bubbled up and out: /"Ma said she and Dad gave me my ability, Pete."/ _Oh, holy fuck, that did not just…._ Sylar's eyes flew wide. If what Angela said was true, Nathan was a synthetic special, probably one of the few that succeeded, both in surviving without defects and succeeding in the world. (If Nathan's synthetic ability molded to his desire, his personality, then Peter should have no argument, but that wasn't really on his mind at the moment). Sylar cleared this throat, blinking, looking away and stepping back because Peter was getting closer and he still held the broom, one-handed or not.

XXX

' _Pete' again! God-dammit, I thought that was over! Wait … 'me'? 'Dad gave …_ _ **me**_ _'?_ Peter started in anger and then blinked in confusion, brows drawing together as he momentarily and unintentionally gave Sylar his best 'What the fuck?' face. His heart caught in his throat as he thought, _Is Nathan still in there?_ " **You said Nathan was dead!** " he exclaimed in sudden agitation and intensity, closing on Sylar immediately and getting in his face. The broom trailed behind him, still held in his left, but mostly forgotten. Desperation fueled him, like a man reaching for a dying loved one … _Has he been suppressing him all this time? That doesn't make sense! He couldn't! Why would Nathan let that happen? Why would he let that bastard win? He said good-bye …_

The impossibility of Nathan's continued existence in Sylar's mind hit him like a blow. _It can't be. Just a slip of the tongue, right?_ A roiling mess of anger, rage and grief came flooding to the surface all at once, but it was Sylar's face looking back at him, not Nathan's. It wasn't even particularly Nathan's expression on Sylar's face, if such a thing were possible and Peter's frantically scanning eyes would have spotted that if it were there at all, to be seen or even imagined. He examined Sylar's countenance with a hyper-vigilance that left him nearly shaking with adrenaline. His lack of success left Peter snarling, "Who do you think you are?" The words came out with the primary intent to challenge Sylar for his presumptuousness in speaking as Nathan, but somewhere lurking in the shadows of Peter's mind it was a literal question.

XXX

Sylar lowered his eyelids quickly as Peter turned. Hopefully his companion hadn't seen that he knew he'd slipped up as that was Sylar's only cover at the moment.

He caught the hope in the younger man's face but he didn't have time and wouldn't let himself feel for it.

Peter was in his face; Sylar could feel the heat from his body and he straightened, his head coming up, both from the proximity and the broom that Peter still held, but had yet to shift into position. He had to wait a moment before he could respond at all, let alone respond the way he needed to. It could save him a beating, after all. The puff of Peter's rapid breathing was distracting him and distantly he noted that it was a shame the medic wasn't interested in a more intimate hobby. Trying not to blink or start at the sudden outburst, he felt his face shifting against his will, brows trying to frown, mouth trying not to grimace. Most of all he was desperate to stay in place – not show weakness or back away. Or worse, apologize.

/"I went to see my real father. He was so alone…so _pathet_ _ic_! I didn't wanna become him, so I took this power and now I can be anyone I wanna be, anyone in the world!...So tell me, _Mom_ … Why do I feel so lost?"/

/"Change of voice, change of face, still him underneath."/

/"Why does this keep happening?"/

/"Whoever Nathan Petrelli was, he's gone now. Just some random thoughts in a mass-murderer's head."/

/"Last night I went to sleep as myself…I woke up as Agent Taub. I didn't…I didn't mean to change, I just did. I'm _losing myself_!"/

/"Do you really think Matt could purge every sick thought from that head?"/

/"Who are you?"/

/"To the rest of the world, I'm Nathan Petrelli, but every time you look at me. The way you're lookin' at me right now. You're gonna see Sylar. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm wrong, Pete."/

/"You know…one of my eyes…stayed _blue_. For over an hour, yesterday."/

Peter's piercing gaze was roving over his face and while Sylar felt that every imperfection was being sought out, at least on the surface, he knew, distantly, that he should have been enjoying the attention. All types of proximity were sending warning bells up his spine and it made his face feel warm without coloring while the other man's smell was familiar. Surprisingly he was only partly intimidated by the other man's behavior and even more surprising - Sylar had yet to be hit, broom or otherwise.

 _Why is he asking me this?_ Sylar thought, very lost in his own head. Strange that he was used to being lost in life, but his solace, his sanity, his drive had all been in his mind and with that gone…

 _Peter only wants to know who you are so he knows which person to abuse – Nathan for leaving him and giving up or Sylar for taking him away and killing him._ Sylar couldn't cope with the question and it probably showed. _That's a good question, Pete. If only I knew._

In the wake of his confusion and loss, anger roared into him to fill the gaps. _How dare you ask me that? And how dare you ask that now? Don't pretend to give a crap. YOU of all people, you DRUGGED ME UP AFTER I KILLED HIM SO I COULD HAVE HIS FUCKING, SLIMY CONSCIOUSNESS IN MY FUCKING HEAD!_

"He is dead, Peter. I made sure of that." _Keep your mouth shut!_

XXX

 _Like I needed a reminder._ And maybe he did, because the moment Nathan's death was thrown in Peter's face by the very man who had done it, it was like a switch inside of him flipped. Anger, violence, grief, hate, revenge, all things he'd been trying to rise above, things he'd tried to shove aside and ignore and be better, all rose to the fore. His right hand ached with a sudden spasm. If he'd been paying attention, he'd have noticed he'd just tried to ball it into a fist. Instead all he registered was the dull reminder that his primary hand wasn't a good option. So he went with his left.

 _Murdering bastard!_ He let fall the broom. It wasn't a good weapon and he didn't really want a weapon anyway. He wanted to see Sylar's face smashed under his fists. He wanted blood and pain and fear. He wanted to feel the other man's flesh bruise and lacerate under his hands. He wanted what he'd seen on that pyre, that had turned his stomach when it happened, but he'd done nothing to stop it. Later, after the fiasco at Mercy Heights, when Peter had given up all hope that Nathan could be saved, he'd fantasized about making that slow death by fire a reality for Sylar.

 _If only it was that easy._ He backed up a half-step and swung with his left to deliver an uppercut, snarling in wrath. _'I made sure of that'_ rang in his ears like a call to battle. " _You sure did, you son of a bitch!_ " He swung repeatedly and fast, crowding Sylar and trying to push him back and overwhelm him with the sheer fury of his assault.

XXX

Sylar had a flash of a second to register the decision in Peter's face before his teeth were clacked together. _Thank god that wasn't my tongue…I need that_. The uppercut had him stumbling back and a little to the side, nothing but pavement and the road behind him. For some reason, it seemed incredibly funny to him; he laughed, thoroughly amused. He straightened, mouth opening to tell Peter just what he thought about all this, just in time to see a blur coming at his face again.

A grunt and a chuckle escaped him from that blow and he lifted a hand to feel at the side of his mouth that had been struck, but his hand never made it. Another hit landed and he stepped back as he detected, but couldn't really see, Peter moving in. He tasted blood and he grinned so Peter could see his bloody fangs.

XXX

 _You think this is funny, you sick bastard?_ Peter didn't know what to think of someone he hit and hurt who laughed about it, but this was hardly the first time Sylar had had that reaction to Peter's assaults. It broke his momentum though as his barely-thinking mind tried to come up with a better way to put the suffering he felt inside of himself onto Sylar's face.

XXX

At that point, Sylar reached out to grab Peter's shirt, possibly stiff-arm him to keep him away. Peter would be at a disadvantage there with shorter, if more powerful arms. "And this is my thank-you?" he sneered, voice raspy, tossing his aching head to clear his over-long hair from his face. The blows only shook his brain up further – headaches and concussions, unhealed bruises were firing pain up his nerves.

XXX

 _A thank-you? For killing my_ _ **brother?**_ Peter thought, disconcerted and offended by the whole idea. _How insane is this asshole?_

XXX

With that Sylar yanked Peter in close and slammed his fist into Peter's face; where it landed, he didn't care – it would be inflicting pain. Sylar held him generally in place, railing on him, not as fast as Peter had on him, but he got some velocity behind his swings. "Oh, I think you can do better than that!" He snarled, giving Peter a shake with his words.

XXX

Sylar's first blow caught Peter squarely in the left eye and knocked him silly. The whole side of his face bloomed in pain and for a moment, he was blinded. He jerked and swayed more automatically than intentionally, staggering in the other man's grip. He felt himself get clipped on the jaw on the right side and there was a numbness and a click. The next instant he could see out of his right eye, though he had no idea if these two events were connected. He got hit a third time, or so he suspected, because his head jogged back violently and he felt it in his neck, even if he didn't perceive the blow itself. He still couldn't see out of his left eye and his awareness was foggy.

Peter was getting hurt and hurt bad enough that he wasn't sure what was going on. _Gotta get a breather, get back, get away_. He flailed a little, jerking backwards against Sylar's grip on his shirt and getting his right arm up to deflect Sylar's next shot at him. The half second respite that gained him as his opponent had to shift his grip and balance let Peter's head clear a bit more. The next time he yanked backwards it was intentional. He heard his shirt tear, but it didn't quite give and for a moment Peter hung there, leaned back so far he was held upright only by Sylar's fist in his clothes. Just in case that wasn't enough, Peter lifted up his right foot and drove it forward, aiming to kick out Sylar's leg and hopefully kneecap him.

XXX

Peter looked like he was going to go down for the count and Sylar mentally applauded himself. It was not very often (ever, if he was honest) that he won a fist-fight with Peter Petrelli, the world's brattiest, most suicidal, heroic brawler. And somehow he always forgot the part where Peter surprised him.

The smaller man took his beating, making all his typical funny noises, before his brain apparently came back online. Peter leaned back; Sylar heard or felt some of the man's shirt ripping as Peter stuck his arm out, just enough to get in the flight-path of Sylar's fist. Dimly Sylar noted it was his right hand, the broken one and that if he wanted to, he could crunch Peter's fingers again just for the hell of it. Sylar settled for grabbing the hand and throwing it aside, cocking his fist back once again. He had little interest in fighting Peter when he was maimed – Sylar wanted him healed and at full capacity to test his mettle.

At first he had enough weight and balance to hold Peter up. Sylar lurched forward as Peter did something with his feet; suddenly the balance was all on Sylar's left side. He risked a quick glance down and saw Peter's foot zipping towards his weighted knee. Sylar's eyes widened and he had to make an instant decision, choosing to suddenly bend the knee and change Peter's target area.

 _Did he just try to jack my knee? That little-_ Sylar had time to remember the groin-shot at Mercy and being kicked while literally down on the floor. Those were hits that lingered in his memory. By then the kick connected, and Sylar grunted, feeling something of an instant cramp go up the side of his thigh where Peter had basically stamp-kicked with the full use of the sole of his foot. He still felt a twist in his knee and sadly it was his left limb – the same that had bruised toes.

Now completely off balance and angry at the low-blow (literally), Sylar added a shove as he fell forward, snarling, intending to bash Peter into the concrete and use him as a pillow, gripping that much harder onto Peter's shirt.

XXX

Peter had expected to fall, whether because Sylar released him or fell as well he hadn't known or cared, as long as it got him away from fists to his face. _Hate him!_ He registered satisfaction that his kick struck home solidly, even if it wasn't quite the crippling blow he'd intended.

He went down harder than he had anticipated. He had a split second to see that Sylar was going to come down on top of him. It was enough time to try to jerk his knees up. Maybe he'd catch the other man in the groin or hip, but at the very least it would keep Sylar's bulk from landing directly on his torso and driving all his air out. Peter tried to catch himself, but the hands he'd thrown back weren't quite fast enough, plus he hadn't remembered that one hand was in a brace.

His weight came crashing down on those two hands and his right hurt with a sudden, white-hot surge that took all thought away from him. He buckled immediately. His cry of pain was cut short by Sylar smashing into him, a heavy weight slamming him the rest of the way into the pavement. Peter flailed weakly, struggling to get his hands back in front of him while lost in a world of hurt. He wanted to get the other man off him, to fight through the lancing pain from his right hand, and to suck in enough air to keep going. What he wanted didn't seem to be what was happening.

If he'd had enough attention to pay to it, he'd have noticed he could see a little now out of his left eye, even if it was tinged with red and everything was blobby. He was too punch drunk to do it though, even if his life might depend on it. Real fear began to creep in and threatened to push out wrath as the predominant emotion he was feeling at the moment.

XXX

Sylar all but heard Peter smack into the concrete. But then he had to figure out how he was supposed to land on someone with minimal damage and awkwardness. He heard Peter's cry and by then he was mere inches from slamming him again with his body. At the last second he saw Peter's legs jerk and his bony hip came down hard into Peter's knee. Again, he grunted as the skin scraped over his bone, his body trying to curl to protect his groin even as gravity fought the motion as he was going down, not moving up and away. The knee slid off his hip, not fast enough to suit him, and continued its gouge into his abdomen, forcing the air up and out from him.

 _Ow_ , was his first muddled thought, resuming the fight seemed beyond him for a few seconds that he probably couldn't spare. His leg was burning with pain as the tensed muscles struggled around the kick site and now he had no air with a badly bruised hip. _Little bitch tried to rack me. Again_ _._ Achingly, Sylar dragged himself up to hands and knees over Peter who lay there looking dirty from lacerations and contusions and extremely out of it – it was a cute look for him, Sylar decided.

Sudden shifts in atmosphere triggered his headache and it hurt to see and move, his spine feeling stiff if he had to make a motion. He sat up, struggling to breathe, straddling Peter, holding himself up with a hand, preparing the other in a fist as he shook his head slowly again to clear it of fog and hair in his face. "I'm not opposed to Hallmark cards of gratitude, Pete," he whispered, panting, eyeing the man's labored face with interest. _Of course, there's lots of ways you, O Talented One, could thank me… or hate me._ Sylar gestured with his fist to try to gauge just how out Peter was. Something or someone in him was seriously twisting, roiling around in his already abused stomach at the sight of Peter this hurt and it wasn't exactly a new feeling.

XXX

At first, Peter lay there like a fish out of water, gasping for air and without the capacity to do much other than flop. Fortunately, Sylar wasn't doing anything to him anyway. The other man lifted himself up and Peter finally managed to suck in breaths. He instinctively tried to shrink back against the pavement, away from the recent source of his hurt, but that wasn't going to work. Vaguely he was aware of Sylar saying something about Hallmark cards and although a small, idiotically belligerent part of him wanted him to react to what was probably a taunt, the rest of Peter was more concerned with keeping himself in one as-functional-as-possible piece.

There was motion; Sylar drew back his right fist. Peter flinched his head to one side and got his hands up, open and with palms facing his opponent, intent on catching or deflecting the blow that didn't come. With an effort, Peter's eyes focused on Sylar's fist. It swayed slightly with the other man's breathing, but it wasn't crashing down on Peter's face. Peter's eyes darted past that fist to Sylar's expression, which was intent and attentive, but not … _I think I've got a moment. He's just looking at me. Why the hell did he stop?_

XXX

Peter squirmed once as Sylar settled in, the other man lying there groaning and turning his head back and forth and Sylar noticed that his eyes looked really out of it. Blood was in the medic's left eye and Peter kept reflexively blinking it. Sylar didn't move other than to get his wind back, watching Peter react to the fist, flinching when he brought it to bear. The other man's hands came up as if that would help him avoid the violence. It was amusing, actually. But inspiring fear was getting old – it only protected Sylar for so long and it had never gotten him what he wanted. So he stared Peter down, not getting much eye contact in return, but he didn't expect it and vigilantly watched Peter's gaze.

XXX

Peter made use of the time by swiping at his left eye. His fingers came away with blood and he had a flash of automatic fear that anyone would, as his hindbrain cringed from the possibility that his eye - such an important part of his body - was bloody and might be permanently messed up. The more rational, experienced part of him immediately figured that his brow had torn when Sylar had hit him earlier. _If I can see at all through it, then I'm probably fine._ Peter glanced between his fingers and Sylar's face and fist, trying to gauge how much time he was going to be allowed. He wiped more thoroughly, clearing his vision.

XXX

Sylar saw Peter check him twice, obviously waiting for the primed hit. Sylar didn't hit people when they were down, no. People like that were ignored for weakness…or slain for their power. Otherwise they obviously weren't worth the trouble. He had no interest in incapacitating Peter – it would be permanent here and if that happened, Peter would be no fun. However, it was important that Peter know the reason for the surcease. Peter looked preoccupied with his bloody eye and Sylar was interested in the blood. _How many times have I seen that?_

He ignored his injuries, pushing above the throbbing pain of his chin and rattled teeth and took time to feel the body heat under him. _That's…that's been a while._ Peter looked helpless and all Sylar wanted to do was get him interested, remind him who was boss. _Kinky sex?_ He found his eyes roaming over Peter, taking in details. _I have him right where I want him. What's he going to allow?_ Peter's throat was looking very tempting, more so than usual that is, and he found his eyes lingering there.

XXX

Sylar was looking him over and Peter wasn't so shaken up he didn't notice the shift in desire from inflicting pain to … something else - an interest that he recognized, but this sure as hell wasn't the situation for it. _Er …_ Peter's mind hiccupped around that one, not sure how to react any more than if Sylar had begun discussing the baking of cakes with him.

"Get off of me," he tried to say commandingly, but it came out more as a croak as his jaw didn't flex or move as it should have. The statement was at least intelligible as the words he'd intended. He bared his teeth, but he didn't do anything else. His head was ringing and throbbing, one leg and hip felt wrenched (he supposed something had happened when Sylar had fell on him - Peter hadn't registered it at the time but he felt it now), and he could see that the brace on his right hand had shifted position. Peter still had fight in him - he would as long as he could draw breath - but he sure wasn't inviting more at the moment. _What was that I thought before? That at this rate I'd be dead in a week?_

XXX

Peter tried to order him, tried to back it up with a mean expression. Sylar just snorted, opening his hand and delivering a slap to Peter's already abused face, reveling in getting away with it and enjoying the sound it made – it wasn't even that hard of a slap. "Don't mouth off to me; you're in no position. You can always try asking nicely, big boy."

XXX

Peter's words brought Sylar's eyes back to his own, and a shift in expression to momentarily more focused on Peter as a person rather than Peter as a body. Sylar feinted with his fist and Peter blocked it, but then, Sylar's hand too close to have much momentum, the other man switched and darted his hand in to deliver an open-handed slap. It landed on the most damaged part of Peter's face, the left cheek.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, snapping his head to the side as far more pain than normal for such a blow radiated through his injured face. Breathing hard, he looked up at the other man as Sylar followed up his apparently-disciplinary strike with condescension. _What am I willing to do to get out of being hurt worse?_ Peter's mind was blank for a moment of anything but jumbled emotions: fear, anger, the constant perception of pain, dread, resentment. Despite polling his feelings, the answer was basically rational. He wouldn't be able to handle having Sylar push him around any more than he had taken it well from anyone else in his life. _I'd rather be dead._ He knew that; he knew it about himself. His defensiveness kicked over to offense and the first thing he needed to do was deal with this inappropriately sexual interest.

"Not this time."

Peter brought up the leg that wasn't wrenched, driving it into Sylar from behind. If he was lucky, he'd hit him in the crotch, depending on angle and position – factors Peter didn't bother to check because the ass would suffice. All he really wanted to do was shift Sylar's attention, for just a moment, off Peter's face and hands. That achieved, Peter's left hand shot forward for the taller man's shirt, to yank him forward as Peter curled upward, tucking his chin and bringing his forehead up for as solid a head butt as he could manage. His last thought before impact was, _I haven't hurt my forehead yet, have I? I'm running low on body parts that don't hurt …_

XXX

Sylar sniggered, or tried to. It came out something of a muffled snort. His sinuses were shot to hell. The concussion and recent pounding was doing his cranial cavities no help. Then again, if Peter just played ball… The other man's yelp of exaggerated pain (or so Sylar saw it) was funny this time, not just amusing. _Wuss_ _,_ he thought.

He wasn't given any time to react to Peter's little declaration of rebellious intent. One of Peter's knees came up and jarred his butt, digging firmly enough into his spine to tip him forward. More forward of what he already was, both hands in Peter's shirt as they were left him with only his knees for balance; he was probably invading Peter's space now (then again, he wasn't a great judge of these things). His eyes widened and his mouth opened in a kind of grunted gasp of almost-reply and surprise.

The forward lurch was assisted as he was yanked down into Peter's forehead and all he had time to think was _Damnit, not my head again!_ Before the world flashed and he saw little and felt nothing but pain. His head felt like a helium balloon again, maybe one filled with some type of burning acid-y lead for blood. Sylar groaned, slumping forward, barely conscious enough to curl to the side. Saddest part was, he knew Petrelli hadn't laid that hard of a hit. He only hoped his brain hadn't bruised a second time because if so…Peter probably meant business, probably meant to finish him off. His brain giggled without permission, _death by concussion._

XXX

Peter's forehead crashed into Sylar's with a solid 'conk!' that probably meant a good jarring, but nothing broken. Sylar's collapse was the best thing that could have happened as a result, but Peter found himself suddenly confused and disoriented from the additional head impact on top of all the others. He thumped back down with Sylar partly atop him. _Ow. Ow. Ow. What is he doing? Did he pass out? Get off of me!_ He shoved at the other man's weight once and then a second time when the first was ineffectual. Peter disentangled himself and struggled upright reaching with his right hand to fumble at his face. _What's this thing on my hand? Oh, yeah, brace. Fuck. Broken hand._ He switched to his left, touching at his forehead gingerly.

He gave a slow groan, then wiped at his left eye again. Fresh blood was in it, or maybe just more blood, and it was beginning to swell shut. Sylar made a similar noise of pain and Peter looked at him. _I need to … I need to … do something … he's going to … what's he going to do? Shit._ He looked around, spotting the broom on the ground nearby. He'd nearly landed on it when he'd fallen earlier. Now he leaned over painfully to snag it. In his mind was a fuzzy vision of holding it over Sylar's throat, pressing it in and choking the bastard to death. He panted, staring from Sylar to the broom handle. _Choke him with the broom? Wasn't there something about gouging his eyes out? He won't be a threat if he can't see. Gouge his eyes out with the broom handle then? Crap. I shouldn't do that. Why am I doing this at all?_

 _Nathan. 'He is dead, Peter. I made sure of that.' 'And this is my thank-you?' 'Hallmark cards of gratitude.' 'Nathan's dead!'_ It was nightmare fuel, all of it. A vision of Nathan's face, hanging off the hospital, swam in Peter's mind, and the split second in freefall of when he'd transformed into a grinning Sylar. _Son of a bitch._ He threw the broom aside again and turned back to Sylar, getting up on his knees, one of which did not appreciate the position. _I don't want to kill him; I just want to hurt him._ He reached out with his left hand and grabbed Sylar's shirt, jerking him closer while Peter's right pulled back and ached like a mother-fucker as he tried to ball it into a fist. He winced and cringed, looking at it. _Still broken. Yeah, okay, focus, Pete. You are completely fucked up. What's a person supposed to do when they're completely fucked up? Um … I don't remember, but there's a rule._

He let go of Sylar's shirt and drew back his left hand, able to make a fist with it at least. _I should really … I think I should just stop. This … all of this … this is not helping. I feel like shit_. He paused for a moment, staring at Sylar and hoping to see an excuse to stop fighting.

XXX

Sylar distantly felt someone trying to move him and he responded sluggishly, rolling onto his back and trying to look up at the sky, tree line, buildings, whatever. He felt the other person moving away completely and somehow he knew that was a bad sign. Slowly he turned, hearing noises that sounded like they were coming at him through a filter, bulletproof glass, distance, something; the sounds weren't fully realized to his ears. The other man was picking up a stick – broom – and kneeling above him.

 _Well, it's curtains finally._ All he wrangled up was a grimace, turning his head away a little and raising up an arm to block his eyes because the light was starting to burn. After what felt like a year, he found his lungs were still drawing air and that meant he was still alive. A clatter and the other man returned to his field of vision, hauling him up and causing a rush of vertigo as his head left the ground. He reached out to grip the man's hand in his…shirt, yeah, shirt, for support. Sylar turned his eyes to Peter in time to see his fist appear, then disappear as he was dropped and he grunted, his neck barely able to cushion him from smacking into the concrete again. At least he had a reprieve before…

He was supremely unhappy; he was defenseless, seriously injured (more so than he thought he should be, mind) and Peter wasn't playing by the rules Sylar envisioned were in place – it was all for fun. That nasty, serious, almost uncalled for hit (well, Peter started the whole damn thing) made him furious.

Sylar was honest-to-god considering taking a shot at Peter's groin in response and that was against the rules. He rolled and pushed himself up to hands and knees so he, too, could kneel.

"If you were smart, you'd stop dicking around and finish me off, Petrelli. Quit being such a tease!" Sylar lunged forward, hoping his aim was better than it felt, snagging Peter around the throat and throwing him down to pin him by that pale, scrawny column. Easy enough. Peter's limbs would be at odd angles again for striking back, so Sylar moved in to straddle him a second time, leaning over to apply the right amount of pressure to keep Peter down, immobile and _thinking_ he was being strangled without causing a horrible amount of damage. "This is the part where I make you apologize for unnecessary violence, Mister I'm-Not-Like-You."

XXX

Peter watched Sylar get to his knees and he let his fist falter, convincing himself they weren't going to fight anymore because that's what he wanted to believe. _Maybe we'll just go back to arguing?_ He didn't have time to think of what to say in response to Sylar's first line before the man was on him. Peter was shoved down by the throat, choking and flailing, but at least this time he managed to take the fall better.

"Uf!" he grunted as he hit the pavement, flexing his back. He immediately tried to get up only to be pushed down matter-of-factly as Sylar straddled him. _I should have rolled. Not thinking good here_. Apparently Sylar _was_ thinking better, because this time he sat directly on Peter, his body shifted forward significantly and his center of gravity lower. It would be **much** harder to dislodge him this time. Sylar's hand came down on Peter's throat and Peter panicked, flailing for a moment and finding out that yeah, Sylar was not going to be as easily removed as before.

Peter clamped onto Sylar's wrist with his left hand, fingers digging into it. Somewhere there was a spot he could pinch that would cause Sylar to release his grip – not that this would do a lot of good, given that Sylar had two hands to Peter's one, and he didn't need to grip, but only to exert pressure. Peter twisted his head as Sylar spoke to him again and tightened his stranglehold instead of releasing. Peter hesitated _… no, wait …_ he wasn't being strangled, not even now. He was breathing and there was no particular reason why that was except that Sylar was letting him. His clasp on Sylar's wrist lightened to merely a firm hold and he tried to replay what Sylar had just said to him.

 _Unnecessary violence? You started it! Sort of. What the hell was I supposed to do? Let 'I raped Claire' and 'I killed Nathan, you should thank me' pass? Why are you saying that crap to me if you_ _ **aren't**_ _trying to start a fight?_ Peter panted, baring his teeth at the killer and twisting his head again in a futile attempt to get away from the hand at his throat. He felt light-headed. "An apology? You want," he tried to clear his throat, which hurt his whole face. He winced. "You want an apology … for me trying to kick your ass after you told me I should thank you for killing my brother?" He felt a pang go through him that was as bad as any injury he'd yet taken. It showed on his face. "I _**loved**_ him."

XXX

Sylar grimaced and frowned. Sitting on Peter was nice and all, feeling on top of the world or something, but his head was killing him. His usual snappy reply seemed just out of reach in his recently clouded brain. In an instant, he'd relived every time Nathan had ever said, thought, felt or heard those words in relation to his brother, causing a buzzing vibration for a moment.

Emotionally, it was very painful to have to endure or hear. _Nope, still no guilt, Pete; try again_. Sylar couldn't fathom or comprehend that level of feeling devoted to another human being, at least, something that wasn't hatred or disgust. Love. Wasn't that what every person strived for? Sweat, blood, tears, stress, pain, all for that one illusive, possibly non-existent little word; a silly, nauseous feeling? 'Love' was an excuse, a reason, a drive or goal; a religion to some, a disease to others. Then again, years of hearing that he couldn't feel, that he couldn't understand 'Love' would wear a person down.

Nathan knew love that bordered on a sense of duty, even if his personality was…a little slippery and self-serving when it came to abandoning and betraying family members. _/I love you, Pete./_ _Ooh, hell no!_ "Strangely enough, that bastard loved you, too." He inwardly snorted; _And people say I can't love, it's a wonder he knew how, either. They all say I'm a monster for killing people; well at least I was quick with it. Nathan goes off the fucking grid, snatching people from their homes to imprison them for what? I worked in Building 26 twice. Peter went in once and barely got to look around. He has no idea what Nathan did or planned to do – he was going to give everyone abilities one minute, then kill every special the next. At least I'm consistent._

"It's really not my job to teach you manners, Peter, but I see we might need a crash course. As fun as this is, your suicidal urges are going to. get. _annoying_ ," Sylar hissed, bloody teeth leaning down into Peter's face, similar to what the other man had done at the start. "You're not winning a prize or saving someone's life so you can ease off the damn 'death' throttle unless you really wanna die – I can make that happen."

"Impressive and heroic your stamina may be, but you're defending a dead guy. Do you really want to do this," Sylar inched to shift his weight, located over Peter's pelvis, _just barely_ , "all day?" He managed to narrow his eyes a bit for effect. "You're so much more of a…" he pretended to search for the word, "lover, than a fighter." _God knows you almost suck at that part; all those morals getting in your way._

XXX

Peter's grip tightened on Sylar's wrist as the other man leaned in. It didn't escape Peter's awareness that Sylar's face was now in an easy range to punch, even if he couldn't get much of a swing on him while flat on the pavement. Still, the fight was leaking out of him steadily as the adrenaline faded and the pain rose. Peter turned his face away a quarter, but keeping his eyes on Sylar. It was a mixed signal, but half of it was 'I give up'. It was a cautious, defensive surrender said through body language.

"You wanna talk about manners?" Peter still had his face turned to the left - he could barely see out of that eye anyway and the whole left side of his face was throbbing. "Here's one for you to work on: Show some respect!" he spat out. Peter swallowed roughly and made a tug at Sylar's wrist. It didn't have much force behind it and wasn't a yank, just a tug to encourage him to get his hand off of Peter's neck. Peter didn't like it there. It was a constant threat, like trying to have a conversation with someone who had a gun pointed at you.

"I _care_ about my family and I'm not going to _apologize_ for that." He thought about making the low blow of mentioning his belief that Sylar had no family worth mentioning, but that wasn't the sort of thing Peter thought he should be using as a weapon. Even if other Petrellis wouldn't have overlooked the opportunity to impugn Sylar's relations or lack thereof. Peter's gaze left Sylar's face and wandered to the ruined storefront beyond.

XXX

Sylar's lip curled a little _. I need manners? I was raised with as much manners, if not more, than any Petrelli – I just choose not to use them._ 'Respect'. Such a horrible word. Everyone wanted it, some deserved it, few got it. Sylar only understood respecting something bigger and better than he was. It was hard to respect a bunch of nitwit wannabe's who got lucky and could never make their power stick, try as they might. Clearly they all failed at gaining his respect, 'A for effort and some creativity, maybe drive'. Their cruelty to humanity by treating it as a legal right to use people like animals and serious abuses of power and wealth left him no respect for them at all, except a wariness as to the threat they presented. Parkman, Angela and Bennet in that order. Claire and Peter (formerly Nathan) on the physical front.

Nathan understood respect as playing along, playing the political game – the family game. Some respect, in his profession, was needed or at the least the illusion of respect. It was a way of buying time, to think, to plan, to throw off one's opponent. 'Respect' was a smile, nod, and a wave of a champagne glass. Maybe Nathan didn't take it so damn personal or something.

Sylar couldn't respect some stupid, self-serving, abusive, lying asshole even in death. The same idiot who'd pissed away his life. He respected and understood (probably way more than Peter knew) Peter's devotion and undying love for the bastard senator more than Sylar wanted to admit. That kind of love for a fucked up system was nothing if not down his alley. Still, Peter wasn't stupid (just slow sometimes) and he knew that Nathan had it coming a few times over; the same way Sylar had it coming. Sylar was just smarter, planned better, ruthlessly murdered competition or threat to avoid it in ways Nathan couldn't or chose not to. That's what made him top of the food chain (or so he tried to tell himself now).

Peter quit paying attention and that bugged him, so he glared even though his intended target missed it. His retinal muscles strained to accomplish it. The implication therein was that Sylar didn't care for his own family. By the letter of his own law, he shouldn't care for dead family either, regardless of the fucked up system.

XXX

Peter contemplated his own recent sins, not by cataloguing them intellectually or remembering specifics, but by recalling the hate and rage he'd felt that he couldn't find Sylar when he wanted him. He'd given himself permission to rampage because Sylar's integrity didn't matter to him. He had not done right and he felt that, even if he was still having difficulty according Sylar the same respect he was demanding. Peter's mind toyed with that realization of hypocrisy, turning it different ways, feeling around the edges. He wasn't sure what to do with it.

There was at least one concession he was willing to make. "You wanted me to ask nicely?" His nose wrinkled briefly in disgust but he forced his way on, "Fine, I will." He looked back at Sylar, turning to face him directly and softening his voice as much as he could. It still sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth - because he was, his jaw wasn't working right - but his tone was less aggressive and close to pleading. "Will you _please_ stop provoking me?" Peter shook his head a little, twisting his neck against Sylar's hand with a grimace. "I know you know what you're doing." _Or else you wouldn't be doing it. This is twice in a week and at this rate we're not going to make it._

XXX

If Sylar could have, he would have raised at least one eyebrow. Given the pain in his head, moving facial muscles, particularly any above his nose, wasn't worth it. _He thinks I'm…?_ "You think I'm provoking you?" Sylar asked, surprised. _Of course he'd see if that way, wouldn't he?_ The pleading in combination with the squirming was working and Sylar didn't appreciate that. _I know what I'm- what? He thinks I planned this? If I wanted something I could have, I'd fucking take it, not beat around the bush!_ His expression turned a little puzzled.

Sylar had to think back to the exchanges before the blows, both times. _Claire being raped was it? Seriously? That's just insulting on every level – his niece is not that hot. Maybe she would be if she could keep her mouth shut and her nose out of trouble; seems to be a Petrelli trait._ Then this time…Sylar's thumb moved from the right side of Peter's throat, leaving the rest of his fingers, his hand in place against the other man's throat. To him it didn't feel out of place. His grip released, Peter was free to move around, wiggle around, whatever. Sylar wanted to defend that he wasn't provoking – Peter was just sensitive. What he said instead was, "Since you asked nicely," his voice equally soft as Peter's.

XXX

Peter eyed Sylar, dubious about the surprised tone, but the man seemed serious, if confused. Peter opened his mouth to say something incredulous anyway, but then Sylar was moving his hand, or at least part of it and Peter shut his mouth without speaking. Sylar was no longer on the verge of throttling him, but he was still touching Peter's throat for some reason. _Not in the right spot to be taking my pulse, so what's he doing?_ Peter tucked his chin and looked down, not that this helped much. He could see his own bloody hand on Sylar's wrist. He moved it away uncertainly, leaving behind smeary red imprints of his grip.

XXX

Peter gave him that 'What are you?' look and Sylar held back his instinctive urge to sigh and move away. The other man began to speak, then decided against it and that gave him an odd surge of hope for some reason. Peter glanced at his, their hands (or as near as he could), releasing Sylar's wrist _. What's this? What's going on here? He's letting me? (This beats breaking his hand. Literally. If I survive this, I'll be thrilled)._ Again, another desire to thumb away, gently, of course, at Peter's surprisingly soft neck.

XXX

Peter reached up and touched his left eye. He could feel warm blood trickling over his temple into his hair. He supposed it was an improvement over getting it in his eye. His breathing was slowing down to normal. His fingers went under his left ear, to the curve of his jaw, an inch from Sylar's hand. Peter probed at the joint. Hopefully this would be something he could pop back into place.

"Yeah, I thi- thought you were trying to provoke me. What the hell else was that stunt with the bear, or talking like you're Nathan and calling me 'Pete'? Those were _intentional_. Why did you do that?" Peter had a lot of experience with being lied to. He studied Sylar's face.

XXX

This was all…quite strange. Peter was carrying on almost like he wasn't there; checking his own medical status while Sylar still, basically, sat on him. Although he had since put some distance between their faces because too close was just too close. Getting close only served a purpose if it was effective and…Peter seemed to shrug it off, the average disgust and sense of defilement at his proximity seemingly not present with the empath. He was almost afraid his eyes were too wide. _What is this?_

Peter's hand moved to check his….jaw and Sylar's eyes zeroed in on that area. Now he heard multiple clicks – the ones that should come from the man's wristwatch, the ability (abilities) in the man's head, his heartbeat (not really a click, but a sound, since he was so close) and now the sound of a misplaced joint. The other man said something, but he'd almost tuned him out, "Shh," he said, bringing his other hand up to gently, gently grasp the opposite side of Peter's face, jaw and chin specifically; his right hand currently sliding up to hold onto Peter's skull. There was no aggression in the touch, but his eyes never moved from the joint of the man's jaw.

XXX

Peter's breathing rate shot up again and probably his heartbeat, too, as he tensed all over at that touch. 'You're in no position' came back to him, along with a memory of Sylar looking at him like this in the past. The expression on Sylar's face had shifted to an intensity and concentration that took Peter back to that night in Mohinder's apartment, himself fixed against the wall and Sylar cutting into his head. Peter had died that night. Now he twitched, trying to suppress the fear as he brought both hands up to hover a half dozen inches from Sylar's arms. His emotions were in a jumble. He wasn't sure how to react to what was clearly a cautious, careful touch. Peter bared his teeth, blinking rapidly, his eyes darting over Sylar's face and trying to read his motives.

XXX

"Stop….moving…this shouldn't hurt," was his 'I'm working here' delivery, maneuvering Peter's jaw around – back and forth, open and closed. "Didn't know…" his face jerked into a quick frown and he shut himself up. He hadn't been aware Peter's jaw had been damaged; seemed like the least he could do unless Peter threw him off or didn't relax enough to fix it.

XXX

Peter moved his feet and then brought them up so they were flat on the ground, bending his knees. He could flex his whole body and buck Sylar upwards, perhaps enough to twist to the side and start the process of getting away from him. It was an option. _Hold on. Calm down. He's trying to pop my jaw back in. I think. I think that's what he's doing. He could do worse. I don't think he's trying to hurt me. He helped with my hand, before, getting the brace on. He was okay then. He didn't make things worse. He wasn't even a jerk about it._ Sylar manipulated his jaw and Peter tensed against it anyway.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Peter hissed. "Gimme a second. I gotta relax." _Or else it_ _ **will**_ _hurt._ He shut his eyes with an effort and tried to take a couple deep breaths. His nerves were more jangled by the sudden shift in Sylar's conduct than if the man had kept threatening him. He opened his eyes, as relaxed as he was likely to get with Sylar bent over him, examining him like he was trying to find the right puzzle piece to complete the picture.


	24. Follow You Home

Day 9

Peter appeared to panic somewhat, calling time. Sylar paused and tried to snap himself out of it; the need to fix was almost overwhelming. It occurred to him then that it made him appear 'kind'. _What are you doing?_ He thought to ask of himself. He felt the tension in the other man's body, previously ignoring the raised knees, his own hands growing loose.

Sylar grunted, expression morphing into that of a scowl. "Yeah, you do that." He released Peter's head, wanting to slap the man again, but he lay his hands on his thighs, sitting straight. Still eyeing Peter, he hoped to wig him out through the undivided attention. He also wasn't moving away from the straddle.

He was comfortable and the touch of another human being's skin in his hands was not only sorely needed (making his nerves cry for more), but it was unlike any other texture in the world. Sylar had done lots of touching, on objects, here in the barren world, just to see what there was. His curiosity had been fairly satisfied through the years. 'Barren' seemed a good word – touching human flesh was similar to receiving water in the desert, granted it was measured in droplets, granted the droplets came with close-to-fatal beatings. _Well, wow, thank you for that little reminder_ , he thought to his own mind for being so poetically pathetic.

And, okay, yes; he wanted to watch Peter try to figure out how to fix his jaw himself and not helping him (especially or because of those nasty hits) would be fitting revenge. Sylar blinked and swallowed, feeling much more woozy and unbalanced despite his stable position. _Don't die on me now,_ he instructed himself.

XXX

Peter stared right back at Sylar, any easing of the tension in his muscles having vanished when Sylar pulled away. _Is he going to try to hit me some more? Or get up?_ Peter's eyes widened and his hands pulled in a little towards his face. His right hand reminded him how much it still hurt. He ignored it. But Sylar didn't do either of the things Peter expected. Instead, he just sat there. _He's not out of breath. What the hell is he doing? Waiting for me to_ _ **make**_ _him get off of me? Sylar, you're not even sitting on me all that much._ The other man had most of his weight on his long, folded legs. _Why would I risk getting beat on some more, when the fight's already been settled? It's over. Done. You won. Huh … wait … maybe he's waiting for me to admit that? Ha._

Peter would. Probably. Eventually. He wasn't in any hurry at the moment. Sylar was still glaring at him petulantly. The man wobbled a little bit, bringing to Peter's mind the head-butt, and the probable concussion he'd given Sylar a few days earlier. Peter smirked ( _at least I made him pay_ ) and proceeded to ignore the asshole. He touched his jaw again, rubbing at the joint on the left side. _I need both hands for this._ He eyed the brace on his right hand. It had slipped up an inch and either bent, or he wasn't seeing it right _. Don't think I'm seeing it right. Shouldn't have bent. My hand's just turned funny. Damn, I hope I didn't break my wrist! It doesn't_ _ **feel**_ _broken. Wait … yeah, I think the brace is twisted. No wonder it hurts like hell. Probably sprained my wrist while I was at it._

He took hold of the lower Velcro strap of the brace with his left hand and without hesitation gave it a single, steady pull. It hurt agonizingly worse, an overpowering ache that made him kick against the ground and grit his teeth, rising up against Sylar as an unintended consequence. Peter groaned aloud, louder than the sound of the parting Velcro. With the greatest relief, he felt the final part of the strap release and his right hand jerk to the side without that grip holding it. Peter's head throbbed and everything turned alternately black and brilliant for a few seconds.

XXX

Gosh, Peter was just jittery, flinching and staring and whatever else he was doing. Sylar (and Nathan) wished to have a better understanding of how Peter's brain worked because not knowing was annoying as hell. Sure he might know how Peter would react, but that wasn't the same as knowing the motivation and Peter was nothing if not good at throwing people for loops despite his well-known predictability. He was predictably unpredictable. Annoying as hell.

As such, Peter went about his own business, checking his broken fingers, surely. Sylar had nothing else to watch; there was literally nothing else to see. Peter looked at the brace like there was something wrong and that had Sylar confused because it looked fine, if the position of the brace was off and that drew his attention all the more. This time he didn't offer to help because….Peter hadn't asked. ( _What the fuck were you thinking? Trying to help him with his jaw?_ ) Maybe something was wrong with his fingers…?

The other man fussed with the brace (making more noise than Sylar thought he should, but whatever; it was entertaining), Sylar thought he was attempting to remove it which struck him as ridiculous and unnecessary, but soon saw it was an attempt at resituating. Mid-way through the man's first pull to shift the brace down his arm and fingers therein, Peter…arched?

Sylar's eyes widened as he could not decide whether to "ride it out" so to speak or abandon ship. _Oh….um…What?_ Sylar partly turned his head away, glancing down to check what Peter was actually doing (adjusting the brace or so it would seem). It just got weird since Peter was, well, a _guy_. A muscle jerked in his face, not that Peter would see as Sylar looked around as a reflex. He got the distinct feeling that he did not want to be _there_ right then. He couldn't figure out how to get distance without…going back on his 'generous offer' from a few days ago. _All about signals…(what do I do?)_ He did move into a kneeling position after a few seconds and that afforded him more space as he stared down at Peter, not scowling now, but frowning. _What the hell was that?_

Peter's grip, thankfully, slipped as he accomplished his mission, slumping back but Sylar wasn't ready to forgive him whatever the hell that stunt had been – he'd had enough tricks for one day. Petrelli looked zoned, like, really zoned, so Sylar nudged him with a knee. What he wanted to say was along the lines of 'Um…hello?' but what he spoke aloud, with contempt, was, "You through? That was a real show."

XXX

Peter's focus on the world pulled back slowly and he found himself being pushed in the side a little. He blinked up at the other man, listening to what he had to say while noting Sylar had risen on his knees while Peter had been distracted. Peter gave a brief, weak roll of his eyes in response to Sylar's words. He looked at his right hand. That last jerk on it had also served to pull the brace down and into position. All he needed to do now, theoretically, was refasten the strap.

Peter raised his left hand to it, noting there was a slight tremor in his fingers. _That really hurt like hell_. He sighed and pressed the strap back sort of loosely so it wouldn't flop around. It wasn't tight like it should be, but if he only had one hand to devote to it, then it was difficult to tighten without jostling the whole hand, broken fingers included. It was why he'd solicited Sylar's help initially with the brace. _I'll tighten it up right … later._

For now, he took a couple deep breaths and touched the left joint of his jaw, rubbing at it. After a moment, he brought his right thumb over to the other side. He stared up at Sylar, then let his eyes drift down to the middle of the man's chest, going unfocused. He relaxed, breathed deeply, and tried to empty his mind. Peter had some experience meditating and playing with altered consciousness. He let his eyelids droop and felt his face relax. His left eye throbbed all the more at first, then hurt less as the tension dispersed.

He remained too aware of Sylar, a small fear worrying at him that the man would interrupt. He put it aside and moved his jaw, flexing it and feeling through the problem. _There. Right there._ He found the pressure point, let out one last breath, and pushed firmly. It released with a pop and a wave of good feeling. "Ahhh," Peter said, one side of his mouth smiling. He was too relaxed to put the effort he usually did into making his whole face move. He moved his jaw up and down slowly, enjoying full mobility in it again. _If only all my problems were solved so easily._

"Show's over, I think," Peter said, voice tired but now speaking more normally since he could move his mouth right. He reached down with his left hand and patted Sylar on the outside of the thigh, above his knee. "Let me up." For a half-second, he debated tacking on 'please'. He didn't like it. He didn't like the patina of begging that it put on the situation. He was asking for an action that anyone gracious in victory should do automatically. _Victory - that's the angle_. "Come on, man. You won."

XXX

_I don't feel so good_ …Peter squirmed, zoned some more and managed to figure how to fix his jaw or so Sylar assumed based off his expression (although Sylar had basically shown him how). Oh wise medicine man wasn't so hot at keeping himself tip-top. Then again…Sylar supposed he was the man who could fix anything and couldn't fix himself either, not that he'd let on. Yet.

Peter could manage a grin, a relieved one, but Sylar was ready to cry purely from the pressures and bruises on his prized brain. It was damn painful. His toes hurt, his leg hurt, his hip and stomach hurt, his face hurt, his knuckles hurt. His back and neck were still fucked up from their last fight and the stiffness was sinking in rapidly. If he didn't get home soon and get in a decent position, he'd be in for one hell of a painful walk assuming he could walk at all.

"Huh," was Sylar's grunt. _Show's over, huh? Taking requests now?_ Dazedly he watched Peter's outstretched hand until it patted his leg. Sylar swallowed. _That's awful familiar of him_ …Sylar backhanded Peter's chest without any force, already moving by 'Let me up'. He couldn't complete his dismount – getting back onto all fours to push himself up left him too dizzy to see or even feel the concrete under him. The world veered to the left and he skidded over onto his elbow, albeit off Peter.

He lay blinking for a moment before pushing himself back up, trying to find the world in his sights again with limited, tunnel black vision. Sylar got to his knees and clawed his way up the side of the goddamn store until he stood, moving away from it. Inhaling he clawed his hair back, spreading his stance a little wide to keep himself upright. "So this is winning with you, Peter?" he murmured, hoping to stall the man with dialogue until his eyesight was back. _Two for two…Wasn't that son of a bitch asking me something before?_

XXX

"Yeah, you beat me," Peter answered, still lying on his back, watching Sylar's obviously difficult process of standing. Peter was gratified to know that kicking his ass had not been easy, or without cost. That, more than any moral qualm, would slow Sylar down from trying it again in future. _Of course, if I'm the one punching him in the face, the idea that he's going to let that slide without defending himself is pretty stupid. He's gonna fight_ _ **back**_ _, Peter. If I really want to quit getting my ass beat, then I have to quit punching him!_

He sighed. It was easier thought than done. He felt horrible and he **still** somewhat wanted to hurt Sylar. Peter curled his back and sat up with a groan. He was pretty sure he had bruises along his spine, or would have them, from the fall. Sylar wavered a bit next to him, too close, but apparently doing his best just to keep his feet.

XXX

Sylar kept an eye on Peter as the other man sat up. Peter really didn't get it, did he? All those nasty hits – what was he thinking? Sure the dude was hurting, but such was life. Besides, if Peter's "mission" here was to have him save some broad, what good would he do if Sylar was some brain-mushed, limping veggie? And one-handed Peter? _Yeah. Let's save the world now, you dope._

XXX

_Concussion,_ Peter's brain supplied without prompting. _Dizziness, confusion, nausea, sensitivity to light and sound. Oh, and avoid repeated trauma, like having assholes head-butt you a couple days after the initial injury. Huh. Yeah, well …_ Peter knew he should feel kind of guilty about that, and in a distant sort of way he did, but they'd been fighting and you got what you got in a fight. He stood up next to Sylar, gingerly testing his own leg, the one most of Sylar's weight had landed on earlier. His hip felt loose and it hurt (like everything else, just about), but he figured he could walk on it. Standing had caused his face to throb again and his head to ache from where he'd slammed his forehead into Sylar's. _I need an ice pack, stat. Where's a nurse when you need one? Oh yeah … I'm it._

Peter's eyes raked across the storefront. "You know, funny … I tore this place up with the intention of hurting you. Guess it worked out after all." He made a resigned exhalation. "That really sucks." Peter reached out and put his hand on Sylar's upper arm, testing the response to being touched before doing something more definite like trying to lead him. "Let me walk you back to your apartment. Yours is on the way to mine, anyway."

XXX

"Eat glass, Peter," Sylar grouched, managing to inflect enough aggression and anger to sound pretty close to his usual, more deadly self. "If there were anyone alive they'd join you and give you your desired gold star. What a hero," the wry sarcasm dripped from his bloody mouth while he now tried to clean out with his tongue. "Aww, now you wanna be my hero, too?" _Hell no, kid. Tried to crush my knee, crush my balls and smash my brain around, all unforgivable things to a man._ I _have played_ fucking nice _!_

Peter stood and soon enough Sylar felt a touch on his arm. Sylar quickly shifted the hand off. _Oh, get real, man_. "Touch me again and I will hurt you," he delivered seriously. _Finally!_ His vision sharpened and some of the black fog cleared and he was able to see more and see a little clearer now, thank goodness. As if that were a signal, Sylar threw Peter the best look he could manage (in what he could gather was Peter's general direction) and limped off towards _his_ apartment.

XXX

_Great. Asshole._ Peter watched Sylar go, not moving and thereby playing defense - attracting no attention and setting off no additional alarms for Sylar, whom he sort of hoped was confused and disoriented and not genuinely that filled with hate at the moment. With Sylar though, Peter really couldn't tell. Angry after a fight - he certainly understood that and he took Sylar's threat quite seriously, concussed or not. _Combative, aggressive patient, either way_. He watched Sylar walk off unevenly to the north for about ten feet before Peter glanced back at the storefront and the bucket of glass shards nearby. _I don't want to clean this up right now. I want to go home and get an ice pack, lie down for a while._ He looked after Sylar. _And I want to make sure he gets home, doesn't break his stupid neck trying to get up the stairs to his apartment._

XXX

_Oo, let me walk you home. What am I, an eight-year-old schoolgirl who needs babysitting? Here's your rape whistle._ Sylar snorted in amusement to himself because in his increasingly flawed logic, it was funny for all his life experiences, ironic in its own ways. _How stupid does he think I am? Come follow me home, Peter._

Unfortunately, his vertigo shifted, again, to the left, so he decided to roll with the punches, so to speak with no puns intended, and followed his swerving feet to make the first turn not thirty feet from where Peter and the storefront were located. He was now at a right angle to his apartment, but that strangely didn't bother him or his (fuzzy) mental map skills even if it was a stupid or childish mistake. _Let Peter think I don't wanna walk home with him…while I get lost in circles. /_ _Like that male model who couldn't turn left…what was that movie again?_ _/ But this time I can't turn right!_

XXX

Peter was watching as Sylar veered suddenly left - the angle of his head, position of his hands and general demeanor all telegraphing wooziness and dizziness. Peter started after him, reviewing in his head his lack of desire for getting punched, or swung on, or otherwise hurt at this stage of things. His hip joint still hurt and, like Sylar, he limped, but not as badly.

As he closed to a little over ten feet, he spoke. "Sylar? _Sy_ lar?" he said, emphasizing the first syllable more than usual to get the man's attention, but still speaking in a normal conversational volume. "Hey. I'm worried you're gonna face-plant into the pavement. You have a _concussion_." Peter softened his voice a little. "Remember a couple days ago, right after you got hit in the head, and you laid down on the couch … I got you an ice pack. Do you remember that? That's all I want to do – walk you somewhere that you can lay down, get you an ice pack. Then I'll leave you alone."

Actually Peter intended to do a little more than that to make sure Sylar didn't check out on him entirely, but he was keeping it simple. He was also staying back about twelve feet from the man. Peter could easily be rushed, but it put him too far away for casual swipes. He worried – it also put him too far out to catch Sylar if he fell, unless he happened to stagger in Peter's direction first. Not that Peter was certain he'd stay up if abruptly burdened by Sylar's weight. He wasn't in the best of shape himself at this point.

XXX

He heard a voice coming from somewhere and he gave the world's most difficult, pained frown _. What is that voice? So familiar… Peter. Petey Pete. What's he want? Wait….what's he want now? He wants to win one?_

"Wha-at?" was Sylar's exasperated, tired reply. The man continued talking at him. "You're just here to watch me face plant." Peter stopped making any sense. "Yes! I remember that!" he burst out. _So what?_

"You want….to walk me home, lay me down and play maid? Or nurse, sorry…nurse." Sylar exhaled through his nose. It would have been a snort or snicker otherwise, but he lacked the energy and sinus capacity. He considered shuffling around to give Peter a look to let him know just what he thought about that idea (to be decided), but he didn't want to waste time. He wanted to get home and…collapse. Sleep like a mummy.

He also wanted to put his hands in his pockets, but somehow the world kept tilting and he needed them as flippers or paddles to balance. He wasn't sure how well that was actually working. Licking dry lips, tasting blood still thick in his mouth, he was blank on how else to tell Peter to go away.

"Man, fuck off. Resuscitate a cockroach, play house with it 'cause all you're doing here is pissing me off." _You're lucky I can't see or stay upright enough to swing at you more. What's he want from me here? Take me home after he tried all that shit? Poison my tea, break my legs when I'm asleep, inject me with something?_ Sylar felt that some part of his head or face should be bleeding, bleed off the headache and pressure, but every heavy beat of his heart made his life agony. Something was bothering him about Peter being quote "worried" and talk of ice packs and face plants; it just wasn't connecting and that pissed him off further. Mental prowess was serious business and that his was….shrinking at the moment increased his current mood.

XXX

_Hm. Yeah. I've got to get him to calm down. Don't be the cause of his problems, Peter. How do I quit upsetting him though?_ He swung out and to the left, the direction Sylar was favoring, putting himself in easy view. Coincidentally that put Sylar to Peter's right, which was a good thing as Peter's left eye had swollen to where he could barely see out of it. His face, head, leg, hands and back hurt and the urge to just leave Sylar to his own devices was fairly strong. He shook it off, though. _I'm the one who made him this way. I ought to at least make sure he's okay. If I got messed up, I'd want him to do the same for me. I sort of doubt that he would, though, but that doesn't matter._

For a while, he just walked with Sylar, slowly getting closer, keeping his eye on the man's balance and not caring that they weren't headed in the right direction. He edged in with the intention of trying to catch Sylar if he fell.

XXX

Sylar looked around at the somewhat limited skyline, or tried to until the light grew too bright and he was forced to crunch his eyes up to avoid being blasted with the sun. Muttering "Who's the stray dog now?" _Hmm? Sick puppies? At least he shut up…What's his problem anyway?_ (Strangely some part of him expected this from Peter; parts of him wanted it.) _What was it he said? Don't sleep or go to sleep when you have a concussion? Or was it something about the light?_

"Hate to crush your dreams, but you are not my first concussion….either of them." _And I swear to god, if you hit me again for saying that, I'm gonna get angry. I'm gonna get nasty, too!_ Out of the corner of his eye, once his failed viewing of the sky was complete, he saw Peter sidling up, between himself and the buildings. Sylar wasn't appreciative of that _. /"Gentlemen are supposed to walk on the outside of the sidewalk."/ This is not a good day, is it? Could be worse._ So he tilted his head to the right and tried to veer that way with limited success. His leg was seriously cramping up now and face planting was starting to sound good as the sheer sleepiness began to set in from his head.

A jerking spasm in the leg had his head spinning, his gut lurching in nausea and left Sylar stopped dead to hiss and nearly clutch at his appendage as it hindered him. Bent over somewhat, the sleepiness dissipated a bit because the movements set off a chain reaction up his hip, abdominals and spine. Now he felt he couldn't run or escape, couldn't get away from the threat, whatever it was.

XXX

Peter hadn't had anything to say to Sylar's rambling. The angry tone of voice told him Sylar was still angry and brewing for a fight, probably having gone past a rational awareness of his pain and injuries and into a confused fog where he was willing to strike out at anything remotely threatening. It kept Peter on a higher stage of alert than he wanted to be at the moment. And so when Sylar stopped abruptly with a stagger and a jerk of his leg, Peter really should have given a little more thought to his automatic reaction.

All he could imagine happening in the next few seconds was Sylar continuing over in the arc as he bent towards his leg, losing his balance and going face-first into the concrete. Peter didn't want that to happen. It was within his power to stop it. He immediately stepped forward the short distance that now separated them, grabbing the man's shoulder and bracing him. Peter had to turn his body a little to do it with his left hand, pushing back and stopping what he'd thought was an impending fall. "Sylar! Whoa …" That was about when Peter realized Sylar wasn't nearly as unbalanced as he'd anticipated.

_Shit. I think I'm about to get hit again!_ He was easily in Sylar's range now, the man was testy and temperamental and Peter had grabbed him. Peter did not think this was going to turn out well. But for right that second, instead of letting go and retreating, Peter stayed where he was.

XXX

Sylar was in the middle of moving a hand to roughly massaging his damn, uncooperative leg when suddenly Peter's hand was on his shoulder, pushing him upright. As quickly as he could Sylar reached out to grasp Peter's sleeve in a tight fist, possibly for balance. He sent up a heated look at the man's face when Peter failed to move…or remove the hand; that just annoyed him further. So Sylar gripped onto Peter's shirt until he held him by the shoulder seams, eventually finding the man's eyes with his own and standing upright. "What do you want, Peter? If you're gonna go for gold, just go for it," Sylar narrowed his eyes, somehow quite sure that he was failing at menacing or tempting, whichever, his voice low and rough. _You have no idea how lucky you are you got smart and that I'm too tired and out of it to whale on you some more. You're lucky I'm weak right now. You're lucky I don't think I can make it home and I need to….Just wanna lay down…_

Sylar shook Peter by his shirt, his efforts minimal as far as moving the medic went, but that wasn't his goal. _Can't hit him now…he'd kill me if he hits me again._ He winced and blinked some more, flashes of bright color catching his eyes. "You're bleeding…" he noted, glancing back to Peter's eyes. _You look so good when you bleed…from your forehead, too. Nathan bled from his throat_. He licked his lips, tasting old, sticky blood, knowing it was his own. How unsatisfying. He gave a small smirk and chuckle before shoving Peter back hard, hopefully into the wall, as Sylar turned and did his best to stomp across the street – this time taking a right to head the correct direction and calling back, "Keep your distance, Petrelli." _I'm not safe to be around._

XXX

Peter exhaled roughly as Sylar tromped off in a not-quite-straight line. _Great. Just great. Here I am stuck trying to take care of a guy who doesn't want me taking care of him and who I don't want to take care of. I'd just as soon hold him down and …_ Peter's imagination failed to give him any satisfying images of inflicting further harm on Sylar. _I dunno, hurt him really bad somehow. Worse. I'm sure if I had him down, I could think of something._ He shook his head and began to follow his recalcitrant charge, wiping at the latest tiny trickle of blood from his eyebrow. People who were concussed were frequently confused and irritable, especially if they couldn't just calm down and stay somewhere quiet. Sylar wasn't showing any inclination to let himself go off high alert - _hardly surprising, with me stalking him_ \- and so he remained agitated.

_Maybe I should just let him go? But what if he falls and hurts himself? Is that even possible here?_ Peter grimaced as his hip hurt when he didn't step quite right on that leg. _Yes, okay, it's possible to hurt yourself here. But then how do I make him think I'm not going to hurt him … more? Well, it might help if I wasn't fantasizing, or trying to fantasize, about how to hurt him. Yeah, that … it's not like he's paranoid or off-base here. The reason why he's screwed up is_ _ **me**_ _._ Peter had caught up to Sylar's hobbling pace and as before, he swung out to Sylar's left and then after a dozen strides or so, he drifted in close enough to be there if he was needed. He ignored the looks Sylar sent his way, kept his eye contact brief and non-threatening, and said nothing.

XXX

This guy refused to shake. If Peter wasn't here to finish him off, Sylar assumed he'd gotten his way – except that Peter hadn't won? Maybe that was it; it had to be. Peter appeared again on his left and Sylar glanced at him every few steps in case he got closer or something, he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for. Peter kept looking back occasionally and thus far hadn't said a word beyond his name and an exclamation. What was that about?

XXX

They were about a block away from Sylar's apartment and just starting into the intersection when Sylar stumbled on the clear, unobstructed ground. The man righted himself with a curse, took two more steps and then stopped abruptly, looking around as if unfamiliar with the area. Peter bit his tongue not to say something like, 'It's that way.' Sylar started again, faltering and staggering immediately, wobbling on his feet and clearly struggling for balance. It looked like he was about to go down.

XXX

What choice did Sylar have but to continue walking? Maybe walk faster, but it wasn't really possible or a choice at the time. The world tilted on him again. _What a stupid universe. Why can't it see what's wrong with it?_ Sylar tripped up on his own feet in an attempt to stabilize. "Godda-mit…" he muttered. The less he did that, the better. Peter was the literal vulture waiting to swoop in at the first sign of weakness despite whatever guise the other man chose to hide under, in the name of help, yeah right.

He'd practically walked off the curb and into the bright, late afternoon sun as he came out from behind the buildings and it stunned him a moment. Slowly he raised up hand to block his face – a bad idea as his balance was horrid. His feet had a bad cause of nausea, he decided, they were just too woozy. Or was it his head? Stomach? _I'm tired. He must be, too. Can't round two wait? Oh. Probably afraid I'd beat his ass a third time in a fair fucking fight._ That perked him up…even as he felt like the Titanic.

XXX

Peter grabbed Sylar's left arm and held it for a moment while Sylar worked out which way was up. Before Sylar could make whatever biting comment he surely had coming, Peter tried to put the man's arm over his shoulders and swing his right arm behind Sylar's back. Their relative heights made the position almost perfect.

"It's not much further," Peter said quietly, his head tilted down like it would somehow help if Sylar couldn't 'see' him while he was doing this. More, maybe, so he wouldn't have to look at whatever expression was on the man's face.

XXX

Sylar felt a grip on his arm (thank god it wasn't injured or he'd have snapped at Peter for injuring him further), but his reaction was a tame turn of his head to see what the fuss was about. It was really just too bright and before he finished looking towards the other man, suddenly there was a body beside him, warm and firm and human.

_Oh!_ Sylar inhaled over the sound he would have made, exhaling quickly over the next. Nathan recognized this; Sylar knew it from helping a young, helpless, gunshot blonde into a service elevator to try and- _Oh god_. His body was tensed like a wire the instant Peter pulled close (and he was close), but with his exhale he loosened, and, after a few seconds, began to walk _with_ Peter. Sylar didn't dare look at him. In fact, he shut his eyes and tried to enjoy the feeling. At least before Peter led him off the nearest cliff he could find to shove Sylar off.

_Why on earth is he doing this? Lamb to slaughter? Didn't think I'd go with a helping hand. 'Die alone', doesn't he know that? Stick to your script, Peter, geez. After all this time that's probably code for suicide anyway. Holy hell, he feels good, though…not even in a weird way. Well…okay, it is weird._

XXX

It took several strides for Peter to match himself to Sylar's pace. It wasn't because of any inconsistency in the other man's limping strides, either. Peter just contrarily couldn't get his feet to move at the right time, like a dancer who was over-thinking his steps. He was anticipating wrong; he was out of sync. _Quit thinking about him being Sylar. He's a guy I'm trying to move. He's a patient. Get it right._ It smoothed out almost immediately after that, his right leg moving with Sylar's left, his left leg moving with Sylar's right. It reduced the chance for Sylar to trip over him with their proximate legs moving together and forced Peter to stay at exactly Sylar's speed.

Peter adjusted his grip on Sylar's left wrist, feeling the wrapping still bracing it from their first combat here. He moved his hand above that to the man's forearm, leaning his shoulder a little more into him, taking as much of Sylar's weight as he needed to share. The body heat against his reminded him of embracing Nathan on the top of Mercy Heights Hospital. Or maybe … Sylar. He'd smelled different, felt different, _been_ different than he was now. He'd been Nathan in almost every way Peter knew, except for those fleeting moments as Sylar tried to re-emerge. But he hadn't _been_ Nathan.

_Does he remember that? Me holding him? He's got to. Of course he knows it was me holding_ _ **Nathan**_ _. 'And this is my thank-you?' Yeah, Sylar. Yeah, it is. My thank-you for you killing Nathan is beating the crap out of you, over and over, every time you disrespect his memory, for as long as I have breath_. Peter adjusted his right arm to hold the man a little more firmly, determined, even if the person he was helping was his target. He exhaled heavily, not sure what to do with all his complicated emotions about what was going on. They seemed to be buzzing inside him, burning him up, creating static wherever they touched like the popping of faint sparks. Peter grunted and decided to ignore that. Empathy wasn't something he wanted to indulge at the moment, so he closed the door on what he was feeling and focused on just getting them that last block and into Sylar's apartment.

XXX

Peter led him to the apartment building, Sylar's, actually. _No lion's den? He's really gonna walk me to my d-_ Between them the pair managed to open the door without becoming too untangled, shuffling inside. _Okay, walk me to my literal door then._ "You know if you wanted to touch me, you didn't have to hit me," he spoke quietly, insinuating a few things about Peter's desire to see him home (possibly factoring in his vulnerable state, too). _Ah, already an old, inside joke._ He wanted to tell Peter he was fine now, he could make it up an elevator okay, but he kept his mouth shut for reasons unknown.

XXX

"I'll keep that in mind," Peter murmured in response. _I think I like hitting you._ Those were more worrisome emotions Peter didn't want to examine. He punched the button for the elevator and they moved inside when the doors opened immediately. Peter hesitated, looking at the buttons, trying to recall Sylar's floor. He picked one and depressed it. He supposed it was right, as Sylar didn't correct him. Peter let Sylar go and leaned against the wall, feeling exhausted. There was the physical element, of course, but as much a toll was being taken by walling off his reactions. _It wouldn't help to let them out. My reactions all involve doing things to him that are stupid … he'd be dead, or maimed, or whatever. I_ _ **shouldn't**_ _._ Peter shut his eyes for what seemed like only a second, jerking them open when the elevator dinged for the right floor. He straightened. "Come on, man," he said lethargically.

XXX

_Good. You do that._ The elevator parted and they moved inside, Peter pushing the button and moving away from him. Sylar reached out for the railing because, oh good, an elevator, going up, was just the thing he needed for his head. He was almost preparing for one of those carbonated nose burp-airplane ear popping- sinus pressure snapping feelings. He supposed it beat breaking his nose on the stairs. Sylar risked a glance at Peter, who had his eyes shut and relaxed himself a little, at least for the ride up.

Grunting in reply to Peter's tired words, Sylar dutifully, unthinkingly moved back into position for Peter to steady him. As he didn't need help in supporting his weight, just in walking upright….in a straight line. It sucked being stuck between what to feel – relief or anxiety and having Peter this close. Of course, he wanted to be relieved, but Peter was Peter and a Petrelli and all those other factors he'd rather pretend weren't there.

XXX

"I'm sorry I busted in your door," Peter said as they walked up to it, staying close to his 'patient'. _And your face, but I'm not admitting to that yet, am I?_ "I shouldn't have done that. Can I come in? I was serious about an ice pack. Let me help." He was rambling a little, one sentence tumbling after another. _I ought to help him, because I started the fight. Sort of. Of course I did. Peter, you're in control of your own fists, right? Yeah? Then you started it. Him mouthing off was him mouthing off. … But what about Nathan? I can't let Sylar … fuck it._ He put a stop to that internal argument, ending it abruptly and directing his attention to Sylar. He looked forward to trying to help him and he wasn't intending to take no for an answer. Peter knew it would make him feel better - make him, Peter, feel better. That Sylar would feel better was just sort of a confusing, semi-happy, stressful side effect.

XXX

Sylar snorted, "No, you're not," he said about the broken door _. I'd install an alarm system if I cared and if one worked. And if he comes in the night, well, at least my last minutes will be interesting_. "No one's asking for your help, Peter _."_ _What if I don't want you in my apartment? I don't. I can't stop you, though_. Sylar just grit his teeth, which only hurt everything in his head and face that much more. He was not happy about Peter gaining admission via powerlessness and helplessness, there was too much unknown and unanswered for him to be glad to have lured Peter in somehow. The big question loomed in his mind now that he wasn't able to pretend this eventuality was avoidable – _What is he gonna do?_ Sylar tensed as they got closer, his heart beating faster.

XXX

Peter replied, "Well, okay." _I want to help anyway._ He didn't address Sylar's statement about the door. Peter felt guilty. That wasn't the same thing as feeling _sorry_ and Peter knew it. Yeah, Sylar was probably right about which Peter felt. It was just a lot more socially acceptable to say 'I'm sorry I busted your door' than 'Hey, I know I shouldn't have busted your door, but I did it anyway because I didn't give a shit'. Actually, social acceptability had nothing to do with it. Peter just didn't want to see himself that way. Any further thoughts in that direction were deprioritized in favor of perceiving that Sylar was getting worked up. Peter could hardly **not** notice it, being right up next to Sylar with an arm wrapped around him as he was.

XXX

Sylar squirmed away from Peter's grasp and person, making a kind of lunge for his door, hanging on to the frame and knob. Opening the door and sliding inside, he nodded to Peter and made to shut the door with Peter outside it.

XXX

"Sylar!" Peter said strongly, which gave him a number of small pains in his face that he didn't stop to catalogue. Instead, he closed to the door and stuck his foot out to block it. He had a good-gripping, all-purpose shoe that normally gave him plenty of traction. He stuck the heel to the floor and toes on Sylar's door. Sylar didn't have enough force behind it to shut the door immediately and by the time he readjusted to push against the obstruction, Peter had his left hand on the door and was moving to brace his left shoulder against it.

_Does he really not want me in there? Or is this more confusion like earlier because he thinks I'm still going to hurt him? Or is it both? Crap. I'm not willing to fight him to help him!_ But he **was** willing to force the door.

XXX

"No!" Was his succinct and childish reply. _What the hell was with that parent tone?_ Sylar hastened to shut the door, but it refused to close, almost as though it had hit some- well, what could- _Shit. Peter_. Before the thought could trigger a reaction, like shoving the door in the man's face and pushing back, Peter was on his way in. "No!" he tried for a yell and ended with…less than that, cracking in the middle.

Multiple, common, human fears were tearing through him uncontrolled. Thoughts of home invasion, killers lurking outside a home, weirdo apartment neighbors, robbery, rape, pictures of crime scenes (including the ones he'd created) and indistinguishable, bloody, beaten corpses. Having someone force their way into his domain with Sylar standing right there was surprisingly traumatic. Worse still, when Peter got in, Sylar was trapped, unstable, confused (yes, he knew he wasn't up to par) and powerless against someone who was in better shape and was much better at caving a face in. Smaller space…with an uninvited (dangerous) guest.

His tiny, forgotten conscience was whispering to him that while he may not want this assault, he'd done the same a hundred times over, sometimes repeatedly to families and individuals and that he deserved what was coming through the door. It didn't make him feel any better, in fact, it made it worse. Sylar really wanted to cry at that moment, but he felt it burning in his sinuses and that stopped him because it would hurt his head worse and blur his vision. Something about dying in his own home, like this, after all he'd experienced, after all his hard work was not something he was handling well.

"No," he moaned quietly because Peter was inside; Sylar had stopped pushing when the man got his torso in. It was basically over despite all his efforts. He quickly made a loopy pivot and headed for the couch, waving an arm towards the kitchen. "Knives and milk are in the kitchen – you already know where that is." Yeah, Peter might as well rehydrate and get a healthy snack after, or before, the murder show. Sylar wanted the couch because there was just less intimacy involved than with his bed, and he wasn't feeling the chair right then. He managed to slide in to sit at an angle, mostly thinking that he wasn't through fighting just yet, that he wasn't going to take this 'lying down'.

XXX

Peter put his shoulder to the door and forced his way in. It was easier than he'd feared. Sylar, though, looked to be at the end of his rope emotionally. It was the tone of voice that really caught Peter's attention and made him feel horrible. The moan in particular stopped Peter dead in his tracks, but Sylar seemed to recover a little and managed to stagger safely to the couch after flippantly directing Peter to the kitchen. At least, it was probably flippant.

Peter closed the door slowly behind him and stood in front of it. "Sylar," he said in a steady voice, "I'm going to try very hard not to hurt you, any more." His desire to be honest nagged at him. "At least today. Okay? Today, no more fighting." _No matter what he_ _says about anyone_. "Now, I'm going to get you an ice pack, just like I said I would." _Please stay there on the couch and don't complicate things. Shit, what if he has a gun in here? Naw, if he did, he would have grabbed it that first day. Or he'd be going for it now. He's got a_ _ **hammer**_ _, which I should probably keep an eye out for. Second time I've cornered him in here. I hope he never returns the favor. I don't think I'd handle that well._ Which Peter knew was a tremendous understatement. He was still trying to get past the desire to barricade his door at night.

Peter went in the kitchen and searched the drawers and cabinets quietly for plastic bags. He found sandwich-sized ones. There really wasn't much need for a single man living in an imaginary world of plenty to have bigger bags than that. He frowned at them and looked out to see if Sylar was still where he was supposed to be, before moving on to checking the freezer for ice. There were two blue plastic trays, both full. Peter slowly filled a half dozen sandwich bags, double-bagged them, and wrapped four of them in a couple kitchen towels.

He leaned against the counter and shut his … eye, singular. The other had long since swelled shut on its own. He opened the one that was still on duty and looked at his hands. His left was a bloody mess that he still hadn't cleaned. The right … well, it _looked_ okay. Broken. In a brace. Hurting. He sighed, gathered up the two towels and four of the filled bags and walked out to see what Sylar was up to. "Ice packs," he said, showing what he had and stopping well clear of the couch so he could see Sylar's reaction before getting in arm's reach of him.

XXX

_You're gonna try? Really hard? YOU TRYING HARD WAS KIRBY FUCKING PLAZA, NUMBSKULL! Thanks. I feel…so relieved, comforted even. I'm in such well-controlled, rational hands I could just pass out in delight. Hell, I'll pass out like it or not_ , Sylar ranted mentally at the couch, staring at the fabric with determination to prevent just that. Inflicting his feelings on an inanimate object sometimes helped….more often than not, here, being that there was….well, nothing animate. _I mean, god, I give this guy a wrong look, he's gonna smother me. On my own couch. Where's the decency for the world's most evolved 'human being'?_

Any safety (he thought) he had was ruined. Allowing Peter entry was like handing over his safe-haven, his home. He was sure now Peter would feel very welcome to barge in and do whatever he pleased – he began anticipating how to prepare for the eventual rude awakenings of all sorts. Talk about invasion of privacy. Just when he thought he'd been prepared for everything – what new torture could Peter devise? The little sneak. He had to clench his teeth to spike pain up his face and head to avoid memories of living with the Grays. Which was worse, after all? Having someone who you couldn't see break in to attack you randomly whenever he so chose or to live with the attacker and have to anticipate visually?

"Ice pack," he muttered, completely disbelieving. Turned partly away as he was, his ears were sharpened to Peter's movements in the kitchen. The man was looking for something, then some rustling, his fridge- no, freezer was opened and the ice was- what?

"I don't have any cyanide or arsenic, I know you'll be cru-" mid-call he was interrupted by a scuff, a looming shadow and presence holding…seriously? Sylar had turned to look the other man over. _Ice packs?_ He frowned into Peter's face. Pursing his lips in distaste, he leaned forward and snatched two of the four packs, leaving half for the equally wounded Peter and retreated back to his space on the couch all without breaking contact with the sofa.

"Son of a bitch better not make this a habit," he growled, keeping his eyes half-open and trained on the medic as Sylar settled his back against the cushion, still upright for the most part. Sylar was aware that this skirting-death phenomena may indeed become a common occurrence as Peter hadn't shown any interest in playing (even while fighting) nicely. He was sure to hog enough of the couch so Peter couldn't sit beside him because, hello? he was not that stupid.

XXX

Peter stood there with the leftover ice packs, not sure whether to try to push them on Sylar or what. That the man had taken half was … surprisingly considerate of him. It gave the lie to Sylar's whole 'I think you're going to kill me' routine. Because if he seriously thought Peter was going to do something bad to him, then why only take half the bags? Why take any at all?

He stood there trying to figure out what to do with the extras in his hand, feeling a bit dumb, like thinking was just too much of an effort. _Give them to Sylar - Sylar doesn't want them. Keep them myself - I have more than he does, and he needs them more. So … give them to Sylar, but Sylar doesn't want them. Huh._ He blinked at them, swaying just a little. _My hands are really cold. That feels kinda good_.

XXX

"Band-aids and ointment are in the bathroom," Sylar grunted quietly, watching to see what Peter would do. _He's not…he won't stay, right? He's not…doing anything horrible yet, but maybe he's waiting for something._ "For God's sake, clean the blood off your face, it's distracting." _Distracting me_ was what he meant.

XXX

Peter's attention snapped to Sylar and he bent to put the remaining ice packs on the couch next to his companion. He was dimly aware that doing so put him too close to Sylar, in his space, in his reach. "Sorry," he muttered, not sure if he was apologizing for where he was, or the condition of his face. Neither seemed like things he ought to be apologetic about, but the word had already left his lips.

XXX

Vision fuzzy, Sylar kept a prolonged stare on Peter as he moved closer, closer still, then very close. His muscles were sluggish and barely responded, certainly not to the degree he would have liked, as he tried to prepare for any sudden moves. His eyes just blinked slowly at the apology, unsure of what it was for or what it could be for.

XXX

Peter looked around the room, trying to remember where the bathroom was. There weren't a lot of choices, so he found it on the first try. He looked at himself in the mirror and actually laughed, which died as a pained, grimacing groan. His face and jaw hurt too much to allow for that much expression.

He got the water running and stood there with the fingertips of his left hand in the cool flow, watching as the dried blood gradually flaked off. He didn't know how long he stood there, but it seemed like minutes before he finally roused himself to get a wash cloth and start working on his face. Between the cold water and the occasional pain, he woke back up from the stupor he'd started to slip into. He paused, mid-wipe, and stuck his head out the bathroom, looking to see where Sylar was. Mindless, semi-instinctive check-up complete, he went back to cleaning himself, eventually getting all the streaks and splatters off through dint of persistence. _Surely this isn't all_ _ **my**_ _blood, is it?_ His cheek and left knuckles stung where they'd been opened, and they bled more. He was more careful around the scab in his eyebrow, leaving it in place for fear of starting up that flow as well.

Basic cleaning done, secondary blood flow stopped, Peter looked around the bathroom for the mentioned band-aids. He saw nothing, so he put his hand on the cabinet door and hesitated. _Open it? Don't open it? I'm in here in his stuff. People have personal stuff in their bathrooms. I'm snooping._ He exhaled heavily. _I'm looking for band-aids and he's the one who told me to look here._ He opened the cabinet to find towels, then looked under the sink to find a tote with first aid supplies. Gratefully he pulled it out and carried it out to the main room, belatedly realizing he should have at least bandaged his cheek while he was still in front of the mirror. He looked around for a spot to put down the tote, eyeing the spaces on the couch next to Sylar.


	25. Anger Issues, Part 1

Day 9

Peter left for the bathroom and Sylar found himself idly playing with the one of the towels the medic had carried out. It was one of the nicer ones he observed, playing with the worn, blue fringe. The sink cut on and the steady noise lulled him even more into relaxation. _No….no. Gotta stay alert. Life or death_. Thinking back, he couldn't remember why and that was…amnesia was never a good thing for him. It always came back to bite.

He twitched when he heard a light clattering as someone snooped through his cabinet and strangely that didn't bother him as much as it should. _Not like he's gonna find something interesting in there. Wait…I was doing something before this…why am I…?_ The continual flow of water in the sink ( _why's that on?_ ), like any stable, repetitive noise calmed him like a well-oiled gear. But for the pounding in his head and the aching in his body, he was comfortable…and finding himself drowsy.

Sylar was hardly aware his eyes were shut when he…felt something else with him. His eyes popped open and he caught sight of Peter standing in his living room with his aid kit. Embarrassingly, he started, grabbing whatever was closest (ice packs) in reaction as he straightened and lifted one foot from the floor. "Jee-…fuck, Peter…." Was all he gasped and muttered out around a hummingbird heart, curling in on himself a little to recover. "Where the hell did you come from?" _I didn't ask him in here…did I? Why would I? Did he come here for the kit? Did he even ask? What's…?_

XXX

Peter blinked at Sylar for a moment. _'Where did I come from?' Your bathroom, perhaps?_ He recognized the symptoms - confusion, disorientation, lack of continuity of memory. Much of why Peter hadn't bothered with conversation earlier, after the fight and while Sylar had been ranting, was that Peter didn't see any point in talking with someone who was fucked up. He wasn't going to agree with Sylar, and he didn't want to rile him up either. Being quiet and supportive seemed simplest.

He noticed Sylar hadn't been using the ice packs. _What's he got against ice packs, anyway?_ They'd melted a little and looked perfect to put on his eye. _How long was I in the bathroom? Felt like forever._ Peter tucked the plastic tote under his right arm and gestured at his face with his left hand. He spoke calmly and matter-of-factly, trying to leave out any blame or concession. "We had another fight. We both got pretty banged up. I head butted you and your concussion is a lot worse." He'd been aiming at his 'paramedic voice', but it came out more as 'I'm tired, please don't make things worse'. He paused, waiting to see how that was received, regardless of what it sounded like.

XXX

Peter sounded so calm about that: 'We had another fight'. _Oh_ , was all he could surmise. The medic sounded annoyed and Sylar was left to wonder who'd started it. It was a gut-dropping feeling, just….being somewhere with no recollection of where he'd been or what had happened. Peter might, in theory be lying to him, but Sylar could find no reason why. He supposed this wasn't a new feeling – this was how he'd 'woken up' in this strange world after all, 'woken up' to being Nathan.

Peter was already here, didn't appear to be making any aggressive motions or intentions so Sylar felt comfortable enough, but not completely so, to settle back into his fugue state and relax a little. His face ached badly and by then his attention was free to wander to the ice chilling his fingertips as he shifted the melting cubes in the bag.

XXX

"Scoot over now and let me sit down. You asked me to get the band-aids and ointment. You can bandage your knuckles and I'll wrap mine." Peter moved forward, making to set the tote down on the couch if Sylar would just move to one side or the other. Then the tote would be between them and he could do something about the lacerated knuckles he had on his left hand. He'd noticed the couch-hogging, of course, but hopefully if Sylar's memory was faulty, then the man might have forgotten trying to slam the door on Peter and being territorial.

XXX

 _I did?_ Sylar looked up from his fondling of the packs, shifting as quickly as he could, which still felt too slow with the speed Peter approached with, but he had no desire to be crushed with the tote. So he dragged himself to the left, situating his back into the corner of cushion and armrest, automatically slouching for comfort. He kept his feet more or less on his own side of the 'divider' the tote represented. Peter had plopped it down and sat, thankfully, on the other side of it, opening the container and making a racket of plastic looking for things.

Sylar glanced at the mentioned knuckles of both participants. His own were bloody and scraped, bruised with scabs torn up or broken. His left elbow was placed on the armrest, that hand full of ice as he gently rested the freezing contraption against his head _. Stop pounding already, I hear you_ , he instructed his head.

Sylar's eyes were slitted to watch Peter almost lazily, enjoying the patches of relief against his skull. When he saw Peter's ministrations weren't fireworks and flash, his eyes dropped to his knuckles once again, stroking the surfaces, sometimes attempting to clean.

 _His face is wet, he came out of my bathroom….his face was bloody, too? My hands are bloody, so are his. I probably look like crap. He hurt me – he said so, concussion_. He wanted to ask, but conversation wasn't a priority, mostly he lacked energy. If anything, he wanted to cuddle up and nap, like a kid, like a cat – book and blanket, the whole thing. The position strained his abdominals and hip and thigh so he concluded he must have been struck there, too. _Peter's…thorough._ He was out of it significantly when he failed to notice his eyes drooping shut.

XXX

Peter opened the tote and sorted through it, making mental notes of what supplies Sylar had available. He treated the knuckles of his left hand, applying ointment and knuckle bandages to his index and ring fingers. That of his pinkie finger was hardly scuffed, but he worried over his middle finger. The tiny, inconsequential-at-the-time-he'd-gotten-it cut from the glass had exacerbated the damage done when he'd punched Sylar. The skin was split. He moved his finger experimentally, but the tendon and everything else seemed fine. He took much more meticulous care of it than he usually would for such an injury, being very carefully in cleaning it, applying the bandage snugly and then taping it for most of the length of it. _I'm running short on extra hands here. And doofus over there is going to be messed up for days, at least._

Speaking of his companion, Sylar seemed to have zoned out again. _Could be a bad sign – bleeding inside his skull. Or it could just mean he's tired and needs some rest. He hasn't thrown up at least. I didn't really get a good look at his eyes, not that there's much I could do about it anyway. It's not like I'm going to penetrate the brain case to relieve pressure, no matter what the ancient Egyptians used to do_. Despite a medical background, Peter was no neurosurgeon. Oddly, were their positions reversed and assuming Peter was coherent enough to consent (which he didn't think Sylar was at the moment), he'd trust the 'brain man' to know his way around someone's head. _Certainly more than I would._

Peter's right hand and wrist were hurting and swelling within the brace. He was glad he'd never gotten around to tightening it correctly. He lifted himself off the couch to fetch the last two ice packs and returned, settling carefully to avoid disturbing Sylar. He took the two packs Sylar had left to him and wrapped them around his right wrist, then leaned back, wriggling around until he got a good angle to put the other two over his left eye. He settled in for a nap, worrying a little as he drifted off about Sylar's presence, but … _trust has to start somewhere._

…

The gentle chiming and tolling of the clocks woke him. The ice packs were nothing but water now, though he wasn't sure how much time had passed, having not taken note of it before drowsing. He could hardly lift his head – _oh my God, my neck is totally jacked._ He grunted and managed to roll his head to the side, looking at Sylar, who was still asleep, mouth hanging open and snoring lightly. _Fearsome killer. Ha._ His thoughts went briefly to watching over Sylar? Nathan? one of those, sleeping restlessly in Peter's bed weeks before, curled around a liquor bottle. He'd seemed tortured even in sleep. It was nice to see him calmer now. _Not having to live a lie … or something like that, I'm sure._

Peter wrenched his head upright to stave off further thoughts in that direction. Easing off the couch again, he gathered up the water-filled bags and put them on the kitchen counter. Then he slipped out the front door, returning many minutes later with better ice packs and some frozen vegetables he'd acquired by raiding other apartments. He debated waking Sylar but decided to let him rest. Instead he dropped the extra, prepared ice packs in the freezer and settled back in on the couch with a sack of frozen peas across the left side of his face, listening to the ticking of the clocks and trying to decide if he liked or disliked the constant, low level noise.

XXX

The sound of his freezer opening and closing woke Sylar and confused him horribly. "Mom?" he asked, muddled, unable just yet to open his eyes. They just hurt too much. Who else would be getting in his freezer? He let out a long groan and tried to suppress it as he shifted on…the couch. He heard footsteps, a little heavy, but he waited for her voice to precede her. Then he waited for maybe her hand on his forehead or his shoulder, but neither came and the footsteps passed him by. He felt her sit beside him on the couch and that was strange of her.

Peeling open his right eye he looked around a very messy living room until he saw….Peter. Oh. No…Peter meant…Nathan and Angela and…that meant Mom was dead and he'd just embarrassed himself completely. "Damn…kit," he muttered, wishing it gone so he could stretch out at least, even if it involved contact with Peter. He inhaled over his irrational disappointment. Or was that irrational hope? Sylar feeling something shift in his hand. A water bag? No, it had been ice cubes, melted now. He dropped them to the floor, stretching out his elbow that had cramped somewhat in sleep before settling it at a new angle to rest his head on his hand.

Glancing over again, he saw that Peter had a bag of frozen…peas. _Those aren't mine_. "What are you still doing here, Peter? I'm fine." _I want to take a shower or…maybe a bath. See if I can eat something but I doubt I'll be able, probably won't hold it down anyway. I can't do that with him here. Besides, what does he care if I drop off and die in the night? He'd care that he wasn't there to gloat and say something poetic about justice finally being served, that's why. Then why doesn't he kill me? Son of a bitch makes me so angry, he makes no sense!_

More or less Sylar desired privacy to bemoan and lick his wounds.

XXX

Peter felt a spasm of embarrassment at Sylar's question, an intense dislike of being unwanted and unnecessary rearing its head. It made him feel worthless and rejected (and probably had a lot to do with his choice of professions where people **had** to accept his help). _What_ _ **am**_ _I doing here? He's_ _ **Sylar**_ _. He doesn't need my help. Let him fall over and whack his head again on the corner of his desk there and bleed out for all I should care._ Peter's mind helpfully provided him with graphic and realistic images of Sylar on the floor, scalp torn from coming down against the sharp edge of the furniture; his watches and tools scattered across him, lying in the spreading pool of blood; Sylar twitching and dying alone in his apartment because no one had been there for him. Peter gave himself a little shake to dispel the gruesome image and levered himself up off the couch. He only partly suppressed the groan he made as his stiff neck ached.

"You have," he said as he put aside the bag of frozen peas and walked into Sylar's kitchen, "a concussion and it's not a mild one anymore." He got out one of the ice packs he'd made in the apartment where he'd found a refrigerator with an ice machine in the door. He came back to where Sylar was sitting. "Maybe you're lucid right now," he paused, eyes scanning over Sylar's face for reaction and eye contact, making sure he was following the conversation, "but you haven't been that way earlier." He offered the ice pack.

XXX

 _That must be the nicest way anyone has ever called me insane_ , Sylar thought, staring back, eyes narrowing some at the end. He took the pack after a glance, giving a nod and placing it on his cheek for the moment.

XXX

"For the next couple days, it's real likely you'll have periods of being disoriented, dizzy, not sure what's going on, and clumsy. You'll fall easily. You'll probably have trouble with self-care." Peter turned and opened the tote again, digging out another set of knuckle bandages and the tube of ointment. "You might be fine if I'm not here. Or you might not. It's not like I've got anywhere else to be." He gave the bandage wrapper a lot more attention than it deserved as he stripped off the outer packaging. Peter's voice became low as he said, "If I was somewhere else, I'd be worried the whole time that you'd taken a header in the bathroom and died, because I was too eat up with hate to help you out."

XXX

 _Did he just imply that I can't clean myself? Insane and dirty. Again. What is with this trend? I don't think- I don't like that he's judging me based on my messiest apartment. Maybe the apartment has nothing to do with it._ Sylar followed Peter's movements with only some interest, more of a self-interest interest. If Peter pulled out a rib-spreader, Sylar would wanna know about it (not that he had one in his aid kit). Sue him; he had a real thing about not enjoying the company of medical men. _So he just invites himself over?_

Peter was focused with the wrapper, but Sylar's mind was running limited mental loops around the words 'worried' and 'died', 'hate' was in there, too. _You would worry? That sounds like you'd regret it if I died…must be some empath-guilt complex. He'd be pissed he let someone die on his watch, that's it. What is it you really want, Petrelli?_ All he could do was frown and listen.

XXX

He looked up at Sylar, his gaze very level and serious. _Hate. Started all of this. I've got to get over it. Better if I just don't think about it._ "Let's look at your knuckles there. You were going to take care of them earlier, but you couldn't focus enough to do it." _Which is part of what I mean about self-care_. "If you want to hold that ice pack in place, I'll work on whichever hand is free." He pushed the tote out of the way and sat down close, setting the supplies on his thigh and waiting to see if Sylar would offer a hand and cooperate, snatch the bandages and do it himself, or refuse to work with him at all.

XXX

"My…" Sylar glanced down at the mentioned joints, seeing them torn and bloody. By the time he'd looked up again Peter had pushed the tote away and made his approach. Sylar was left to blink and control his breathing. _I'm not that out of it. Am I?_ Peter's voice was low and barely slow enough for him to follow; technically there was little to no threat but there were too many unanswered questions for Sylar to go along with things. Peter got closer than Sylar wanted; he was so vulnerable.

Sylar shifted back, frowning at he thought. Help would be nice, he knew, it would feel nice and be great. Having the man clean the knuckles that had pounded into him (he assumed) not too long before was wrong even by Sylar's inadequate standards. Sylar certainly wouldn't fix up Peter's knuckles, especially if they had caused his concussion. He hadn't received real medical treatment in…how many years? and now he was thoroughly distrustful of the entire system and the people who served in it. He'd done without all this time so he would be okay, one way or other. Peter might break his fingers as punishment. It wasn't like this was America and he had freedom of speech and rights for human treatment (that he probably shouldn't receive anyway); it wasn't like he could sue Peter for medical abuse.

And what the hell was he really to do here? Deliver his hand, delicate as could be like a princess and…hold hands with Peter? Hands were important, especially to a watchmaker and telekinetic. That touch would be downright intimate and Peter was asking for it and probably doing so for the wrong reasons if only Sylar could divine. This had to be some sort of test; like sticking one's head into a lion's mouth, this would be sticking his hand out for Peter to…hurt or heal. Peter would want something in return later and that had him…more curious than anxious.

Lifting his head, still staring at Peter, his mouth tensed. Sylar shoved his right fist into the man's space for indefinable treatment. _Not my first Androcles moment._

XXX

Peter pulled back sharply from getting a fist thrust at him, his face going to wary and alert. Sylar, on the other hand, looked challenging … and afraid. Peter held very still for a few seconds, his eyes first darting rapidly between Sylar's hand and face, then making that same trek much more slowly. Peter relaxed and started to move. He reached his left hand up, open, under Sylar's and lifted it slightly. He felt that static again between them - a weird sensation he'd felt off and on since he got here, whenever he got really close to Sylar and was paying attention. In the middle of fighting didn't count.

He didn't know what it meant. He wondered if Sylar felt it, too. It made his hand (and some spot inside of his head) itch. It had a certain similarity to the feeling he got when he touched someone who had an ability. Spontaneously Peter wondered what would happen if he tried to take one of Sylar's abilities, here. Sure, Sylar claimed not to have any, but back in Matt's basement, or wherever their physical bodies were now, he still had them. _Would it work and I'd have one of his abilities here? Would I lose telepathy and get kicked out of his head? Or would it not matter at all, because it would be my body that had the ability, not me? No matter what, I think he'd see it as an attack. This is_ _ **not**_ _the time to start shit._ He set the thought aside.

XXX

Sylar snorted and hid his amusement at Peter having a similar reaction to actually getting the desired hand. The motion may have been sudden, the fist a sign of aggression, but it came nowhere near contacting Peter's body, more was the pity. While Peter's eyes were involved with the hands, Sylar was left to watch the medic's face, curious about the thoughts going on behind it. His hands, previously feeling a little clammy, warmed up instantly when they felt Peter's skin. It was a jolt, a shock; the gentleness was a completely separate matter to top that. His fingers loosened without any order from his consciousness, not that it mattered.

Sylar inhaled over the sensation, swallowing for good measure. Even in his condition he could feel his nerves sizzling; he knew how someone could get addicted to feeling people up if that was the feeling it inspired. That could explain a few things about Peter and his job choices – hero and medic. Sylar caught himself envying that luxury.

XXX

Peter took Sylar's fist and put it over the thumb and forefinger of his right. "Uncurl your fingers. Rest them on my hand. Please don't squeeze." _Oh God, please don't do that! I will flip out, I won't trust you, it'd be totally unprovoked and I'd want to smother your dumb ass in your sleep. Which … well … it isn't that bad between us yet. Oh wow_ , he thought with morbid humor _, a new low we could potentially sink to._

He gave a long, slow exhale and stared at Sylar's hand for a moment, waiting to see what happened. He was very aware that he was putting his worst injury rather literally in Sylar's hand. Peter, too, had rules, although they weren't as formalized perhaps as Sylar's. Deliberately inflicting pain, outside of the context of the fight itself, was beyond the pale. Not that he'd never gone there himself - a certain nail gun came to mind. Sylar's punitive slap earlier had been wrong, whereas none of the punches were. Should Sylar hurt him now, Peter would get far more averse to exposing any weakness to him in future.

XXX

Peter directed him to move his hand so Sylar did, laying his hand flat and letting it relax over the other man's. _Squeeze? Why would I-? Oh_. Oddly enough, as good as this all felt, it was making him uncomfortable and he couldn't place it. The question 'why?' was on a loop in his head. It wasn't like he'd probably die of infection so he failed to see what Peter was so bothered about covering his knuckles. Perhaps habit or boredom? But it came right back to 'why do you care?'

XXX

After a pause, he moved on to picking up the ointment and dutifully applying it to the lacerated knuckles one at a time, careful and slow. He followed it with one bandage after another, occasionally tilting Sylar's hand off his own so he could use his right thumb and forefinger to peel the backing off the bandages. Mostly he was having Sylar's hand rest on his merely for balance and so he could, with small motions or pressure, encourage Sylar to turn his hand to more convenient angles.

By the end, he was feeling more comfortable and even went so far as to let some humor creep in. "I dunno about you, but I have exceeded my recommended daily allowance of knuckle sandwiches for today." He gave Sylar a friendly smile. "Don't need any more. Can you switch hands for me now?"

XXX

Sylar felt his hand being positioned where Peter needed it and the feeling was insanely relaxing. Already out of it, tired, aching and drowsy this was not helping his alertness. _Isn't he tired, too? I hope he knows better than to think I'm gonna follow Dr. Petrelli's recommendations to sleep or bed rest, surely he's not that stupid. Better tie me to the couch; he'd have more luck with that. Probably more luck that I want him to have, actually. Yeah, well…_

Any casual touch was so foreign it was like another language, another culture, a lightning rod, in short, to his nervous system and his brain, ironically, couldn't code that. Peter knew the language that much was obvious – this really didn't seem to bother him a bit. The idea that someone would heal him after he'd beaten them was…well, he didn't know what to think of that, but it made him queasy. Peter was not the type to allow that and Sylar knew better that the empath didn't deserve it either. The man was literally a new breed to him and one that required more study.

Peter's fingertips were rough, where they touched, but it was being hit up with narcotics; Sylar found his eyelids drooping a little as he relaxed further, shifting the ice pack to various aching parts of his face. The man's voice, strangely absent for some reason, snapped him a little more awake _. Did he even attend high school? Oh, right – Petrelli._ Sylar gave him a blank look, completely off-balance to the friendliness and humor, not following either at all.

"I'm not gonna die if you don't cover me in band-aids," he said slowly, thinking _Not your problem anyway_. He shifted the pack to the bandaged hand, extending his left hand in turn. "I think its fucked up you're doing this, you know," Sylar informed him, more honest than he otherwise would be.

XXX

"Ha," Peter said, smiling in rising good humor as much as his pained face allowed. "I know. It is. You're not the first person I've been in a fight with and ended up treating, you know?" He stopped to get out an antiseptic wipe and clean Sylar's hand first. This one had gotten dirt imbedded in the small wounds somewhere along the way. _Probably should have cleaned the other, too. But that would have stung. I don't know if he would have let me. I think he will now._ He started speaking quietly, offering a story to distract because he knew what he was doing would hurt. "Hesam and I were working about … it was a couple months ago. We were just getting back into the routine after those problems, right? So we get a call for an intoxicated. It's late at night, or early morning depending on how you call it, and the night tour is always full of weird characters."

XXX

 _Well, no duh. There was Nathan. I'm sure you helped out your guy friends after you had a scuffle._ Sylar grit his teeth but otherwise didn't move as he saw the antiseptic wipe zoning in on his hand. An inhale of breath was the only reaction he gave it, recalling the difference between hydrogen peroxide as a child and the official, sanitized packet of wipes Peter was now using. _Which…problems were those again? We all have so many… Weird characters, huh? Why are all these stories of his custom made for me? The violent psycho and now the drunk you beat up and heal? Gee, I feel special._

XXX

He finished with the wipe and picked up the ointment, giving the skin a moment to dry. "I'm not very partial to alcoholics. I …" Peter thought about his father's slurred words that night when he was sixteen: _'If you go back in there, you are no son of mine!'_ They'd been at a country club party and his father, too many sheets to the wind, had gotten in an argument with another attendee. It was a stupid political argument, as much of it as Peter had heard. Threats were exchanged, then blows and the men were separated. Angela tried to hustle Arthur out but he was having little of it. Peter started to go back and see if the other man was okay. His father's words had given him pause, but after a second he'd walked on. Peter apologized on his father's behalf and then left. He often wondered if his words had made any difference, but no charges were filed, nor were there any complications. His father never mentioned it, nor the threat. Peter had always resented it, though.

"So anyway, we see the guy." Peter applied ointment as he spoke, ignoring the conversational lapse he'd created by wandering down memory lane. "He's holding the wall up and he has blood on his face. He's big, tall, beefy white guy, real pale. I send Hesam over to check him while I get the stretcher out. It didn't occur to me that he might be combative. Drunks are, sometimes, but he was just standing there … anyway, next thing I hear is Hesam yelps something and there's a scuffle. I drop the stretcher and run around the van to where I can see the guy has a hold of my partner's uniform and he's … I don't know, trying to grab Hesam's face or something. I go over and start to pull them apart. The guy's laughing and as soon as I break his grip on Hesam's shirt, he clocks the side of my head with his fist."

He moved on to bandaging the knuckles. "I don't know why … it shouldn't have … but the laughter and getting hit just really pissed me off and I hit him back. He acted like he didn't feel it and bopped me in the nose, still laughing, so I hit him again and he fell. By then, Hesam was trying to pull **me** off." He frowned. "Come to find out, the guy was in hypoglycemic shock, which can be worse than drunk. Hesam pushes a couple doses of dextrose on him and the guy's a lot more put together, but he doesn't say much – what can he, really? His recall's probably shot. My nose was still bleeding some, so Hesam drove and once I got the flow stopped, I took care of the guy. He'd fallen a couple times and got scuffed up and hurt, besides, you know, me hitting him. All I could really do for him was clean him up, cover him with band-aids," Peter smiled at Sylar again, borrowing the other man's phrase and being amused by the thought of doing that to him, "and hope for the best."

XXX

The wipes disappeared much to his relief and Peter went on with the story. _So laughing at him while hitting him when he's trying to help is…not gonna make Peter happy._ Peter did appear to be more cheerful, at least, if his chattering was anything to go by. As usual it was an interesting view into Peter's life and profession, something Nathan and the family knew or cared little of. Now if only he could concentrate on it, he'd be set. Surely Peter was not that heroic to want to 'help/heal' out of guilt – that was a fucking joke.

For someone who worked with tiny things, band-aids were an annoyance – one Sylar avoided whenever possible due to the lack of adhesion, flexibility and dexterity required for brain-panning and watch repairs. Sylar supposed he could see how 'covering someone in band-aids' (if that was what Peter was so tickled about) would be amusing to Petrelli, but he personally missed the humor. _Come any closer with that friendly attitude, Peter, and I'll show you what else needs to be 'covered in band-aids'…_ And he would…if he somehow wrangled up the energy. Right now he was growing pleasantly comforted having his hand played with. Sure, there was very little touching actually going on, but the idea of it was what counted.

XXX

Peter released Sylar's hand, capped the ointment and gathered up the bandage backings for the trash. "You got any Tylenol or non-aspirin painkillers around here? They'd be a big help to you."

XXX

Some brattier part of Sylar's brain perked up and before he knew it or could care to stop himself, he was blabbing away, "Was that story supposed to mean something? I'm not the first one you've done this to so don't feel special?" If Peter was going to get chatty-Cathy, Sylar felt he should get on the train. "This is all a head game to you, so this is like…a fantasy?" He would leer here, honestly, but his face was uncooperative; Sylar managed a smirk.

XXX

Peter's mouth opened, but nothing came out. _What? A … a what?_ His rather pleased mood started crashing and burning as Sylar's accusation hit him like a punch to the gut.

XXX

"Not a very creative one. But that makes it all better – beating on me helps you sleep at night so long as you play medical hero enough to…what? Cover your tracks? You'd need to. If this is mental, you need to expunge your guilt, poor creature, by helping those you've wronged because your consciousness has a visitor and you have nowhere to hide. That explains the fucking band-aids!" Sylar held up his now band-aided hands up for display. It all made sense now.

 _Jackass_ , summed up Sylar's feelings for Peter at the moment. Hearing yet another story of how Peter abused a patient, didn't report it, went on his way with little to no guilt and still dared to call himself the perfect hero. Fucking Saint Peter. The hypocriticalism was staggering, the nerve. And what's worse: Peter pretended not to see or believe it. A real piece of work, Petrelli was. _Hating is okay to you so long as its 'all in your head!' This is the beginning of the end, I can tell._ Peter would not stop at mere beatings and death threats – guns and knives were all lethal, but there were millions of painful things to do to a body and mind if the abuser was creative enough, especially once that door had been opened. Sylar would know.

XXX

Peter recoiled from the verbal attack, hands up slightly in case it became physical. "No … no." _I did not want to start a fight with you earlier. I'm sorry I did. It_ _ **hurts**_ _. I didn't mean to … Why would you think I'd … Is he just unstable again?_ Peter looked at the bandaged knuckles, looking between them and Sylar's angry face. _Do I disagree with him? Argue? I said no fighting. Arguing might set him off. Agree then? I've already said no. What the hell was I saying 'no' to?_ "No, this isn't how I wanted things to work out. If it _was_ , I wouldn't have lost the fight. Or the one before that."

_He's angry because I'm helping him and I'm the one who hurt him. Maybe I am feeling guilty. Am I? (I'm the one who messed him up. I threw the first punch.) Does it matter? He's still hurt either way. Matters to him. Because if that's it, I'm **using** him. And I'll go away as soon as I get my fix because it's not about **him**. Is that what I'm going to do? Do I really care about him as a person and as a patient, or is it just because he's the only one here?_

XXX

Sylar muttered, grudgingly, practically pouting to himself, "Good point," fiddling idly with the newly acquired band-aids. That went and poked holes in most of his logic. So now what?

XXX

Peter stood up, looking worried, freaked out and off-kilter as he looked for something to do to cover his introspection and indecision. He searched around for a trash can, not finding one in line of sight from where he stood in the living room. He was reluctant to go wandering over to Sylar's bed or behind his desk to look, so he went in the kitchen instead. He dropped off the bandage backings and drew up a glass of water. He caught himself before he walked out with it, having been intending to offer it by way of placation, but all he could see that leading to was it being thrown or spilled if Sylar was still angry. He put the glass down on the counter and came out empty handed.

XXX

"Dude, what are-?" Sylar asked aimlessly, not expecting an answer – he didn't get one. Peter seemed to be looking for somewhere to put the wrappers, moving into the kitchen before Sylar could speak. Sylar wasn't horribly upset. He wouldn't be even if he were not concussed, no…he would be, about the kick and re-jarring his concussion, the whole throwing the first punch for answering a (probably rhetorical) question. What made sense to him was Peter using this as some sort of an angle and the intuitive had pretty much run out of angles to theorize about, aloud or otherwise.

XXX

Peter came to stand before the couch. "I didn't think the story meant anything. I was just talking. I've been … having anger issues, for a while now … ever since the … that … at that hotel, where you were." The Stanton. Peter knew it was called that, but he couldn't get the name out. _Did I subconsciously know about Nathan? Was that it? Or was it all that crap at Coyote Sands and how everyone I want to lay my fists into is either dead or memory wiped or my mother?_ "If you need an explanation of why I'm trying to help you, it's because I want to _help you._ I do not enjoy …" He paused, breathing harder and flushing a little, "hurting people. Even you. I promised I wouldn't fight with you any more today. Help me keep that promise, okay?"

XXX

Peter stood near enough and Sylar simply looked up at him, wonderingly. _What now? Just talking? We do that now? Without katanas?_ Sylar ducked his head, too quickly, aggravating his skull again, but bit his lip all the same to keep quiet…somewhat. _PETER having anger issues? What is this? Some sort of cop-out, bullshit excuse? Like he's never had a problem before? I know that's a fucking lie. Like I'm the person to talk to about it? Like we talk about this shit now? Well, we do when Peter has a problem – we talk about our feelings. My god…*I* am his therapist…Please, Peter, hit me again, I'm not hearing this right…_

Sylar couldn't help it, not when faced with that…segue (to phrase it nicely). He laughed; his shoulders shook before he allowed noise to escape, but escape it did, first a few muffled chuckles that he eventually couldn't hold in. Before he knew it, he was laughing outright, craning his head back to the ceiling for a moment and only then did he look up at Peter. _Oh, god…he doesn't like hurting me? Then why don't you stop, son, hmm? Don't bullshit a bullshitter as the saying goes._

XXX

Peter frowned at having his issues laughed at, then made to roll his eyes, which mostly involved looking up at the ceiling in mild disgust because his eyes and injured face wouldn't help him with the expression. His neck complained about the strain anyway. "Fine. Yeah. It's not that big a deal, I know. It's stupid." _I ought to have gone to therapy or something. When Noah Bennet starts telling you you're losing it, a person really ought to listen. Maybe it was just the accumulation of everything. I'm sure Sylar's had worse, so yeah, I'm sure I sound sort of stupid and pathetic, whining about something minor like … not being able to handle my own emotions. Same reason why I almost blew up New York. Doesn't seem so minor when you look at it that way. I wonder if that diabetic would have thought it was minor? Does Sylar think me punching_ _ **him**_ _was minor?_

XXX

"Ah, Peter," Sylar said with a sigh, not entirely finished laughing in Peter's face admittedly. Sylar reached out, slowly enough (but still too fast) for Peter's nearest hand, his right. "C'mere…c'mere…I won't bite, I won't fight, just sit." He led Peter around to sit beside him, close enough to mimic their position of earlier before Peter had risen. He put a hand on the other man's shoulder, pulling him nearer. With a deadly straight face, the exact opposite of the laughter, this time much closer to the medic, Sylar dealt with a sense of sarcasm and near-regret, his tone hinting at apology, "You're cute when you lie," and with that he pulled Peter's face closer to eye the untended cut on the empath's cheek _. If this is how we're going to play this…_

XXX

Peter glanced down for what Sylar was reaching for and wanted to jerk away as Sylar took his right hand, but he was too slow to react before Sylar had his hand wrapped lightly around the brace. _Shit!_ It was like leading a bull by a ring in its nose - the nose being such a sensitive part that the bull didn't dare pull away. Likewise, Peter didn't dare to try to extricate his broken hand. He ended up getting led back to sit on the couch, which was harmless enough even if the manner of getting there alarmed him.

Sylar talked to him and Peter listened, though it didn't calm him much. _Okay, what's going on here?_ Sylar pulled him in close and got serious. Peter tensed, sitting up straighter and giving resistance to Sylar's hand on his shoulder. Peter pulled his head back as far as his stiff neck would allow, his face showing his consternation at the unexplained proximity and even more at Sylar's intense, direct eye contact from only inches away. All kinds of signals fired up inside of Peter, most of them related to fear. _Whoa! What? I wasn't lying. Wait, I'm 'cute'? What the hell is he doing? I could_ _ **ask**_ _, stupid_. "Wh-what are you doing? Sylar?" He stopped pulling away when Sylar's gaze shifted to Peter's cheekbone and probably to the re-opened tear. _It's not bleeding again, is it?_ He found himself asking again, _What the hell is he doing?_ , with no better answer than before.

XXX

 _I can be the hero, too, Peter_ , Sylar thought. His head was a fucked up space at the moment otherwise he'd never have deluded himself with that type of thinking. What it boiled down to was 'anything you can do, I can do just as good if not better.' He supposed, as an afterthought, that probing and poking Peter's cut wasn't going help any; so he turned aside partly, keeping an eye on Peter in case he decided to squirm off somewhere. Reaching into the tote he took out a handy, stinging wipe, fiddling with the packaging until he ripped the top portion off, muttering, "Cleaning your filthy face."

XXX

 _My face is not filthy! Bloody, yeah, but that's because you beat the crap out of me. Don't be punching me in the face if you don't want it to end up that way_ , he thought crossly. But mostly Peter was starting to clue in that Sylar was seriously not all here. Peter remained tense, baring his teeth a little when Sylar brought to wipe to his face, his right eye (the only one he could see out of at the moment) narrowing down to a slit in case Sylar got too free with wiping that stuff around, or deliberately tried to poke him in the eye with it. Peter was still trying to sort out what Sylar was _doing_ , the man's answer to Peter's question aside. He wasn't sure he believed that answer and was waiting for the other shoe to drop – for Sylar to make the injury worse, push him away like he did earlier after messing with Peter's jaw, maybe sneer at him … _something_.

XXX

Sylar began gently patting the cut, which was oozing slowly now, both a clear-ish yellow fluid that would make up a scab later as it dried and some residual blood, enough to make him turn the wipe over. Meanwhile he held Peter's face still, his thumb under the man's chin, fingers over the ear. He didn't really give a crap about whether or not Peter liked it or minded. Peter's skin was soft with a hint of stubble under his palm, although the empath generally didn't grow enough in a lot of places to be mistaken for a grizzly any time soon. His head hair was very soft, somehow he knew it would be, less thick than Sylar's own, but very healthy and nice.

"I told you to stop bleeding all over the place." _Don't you know it distracts us mentally sick people? I'm pretty sure I said as much._ The wiping took longer than it needed to in reality, but it was the guy's face and Sylar wasn't exactly paying attention to the clock because the process was more interesting. Any squirming that went on wasn't tolerated and Peter was immediately brought back into place, albeit gently and firmly. Placing the wipe aside, he leaned over slowly for a band-aid, chuckling, "My turn!" as if Peter had it coming somehow. Sylar mostly just hated to be left out of anything, the whole reindeer games thing. He noticed that the band-aid in question wasn't big enough no matter which way he turned it, so he put in on vertically and deduced another bandage was in order. Procuring that, he repeated the same steps until the cut was covered.

XXX

 _He's really doing this?_ Peter remained stiff and difficult, what facial mobility he retained showing that he was not keen on this whole thing. The first time he jerked away and Sylar pulled him back over, Peter's breathing sped up and his left hand rose as though to interfere, but he stopped short. He wasn't _actually_ being hurt … well, aside from the inevitable little pains of having an injury cleaned and worked on, but that was par for the course. He'd tolerate that. It was the manhandling and the proximity that he was reacting to, but that wasn't quite enough for him to push Sylar away. Peter's hand brushed Sylar's shirt at the elbow and left it at that, a sort of reminder that he could be doing something about this other than wriggling and being tense.

He watched Sylar's face. The expression wasn't as intent as it had been when the man had looked at his jaw towards the end of the fight. Or maybe after the end, depending on where one drew that line. _Lousy bedside manner. Needs to make eye contact. Needs to ask, or at least inform._ Peter felt himself relax a little as his mind started to classify what Sylar was doing as just … bad people skills and not real danger. His lip quirked a little at the 'my turn!' comment and he watched as Sylar tried to apply the wrong size of bandage. _Get a two-by-two_ , Peter urged mentally, without actually saying anything. _They're in there. I saw them. Get one, double it over and tape it down._ Instead, Sylar applied the band-aid sloppily and vertically, so the upper adhesive patch was too close to the corner of Peter's eye. He cringed a little and tried to pull his head aside, intending to reach up and adjust it, but Sylar firmly put him back to apply a second bandage. _Just … let him. He's fucked up. He's … trying to help. I think._ Peter still blinked too much out of reflex.

XXX

Moving on to the unmentioned eyebrow, now scabbed over darkly, Sylar didn't clean the cut itself, but did a preliminary swipe of the skin surrounding the scab before placing a band-aid over that, too. Leaning back all of an inch, Sylar surveyed his work with a tilt of his head. "You know…you're the only one who really uses my name. Why's that?" His face was curious and a little wondering as he crumpled up the wrappers. Most users stuck to 'here boy, sit, stay, don't kill anyone' or used the wrong moniker, label, night terror, or a psychological term. But not Peter. Which was funny given that there was no one else the medic _could_ be talking to here, so why was the name so necessary? The hero didn't even really spit his name out like everyone else did, either, which was even more strange.

XXX

By now, Peter had eased a bit further. _Fine. Sylar wants to cover me in band-aids. Payback. Whatever. Maybe he thinks he's making fun of me_. His brows drew together slightly in puzzlement at the man's question. "That's … that's your name, right? Isn't that what you want to be called?" _Gabriel._ Peter caught himself, face shifting in realization and memory. He immediately followed with, "No, sorry. What do you want me to call you?" _Maybe he wants to be called Gabriel? I'm the only one who uses his name? What's that mean?_ He scooted back a little, turning and looking around for where his bag of peas had gotten to. He frowned at the bag's lack of frozenness, hefting it in his hand after leaning over and recovering it from the other end of the couch.

XXX

Sylar glanced up at the man, his eyes narrowing a little menacingly before his head lifted up at a more normal, conversational angle, "Yes. Yes," he replied calmly. _What's he sorry for? What's 'no' for?_ The faces Peter was making…but then the medic moved on, looking around for his own ice pack. _Weird_.

Blinking once, he took a second to think the question through, not in terms of…his desires _. 'What do you want me to call you?' Is that like saying he knows- What else is there to call me? He knows something I don't here or he knows what I know and won't say? What kind of answer is he looking for here, Bozo the Clown? Ass Face? Hey, Good Lookin'? Darth Sylar? Hannibal Lector? Oh, that's a good one, we'll really go for that. (Well, there's always 'Mr. Gray' if we wanted to be kinky…)_

"There's…more than one option to choose from?" He frowned, putting some emphasis on grilling Peter now. "You're the only one who uses my name in a sentence, to my face, to refer to me. Not 'hey, you' or…something." Really the list of 'or somethings' was pretty long so he aborted the rest of the choices. And, yeah, being called by, not only a real name, but the one that he preferred…it was a big deal.

XXX

Peter set the somewhat-thawed bag on his knee so he could reach up and rub under his chin, then brush the spot over his ear – both of the places where Sylar had been holding his head. It felt funny there – sort of warm, like a phantom sensation lingering on his skin. He tried to ignore it, running his fingers across the spots and giving himself something else to feel. Now that he was a little apart from where Sylar was sitting, he let his fingers move on to the band-aids, feeling out where they were. _That's got to be the lousiest bandaging job I've ever seen. Certainly it's the lousiest I've ever had._ He suppressed his smile. It was … cute … to use Sylar's own word. _And a hell of a lot better than fighting._

He looked up as Sylar resumed speaking. "Yeah … ha, um … in the future you asked me to call you Gabriel." _And I kind of doubt your parents named you 'Sylar', though I thought that was just your last name. But you say 'yes', I should call you that?_ He wasn't sure what to think about Sylar not getting the basic respect of even being addressed as a person by most people. Actually, no, Peter knew what he thought about that: _that sucks_. It was partly that, and the previous warmth at Sylar's attempt at helping him that prompted Peter's next words, but more than that was how he delivered them.

XXX

Sylar mentally amended himself as he remembered: _I suppose Mohinder calls me Sylar…but he's using it…wrong; he says it wrong._ Sylar nearly choked on his own saliva. _I did what? I never…wait. Future? He's seen my-_ The momentary natural shock and light sting of 'why didn't you tell me?' faded fast as it had been trained to do. "What?" Sylar growled out, aiming for a penetrating gaze that probably fell short, damn headache. _What did he see? Shit, he probably won't say. Or maybe he can't say. What, was I dying or something and asked him to put it on my headstone? I wouldn't even get a headstone, what are you talking about. What would ever induce me to ask him to call me that?_

The possibility of his future being seen (and not divulged) and having some of his original identity on the loose, perhaps even common knowledge…that was pretty horrifying. But what was there to do about it? He'd have to experiment with hitting Peter hard enough to make him forget. "That's not my name," he graveled out, deadly serious. That would wind Peter up in the hospital, apocalyptical world and no medical staff irregardless. Sylar had never been good at…delegating punishments or 'sticking up for himself' in any vaguely constructive form. All or nothing were his methods, violence and power. All the same, something was poking at his consciousness, something he'd forgotten regarding his semi-lie about Gabriel not being his name.

XXX

"You know, I don't know _how_ we missed it," Peter said, fighting an amused, warm grin that was hurting his face, "but I don't think you and I were ever properly introduced." He looked over Sylar's face as intently and with as much friendship as Peter would anyone he was meeting for the first time in a formal social setting – with a charisma and genuine interest in who Sylar was that Peter had a natural aptitude for displaying, as well as plenty of training. "My name's Peter Petrelli. I'd offer to shake hands, but …" He shrugged lightly, lifting his brows and indicating his injured right hand with a small wave. The well-practiced (for Peter at least) ritual tickled him and for some reason struck him as more of a peace offering than any amount of doctoring. He waited with an expectant expression for Sylar to carry out his end of the rite.

XXX

Peter's mood appeared to shift right back to perky (what was this boy on?), smiling and grinning. Admittedly that was much preferable to grumping, growling and accusing or that blank face, but it was all those were all understandable. What did Peter have to smile about?

 _How we missed what?_ Sylar thought before Peter explained it. He was following Peter's every move and word, waiting for the light bulb to go off, not realizing that, impaired as he was, he might not have the mental electricity available. Sylar froze and went still, then his head slowly tilted back a little. _Introduced? But how did we meet again? /They let me hold him in the hosp-/ No!...Homecoming. We didn't have time for that!_ While his mind raced through all this, both people in his head pinged that this might definitely be a sick joke, ongoing. _I know who you are_ …, he thought, quiet even in his own mind. _After everything we've…that's happened, you still want to… with me?_

Nathan recognized the look, had been on the receiving end many times as a lawyer and congressional candidate. Sylar was left floundering at what looked like a friendly, serious introduction, having never received that kind of attention – he'd never been deserving of it (introduction or attention of that nature), so why would it come his way? It screamed of manipulation because Peter was fucking with the natural order of things. People like Petrellis didn't so much as glance at people like him. Why now would he get something…unexpectedly nice? He absolutely couldn't deny whatever game it was, it was working – something twisted painfully pleasant in his chest and wound up feeling a little fluttery and luke-warm (while the rest of his nerves fought fires with chilled apprehension).

Sylar was left to blink, once and slowly, gauging the unfamiliar social scene directed at him. "Sylar. Just…Sylar." He quickly redirected his mind from how goddamn cheesy it sounded not to 'have a last name' but it wasn't like his watch came with a baby name book or a how-to-Villain's-guide. The damn thing hadn't even come with working insides. Glancing at the motions of Peter's braced hand, his own appropriate fingers twitched in social sympathy and habit, but he didn't move otherwise, though the fingerprints were now hooked on all things Peter-Petrelli's-face. Perhaps waiting for the 'and you killed my brother!' finale of violence made sense?


	26. Anger Issues, Part 2

Day 9

Peter made a small bob of his head, still smiling warmly. He could see he'd flustered and thrown Sylar. The damage control he opted for was simply to continue with the predictable pattern: "Well, Sylar, how do you do." It wasn't inflected as a question because it really wasn't one, not even rhetorical. It was just what was said. He waited a beat anyway in case Sylar had a response and then held up his left thumb, fist curled loosely. "Hey. We got through introductions without anyone getting punched in the face or horribly pissed off, right?"

 _Maybe there's hope for us yet. Maybe we won't kill each other._ He hoped, sort of forlornly in the recesses of his mind. But Sylar wasn't responding in kind, an absence of friendliness that at best left Peter feeling socially awkward and at worst threw Sylar back in the 'might be an enemy' category. Peter made a formless gesture towards the man, what might have ended with a shoulder pat had they known each other better, but without that bond it was just an abbreviated motion of intention without carry through. He was reading from Sylar pretty clearly the man's unease with Peter's … _(introduction? attempt to be friendly? trying to help?)_ … presence.

XXX

 _But I'm a murderer, Peter…and you know that. And you want to be introduced? How-? How do I do? You do this NOW?_ Sylar missed whatever tonal usage Peter had or hadn't employed, opening his mouth once to answer, but what could he say? _I'm in major pain because of you and my life's fucked up and so is the world. I killed your brother and here you are, treating me and introducing yourself like we haven't killed each other a dozen times? I never got any of that from geneticists and scientists, so why you, why now?_ Sylar closed his mouth, his emotions raging yet oddly contained, probably numbed by the force of them, which wasn't as unlikely as he'd like. _Why would he try to make me feel special now? What's the point?_

His gaping finished, he just stared at Peter in dazed wonderment or maybe dazed befuddlement. His face pinched in, his eyes briefly following Peter's 'thumbs up' as if he'd done something gold-star-worthy. Then he tracked Peter's gesture as it came close to him. What had that been?. _I just had to get a concussion to get an introduction? All…all we've been through to get that? And even then only from someone who's fucking ability is predisposed. This may never happen again. Someone looking at you like that, fully knowing what you are and using the right name that way. He must think I'm not going to remember this…_

XXX

What confidence Peter had been exuding began to flag in the face of Sylar's muted response. The idea that Sylar couldn't respond appropriately to a basic introduction was difficult for Peter to deal with. Not because he couldn't imagine that Sylar might have such a problem - that was part of the problem, Peter **could** imagine it, but instead because of everything it might imply about Sylar's history and his internal logic. Maybe Sylar was a murderer because he couldn't get past 'hello, how are you doing?' And Peter had no idea if that was cause or effect (despite how the angry part of him wanted to believe it was cause, the rest of him suspected it was more complicated than that).

It was deeply unsettling, leaving him sorry for Sylar and yet very wary about what it might mean to be trapped here with him. One thing was for sure - he wasn't treating Sylar like Sylar expected and that cast all manner of uncertainty on the possible reactions as a result. They were in uncharted territory.

"There's uh … you know, it might be that I, uh, have a lot of preconceptions about you." _Wrong ones, probably. I'm not saying you're okay, but … the dream seemed to indicate you_ _ **could**_ _be and you saved my life that once and …_ "I don't know." Too uncomfortable with the words coming out of his mouth, much less the direction of his thoughts, Peter stood up abruptly. Sylar had had moments of being good and Peter knew it. He knew Sylar had the potential to be a decent person for long periods … hell, maybe he was a decent person **now** , which was just too much cognitive dissonance for Peter to process so soon after losing Nathan.

Standing so fast was a little too quick for his sore body, but he tried to ignore the stiffness. He gathered up the bag of peas and took them into the kitchen for delivery into the freezer before they were too far gone. _Just … change the subject. I don't want to talk about any of that anyway._ "Um, I think I missed your answer earlier. Do you have any Tylenol around here? Aspirin is off-limits for concussions, but Tylenol won't hurt you."

XXX

What was there for Peter to be preconceived about? Sylar just shrugged. _Everyone has them. They're not worth correcting because you won't believe a word I tell you. You can't test or check- up on anything I tell you, so I have no solid proof and the only thing you have to go on is your own memory as a witness. And victim. Besides, Peter didn't want to talk._

"Yes, I've got Tylenol!" Sylar tried to snap and failed as his voice cracked and dipped into a whisper. He was badly stung that Peter…gave up, all the same, on the conversation _and_ the proximity. Sylar had no right to be hurt. Peter's behavior made no sense, not a lick. Sylar hadn't kept up the conversation, but it was like speaking Mandarin – he had no idea how. How could Peter do it either? That didn't mean 'Mandarin' was…so bad…

XXX

Peter, too, felt like he was speaking a foreign language to Sylar, who was only getting bits and pieces and misunderstanding the rest. So Peter, at least, tried to shift things back to a subject he was more comfortable with, something where he was in control and felt like he was contributing something worthwhile. He could try to alleviate pain and try to make things better. Sylar would want that, right?

Peter walked back out, giving Sylar a look of concern for his brain injury. "Your head has to be killing you. Tylenol will help. And even if you don't want it, I'll take some." He adopted a slightly different voice like he was quoting someone, "'Pain management is an important part of medical treatment.'" He looked at Sylar's blotchy, bruised face and felt a strong urge to be helpful somehow, rather than useless and the cause of someone else's misery. "Can I …" He gave himself a little shake. 'Can I help you?' and 'Can I get you anything?' were too open-ended. He didn't know what he'd get as answers and … well … this was Sylar. Peter was still way too wary to even speak freely. "I should just go get the pills," he muttered grumpily.

The previous small twitch of Sylar's fingers like he might have been willing to shake hands nagged at Peter's mind - how abortive it was, and how he'd apparently unsettled his companion just by trying to say 'hi' the wrong way. _Why am I so fucking insecure about this? 'You're the only one who uses my name in a sentence, to my face, to refer to me. Not 'hey, you' or…something.'_ That was bothering the hell out of Peter, but he had yet to be able to consciously articulate it to himself.

XXX

Sylar stared at Peter like he'd lost his marbles. This was a hallucination, that was it. _That_ at least made sense. _Get me outta here_ , was what he thought of the situation. _He cares about my pain now?_ Peter stood there, bugging him still about the damn pills like they mattered, so Sylar lurched to his feet. Angry and confused, he was too weirded out to direct Peter to the bathroom. Keeping a hand along the couch, he half hoped to do just what Peter claimed to fear – bash his brains out on something.

His hands were on autopilot and so they caught him at the bathroom's doorjambs, leaning in over the sink and scrabbling to open the mirror cabinet. _Just give him the pills and make him leave, he's only here for the pills!_ Looking at the blurry boxes and bottles, he spotted one with a big yellow-and-red 'T' on it and snatched it up. Absently he'd wondered what the difference was between aspirin and Tylenol…something to do with fevers or blood pressure? Turning he held it (the Tylenol) at arm's length as he leaned back out from the bathroom. _Stupid Peter, surely knows his way around here by now to get fucking pills. He hit his head again, I hit him too hard. Of course my head fucking hurts!_

When Peter was too slow for his taste, he rattled the box at him – he would throw it but the top was opened and that would get pills everywhere.

XXX

Peter felt an almost tangible discomfort at the expression on Sylar's face. _We're not understanding each other. He's pissed at me. I'm not making sense to him. Hell, I don't make sense to myself! At least, not really … What the hell am I supposed to do, Sylar? Give you a fucking do-over? It's not happening. I can put a polite face on it for however long it takes, but in the end, you still killed Nathan and no telling how many other people. I can be nice. I can act nice. But inside I'm still too fucking angry to stay that way!_

Peter winced and raked his hand through his hair, his unhappiness beginning to take on a desperate edge as the desire to hate Sylar for being a monster conflicted with the need to treat him as human. Belatedly, he followed Sylar in case the man fell, though he was already staggering into the bathroom. _What's he doing? Going to the bathroom?_ Peter tried to assess Sylar's stability and hoped the man had enough sense to give up on urinating while standing for a while. Bathrooms were generally a whole collection of hard, unyielding, dangerous surfaces. Peter hadn't been a hospice nurse for very long - a mere six months - but it was enough time to help plenty of people with getting up and down in bathrooms and from beds to portable commodes. He didn't think Sylar needed the help as long as he took it slow and respected the limits of his balance.

At the moment, though, the toilet seemed to have no interest for the other man. Sylar was pawing through the medicine cabinet and it took Peter a moment to realize why. Sylar jammed the box of Tylenol in his direction and Peter hesitated, not sure how to respond. He was reading the anger. He felt guilty for having caused it even if he wasn't sure what he should have done better. Sylar rattled the pills patronizingly and Peter reached out to take the box immediately, looking down for a moment and exhaling.

"Come on … Sylar, come on," he said gently, stepping forward and putting his hand on Sylar's elbow, still more afraid than he thought he should be that the slightest misstep was going to put them fighting again. Or rather, put Sylar fighting. Peter intended to surrender and give up completely if attacked, retreat maybe, but he'd promised not to fight and he intended to keep that promise. He tugged at Sylar's elbow, offering to support him on the way back. "Come on. Let me get you back to the couch. I'm sorry about earlier. I guess I was rude. I didn't mean to piss you off." In a voice that was contrite, sincere and even more heartfelt than he wanted it to be, Peter said, "Can you just let me help you? Please? I want to help. It's either that or go … away. Let me help, okay?"

XXX

Great, now Peter was annoyed with him. The man had no idea how lucky he was that Sylar wasn't up to acting on his own frustration, although screaming was still an option. Sylar remembered how Peter had been inside Jesse's body before Sylar killed the inmate for his ability – that type of scream was what he envisioned and he was sure it would be most gratifying. Instead Sylar sighed quietly when Peter urged him with the hand. He released the doorjamb and took a step with Peter.

To the apology (that seemed to come from out of nowhere): "Whatever. It isn't as though you're unentitled. I'm a big boy, Peter," he looked at his momentary support, "I'll manage." That was as much to say 'I understand'. Then the medic was threatening to leave if Sylar didn't…what? Play the role of the patient? He stiffened, but not dangerously, at the implication as they walked the short distance back. _Do what you want, clearly, its not like I can stop you. I can't sleep, piss or eat with you here and there's nowhere in my apartment for you to get comfortable. I really just want to know what you want from me!_

XXX

Peter was looking down as much as he could manage while still being aware of Sylar's expression, still trying to be alert for a mood change or a reaction that might be dangerous. Worse than the physical threat was the emotional. He'd beaten Sylar up. Even if Peter had taken blows in exchange, he knew what he'd done was wrong; he felt sorry for Sylar's state, he knew Sylar needed his help, Peter felt lousy for having put Sylar in the position of needing his help especially when Sylar so clearly didn't want it and would rather suffer than allow it … and Peter felt worthless and dejected that he wasn't even good company. He wanted to do what he could to fix that.

XXX

What Sylar wanted was his cot, his bed, but Peter completely stripped away any comfort it might have and it now presented more hazard than safety. Sylar turned them back towards the couch and another round of annoying conversation. _I can see why you annoy your family. And why none of us would get along at the holidays_. It almost hurt his eyes for the muscles to keep his lids open and the sliding ricochet of pounding pressure in his head was officially redundant. He sat and left Peter to his own devices.

"What do you want me to do, then, Peter?" he parroted back without much inflection, some time passing between Peter's declaration to help and Sylar's reply; that honesty again biting him in the ass. _He asked for pills, so I got them._

XXX

Feeling chastened by Sylar's flat tone and the man's obvious acquiescence under duress, Peter squatted down in front of where Sylar was sitting on the couch. He ignored the little warning bells that told him he could get kicked here. He grimaced and shifted, unable to ignore as easily the pain from his hip. He held onto the arm of the couch for balance and looked up at Sylar, getting eye contact and putting himself in a lower, subordinate position relative to the other man. That was his nurse training at work, but it also suited what he was trying to do, which was not exactly an apology, but at least an explanation, and an answer to the question Sylar was asking.

He started to speak, then shut his mouth and looked - really, really looked at the guy. It was probably rude as hell, or something, but … the face Peter was looking at was human, very human. Not a caricature, not a villain, but a human being, a patient with regular, even features, blotchy skin and forming bruises, unhappy, stressed and pained. He distantly noted that pupil size was equal - that was a good thing. All Peter was doing was looking, with a slightly puzzled expression of interest. His eyes slowly drifted over Sylar's face until Peter swallowed, blinked and looked down at his left hand on the arm of the couch, his fingers twitching restlessly because of his complicated emotions. This was someone **he'd** hurt; it was Sylar and he **still** wanted to hurt him; and it was someone who needed his help, someone who was hurting and not just physically. He felt sorry for Sylar. He felt angry at himself. He was still, of course, angry at Sylar. That last wasn't going away any time soon.

XXX

Peter crouched right before him as he sat on the couch and his eyes went wide and stayed that way. Was Peter going to break an ankle or cave in his knee this time? That entire bullshit about not hurting him was…well, it was completely overlooked as untruthful. Besides, what good would that so-called 'promise' do him the next day when he woke up? Twelve hours of truce, perhaps, but when the next dawn came around…Peter would be in his apartment while Sylar (most likely) slept. Talk about a free-for-all.

To make things totally better, Peter stopped himself from speaking to stare at him. "Sorry, next time I'll wash my face, too." _But you told me to stay down._ Sylar was all-too-clear on the fact that this, his original face, could provoke violence of its own accord. _Violence on sight. Huh_. Prolonged staring was…what was it? He didn't and wouldn't know. The 'I'm-checking-for-foaming-at-the-mouth' look wasn't strictly limited to Peter or Peter as a medic so it could mean anything. He was well and truly sick of those looks – the ones in Level Five. Rabid dog seemed an accurate, expected description.

Peter's…posture strangely reminded him of being a child – being sat down and delivered some sort of speech from an adult and it was never the 'I'm proud of you' type of thing, it was always bad news. It was that same kind of false positioning (that illusion that he was bigger, taller than the other person) that was designed to make him feel better, feel in-charge, right? That wasn't really the case.

Sylar could feel his face stiffening up from the fight, but his mouth tensed and his jaw locked shut anyway as he stared back at Peter. The empath, if anything appeared questioning and had, as yet, asked nothing. It wasn't a disappointed, disgusted or even an angry look which would have made since given Sylar's last words. One of the medic's hands had caged him in on his right side and suddenly Peter was looking that way. Just like that. Inspection over. No further interest. No wonder no one could keep up with Peter, he was like a freaking whiplash.

XXX

The right corner of Peter's mouth curled slightly at Sylar's comment, but then his face returned to soberness. "Sylar," he said in a low voice, looking back up at him and being sincere. "If I was getting what I wanted here, you'd trust me when I tell you that I'm not going to hurt you anymore today. You'd let me try to help you. You'd relax a little and get some rest. I've …" Peter's eyes lost focus as a vision of Nathan, curled around a bottle, slumbering fitfully in Peter's bed, flashed before them. _That was_ _ **him**_ _the whole time, Sylar, who I sat with in Nathan's office, flew with to that storage center and then on to Texas. That was Sylar who sat there at my dining room table and told me I'd never be able to look at him as Nathan without seeing … this face instead_. Peter twitched with the force of it, trying to shake it off because of how uncomfortably _brotherly_ it made him feel towards Sylar. It was like they'd had some really bad times, but relied on each other and … pulled through? But the sin had already been committed - Nathan was already dead. Neither of them had known it and that left Peter feeling lost as to what was appropriate. He just knew that he'd had moments there with Sylar when they hadn't been at each other's throats and that gave him a bitter sort of hope.

He focused once more on the man in front of him. "I've watched you sleep before. Here … and _before_. You were safe. I promise you you'll be safe now. I didn't come here to kill you. Or to get revenge. Or to torture you or mind-fuck you or drive you crazy. I came here because I'd been shown that you would save people and … I believed that was possible. So here I am. I'm an idiot sometimes." His eyes fell and he looked aside rather than at Sylar's belly, knees or groin. He was a hopeful, too-hopeful idiot who thought he could change the world (Sylar included, himself included) if he just tried hard enough.

"Or maybe a lot of the time." He pursed his lips, his rising dissatisfaction with himself prompting him back to 'nurse' mode where he felt he could do something worthwhile. Standard bedside manner included telling your patient what you were going to do, so he did. "I'm going to get you some water. I'd like you to take some Tylenol. I'll bring you a new ice pack. And then I'll back off and stay out of your hair unless you n- start moving around." _He's not going to admit he_ _ **needs**_ _me. For someone who's gone through whatever he has, and most of it alone, he's probably right and he doesn't_ _ **need**_ _help. But that's kind of like saying you don't need it to be comfortable in a room - sure does make things better if it is._

XXX

 _Trust you? Like Nathan did?_ Sylar immediately began grousing what he, apparently, couldn't voice. His eyes glazed over as he did absorb Peter's words, yet they were too…He disbelieved them. _I AM letting you help me! That's why I asked what you wanted! You can play hero, fine, but you are not rescuing me, got it? Then you want me to relax while you sit there and stare at me like a bloodstain you'd love to be rid of and can't figure out how? You must make all your dates feel this special._

Peter jerked at something, probably just a twingeing muscle, Sylar assumed, and then dropped something that would have been amusing. _You pervert, watching me sleep. Thanks for clearing that up cause I was real worried about my virtue._ At the same time, Sylar knew Peter's word was…as good as the poor empath could generally live up to being. The guy was still human and an empath with a murdered brother. Sylar decided he had little choice but to trust it, but he did not, by any means, trust it very far.

 _How many more bullshit, contradictory phrases can he lay on?_ Sylar was appalled to think that there may be no end to them. _So this isn't revenge? Or torture for what I've done? You just…felt like it? Oh, right, anger issues. You're already driving me crazy – have done since Stanton, you little prick. Just say you don't know why the hell you do shit! That's the truth!_

Sylar just nodded, mostly answering the 'I'm an idiot' part, but it covered his blanket emotions. He felt a tingle throughout his form anyway as Peter keep shifting his gaze around, down and then away, aware that he was a little bit vulnerable sitting here like this. "The second one," he chipped in quietly, helpful as always.

Peter's whole attitude of…nurture was only making Sylar's natural response that much more resistant; he was getting 'Mom' vibes but Peter was phrasing things specifically to be polite. And Sylar _had_ asked. He wasn't being left with much choice – Peter could decide for Sylar to choke on said pills and force him to drink the water.

XXX

Peter patted the arm of the couch (another intention motion of kindness where he should have been patting Sylar but remained averse to touching the man for no reason other than soothing) and stood, moving off to the kitchen to retrieve the glass of water he'd drawn up earlier. He returned with it immediately, offering it, trying to make himself useful, trying to win Sylar's _approval_ of all things through humility and service even though he knew that was stupid and probably futile, maybe even counter-productive.

Peter rattled out a medium-high dose of pills, thinking about Sylar's probably mostly-empty stomach. _And he likely won't want to eat anything for a while due to the concussion, aside from the fact that his mouth probably hurts. I tagged him a couple times in the face. Maybe he could eat some crackers or bread, because this many Tylenol might give him a stomachache? Wait, that's when he threw up last time … when I started eating those crackers. Huh. Yeah, definitely no food for now_.

He offered the pills to Sylar and tried to sweeten it with a peace offering that might matter more than some pills Sylar already owned and had fetched himself, or the looking-after Peter didn't think Sylar wanted even though Peter was desperate to give it. He offered something he thought Sylar **did** want. "Maybe we can play one of those board games tomorrow. The ones you mentioned the other day. I think you said Clue, like, three times."

XXX

Sylar felt his muscles tense as Peter patted the couch, again, one of those basic parental gestures that just didn't, well, sit well with him. Sylar was left to sit and stew some more with all this would-be goodwill going on. _He is real guilty about something._ He didn't need Nathan to spot that, although why Peter need feel guilty was beyond him. _He's sure as hell not sorry he endangered your life, why would he be? He'll do it again tomorrow because, oops! He forgot._

The other man returned with water, which Sylar took when it was offered, and stood there and portioned out the pills. Incompetent and childish described his feelings at waiting to be served his medications – Oh, Peter was getting a kick out of this, surely. Sylar's lips pursed up like he'd been sucking on a lemon because Clue was just the final straw.

"Think I'm up for that?" he asked, half-rhetorically with some sarcasm before his voice shifted to firm, "You need to relax, Peter. Guilt, your hero itch, buttering me up, having a laugh, maybe I hit you too hard, whatever it is. If anything, I'm not thrilled to have you trying to kill me when I've done nothing on the level of that. Because you are reminding me of my mother with this hovering and if I'm relaxing, _you_ are relaxing or no one's getting relaxed." Of course he'd like to play a game with Peter, but the timing coincided with whatever weird behavior the man was displaying – the motives stank of a rat. Probably a guilty one.

XXX

Peter blinked at him uncertainly. Sylar's tone was coherent enough, but the words weren't making sense to Peter. His mind snagged on what was, to him, the most important thing: "I'm not trying to kill you." He looked at the pill box in his hand thinking Sylar must have thought Peter had given him a dangerous dosage or something, recalling the single pill Sylar had reluctantly taken when Peter had offered them days before. "It's Tylenol. You're not going to die from Tylenol. It's aspirin that interacts badly with a concussion – prevents clotting, increases brain bleed, that sort of thing. All these should do is decrease your perception of pain a little, sort of dull it out and make it more bearable." Peter felt he was being unfairly accused of something that was pretty serious. If Sylar thought he was trying to kill him, then that explained the continued defensiveness and disjointed, odd read he kept getting off the man.

Peter remained confused. Even now Sylar's voice didn't sound alarmed or upset like it should if he thought Peter had just fed him poison (and if he did, then why had he swallowed the pills?), or was waiting for him to go to sleep so Peter could … what, suffocate him? Peter's face drew together in lack of comprehension as he considered what else Sylar had said. _Relax. Fine. I can relax if that makes him feel better._ He looked around the place, settling on the chair behind Sylar's main work desk as the most comfortable looking place to sit, aside from the couch. He expected Sylar to stretch out on the couch and if Peter sat on the opposite end, that would make that impossible. It would be more convenient if Sylar would move to his bed and let Peter have the couch, but he wasn't sure how he felt about racking out on it in the same room as ... _I suppose I'd be safe enough …_ the more he thought about it, the less settled he was.

He shoved that out of his mind and went to retrieve the desk chair, moving it out to where he could sit opposite Sylar.

XXX

All there was to do was close his eyes – he couldn't roll them. Sylar tried rubbing his face, but grimaced and left off with a hiss due to the hurt. _Good God, Peter…He's fucked up, too. He's fucked up, let it go._ Of course Peter would misunderstand, whether on purpose or not – Saint Peter was no murderer. "My God, Peter…just…go sit. Sit and… _shut up_ ," Sylar's tone was exasperated, his last words were close to pleading as he pointed in the direction of the chair/desk/bed, never mind that the man was already moving towards them. To himself he muttered, "To think, I need you to tell me what a painkiller does."

XXX

Peter took his seat, trying to 'relax'. Now that he tried, consciously, to settle down, he realized how incredibly wound up he was. He had to fight the urge to get up and go get himself a glass of water so he could take some Tylenol, to go to the bathroom and adjust the band-aids on his face, to go to the kitchen and get a new ice pack. He didn't need to do any of those things, but they sprang unbidden to his mind the moment he tried to calm down. He fidgeted, frowning, looking at his own knees as his left hand gripped the arm rest anxiously and his right rubbed back and forth uneasily. He wanted to be _doing_.

XXX

Peter relocated the chair to sit a few feet from Sylar on the couch and he saw the medic's muscles unlock and only after he saw that did he allow his own body's tension to ease somewhat, gradually decreasing the strain over the course of minutes. Any words of comfort he would offer would leave his state or intentions vulnerable: 'I'm in no condition to hurt you; I'm not going to kill you.' He could tell Peter to relax…and stop that fucking offbeat twitching he was doing. Sylar's posture slid into what could be described as a sag in the couch, fully intending to later turn and lay semi-comfortably.

Doing his best to re-scan the previous topics in the conversations, Sylar alighted on one of interest. Peter seemed happy when talking so maybe that was the trick. "So…" he said lowly into the otherwise-silence that descended, "Anger issues, huh?" His gaze was kept purposefully lenient and centered at Peter's sternum, occasionally glancing to his eyes. _Weird…once I lay down, this is going to be a reverse of 'lay down and tell me about your childhood.' I know a thing or twelve about anger. It's not something really…describable._

XXX

Peter let the silence pass as Sylar didn't immediately speak. His many aches and pains spoke louder in the quiet. When he'd been on his feet moving, focused on the next thing he needed to be doing, it was easier to ignore them. His thoughts kept turning to an ice pack, or taking another dose of pills. He stayed in the chair though. When Sylar sagged, Peter finally gave himself permission to relax as much as he could, which was downright painful. He wasn't surprised at the visceral reminder of how much his mood and state fed off of and was linked to that of another. He let out a deep, slow breath and leaned back in the chair, settling in. His eyelid drooped, but he wasn't feeling sleepy. He was just echoing Sylar's posture.

"Anger issues," Peter repeated. _Sylar wants to talk … now?_ Peter had been desperate for it earlier, rattling off his story and then trying to recover from whatever offense that had caused. Relax, go sit, shut up and now an invitation to talk? It wasn't nearly as nonsensical to Peter as it looked on the surface. His mind strung those words together and came up with the explanation that Sylar wanted control. Peter had stripped that from him and the man had responded badly. First time now that Sylar had told Peter what to do and Peter had complied - and things were settling back down. It didn't seem like a coincidence. _Control issues?_ He pondered it, trying to figure out how to make the jigsaw pieces he knew of Sylar's personality fit together.

Of course he had his own issues to worry him, but he didn't puzzle over them. Peter knew what was going on there. Maybe Sylar didn't, though. So he decided to tell him. It probably wouldn't screw things up any worse than anything else he'd done.

"You know my life. Or part of it, at least." He scanned over Sylar's face, then looked off to the side, as though perusing one of the many stacks of books. "I always wanted to do something with these abilities, to make a difference. A good difference. Sometimes it doesn't seem like there's any point. To trying." He'd put all those newspaper clippings of people he'd saved on his wall to remind himself that there _was_ a point. He _was_ saving people. He _was_ helping. Every day. It was just so hard to internalize that when he was doing it alone and in secret. He exhaled heavily. "Who could I talk to about it anyway, and try and figure out what it is I'm supposed to be doing? Nathan?" He chuffed a laugh, which hurt his face. Peter grunted and gave a grimace that turned into a snarl, an expression much more due to his anger at his brother than the pain. "We've already seen _his_ answer to abilities," Peter growled out.

"Ma?" he sneered. "Her idea of a sound moral decision isn't anything I'm on board with." He stared up at the ceiling, trying to shed the anger before it got too deeply entrenched. "Who else is there? Claire? She's got her own problems. She doesn't need mine. And then … no one else. Just people who don't know me real well." _Like Emma._ "It's gotten to where I just … don't talk to anyone. Not about anything that matters." He gave a forced exhale.

"Didn't talk when Ma started having dreams about Emma. I didn't press her about it; I didn't try to talk it out; I didn't try to reason with her. I just took her ability, without even asking, over her objections, and used it. I did the same thing with Matt. I didn't ask him what you were doing here or what he was trying to do. I didn't ask him how to get back out before getting in here. Didn't trust him. Wasn't listening. Didn't try to understand. I just jumped right in, and here I am. Nothing else to do now but talk, I guess." He sighed, defeated by the situation. His eye wandered back to Sylar's. "That, and beat the crap out of each other."

XXX

Sylar tilted his head after Peter had looked away. The man was acknowledging it; how interesting. He kept his mouth shut as there were lots of things to say to what Peter spoke or felt, doing his best to absorb the information. He felt a surge of…anger and, strangely, disappointment at Peter for…well, losing faith; Sylar knew how important 'a good difference' could be and how rare it was. He reined in on the desire to smack sense into Peter for daring to think that, because, geez, if Peter went nuts, how would Sylar fare? Peter and his efforts were more pivotal than the poor guy realized. Hell, look at how well the little pest had gotten in his way time and time again through sheer, dumb, flying-by-faith luck. So help him if the kid ever got smart and actually planned out his moves.

Sylar made a sour face. Nathan and his plans, ha. Problem was, the idiot meant well, he really had. Public service was, in its own way, helping those who could not help themselves because they lacked the backing and money and experience to be lawyers and senators. So in a way…Nathan had tried to do what Peter was trying to do, just in a different way, very different. Nathan looked so far ahead, he forgot the details; Nathan's problem was having his head stuck so far up his own ass that…Nathan's problem was not listening to those with more power than himself. Namely Peter. In the real world, Peter was a pretty low schmuck compared to Nathan, even for all their money the younger man refused to take. But inside, in that annoyingly simple-yet-mystifying brain of his…Peter held, debatably, more power than anyone save Arthur and Sylar himself. And his heart was in the right place even if he lacked…the occasional glimpse ahead for personal risk-taking. Peter looked around only when it was in the moment. Yes, Sylar knew about his life.

Sylar cast a baleful glare, the strongest he could muster (which wasn't saying much) at Peter, who was checking out the ceiling, at the mention of Angela. He agreed so much it was scary. That woman…well, she never took her head out of the clouds to see the world below. A woman who would, quite willingly, kill her own sons and abandon them in their moments of need was hardly a mother at all. When said woman had the power to see the future? Well… All three men, the two Petrellis and Sylar, were, to varying degrees, irate at Angela for her favoritisms and her neglect of Peter and testing on Nathan…and then there was the lying at Primatech and brain-rape at Stanton.

Claire? Dear God, that idea was laughable and Sylar choked off his chuckle. That girl chose to be in her problems. The world revolved (quite literally apparently – "Save the cheerleader") around her and if she chose, she could very well halt it – Bennets, Petrellis and all. The only insight he'd ever managed to….manipulate from her wasn't aimed at him; it hadn't been thought out, it was a stream of psyched out, terrified, warped, overly-emotional blonde-gushing intended for (of all things) her "girlfriend." One thing and one thing only had that girl ever had to say of substance and that was AFTER four years of him trying to get help…more or less. Noah and Matt, Mohinder maybe? (now there was a thought), this Emma girl…friendships could be cultivated, right?

Peter kept on, so he listened some more to a truly familiar tale, only the empath's had more viable options in it. "Funny how I'm supposed to get therapy when you can't even get someone to listen to you about your feelings. And they like you," Sylar snorted, shaking his head. His voice was observing, no more, although he'd nearly said 'when you can't even talk to your own mother …' but they had that very much in common as well.

"About that…" Sylar was easily segued into something he'd meant to bring up. "Apparently this is my second concussion in a week. You wanna flex your testosterone, I'm all for it. But I swear to God, Peter, if you try to kill me again, and I count things like breaking knees and concussions, I will retaliate. I have been on what you heroes like to call 'good behavior,'" Sylar made a single, slow pair of air-quotes, quirking an eyebrow up mockingly, "you know, the non-homicidal gig. You'd hate for me to change that." _I am pretty good at killing people without powers. Just not so hot with the brawling._

XXX

Peter's brows tried to rise at Sylar's threat. It made his forehead hurt. He looked away instead and gave a small nod, giving in and agreeing rather than taking umbrage. He still felt that deep-seated urge to 'flex his testosterone' or whatever in response to it. Peter waited for several seconds, keeping himself calm and mulling over what Sylar had said rather than reacting to it immediately. He smiled slightly at how thoroughly skewered he was with that therapy comment. Feeling in possession of his reactions (or at least as much as he ever was), he shifted forward and said quietly, "I'm going to get an ice pack for myself and take some of these pills. Do you want anything while I'm up?"

XXX

 _There's a lot of things I want._ Sylar thought on it for a millisecond and decided no, an icepack wouldn't help his brutal headache. He would wait for the drugs to kick in. He waved Peter off lightly, sinking further into his seat at the offer, "No."

XXX

Peter rose stiffly and ambulated slowly into the kitchen, consuming an over-sized dose of Tylenol before liberating one of the extra ice packs he'd stowed in the freezer. As he walked back, he said, "Touché. About the therapy - touché. You've got a point there. You're just winning time after time today." Peter was being dryly sarcastic here. Sylar had won the fight - but he was far more messed up by it and hurt than Peter was. Sylar had a point about the therapy - but that only meant he was even more beyond help than Peter had tried to believe.

XXX

Sylar merely gave the equivalent of a facial shrug – acknowledging and moving on. It was sad and true and there was nothing to be done about it. He would admit that the wins were satisfactory but they meant so much less than it would have if the there were people still in the world. It felt like survival and as such there was no standard – it was just…them. It sucked more in that all they had to rely on was the past and all the negative encounters. However, without crowds and standards, maybe it left room for actual conversation. Case in point.

XXX

Peter settled back into the chair, carefully and slowly due to his aching muscles and a desire not to make any fast motions that might upset his companion. "I appreciate … your 'good behavior'," he said sincerely and he actually did appreciate it. Other than Sylar's mouth and the hurtful words that came out of it, Sylar had largely conducted himself fine. That had slowly been sinking in. Peter leaned back, applying the ice pack to his left eye. "Despite my opinion that if I got killed here, it might not be a big deal, that's a 'might' and there's no way for me to prove it without taking a huge risk. Which I'll take if I have to, but … if I was that suicidal, I'd have killed myself a long time ago. Well …" He tried to stifle a chuckle at the ridiculousness of the past, "more than I have."

XXX

Sylar scanned over Peter's face, taking his time as the man spoke. All he was doing was looking. Again, there were inconsistencies in Petrelli 'appreciating good behavior'. Sure that was probably natural, human self-preservation and all. Still kind of felt like a dog being patted on the head. "You mentioned that before," he stated quietly. Or at least that was the read Sylar gained from it, the potential for suicide or bad types of risks. God, no wonder Nathan was paranoid when it came to Peter – it was usually true! And the idea of Peter's death being somehow uneventful or missed somehow was stupid and funny. How many times had Sylar been in body bags, coffins or storage units, buried in the forest off some interstate, left to burn or rot, been someone else or been experimented on all while dead. James Martin, the shape-shifted dummy clone had not gotten what anyone in civilized North America would call a funeral or grave marker. The guy had been burned on a pyre as fucking Darth Vader as you please and all because Petrelli and Co. thought the corpse was Sylar's. Regardless of whether he liked the stuck-up jerk, Sylar would be having his own mental breakdowns if Peter died here and it would not be pretty. It was adding to his list of Things to Hate About Hell.

The manipulative side of him new exactly which angles to strike should Peter get…risky: remember the mission, and, perhaps, I need you/your help. Sylar knew he was playing with so much less than a full deck of tricks here; there were only so many things Peter needed or wanted now. In general, it would be safe to say that whatever method he chose to soothe the empath with would be a lie. Because he was not enduring another three years alone and that was it.

XXX

Peter shut his one remaining good eye and took a few breaths to try to center himself. He said, "But honestly, I wasn't trying to _kill_ you. I was trying to _hurt_ you." He hesitated a moment and said, "Okay … well … yeah, I didn't really care if …" He shook his head slightly. "Once we got to fighting, it was just anything goes, whatever it takes." Peter gave it a longer pause and cracked his eye to regard Sylar evenly through his lashes. "It doesn't have to be that way?"

XXX

The man across from him looked liked hell; he really did, now they were both calm enough to notice. How Peter made a swollen-shut, black eye with bruises, lacerations and some pretty wonky looking band-aids look good was beyond him. _Must be the bone structure._

"Hmm, right, of course," Sylar murmured, quiet and light but deeply sarcastic if Peter heard it at all. Sylar canted his head in almost a bowing nod of 'I told you so'. He knew Peter, in the heat of the moment, wouldn't care if he killed. Somehow the message that Peter needed him had yet to register but it was only a little over a week into the man's new confinement and he had yet to adjust. _Anything goes? You want me to rack your nuts and strangle you because 'anything goes'?_ Truth be told, Sylar would have to refrain from the true extent of his desires if it came down to Peter taking things too far. He planned on maybe tying the man up and humiliating him or something similar if pushed in the direction of living up to his threat. Clearly, Peter's fight-or-flight instincts were unreliable so using that as motivation would be unpredictable.

Sylar had no idea what the look in the man's one good eye meant, but the guy was so honest and open sometimes it almost begged to be fucked with. Catching the glance, he eyed the glass of water in his hand. _Water's probably okay_. He took a drink, aware that he hadn't had any liquids since he took the single gulp for pills a moment previous and his throat was a little rough. After that, Sylar just smirked at Peter, moving slowly to readjust his position on the couch, taking his time towards horizontal. He wasn't going to answer the question seeing as he'd already laid everything out. Then again…maybe seeing Peter sweat a few things would make Sylar's life interesting.

XXX

Peter waited … and waited … and waited for a response, a confirmation, an affirmation - something, something positive, something he could feel hopeful about. He got nothing. He was so disappointed in that, and angry at himself for looking for cooperation from _Sylar_ , of all people. He felt like he was offering a basic social contract and Sylar was refusing to sign up. "You are _**such**_ an asshole," he said finally, voice heavy with disgust. He shut his eye and leaned back a little further, adjusting the ice pack. He didn't care if Sylar knew his opinion of him, or since he probably already guessed, had it confirmed out loud. _I can't trust you. There's no reason why I should and that's basically what you're telling me._ Hate surged up in him and burned dully. Nothing much was going on to spike it higher - he was too tired and hurt to act on it without some outer provocation so he just sat there and let his thoughts wander.

'I will retaliate', 'good behavior', 'the non-homicidal gig' … Peter mulled it over with a sour expression on his face and didn't make much sense of it except that Sylar considered the beating he'd given to be okay and within bounds and something about the way Peter had fought had not been. It seemed possible, probable even this was just Sylar's own personal bias at work - 'what I do is right and okay, what you do is wrong and unjustified.' Everyone was like that to some extent. That Sylar might have an exaggerated case of it tied in with 'control issues' pretty well. _But how to work that? It's not like I'm going to lay down and let him win._

It kept irritating him, like a bad smell he couldn't quite find the source of. "Your idea of good behavior isn't working." He appreciated that Sylar wasn't physically assaulting him, but there was a lot more to 'good behavior' than that. _You insult my family, threaten me, taunt me about Nathan's death …_ Peter growled slightly and shifted in the chair, fidgeting because the emotions that came with those thoughts demanded action. "Maybe we should … just … talk about this another time, okay?" _Like tomorrow, when I can beat your asshole face in._ He didn't seriously intend to visit harm on Sylar again, but the man's failure to answer his question had really set Peter off. Peter was seeing it as a declaration that Sylar wouldn't play ball, or like Sylar was saying the next time they had a fight, it was still going to be knock-down, drag-out, fight to incapacitation. Peter would have liked the idea that he could cry uncle at some point (not that he tended to do that, but it was a nice option) and get a reprieve instead of beaten to death. He didn't have that assurance and it alarmed him, leaving him even more sullen and uneasy with his companion than he'd been before.

 _God, why am I trapped here with this guy? Is this a lesson about patience or humility or something? Why can't it be a lesson about wrath, huh? Come on, God …_ He sighed and gave the tiniest shake to his head. He wasn't being blasphemous - he actually wanted an answer to that one. If he just had a purpose, a goal, a mission, something he could hang onto … but he didn't. Not really. Everything was in limbo awaiting deliverance from this place, which was so distant as to may-as-well-be never. _Didn't Matt say something about 'you go in there, you'll never get out'? Great. Rest of my life trapped here. Maybe eternity._


	27. Couch Surfing

Day 10

After mutual glares had been exchanged and Sylar had adjusted the pillows on the couch to his liking, he'd settled in and dozed off fairly quickly. The doze turned into a much deeper sleep, even though it was anything but comfortable or restful. The nightmares were back. They had been spotty ever since Peter showed up but it was official – they were back.

At the end of whatever wacked-out sleep cycle he now kept due to the nap earlier, Sylar jerked awake and regretted leaving the nightmare for the pain his body still felt in reality. A loud groan escaped him as he partly rolled on his back before he noticed/remembered his "guest" had failed to leave. He glanced at Peter, still in his chair, and clammed up. The last thing he needed was Captain Moods on his case again. If the guy wanted it so damn bad, all he had to do was play doctor and frisk him up. Not that hard, right? (Heh). He could barely recall what had torqued the medic off the other night and he hardly cared.

Glancing at his watch for longer than he needed to he saw that it was the next morning unless time now stood still (he doubted it even if it seemed to). _Wonderful_. Peter was only dozing and so he woke up as Sylar did. _Even better. I don't want him here, especially if he's just going to be a prick, which I know he will be._ There were things that needed doing in the morning and he was anything but comfortable doing them with Peter IN his apartment. Peter the worst fear of every doorjamb in the place.

Sylar simply rolled back to his side, facing Peter and put on as calm (and arrogant) an expression as he could with pain radiating up and down his form, literally head to toes, but the pain centered in his braincase. "Awake, Sleeping Beauty," Sylar groused, his voice completely graveled from waking. _And don't expect any fresh kisses._ _Saving damsels is your shit._ Peter had offered him soup last night, which he'd refused since he wasn't hungry, but he was sure he was rank enough not to be cuddly. He cleared his throat, making a face. He'd slept in his jeans and coat and both were rather rumpled and dirty. _Ugh, on my couch…damn, Peter._

His voice a little smoother now, but still deep until he got some water in him…while he avoided all thoughts of water, Sylar flicked his eyes over his companion and purred, "Or are you the prince? I forget," and smirked a smirk that made his face ache. "Have you always been prone to breaking and entering? There are easier ways, Peter," he said just to annoy and insinuate. _Never had a sleep over before…Wasn't what I had in mind…_

XXX

Peter had been more active than Sylar knew. Shortly after Sylar had conked out in the evening, and hoping sincerely that Sylar stayed that way, Peter had gone home, cleaned up and gotten some shut-eye of his own. Concussion victims tended to sleep a lot, so he wasn't surprised when he returned to Sylar's apartment in the morning to find the man still asleep, mouth hanging askew. Peter figured Sylar's sinuses were probably giving him hell.

He stood in the middle of the room and looked around the place, letting his eyes roam over the books, the clocks, the paperweights, jars of gears, and collections of small tools. It was interesting stuff, following a theme and not nearly as haphazard as it looked at first glance. Peter wasn't exactly burning with a desire to check everything out (since the most interesting thing in the room, from Peter's point of view, was Sylar), but it was intriguing all the same. He took his seat, tuning out the noisy time-keepers and listened instead to Sylar's breathing. Lulled by the regular, soothingly human sound, Peter's lids drooped. Sylar groaned, twitched and made a few small, distressed sounds in his slumber. Peter cracked open his best eye to observe for a moment. _Bad dreams. With his life? No doubt. Poor guy_ , he thought muzzily. He let his eye fall shut again. There wasn't much he could do about Sylar's imagination and hopefully guilty conscience.

A louder, more purposeful groan caught Peter off-guard and he jumped, realizing he'd fallen asleep. He blinked rapidly and jerked his eyes to the source of the sound, who was awake and rolling over. Peter held very still, getting his bearings. _Nothing to worry about. Sylar's just waking up. Calm down._ His heart was hammering a little too hard for his liking, because being asleep in Sylar's presence was not something Peter was comfortable with. Sylar checked out his watch and issued a greeting. Peter made an ambivalent grumble in answer and stretched a little.

He smiled at Sylar's comment on B&E. _I like the sound of his voice._ It sounded especially deep to Peter's ear. _Not so sold on the arrogance._ "Well, you know, we paramedics have the authority to break and enter if we think someone's life depends on it." He had a lot of guidelines for what constituted an emergency befitting such a response. Cranky concussion victims didn't (quite) qualify. Though theoretically, if he thought Sylar had actually fallen and hurt himself, then kicking the door down to check was within bounds. "Don't worry too much though. If I get the urge to redecorate my apartment with clocks and books, I'll go find my own. What do you feel like having for breakfast a little later?" Peter had found some crackers to take with his morning dose of painkillers, but other than that he hadn't eaten.

XXX

The smile was cheering, genuine (from what he could tell – Peter's 'I'm fine' smile sucked). "I take it my life depended on it. You probably just wanted to snoop out my awesome apartment while I was out," Sylar gestured around the room. _He could have done a lot of things while I was out._ A host of evil and perverted things flashed through is head. Sylar ran an exploratory hand gently over his face and then through his hair to be sure nothing was there. _Feels normal. Need a shower, though. Great company I make. Like I care, I want him to clear out._

"You're such a charmer," he stated dryly. A glare was thrown Peter's way at the mention of doing things with his clocks and books; Peter was poking fun at the objects' existence, naturally. That wasn't an amusing joke or even an anecdote to someone dealing with the man who'd broken-and-entered his house twice now. It was a threat – 'I might come in the night and steal from you'. He was about to snark what he owed Peter for playing hero when the man continued to surprise him.

"Breakfast…" he said slowly, feeling out the word. /"You gonna make me some more eggs?"/ _What? But now how does this work? Offering to make me breakfast?_ "Um…" Sylar went on to stall, trying to feel out angles while inside a sphere – an apt description when it came to all things Peter. Breakfast…a good question. "I don't keep any arsenic in the apartment," another partial stall, "I'll figure it out when I get there," he waved it off vaguely. By that he meant 'I'll get something much later' and also to imply that he didn't want Peter fixing him food and not just for poison control. That would be awkward as hell, what was he supposed to do, lie there and wait? Peter was overkill on the whole hospice nurse kick, what's worse, where it came from, he didn't know.

XXX

A lot of quick quips in return about doing drugs and picking your poison came to Peter's mind, but it seemed wiser to keep his mouth shut. Sylar moved the conversation on anyway, saving him from temptation.

XXX

To distract…one or both of them, Sylar reached across his body to push against the couch enough until his trapped arm's elbow could brace him. The world twisted and the aching everywhere took on a new note of intensity. Sylar inhaled and closed his eyes against the dizziness. _Shit. Bad idea…what else am I gonna do? I have to go…_ He stayed still for a moment, letting it pass before he pushed off the armrest and sat upright. With his heart beating faster now, his body heat rose even though the room's temperature was less than toasty and Sylar suddenly felt dirty and uncomfortable in his over-night coat. Grunting to himself, he tilted his chin down, too fast, and raised his fingers to begin unbuttoning it. That done, he began the task of sliding out of the coat whereupon he discovered his balance would suffer or he would get stuck.

XXX

Peter watched quietly as Sylar sat upright. For the first few seconds he didn't think much of anything, then noticed Sylar taking too much time to be attributed purely to stiffness. _His balance is off._ Peter shifted forward, coming alert, watching in case Sylar tried something dumb like standing. This was mainly just training - Peter wasn't thinking of Sylar so much as 'Sylar', but as his patient, whom it was his job to keep whole and unharmed as much as possible. He'd only been a hospice nurse for five or six months, but that was plenty to be aware that his patient's biggest danger was falls. He'd been called on over and over as an EMT and paramedic to take care of those whose guardians had not been quite vigilant enough.

He watched as Sylar tipped too far for Peter's liking while trying clumsily to free himself from the jacket. With a grunt at the soreness of his own frame, Peter got himself out of the chair. He had a second, no more, to figure out how to handle this. There was a host of complicating factors here. Sylar didn't like him and didn't want his help. He was prone to be violent and Peter didn't have the option of calling in someone Sylar might be more cooperative with. It was very likely Sylar was not competent to protect and advocate for himself. Peter was afraid of him and didn't like him, yet he still felt obligated to help.

"Hey," Peter said gently as way of announcement as he stepped closer. Sylar didn't seem to have noticed him rising, Sylar having his head down and struggling with the outfit and all. Peter put a no-nonsense left hand on Sylar's right shoulder to help with balance while he bent to reach with his right for Sylar's cuff. "I'll hold you. You get it off." He didn't bother to ask permission because he didn't think it would be granted. The time the day before when Peter had gone directly and (somewhat) fearlessly to help Sylar stay upright, then walked him home, Sylar had surprisingly cooperated. Same with helping him back from the bathroom after Sylar retrieved the Tylenol. Asking seemed like an invitation to fight over it. Peter hoped that a matter-of-fact approach would work.

XXX

 _Eh?_ Sylar looked up, a little dazed, at the firm touch on his shoulder. He felt he could hardly breathe through his nose, as such his mouth hung open to catch the occasional breath he couldn't get through his nostrils as he paused in his squirming out of the hot coat. Blinking up at Peter, he swallowed just for some moisture in his mouth. No, not from Peter (Ha, Peter wished!) but from the mouth-breathing.

Fleshy fingers brushed his wrist to hold his coat's cuff. _Well…this is…not what I pictured_. He chuckled and that hurt, shook his head, leaning forward, and admittedly, it was awkward. He was putting his face nearer to Peter's abdomen in their positions, angles and heights. The tilt allowed his shoulders room to swivel and roll until the shoulder and left arm of the coat inched down his limb over his shirt. Sylar shook that half off, breathing harder than he should for such a simple task and that was embarrassing, but what was there to do about it?

He took a breather, disguised as pain – God, and he was sore, the motions triggering his bruised hip and gut. "I think I get why you do this," Sylar hinted, softly, conspiratorially. _He gets off on this, doesn't he? Literally. All this touching, gratitude? The guy even said, he's got legal rights to break into my apartment. He'd got access to medical equipment, drugs…Peter has a medical kink. So this is…flirting? What does he, well, want? Or expect?_

XXX

 _Oh? Well … you do? That's cool._ He was wondering if Sylar was saying he understood helping people out. But his tone was weird, though. The probability of real understanding faded as Peter thought, _He probably thinks it's a control issue_. When Peter had reached out to steady Sylar, the man had been essentially straight-jacketed by his own coat. It was part of why Peter had expected resistance. He'd gotten none, which surprised him. If it happened to Peter, a little panic wouldn't have been out of the question. Peter shifted a half step to the right, which put him so he wasn't directly in front of Sylar anymore, and made it easier to reach around him for the other cuff.

XXX

Peter's hand was still in place, the other shifting across his body to grab the remaining cuff and assist that off. Again, more contact when his neck met the man's hand on his shoulder or his wrist and hand met the guy's fingers. It still felt nice. _I mean, helping me out of my clothes is a pretty clear sign_. "You want the shirt off, too, while we're at it?" he inquired, half-seriously, staring up at his 'hero', keeping his expression wide and somewhat innocent and it wasn't a total act. It wasn't like any- Peter would ever know. _I think I'd asphyxiate if I tried to blow you right now, though, man. This breathing thing is overrated._

XXX

Peter's mouth opened as he started to answer that with an indifferent negative, but his voice failed him when he glanced down to Sylar's face. 'Oblivious' was not one of Peter's core traits. Even though he was pretty average in perception, Sylar's face was unmistakable in what Peter was taking as an invitation or a come-on. It was either that or actual gratitude, which would have hit Peter even harder. Sylar's expression made Peter's chest tingle and surge as whatever words he had been intending to say got jumbled. "Wr, nn-"

This wasn't helped at all by Sylar's scent wafting out as Peter helped pull away the man's jacket. The wash of warm, humid air was redolent of that unique odor of sleep. It read as: comfort. It reminded Peter of waking up next to someone, a more-intimate-than-expected association. More than that connection was that he hadn't had that particular pleasure in years, not since his memories had been blotted out. He'd ended up in Caitlin's bed out of lust and ignorance, his empathy dragging him into a relationship without consulting him – not that he would have been much help, to be honest.

XXX

 _That does not get old_ , Sylar thought of Peter's reaction. It gave him a rush to be cause of it. It meant he was on top, in the driver's seat, in control, running the show, calling the shots, however one chose to put it. And for a moment… the poor sucker had no idea what hit him. That was the best part. Peter was smarter, though, than the majority of Sylar's…past experiences. An empath, too, and that part was going to be tricky to get around. _Does Peter's ability even work now?_

His expression didn't change until Peter replied, or started to. Then he tried for a slight, brief grin. Peter was definitely caught off guard by it, given his stuttering. He was left staring up at Peter intently, keeping vast amounts of his own personal reactions caged behind his eyes. The rest of his jacket slipped off and he felt cooler air assault his shirt. Sylar was not in, what any average, rational person would call the sexiest state – unwashed, dirty and injured with a healthy side of 'psycho' and homicidal history. If anything, he seemed to detect Peter's body heating up, at least his hands did where they touched Sylar. Or maybe that was his, Sylar's, reaction or even the contact itself. _Interesting_ …Sylar crushed memories of Mama Petrelli helping him out of his Company jacket years ago in Level Five. Just no thanks.

XXX

Peter's head buzzed. He was very aware suddenly of his hand on Sylar's shoulder. It tingled, too. He was never so glad he had on a long-sleeved shirt, because he was pretty sure he had goose bumps. _Jesus, Peter! Get a grip._ "No, no, that's fine," he said, his voice tightly controlled as he attempted to discourage whatever it was Sylar was getting at. He cleared his throat slightly, aware of how obvious it was that he was flustered. He was embarrassed about how Sylar would take that, but there was nothing to be done about it now, so he soldiered on under the aegis of professionalism. "How about I help you to the bathroom and you can take care of things while I make breakfast, okay?"

 _He's just fucking with you. That's all he's doing. It's a joke. It's a ploy. We beat each other up yesterday. He accused me of trying to kill him. Just a few minutes ago he was talking about me putting arsenic in his food. He is not offering … whatever it is he's pretending to offer._ It was at least the second time Sylar had thrown something out there Peter interpreted as a pass. _It's just innuendo. It's meaningless. And even if it isn't … it's Sylar._ He eyed Sylar and swallowed, his face becoming more distant and wooden as he said, "I'll make some toast."

XXX

 _Huh_. The man declined, but his tone wasn't something Sylar could place. Disgust, discomfort, hidden interest, insult, it could be any of those things. All that might tell him was that Peter just refused to get into things with him specifically. Sylar couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved. It just meant more frustration because the majority of his go-to options had been exhausted. Peter had reacted and that boded well. For later, of course.

More frustration layered on him. He was again told No, but also suggested that he clean up. Breakfast afterward made no sense unless Peter was…somehow into sex-then-breakfast. The apartment was not the Ritz. Many replies filtered through him: _How about you just take my shirt off? Screw breakfast. You aren't my breakfast? What, you don't play with your food? Sex in the bathroom? Isn't that unsanitary for an EMT? Can't say I've ever done it in a bathroom_ _._ Peter was pretty stupid if he thought Sylar was just going to "clean up" and let Peter…do whatever – breakfast or breaking in.

Sylar's grin just widened until it neared smirk territory at the definite withdrawal and he reached out to brush his fingertips against Peter's wrist now in guise of taking his coat back. _All's fair_ … "Are you sure that's what you want? Toast?" He purred lightly, taking a brief second to eye Peter's mouth. He was fairly certain this was a fifty-fifty shot, but what the hell? He hadn't even turned the heat up on Peter yet and the poor guy was squirming. He couldn't wait to tease him with it.

XXX

Sylar's fingers stroked across Peter's wrist. _Oh wow, that feels good_. It didn't matter, though, and if anything, Sylar had moved into even such a slight intimacy too fast, given all the other complications. Peter's expression passed on from 'wooden' and headed over towards 'hostile' as his lips tightened and his eyes (eye, really, since the other remained swelled shut) narrowed. He pulled in air at Sylar's touch in a quick but steady draw. Peter gave a quick glance down as Sylar took the coat, and then looked up at his face. "Yeah," he said, his tone clipped and unwavering. "I'm sure that's what I want." He took one measured step back, removing his hand from Sylar's shoulder and putting himself mostly out of reach. It was a firm shut-down.

XXX

Sylar knew that answer was coming so it was of no surprise. It secretly stung the same as always but this time was a little worse. It got worse every time. This was someone whose regard he wanted. As if he could do anything appealing in the eyes of Petrelli's kind. Whatever libido he's been attempting to wrangle was crushed and that was probably for the best.

"If you say so," was his reply in spite of those thoughts, tacking on a heartless smirk, aiming to insinuate that they both knew better. He had not missed the change in expression. It was a more expected one anyway.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a wary once-over before turning and heading into the kitchen with strides that were stiff due to his hip, not his mood. He would have rather sauntered to show that he was unbothered and that Sylar hadn't gotten to him, but his body wasn't up to it. Over his shoulder he called casually, "But if you want something else, I'll see what you have in the kitchen. What did you have in mind - cereal maybe? I have a history of burning oatmeal, and you should probably stay away from anything greasy or heavy like sausage or eggs." Peter's performance was pretty inconsistent with pancakes and waffles - besides, he wanted to avoid from anything that would take two hands to prepare well and the mixing of batter was probably beyond him.

XXX

While he would have been prepared to let Peter walk away from that without much anger, because he did understand, the dismissive glance Peter flicked over him had his blood boiling. And on top of that the man walked away. What's worse, if Sylar got up to go after him he'd not only get punched, probably somewhere unsavory, but he'd be nagged for getting up. Peter wanted him clean, had passed him up like a mangy mutt; and was now leaving him to his own devices, go ahead and fall for all the medic cared, so long as Peter was there to clean up the pieces.

Sylar got the feeling the rug had purposefully been yanked from under his shoes as he stood and he was literally left staring, now glaring, after the man. "I'll have whatever you're having," _apparently,_ Sylar grated out loudly between his teeth. _Son of a bitch. I had him_.

XXX

Not that Peter's thoughts were lingering on batter. _He's messing with me. Definitely._ Peter opened up the refrigerator and checked out the contents. Helping Sylar to the bathroom had mysteriously fallen off the menu, skipped over as an option as Peter had moved on to something that put him in the kitchen and not where he was available for Sylar's cheap amusement. He knew concussion symptoms could include lowered inhibitions and impaired judgment, to go along with mood swings, so anything was possible here. He tried not to let it interfere too much with treating Sylar as a patient, rather than an asshole, but that didn't mean he was going to let himself be toyed with. That, ultimately, would be far more dangerous to Sylar than any normal fall and Peter knew it.

XXX

If Peter desired so badly to play nursemaid, Sylar could more than play the needy patient. Besides, anger appeared to make his head hurt worse anyway. Staggering up, he ignored the waves of nauseating dizziness and made a few assisted quick-steps to the bathroom where he shut and locked himself in. Suddenly clumsy fingers struggled with his zipper as he hurriedly tried to take a leak and stay standing while swaying as fast as he could before Peter came looking and broke down his _other_ door. _Doors_. "C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, getting his underwear to obey finally. Geez, it hurt to look down with his headache and he was probably making a mess of the bathroom. All the reflective light and mostly-whiteness of the bathroom hurt his eyes and smarted badly.

 _Why do I suddenly feel like the gay freak who has to watch his back for this crap?_ Yes, he was paranoid of getting his head bashed in before breakfast in his own fucking bathroom! Once relieved, he washed his hands, quietly turning on the sink and fairly collapsed back into the couch. After another rest break, he rolled up his jacket, puffing it under his head he eased to lay back down.

 _Just for that, I'm not cleaning up_. He had plans for making Peter's life hell. Although he should go take a shower to be rebellious, maybe moan Peter's name loudly enough while he did it just to be crude and see if Peter cared as much as he claimed about threats of falling. _Bastard wants me to fall…down the fucking stairwell. The worst part is not being able to hit him._ Sylar lay quietly, fuming in his own thoughts while Peter screwed around in the kitchen. _Won't need any goddamn poison if he's that bad a cook._

XXX

 _He'll have whatever I'm having, huh? I guess I'm having toast, then, because that's what_ he _needs to be eating._ Peter puttered around, slowly calming down as he got out bread. _Oh! He has bagels. I love bagels._ Peter worked his jaw slightly. Chewing toast was going to be difficult enough and he suspected it would be more along the lines of 'gumming toast'. Bagels were just out of the question, no matter how much he liked them. He stuck two slices of bread into the toaster and fiddled with the butter, preslicing it. The toaster was still toasting. Only then did it occur to him to check the settings. He looked at the knob. _Huh. Should I change that to something else? No, wait, that's dumb. He probably already has it set at whatever he likes. Yeah … leave it._

He got out glasses and plates, wishing there were paper plates or plastic. He had a concern that Sylar might fling his dishes, but that, too, seemed dumb. If Sylar wanted to throw things, his apartment was not short on objects. Besides, they were **his** objects. He probably wasn't too keen on breaking his own stuff. He heard Sylar exit the bathroom and Peter leaned out slowly to see Sylar sinking down on the couch. Peter went back to his preparations.

By then the toast had finished and he popped in two new slices after removing the two he intended for Sylar. Peter applied butter and a very little bit of the strawberry jam he'd found. He didn't mean to be stinting, but continuing nausea was a normal problem. He poured up a glass of water and put the box of Tylenol to the side of the plate, where it sat in a V formed by the two pieces of toast. Peter glanced out to see where Sylar was, then tried to work out how he was going to get the plate and the glass at the same time. He swapped the glass with the box of pills. He could manage the pill box in his right hand – it was light enough for it. Hopefully he could keep balance with the glass on the plate. He carried them out and it seemed to go okay as far as logistics went.

He had no idea what he was going to get – angry-and-possibly-violent-Sylar, sulking-and-annoying-Sylar, Sylar-of-the-sexual-innuendo-and-weird-come-ons, or perhaps Sylar-who-has-completely-forgotten-what-just-happened. _This really is a fucking nightmare. Stuck somewhere having to nurse_ Sylar _back to health_. He pasted on an unconvincingly polite face (he didn't care if it was convincing or not). Sylar had laid down. He was going to have to sit up to eat. Peter paused, couch-side, looking at him and trying to think of a better solution than just putting Sylar's bread and water on the floor for Sylar to get whenever he got done with whatever act he was pulling. Doing that, for Peter, would be petty; it would be wrong. He wanted to be better than that. _So what can I do that respects his dignity as a human being while letting me weather him being a jerk? You know, Peter, he might stop acting like a jerk if you respect his dignity as a human being._ He sighed because, yes, that was the solution. He knew it. He just didn't like it. Hate was easier.

The face of false politeness fell as Peter regarded Sylar steadily, shallow furrows forming in his forehead and around his eyes as his expression took on an aspect of, if not interest, then at least concern. It was a lot more empathetic than he'd been a few seconds before. It was more of an effort than Peter thought it should have been. In a dry, tired voice, Peter said, "Breakfast is served, Sylar. If you'll sit up, I'll hand it to you."

XXX

Sylar lay there nicely, keeping his body mainly relaxed by force of will, eyes closed for the moment just because it hurt to keep them open all the time. His headache had since tripled from the rush to and from the bathroom and the bruising and rashes on his stomach and hip aggravated by his jeans. He heard Peter shuffle up and pause, his eyes opening and staring ahead, giving the man only a cursory side-glance before looking straight again. From the angle he couldn't actually see Peter but the look was mostly to let Peter know he'd been seen.

Sylar's fists clenched, tightening briefly before relaxing his hands and using them to push himself up without comment, not caring if Peter saw that. He felt like he was on Level Five again, a prisoner, injured, dealing with his captor, who was now ringing the breakfast bell as it were. The same as before, he had no powers. He was angry as hell and powerless to act on it…for the moment. Sylar's "silver tongue" had always seemed to enrage his opponents almost more than his presence or his sins so he took this inaction as an opportunity to plan barbs to irritate Peter.

When he'd managed to sit up and quell the world's spinning for all of five seconds, he took the offered plate and glass, knocking the pill box over onto the toast, but whatever. From somewhere deep inside he garnered up a grunted, "Thanks." _I did not ask for any of this. Not the fight, not busting into my apartment, not the TLC. You're here because you fucking wanna be._ Sylar otherwise kept his focus directed elsewhere because looking at his nurse would only get the man's groin crushed right now. Feeling like a beat-up, filthy whore which he supposed he was in a sense wasn't a new experience, neither was being turned down for those reasons. But the heroes were so, so good at slathering on a sense of unworthiness that burned like a criminal brand. _Who came looking for whom for help here? Huh? They always come running to me._

Situating himself, plate and glass while Peter went back to the kitchen, doubtless to tend to his own meal, Sylar's nostrils were accidentally filled with the smell of toast. "Ugh." Sylar held it at arm's length as his gut churned in both hunger and repulsion. Instead he dug out three Tylenol and swallowed them with a large gulp of the water. Like it or not the pills had helped him sleep before and that's really all he wanted to do again now. He wondered why Peter seemed tired and angry at his secondary offer. There were a few answers, none of them pleasant.

XXX

"You're welcome," he said quietly.

Peter returned to the kitchen to see that his toast was ready. He set up a second plate identical to the first, including the glass of water balanced on it. He'd seen the fists. Sylar was angry. Given that Peter had rejected whatever advance Sylar had been making there, the emotion certainly made sense. And then there was the lack of desire for Peter's help, which sucked because Peter wanted to give it so much. It was Peter's primary way of being friendly - rejections all around.

_He's a loner. I wonder if he's always been that way? Is he a loner because he's so anti-social, or is he anti-social because he's been a loner? If it's the first, then if he could just pick up some social skills, he might be okay. If it's the second, then he's probably happy like he is. But yesterday … he was fine the other day - talkative, friendly, so chummy and buddy-buddy that it freaked me out. So he has social skills._

_Of course, he doesn't seem to have any recognition that I have a right to be really fucking pissed at him for everything he's done. No … he does recognize that. It just doesn't matter. Like I was thinking day before yesterday, it's like coming onto the scene of a murder and the killer calmly admitting that he got upset, stabbed someone seventeen times and he knows it was wrong. 'Lead me away, officer,' complete with letting himself be cuffed and taken in, then just as calmly confessing. He told me, 'They had it coming.' 'He's dead, I made sure of that.' '…this is my thank you?'_

Peter sighed, letting his thoughts flow around and through those lines, trying to pull them together and figure out what was going on in Sylar's (probably black, shriveled excuse for a) heart. If he was going to see him as human, frail and failure-prone like anyone else, then he had to figure out where the guy was coming from, even if that meant tackling some subjects that moved Peter to rage.

Peter gathered up his plate and glass, moving out to his chair across from the couch because he was a social creature who sought the company of others, present company included. He could see Sylar had opted not to eat his toast so far. Peter sat, not addressing it, but filing the information away. Sylar hadn't eaten dinner and he was skipping breakfast (so far). He needed to get something in him to counteract the stomachache that might, or might not, be caused by the Tylenol. Peter decided to keep thinking rather than nag. He had his own meal to eat first before getting into it with Sylar over something that would be uncomfortable, but not dangerous. Peter set his glass between his legs and leaned back a little. He chewed gently and slowly at his toast due to his still-quite-sore jaw. He tugged the bread apart carefully with his teeth so he could mull over small bites as he kept pondering his companion's mental make-up.

_How was he expecting me to respond to everything he said to me? He seemed genuinely thrown when I told him he had provoked me on purpose, like he didn't think he'd done or said anything wrong. He never answered me about that. Why was he bringing that shit up like that if it **wasn't** to set me off? What did he expect me to do, say, 'Yep, you're right. Thank you so much for killing all those people. You're a real hero, Sylar!'_

Mostly, Peter was staring at the wall over the couch, but occasionally he glanced down to Sylar, acknowledging his presence without any particular reaction to it. Peter had his 'thinking face' on, complete with an unfocused look as he tried to make sense of things.

 _He knows it's wrong, but he doesn't care. How does that work? Or is it just that he doesn't_ _ **seem**_ _to care? Or has he convinced himself he doesn't care, like Nathan always did? Like Ma ..._ Peter frowned, no more happy about his mother's rationalizations than he was about Sylar's. _So frustrating. They cared, but they hurt people anyway. Both of them. Well, three, with Sylar._ He glanced down at Sylar's face and gave him a small, fleeting and sympathetic smile, his brain having managed to put Sylar into the category of other people who irritated and frustrated the hell out of him, but whom he could do nothing about: Peter Petrelli's Penalty Box for Bad Behavior. It was a step up from 'no one wants him dead more than me'.

XXX

Peter sat without comment, surprisingly, and started in on his own food. Sylar had settled with his back to the armrest and his side and cheek pressed to the back of the couch, idly staring into space once he'd discerned that Peter was of no consequence at the time. _Wow, I'm not even going to get nagged_ , he thought sarcastically, _Nurse Petrelli falling down on the job_. Lack of eating was not caused by lack of hunger, but lack of taste buds and stomach calm. The toast looked fine, great even, and he knew he should eat. He just couldn't fool the food past his tongue.

His head was back to its bone-deep throbbing, making his vision pulse in dull red waves and the position was wrinkling the skin of his hip against his jeans. It was at times like this and only at times like this he missed his regeneration. Anything that might have set and begun to heal in its painful way had been shifted and agitated by the trip to the bathroom. He was a head-to-toe aching mess and he assumed or maybe hoped Peter was no better off. _The important thing was that I won. Twice. And I didn't start it either._

Not comfortable enough yet to drift off and wary of a lack of promise of truce today, Sylar considered the things he wanted to know: _Why did he turn me down? Why does he think I provoked him? He acts like someone is watching us most of the time; does he know something I don't? The Germans in World War II knew how to tell lying informers from truthful ones on whether they were hiding traitors based on the preparation and repetition of their story. There's always pupil dilation. I know he's not giving me the whole story._

"Why are you so guilty about all this, Peter?" Sylar murmured without his usual energy, his voice still carrying some sting. "You've never been guilty about…" a pause to consider how to phrase it, "what goes on between us before." Code for 'pummeling me to a pulp.' _Something in him acts like this is all new…and yet he still goes at it like he doesn't care if I die….but he doesn't go all the way._ Sylar purposefully ignored the whole 'this is all in your head' bullshit, which Peter sadly believed. But if it kept him alive, he would use it. Granted…they'd never been forced together this way and Peter had never stuck around to play hero for him. _Could seeing the damage bring that much change?_ Sylar pondered it honestly and curiously. Evidence was to the contrary.

XXX

Peter shut his eyes and set his plate on his thigh, holding it with his right hand. His left he used to rub very slowly and carefully across his face, not really exploring, but just brushing over it, finding comfort in the touch of a hand even if it was his own. "Beating you up here is stupid, and it's pointless." _Not the real reason._ "Always before, I was …" _What_ _ **was**_ _I doing? He attacked me at Odessa and then in Mohinder's apartment. He was the one who started it at Kirby Plaza. But after that, it was pretty much me doing it at Pinehearst and Primatech, because he was in my way and I was pissed. He started it at Mercy Heights, even if I'd intended to find him and start something. Maybe that one counts as mutual?_

"I was trying to stop you from killing people, or I was messed up with your ability and not thinking straight." _Still not the real reason._ He sighed and got a little closer to the core of it: "Hitting people and hurting them is wrong, no matter who they are. Self defense is one thing, but …" His voice took on a strained, tired tone. "I'm not defending anything here except someone's reputation," he grated out, angry and uneasy all over again.

XXX

Had Sylar been up to it, he would have pounced all over the man's explanation, if he called it that. He longed to tilt his head and stare Peter down, but right now, the couch was more appealing. ' _Stupid and pointless' isn't stopping you so far. You admit you were messed up and not thinking straight. Of course it would be okay to pound the murderer because he's opposing you. You did no better with my ability and you still, to this day, treat me like I'm the only one with the fucking problem._

 _Hitting and hurting people is wrong, tell that to the nail gun, Peter. Tell that to the glass in your skull…which was…pre-self-defense habits. Its always been okay to everyone I know….No matter who I am, huh? If I was Nathan would you hit me? Or is just because I'm so…special, I get "special" treatment? You're defending a dead person's reputation, Peter._ Sylar did have to stop and think if he would defend his mother so fiercely…He decided it would vary based on topic. Then again…Sylar knew all about the Petrellis and Peter knew nothing of Virginia and so was likely to make a lot of assumptions just like everyone else.

XXX

Peter pressed the heel of his palm briefly against his forehead before dropping it to the armrest with a small shake of his head. "Beating you up over words is wrong, but so is letting you get by with saying those sorts of things about the people I love. There's no right choice here." He made an empty, open-handed gesture with his left hand, a sort of 'can't you see' emphatic hand-wave. _Actually, there is a right choice. Stop beating him up and take the high road. But I can't let him disrespect Nathan and Claire and whoever else he decides to bad-mouth!_ Defending one's family honor was too important for Peter to let it pass. Perhaps he was just too stereotypically Italian, but it was one the values he'd been raised with and probably the most important one. Comparatively, any doctrine of nonviolence was a recent adoption.

Peter pushed around his second piece of toast on the plate, fitful and restless because he couldn't find a solution that satisfied him. "Why do you keep forcing me to make that choice?" _I can't believe that you don't know what you're doing. You either want to get beat up, or you want me to agree with you that my family is shit. You want to drag me down into that pit with you, where you hate everyone and that justifies everything you've done_. The situation was only exacerbated by Peter's agreement that his family had done wrong, but that didn't make it any easier to handle Sylar running them down.

While all of what Peter was saying was true, it was the reason for the anger, not the guilt. The idea of not hurting people, of respecting them, and the like was an extension of his concept of honor and the primacy of familial love. Peter had extended that 'family' to all of humanity, with something of a priority scale - his mother most important, then his father and Nathan, then other female relatives (like Claire, Heidi or Meredith), then other male relatives, then his friends and people he had an obligation to, then the helpless or exceptionally vulnerable, then the rest of the world. Sadistically beating someone up went against all of that, but it was what he wanted to do to Sylar. He wanted to hurt Sylar. He wanted to make him pay for what he'd done to Nathan and it burned inside of him like a well-banked fire, just waiting to flare up. **That** was where the guilt was coming from.

XXX

Sylar frowned a little bit. _So…defending his family in ways that he feels violence solves in necessity…makes him guilty?_ He didn't buy it; that theorem lacked historic evidence. Shrugging lightly with a shoulder, he said, "Entertainment maybe? Or I think it's a choice you need to make. Because I'm telling the truth." _Your family's screwed everyone over, including you, especially you. I'm against abuse of specials, the same as you. We are, sort of, basically on the same side, then._ "Hell, maybe to see what you'll do. Maybe make you eat your words. Maybe to corrupt you, who knows," Sylar droned without much inflection, his sinuses becoming obvious now.

Sylar turned to Peter and opened his mouth to begin on a tidbit of wisdom about family, betrayal and how-to-deal but stopped himself. Somehow he doubted Peter could grasp it. And it was personal. It would give Peter numerous openings for mockery, teasing and blame, not to mention it would increase the man's sense of disgust. _My dad tried to kill me. For an ability no less; immortality. I doubt he'd have let me heal and live to fight another day. That was after I spent the day with him, trying to reconnect. He would have turned on the Petrellis for their power bank. He was my father and I let him die. So that makes me a heartless, murdering patricidal monster, right? Don't even get me started about killing my mother._ Sylar shut his mouth and faced straight again. _The same betrayal, but I'm not clinging to excuses or false hopes. I made a choice._

XXX

Peter sighed and considered what Sylar had said. In the absence of much in the way of emotion in Sylar's delivery, Peter was left to weigh the words themselves, which was like reading with every other letter missing. It could be done, but it took more effort. He gave it a few moments of thought and then set it aside, taking a drink of water. Frowning slightly, he regarded Sylar in profile, noting the faint bulge of the goose egg over his brow from where Peter had head-butted him. Injuries aside, it was a good face – very distinctive and striking, if less imposing from this angle. Peter didn't feel so skewered by Sylar's full, unadulterated focus while looking at him like this. The man's cheeks were darkly shaded by a day's growth of stubble, standing out sharply against skin that was a little paler than it would have been at full health. Peter's frown faded as he wondered idly what Sylar shaved with: electric razor, safety razor, or a full blade?

XXX

The other man was silent for a while. A while dragged into too long and, much slower than he would have liked, Sylar became aware that Peter was staring. When he looked back in response, Peter's face was neither desirous nor angry. Not even a little bit confused. Strange as what Sylar had said was probably something Peter took great offense at, the whole 'just to screw with you' angle. _See something you like, Petrelli?_ He wondered, the least bit curious.

XXX

He noticed Sylar had detected the scrutiny. Without any guilt, but recognizing his social faux pas, Peter redirected his eyes to his toast. He took another bite of the bread, rolling it around in his mouth and gumming it to death rather than chewing. His jaw was getting sorer the more he used it. _Definitely soup for lunch._ His thoughts returned to what Sylar had said.

"Entertainment." Peter huffed out. "You don't _look_ entertained." He paused for a moment, choosing his words with care even though he knew Sylar was operating at reduced capacity here. Maybe Peter was asking because of that. Sylar was less intimidating this way. "This isn't a choice I'm happy making - picking between making you answer for your words or letting you say whatever you want about the people I love. Can you tell me why you think I _need_ to make it?" He was genuinely asking. For now, he ignored the truth angle. It was irrelevant and a lot of people clung to the idea that 'it's the truth' justified hurting other people. "I know Nathan and Claire are no saints, but that's my _brother_ and my _niece_." _I'd be a pretty lousy brother, uncle, whatever if I didn't do_ _ **something**_ _about the crap you were saying. Can't you just be polite?_

He waited for Sylar's answer, listening intently, paying attention and trying to understand. He knew that not everyone shared his sense of familial loyalty, but it was a common enough trait that Peter didn't feel inappropriate in asking for Sylar to avoid speaking ill of them. Sort of like how, if Sylar had expressed a morbid fear of spiders, then it would be foul play of Peter to get a toy one and harass him with it. On the heels of that thought, it occurred to Peter that Sylar might consider that sort of conduct to be completely fair.

XXX

"Hmm, I look like I got run over by an angry Petrelli, the one and only." Sylar substituted 'a mac truck' for the man's last name - by now the event (being beaten by this particular one) was commonplace enough. "I look ready for the asylum, same as always," waving a tired hand at his own words indifferently. _Why is he asking the hard questions now I can't think? What's with that?_ His thoughts were annoyed, a little flattered and understanding.

"Oh, that's good to know. Here I was thinking that was your happy face," he said of Peter's purported happiness as to choosing. If he sat and thought about it, which he was being forced to do, he would have eventually concluded that it was a test for Peter. As to why he was performing it…remained largely a mystery even to him. That meant it was an emotional decision as he was almost always very aware of his motivations and goals. That also meant there were things he wanted emotionally from Peter. It wasn't a course he was eager to…continue on. Sylar was quite uncomfortable with that prospect.

He'd been silent while he thought on it for a moment or so. He counted the heartbeats that ached throughout his form absently, waiting for the Tylenol to kick in and force him to sleep, promise or no promise of truce and safety from Peter. "Because you're different." That was all he could sum up and to him, it really did summarize. The Petrellis, the Company, Bennet, Mohinder, Matt, they had all been evil; they had all been 'bad guys'. It didn't matter that Peter had been related to or friends with them. Because Peter had once possessed the Hunger and been possessed by it. Peter clearly wasn't damaged enough to value safety over love, right over wrong when it came to relatives so he stayed and allowed the abuse and kept loyalty with the snakes. _Because I am the hero – I'm fighting you._ "Because I think you're weak and stupid for not punishing them…letting them off the hook time after time only enforces behavior, you know. Besides. They're all dead anyway."


	28. Soup Du Jour at Cafe Gray

Day 10

'They're all dead anyway' pulled a severe frown from Peter, but it faded fast. That was Sylar's worldview here and while Sylar had said a number of things that made it sound like he might believe Peter's version, it also seemed possible he'd said that only to improve relations. It was the same reason why Peter kept making his own slips regarding the 'reality' of the world they were in. Peter wasn't interested in arguing about it at the moment. Instead, he thought about the rest of what Sylar had said.

"Different." Peter leaned forward, intent on that, trying to work out what Sylar meant by using that particular word. 'Special' had a lot of meanings between them, but this wasn't the same thing. _Different from …? 'You're the only one who really uses my name.' Different like that? Different because I respect him more than other people do? And do I? That's sort of sad. But let's run with that. So is he provoking me because he thinks I must be weak or stupid because I didn't stop Nathan, or Ma, because in my place, he would have? He thinks I should have found a way._ He pondered that, leaning back in the chair. _I did my best. Maybe I could have done better, but I did what I could figure out._

"I didn't let them off the hook. I tried to stop Nathan a bunch of times. Pinehearst didn't burn down on its own, you know. Ma … If I'd known what she was up to I would have tried to stop her, too. I guess you can write that off as 'stupid' if you like." He sighed, thinking about Claire from the future, who had cut into his chest with a scalpel. "What did Claire do that you think I should have … 'punished' her for?"

XXX

"It's not about trying to stop them; you did more than anyone else would have in that regard. I've never seen a Petrelli in Level Five, have you? Besides yourself, of course." The Petrellis controlled the strings, cutting up any who dared rise up against them and otherwise protecting their own sacred asses when they weren't killing off their family. Sylar noticed and would appear to ignore Peter's leaning forward as a sign of interest. He was pleased he had the man's attention so raptly, although it was weird to be taken so seriously. With anyone else Sylar would have been written off as a psychopath on the bloody trail to glory, as delusional and broken, in need of a cell block or a tranquilizer…not an answer or a listening ear.

Sylar scowled at him. "Claire hasn't done much of anything 'wrong' that I know of. She does lots of stupid things, but nothing 'wrong'. Sure she got in Nathan's way a lot…yours and Noah's, too…she crashed that plane with all of you on it. Who's to say that's wrong?" Sylar intoned dismissively. Claire was not a big player in his book. She was a scared teenager who'd had some rather terrible things done to her and her actions towards him should probably be filed under self-defense. He'd healed; it wasn't like there was permanent damage done.

He didn't want to talk about her for just those reasons, but also because he was bound to say something 'provocative' without really being aware of it. Tilting his head after a pause, he went on anyway, "Don't discount what goes on inside that perfect, precious head of hers…there's more evil thoughts in it than you'd give her credit for. It's not all sunshine and rainbows." _That_ Sylar knew as fact. "So if you count evil thoughts as something needing punishment, well…" he smirked a bit, glancing aside knowingly at Peter, the star of many of both Sylar's and Claire's evil musings.

XXX

To Sylar's smirk, Peter gave back a forced smile that was trying very hard not to be a snarl. Peter did not appreciate the deep upwelling of anger he had to some of what Sylar had just said. Sylar had just dismissed Peter's experiences as unimportant. _(I'm the only person here and I still don't count!)_ That was hardly new in Peter's life, but Sylar was cherry-picking events to suit his continued sullying of the Petrelli name, ignoring all evidence contrary to his aim. Nathan's life had been nearly as much a mess as Peter's, costing him his health several times over, his family, his career, his reputation and eventually his life. Peter picked up the last of his toast and used his fingers to tear it into tiny pieces before eating. He took his time before responding, trying to breathe and vent his anger as much as he could on the bread instead of on his companion.

When he'd finished the last of his food, he said in a somewhat clipped tone, "Claire didn't crash the plane. That was me. I was still drugged and out of it, couldn't control my ability. It was my fault, not hers. She was trying to save us. She was doing something really good." He wanted to correct the record - not only on his mistake, but also on Claire's heroism. She'd taken a risk to help others and put herself in danger. Peter thought a lot of that in people. She'd known the whole 'free pass for being Nathan's daughter' had been crap. She'd gotten a free pass; Peter had been betrayed by his brother. And Sylar expected him to swallow that the Petrellis never ended up on the wrong end? _His envy has blinded him._

"You think my family's privileged. I get that." A rare dip into sarcasm thickened his voice. "I suppose I had it pretty good compared to the average special who only gets abducted the once and then goes back to a fairly normal life. After all, I only got stuck in level five twice; and then there were those months in that long-term facility being lied to and electro-shocked by your- Elle; and the memory wiping; draining my abilities; and the trying to screw me up enough for me to blow up New York; Nathan selling me out, neutralizing me, and then shipping me off. _Nathan_ didn't even make it. He got chewed up and spit out! The Petrellis are such a swell bunch, what with all of that wonderful family loyalty we've got going on. To hear you talk, a person would think we hadn't been killing each other all this time."

With an upset grunt, Peter took his glass of water and his plate, levering himself up out of the chair. He stomped off towards the kitchen, disappointed in himself that he'd said so much and frustrated that it was there to be said. He wasn't even touching on the news that his mother had tried to kill his father, or his father putting her in a coma, or any of the other myriad sordid details of Petrelli family life. _I know my family is fucked up! That's why I don't want to listen to you telling me about it!_

XXX

Sylar turned to look at the man on hearing his tone. _No sleep til Brooklyn_ , he thought of the sleep he would not be getting now with Peter's aggression. He glared as Peter turned facetious, but a goodly amount of what was said passed right over him. _Wait, twice? What? Elle?_ "My _what_?" There was no way Peter was pinning any of that on him. "What?" Sylar finally asked in general, way behind.

His memories of Nathan were rife with possibilities and Sylar's hackles rose at the possible insinuation that he had somehow horribly wronged Nathan in killing him. The bastard had come looking for a fight, ill-prepared; actually, he hadn't been prepared at all, and had paid the price for fucking up everyone's lives. Peter would really have to elaborate which time or times, specifically that Nathan may have…done all that to his brother.

Peter marched into the kitchen, his every line reading anger. "Well, haven't you?" he said in normal tones to the other's parting shot about killing off relatives. _Could've fooled me. I'm going to do him a favor and NOT count the times I've had to play sides, stick my neck out or recover from otherwise fatal injury when we thought I was one of them._

Sylar just shook his head; he was not about to yell after Peter, certainly not in his current state. _I have no idea what I said this time, none. He asks me questions, so I answer them; he gets pissed and might hit me. What am I supposed to do; demure, bat my eyelashes and say, 'oh, whatever you think an understanding psychopath would think, dear'?_ Sylar grumbled and cuddled himself deeper into the couch.

_Who gives a shit about Claire? She needs emotional help not babysitting. She needs therapy, like the rest of you. I'm the one with goddamn anger issues with you popping off at an honest answer? You know what they say: Ignorance is bliss. Gee, Peter, you must get off so light since you're related to that nest of harpies, while someone like me, with no Petrelli blood, gets my just deserts, is that it?_

"My point is, if you're suffering so badly," his own light sarcasm tinged that part, "you, their own son and brother; how do you feel about them fucking up complete strangers?" again, his delivery at a normal tone. Peter could listen in or pout. _Wow, way to take the fall for Claire's dumb decisions, Peter. I said I didn't consider it necessarily right or wrong and you feel the need to defend her anyway? That either says something about how you see me or your family._ Sylar wanted to growl at the man to sit his ass back down so he could sleep, that or take a shower or read a book or even work on his watches, but no.

"Change the subject," he demanded crossly when Peter reentered the room, not sparing him a glance, "Better yet, don't talk at all; you need your beauty rest."

XXX

Peter stomped back in from the kitchen, bristling and fully prepared to give an answer to everything Sylar had said, but was cut off preemptively, and essentially told to sit down and shut up. He opened his mouth again to argue about that, too. _Sylar doesn't get to tell me what to do. Fuck him!_ But the words died in his throat with nothing but the "Wh-" coming out. He blinked and really looked at the other man. Sylar looked … miserable. And sort of pitiful, actually.

Sylar took up a very small space on the end of the couch, legs drawn up as he hunkered in the corner. The posture struck Peter suddenly as cowering, huddled against an assault that could easily transgress from verbal to physical, without warning. For hadn't Peter attacked him three times already here in the middle of Sylar talking or teasing? They were all attacks that Sylar professed to not understand and not to have expected. Sylar was making no eye contact, his head drawn down a little. And yes, maybe he was tired and in pain. Maybe his head was killing him and the way he was sitting was more cause for that than Peter's presence, but the other interpretation rang too true. Peter's patient was afraid of him and while a little bit of him said, ' _Good!_ ', the greater part was horrified at how their roles had reversed. The stack of cans Peter had put in front of his own door at night came to mind. _Poor guy._

Peter's face struggled for a few seconds on the path from angry and self-righteous to shamed and apologetic. He opened his mouth a third time and then shut it, once more without speaking and this time without a sound. He thought about what Sylar had said. _I don't need rest; obviously he does. He's just not willing to say it, to admit he needs something, to ask me for anything. He's telling me to rest so he can. I need to pay more attention to him. I'm getting too wrapped up in myself and that's never good._

"Okay," he said simply, looking down and then off to the side briefly, chastened. His shoulders slumped as he let go of his tension and anger. "Okay." He glanced over at Sylar with a quick flick of his eyes before looking away again, this time beyond Sylar and forward into the room. Peter swallowed and walked across, past Sylar and over to the man's bed. He picked up the blanket and pillow, carrying them back and offering them to Sylar. "I'm sorry. You're trapped in here with a violent nutcase who has a history of …" Peter's throat tightened and he coughed slightly. "Here," he proffered the bedding and said contritely, "I am _truly_ sorry. I'll sit in the chair. I'll try to rest."

XXX

There was a silence after Peter cut himself off, during which Sylar sat and waited. The man's entry had been angry, the pause and then he'd moved behind Sylar and grabbed something up but he didn't move. Sylar was not stupid enough to strike the first blow, not when he was clearly injured as badly as he was. Which was probably why he was mouthing off so. What he really needed to do was stop blurting out his thoughts – generally questions involving Peter's….strange behavior and the actions of his family. There was only so much Peter was going to withstand, that much he'd learned if not taken to heart yet.

He stiffened as much as he could, lifting his head some, all this time not looking at the man as he passed. Peter appeared in his view again, holding… his blanket and pillow? It was Sylar's turn to pause, glancing up at Peter, then staring at the objects. Slowly reaching out for them, grasping them gently but firmly to see if he would be allowed to bring them back to his space or…what, he didn't know. The empath gestured for him to take them, releasing them to his hands so he gathered them up. But on top of all that surprise, Peter was apologizing. For what?

"Why are you sorry?" while his voice was quiet, his question held some heat, accusation, stunned shock. "Don't flatter yourself – you may be a medic but you've never been diagnosed as a violent nutcase." _That's my title, remember? What does that make me if you're a violent nutcase?_ Sylar cradled the pillow and blanket, not quite sure what to do with them yet. "You're entitled." _Not to be sorry. To be angry…I expect it, I wouldn't expect less of you in that way…I…I don't know why I keep doing it. Habit, I guess. You're acting so weird…_

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar hugging the pillow and blanket to himself – half insecure clutching, half as though he expected Peter to change his mind and snatch them back. Peter _did_ want to take the pillow away, but only to put it behind Sylar's head. He wanted the man to lie down and relax instead of being curled up so defensively, a posture which made Peter feel guilty. _What kind of ogre do you have to be to scare_ _ **Sylar**_ _? He's just a man, though. If he wants control, Peter, then give it to him!_ It seemed like a better idea to let Sylar manage on his own. Being 'forced' to relax was never relaxing for anyone. Peter backed off, doing what he'd said he would and what he had interpreted that Sylar wanted him to do. He sat down and leaned as far back as the chair would go, trying to look at ease and putting himself in a position where Sylar would at least have plenty of warning if he got up. He tried to think of what he'd want Sylar to do were their positions reversed, but it was tough to work that out with the different psychology involved.

He moved on to answering Sylar's question, since taking the time to make sense of things would leave the man seemingly ignored while Peter thought. "I'm sorry that of all the people who could have come for you, it had to be someone with an ax to grind." _But does Sylar_ _ **have**_ _anyone else who might have come for him?_ , Peter wondered. _If he did, wouldn't they have done something while he was impersonating Nathan? No friends, no family? Though even a total stranger might be better for him than someone like me._

"I'm not entitled to be an asshole. And it's not just to _you_. I broke into my friend's apartment and busted her cello." He sighed, looking up at the ceiling, remembering Emma's confusion, dismay and indignation. "I saw it in the dream - Emma was at the carnival, playing a cello. So I went to her apartment. I didn't even let her say hello. As soon as she opened the door, I pushed past her, picked up her cello and smashed it down on the floor. I thought that would stop it – stop the future from happening - but the next night I had the same dream all over again except this time you were in it. And you saved her. So here I am."

He reached up and touched his face, wanting to rub it but that hurt too much. He hadn't thought things through before going to Emma's apartment any more than he had before jumping into Sylar's mind. That was the problem – what he'd already mentioned – he'd stopped communicating with people about what was important. None of them would listen and he kept getting betrayed, so Peter had ended up with his heart as defensively curled up as Sylar's body.

"It was a beautiful instrument. Someone had given it to her as a gift. She was really happy about it, and I tore it apart without even telling her why first." It occurred to him that Sylar was listening. Peter had a grouchy, oversensitive, misunderstanding listener … but he had a listener. Realizing that, Peter immediately asked softly, "Do you want me to be quiet and let you rest?" He was unable to keep a little disappointment from his voice. He remembered his elation from a few days prior when he realized that Sylar was really paying attention to what Peter had to say. Peter had stuck his foot in his mouth almost immediately thereafter with the bit about the memories, but it had been nice while it lasted, he supposed.

XXX

Sylar was quiet even though he had thoughts he could add to the other man's words. _No one else would have 'come for me'. You're the only other person with telepathy….give or take. Or you had it, according to your story. You'd be hard pressed to find someone who lacks an axe for me, Peter._

Peter then spoke of his friend, this Emma girl. Sylar watched him after he'd settled in and watched as he listened to the rather personal story. The empath wasn't ashamed, per se, or embarrassed, but regretful. _He should have explained it to her. If she's your friend, why would you take away a gift she'd been given? Rather, you should have taken it away after you'd talked to her, not destroyed it. That's…so unlike you, even if you think you're doing the right thing. That's overkill._

 _The sad thing is he's just proving my point. He'd do that to his own friend? Why would the Petrellis fuck him up, too?_ Sylar didn't comment, perhaps in gratitude towards the other man or because he was still thinking it over. The story, the sharing calmed him. It must have been an effort for Peter to muster that after what Sylar had said of his family. That was nicer than he deserved at the moment or at all probably.

"I don't know," he answered, confused now, but not dangerously so. Against his will, the more human part of him desired to make Peter more comfortable in whatever way he could since he was allowed to relax. He was at a loss how to do that, however. Sylar slowly began to spread the blanket over his upraised knees, more lost in thought and stiff than anything else. Easing his butt further down into the middle of the couch he began to lay back. "I've got extra blankets under the bed," really, it was under his cot, which wasn't an actual mattress as such. Meanwhile he dug up the couch's pillows and tossed them in gentle arcs towards Peter and the chair. "Don't drool on anything," he warned. The guy refused to leave and he was letting Sylar sleep when he had little reason to.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said to the drool comment with a slight, agreeable smile. He shifted up in the chair to look at the couch pillows, not all that sure what to do with them. _Apparently, Sylar wants me to sleep. Time to mime sleeping, Peter_. His smile curled a bit further in amusement at the thought that this time it was Sylar's mood feeding off Peter's, not the other way around. _He has some empathy after all._ Peter got to his feet with a pained grunt at his hip and walked over to Sylar's bed again. _Why does he sleep on a cot? He has a zillion other choices, and he chooses a cot. Of course, I stripped my apartment as bare as I could get it, so who am I to criticize?_

"Do you want a second blanket? While I'm getting one for myself?" He suspected that Sylar was trying to cast them as equals rather than caretaker/patient. If Peter got him a pillow and blanket, then Sylar was going to try to reciprocate. Peter would play along with that. Another layer of psychology that Peter figured was going on was that Sylar couldn't or wouldn't relax until Peter appeared to be occupied in a non-threatening activity. Sylar couldn't kick him out, but he was going to try to bully Peter into inactivity. Again, if it helped Peter's patient, he was up to a little acting.

As he returned, Peter sent a pointed glance down at Sylar's untouched toast, trying to pick a time when Sylar was looking at him to see it. That was as much nagging as Peter was going to do for breakfast, though. He'd save the big guns for lunch. He picked up the pillows and settled back in his chair, squashing on the pillows for a while and then spreading the grey, fleecy blanket over himself. _I was more comfortable without the pillows. Oh well. He'll drop off pretty soon and then it won't matter._

XXX

"No, I'm good," Sylar replied firmly, intent on seeing Peter's ass kiss the chair and stay there. He took his time settling in slowly to the couch, not rushing due to bruises and rashes and otherwise stiff-and-soreness. Once horizontal he caught Peter's gaze glancing to the toast and Sylar awarded him with a single, clear blink before ignoring it.

XXX

Peter settled back again and pretended to sleep, or at least doze. He let his thoughts drift. _I have no idea what to do about my family._ He worried he'd been abandoned again and it seemed so realistic and likely that it was depressing. _It's been, what?, nine, ten days that I've been in here? Ma knows where I was going, but she's the one who put me in a coma in level five; she's the one who thought it was a good idea to let me find out about my abilities all by myself and then try to manipulate me into blowing up everyone and everything I'd ever known._

 _I talked to Sylar about who might have come for him, but honestly - who is likely to come for me? Really? Emma, maybe Hiro, Claire, maybe others would want to, but how would they find me? How would they get me out? Obviously Matt isn't any help here. Either he can't get me out, or he doesn't want to, because I'm still here!_ Peter was frustrated, at the world and at himself. He'd thought that by coming here, he could do something good, something worthwhile, because that was all that was left in Peter's life that motivated him - a desperate search for how to be a hero in an increasingly complicated and confusing world. Now he was trapped, felt like an idiot, and Sylar wouldn't help. He wanted to lash out. He wanted things to work right in the world. He wanted someone to _care_ and to help him, but that wasn't the way the world worked anymore.

_God, I'd love to think that Nathan would never let me down like this, if he were still alive. I'd love to think he'd move heaven and earth to make sure I wasn't … here. But he **did** let me down. He hugged me in my apartment, told me it was all going to be okay and then had me tasered. He sold me out for … his career, his twisted scruples. You don't sell out your own family! He crossed a line - a line Ma had already crossed. And then there was Dad's idea of a 'hello, son, I'm back from the dead,' which was another hug from hell. Sylar hugged me in the future, then gave me his ability and everything went to hell again. Maybe I should just stop hugging people!_

Peter grinned at the dark humor of that, eyes shut, as he was still leaned back in the chair. He didn't think about how his expression might be seen. It faded a few moments later anyway as his thoughts moved on. _That's a pretty sad joke. When_ _ **was**_ _the last time I hugged someone that it didn't go bad? Caitlin? Of course … there's how_ _ **that**_ _turned out._ He sighed unhappily. That was someone he'd abandoned, a choice made semi-intentionally, which made it at least partly his fault. _Simone? Same thing._ And the same guilt, because he'd had a role in her death as well. _Claire, maybe. She's never screwed me over. Yeah, I think … I think she's the only one who hasn't._

 _Really, what has Sylar done that my family hasn't? I'm not even immune from myself!_ Peter's thoughts ran through the pain the future version of him had brought into his own life - shooting Nathan, imprisoning Peter on level five for the first time and just generally jerking him around and putting him on a self-destructive, pointless path. _You know, maybe I am better off stuck here._

XXX

Some time later Sylar was started out of his uncomfortable haze of rather deep sleep by the sounds of someone moving around stealthily. It was that sixth sense all sleeping persons had when things just got too purposefully quiet, the lack of silence actually triggering waking rather than any normal noise would have. Unless of course the person was a light sleeper, but that was beside the point. His heart pounding with sudden wakefulness and awareness, he kept his eyes shut until he was sure he could squint them open enough to feign sleep.

Peter's chair was empty, the couch pillows distributed on the seat, the spare blanket draped over the back. This time he knew he was retracing an old path, but mustering up the correct impulses to fire seemed to hurt his brain. Motion caught his eye as Peter stood over to Sylar's right, near his bed, but the man's head was tilted to read some of the book titles on the shelves. That raised a question or two, nothing immediate because Peter might just be bored, certainly was bored, and curious.

Sylar lost track of time, either to fugue, memory lapse, dozing or some kind of open-eyed sleep he'd heard was possible. He awoke again when Peter walked passed him on the couch, stirring up cooler air and sound on the way to the kitchen. He lazily tracked the man, but didn't feel like stirring himself, safely burrowed as he was with pillow and blanket.

At the kitchen-noises Peter was making, a rumble emerged from his stomach; again, thinking back to when he last ate was more effort than he wanted to undertake. So he amused himself by deciphering the different sounds from the kitchen, doing his best to place them to location (when he couldn't see Peter moving around) and object. He was doing pretty good so far, concussed or not.

XXX

Peter opened the cabinets one after another until he found a pan. Then he opened the drawers one after another until he found a can opener. He wasn't making any great attempt at being quiet now, unlike earlier. If he woke Sylar, all the better, because he wanted the man to wake up and eat. He opened the can of soup he'd already set out and spooned the contents into the pan, then filled the empty can with water, stirring it around with the spoon. He poured that on top and stirred a little, dissatisfied with the lack of dissolving.

He fiddled with the stove settings until he was sure it was on. He spent another restless moment stirring, then set the spoon aside as he remembered something he needed to do before he got too involved. He walked out to the couch. At least to casual observation, Sylar looked asleep. Peter bent carefully for the plate of cold, stale toast and, more importantly, the Tylenol. After he stood with the plate, he said at a normal, conversational volume, "I'll be serving lunch pretty soon." He paused for a moment to see if Sylar responded.

"Do you want to eat at the table, or out here? It's tomato soup." He wondered how dizzy Sylar was and whether he could manage sitting unsupported for an entire meal, but that uncertainty was why Peter was asking.

XXX

Sylar was awake when Peter came back and still admirably faking sleep even as the man got very close, leaning down for something. The toast. And painkillers. Neither were of consequence. Peter's voice would have woken him anyway, seemingly louder than normal. Cranking his eyes open he locked them onto his companion, pausing for a moment to see how Peter would react before answering calmly, "Table's fine." _I can make the table, right? I totally won't fall over and face-plant into the soup. (What if I can't? What if I do?)_

XXX

Peter took away the plate and pill box to the kitchen, trashing the toast and setting aside the pills where they were out of easy sight. He agitated the soup a little more, then got out bowls, spoons and glasses, setting them on the table for the time being. He put out a box of crackers, too, along with, eventually, the warmed soup. What he didn't set on the table were the painkillers. Peter wasn't going to give those up without Sylar actually eating something. He hoped Sylar would be cooperative about that, but the look from earlier about the toast was why Peter was engaging in subterfuge.

XXX

The other man buzzed away and Sylar began to work at sitting up which came before getting up, pushing the blanket towards his feet. The world spun as his blood pressure and heart rate adjusted themselves. Blinking to clear his vision and swallowing to try to soothe his suddenly cranky stomach, he inched towards the edge of the couch. _Okay….I can do this. Just a brief walk to the table. Don't think about the smell, don't think about passing out, don't think about your leg or falling or otherwise humiliating yourself. Ignore Peter on the way in and sit down. If it's poisoned, it's poisoned._

That decided upon, he pushed himself up to stand, swaying and very dizzy as his lack of blood sugar made itself known. "Hmm," he said to himself in displeasure. _Get it together_. When the black tunnel vision faded, he took a few wobbling steps to the kitchen, using the wall like a prop as soon as he could. Just his luck Peter would turn around quickly and splash him in hot soup and burn his face off or something. Sylar remembered catching a near-boiling bowl of watery green beans all down the front of him as an eager, would-be helpful child. The bowl had tilted onto him from where he'd been taking it down from the counter. But he hadn't dropped the bowl, that much he remembered and he hadn't gotten burned.

He tugged out the nearest chair, feeling the pulsing vessels in his skull complain mightily and with a roar, but he sat. "I'm usually more useful in the kitchen," he murmured, his voice again low and rough from sleep, his face too stiff to bother to yawn. Sylar scratched at his scalp lightly, wincing when even that hurt, so he shifted the motion to shifting his mussed hair back in an attempt to be someone presentable and polite _. I must look like crap, though._ He snorted to himself although Peter might have heard. _No duh he doesn't want to fuck you, and on top of your look, you smell._

XXX

Peter watched Sylar's progress from couch to kitchen with an exceptionally attentive eye, but although Sylar was holding onto the wall and then the back of the chair, he seemed to be making it alright. The big deal was that Sylar did not seem to be overestimating his capabilities, whatever they were. He wasn't trying to 'tough guy' it out and act like nothing was wrong. "It's no problem," Peter murmured in reply, ladling out soup into a bowl and moving it in front of Sylar, along with a spoon. He turned and poured the rest out into his bowl. "Like I said earlier, I like helping people." He added with a smirk, "And I managed not to burn the soup."

XXX

This was all incredibly humiliating to Sylar. He felt like a child being called to dinner with all the expectations that came with it. "Thank you," he said when Peter placed the bowl before him, forcing himself to remember his politest manners. He didn't bother to fret about remembering not to put his elbows on the table; it wasn't like Peter would care. But wasn't soup one of those crazy table-manner dishes anyway? Scoop away from you and don't slurp and all? It was very strange to be fed in this way. Sure he'd eaten at restaurants and diners while on the run and been served by waiters and waitresses, but that was their job. This wasn't Peter's job. Hell, Peter could barely cook.

The aroma was calling him, though, queasy stomach or not. Indeed, Peter hadn't burned it and he gave a gentle snort in acknowledgment and praise, passing by the opportunity for a snide comment. He didn't feel one was necessary right now.

XXX

Peter slid the other bowl in front of his seat and set the pan aside for the moment. He took the two glasses to the sink and filled them with water. Again, he would have preferred milk, but he was under the impression that Sylar was being sensitive (oversensitive, probably, but Peter being Peter was reluctant to label it as that) about who ate what. It wasn't that big a deal to serve the same food, from the same dish, with the same drinks. The arsenic comment was still lodged in Peter's brain.

He set out the drinks and paused for a moment, looking at Sylar. Peter reached over with his left hand and gave the point of Sylar's shoulder a single, lingering squeeze. "I'm sorry you're all banged up. I'd rather that when we fought, it would hurt for a little bit and then go away, instead of this," he said, gesturing to indicate his right hand. He smiled wryly as he sat down and mused, "It's a funny sort of place when a dream world is more realistic than the reality we're from, huh? I wonder what that says about us."

XXX

Sylar waited for Peter to dish up and bring back the drinks he was preparing, fiddling with the spoon whose every reflection seemed too intense. He was paying attention to the last glass Peter set down, which was Peter's drink, and didn't notice his companion's pause. He didn't know what he thought the man was doing, but it didn't seem to be anything of consequence and he didn't look over to find out. Adjusting his brace maybe, but Peter hand suddenly landed on his shoulder.

Sylar started and jangled the spoon, looking at Peter as fast as he could manage – his gaze traveling from the man's face to his good hand resting on his shoulder. He wasn't aware that he'd leaned away, probably preparing to take a hit, however he saw that the hand on him was Peter's left, his good hand. Peter was not going to be doing any decking with his right for a long while, just as he said.

He gave the man a glare for startling him, angry that he'd been so caught off guard, but then modified his face and looked away as his doctor sat. That gesture was horribly familiar…to Nathan. A sign of comfort, betrayal, loyalty, love, friendship and brotherhood, trust, apology, anger, farewell and greeting. The gesture practically had a life of its own and Sylar had gone so far as to give it a name ('The Petrelli Shoulder-squeeze') for the amount it came up in Nathan's memories.

It had no place on Sylar's shoulder. "Stop apologizing," he grunted and took up his spoon, switching it to his left hand from his right, slipping it into his soup and stirring unconsciously. _Its just weird. I heard you the first dozen times. I'm not gonna lie and say I forgive you and I think this fucking amuses you to see me like this for some reason, so….whatever._

XXX

Peter stirred his soup around, noting it still hadn't dissolved completely, which was because he hadn't gotten it hot enough for long enough. He might not have burned it, and it was certainly warm enough to eat, but was still a little lumpy. _Well, at least he's not going to scorch himself._ He turned his eyes back to his companion.

XXX

Wondering if he was losing his marbles for considering soup-aroma therapy for his sinuses, Sylar braced his right forearm on the table, he gave Peter a possessive look as if to say 'what are you gonna do about my elbows?' Taking hold of his utensil firmly, he raised it slowly and inched forward to put it in his mouth, giving it a cursory sniff before opening his mouth wider than he wanted to due to his facial bruises. It couldn't be helped though.

As soon as the soup touched his taste buds, although both taste and temperature were fine (if a little colder than he preferred), his stomach rebelled and he clamped down on making a face. Instead, he finished the mouthful and swallowed, replacing his spoon to the bowl. His guts were trying to crawl up his esophagus for more food even as it protested. Sometimes biology just bit itself in the ass. _I'm hungry! And sick!_ He demanded of his stomach, _Let me eat!_

XXX

Peter considered whether he should have pulled over a trashcan or something to work as an emesis basin. Doing that now would draw attention to it and by that very attention might cause Sylar to lose it. Peter glanced at the empty soup pan still on the table. He supposed that would work, if it came to it, despite the almost instinctive urge not to soil a cooking utensil with waste. It was metal and could be easily washed and sterilized. He reached over discreetly and rotated the pan slightly so the handle was more reachable. Then he went back to watching Sylar's obvious queasiness.

Sylar had paused after the first bite to marshal himself. He didn't look like he was getting worse but instead just taking it slow. Peter took a spoonful himself and then a second. As tomato soup went, it sort of sucked, but it was bland and nourishing and warm, which were all pluses for Sylar's condition. And loaded with salt, which wouldn't hurt the man's possibly out-of-kilter electrolytes.

Sylar's posture, crouched over his dish and putting his arm up as a barrier to Peter's possible interference reminded Peter of something he'd seen on TV. It was a habit of prisoners and others who had reason to believe their food might be taken from them. He'd had one hospice patient with a similar affectation whom he had manipulated into eating more of his meals by threatening to take his food away prematurely. Like many things in health care, it seemed cruel even though the purpose was benign and the result beneficial. _How much would I harm Sylar's trust doing something like that? Probably a lot. He's eating. Slowly, but he's eating. I should just leave him alone about it as long as he does the minimum._

But there was something he wanted to clear up: "I wasn't _apologizing_ for what I did. I was showing _sympathy_ for your condition." _There's a difference! Important fucking difference!_ Even though he was sure he **should** apologize for what he'd done, and he may well have done so earlier when he was feeling guiltier, but that hadn't been his intention now. Peter blew out air slowly and changed the subject slightly to something that didn't piss him off (at his own waffling inconsistency more than at Sylar), following Sylar's suggestion from that morning. "I've never had a bad concussion. At least not one that lasted more than a few seconds, given regeneration. I've had a few mild ones, though." Mostly through fist fights, though there had been that one time when he'd fell off backwards from a dirt bike.

XXX

 _Oh_ , Sylar thought, _So you're not sorry, but you're guilty?_ He played it cool and didn't react to the other's tense response. Peter had to have been paying a lot more attention than he'd appeared to be because he'd picked up on a lot of Sylar's signals. He hoped that was only because of the concussion, but Peter had read him well enough and backed off as Sylar had desired, when he had desired it. As he had time, and Peter didn't press the issue, Sylar actually sat and thought about what the difference was. A known, unrepentant killer, Sylar supposed he himself was aware of the difference. _Is it like killing Nathan? I'm not sorry, but I'm a bit guilty feeling? Of course I'm guilty in deed; no one questions that._

After a moment, he just shrugged a shoulder, once again hefting his spoon. _I jumped the gun, I guess, hearing the word 'sorry'. Of course he wasn't apologizing – he thinks I started it, he thinks he served justice. Is justice always this guilty? He's beat up and betrayed Nathan and not felt a lick of guilt before, not always, but it has happened._

Peter claimed he'd never had a severe concussion; Sylar frowned and looked up at that, his mouth opening to ask about Odessa when the man clarified. He'd pieced together in Mohinder's apartment that Peter could heal, obviously, and that had answered the mystery.

XXX

Peter didn't think Nathan knew about that one so he offered a distracting story in a calm tone of voice. "I think the worst one was when I was nineteen. I went with Justin to this dirt bike track out near Poughkeepsie. He was going to take me around the trail before I went on my own, so I climbed on behind him on his bike. No helmet, because we were just going to go real slow while he talked about the track. Never happened, though. He wasn't used to having a passenger and he gunned the engine a little hard. I didn't have a good grip and went right off the back. I hit my head on the parking lot pavement - cracked it really hard. That was the beginning and the end of motocross for me." He laughed a little. "It felt like my thoughts were wading through cotton for days after that, but I didn't have any other symptoms."

Peter wondered if Sylar would return with a story about himself, or better yet tell Peter about how he was feeling right now. So many indicators of head trauma were invisible to the eye.

XXX

Sylar wasn't thrilled to hear about Peter's injuries – it was a molecule's nudge away from shifted to 'Remember the time when you…?' But Peter seemed in good spirits about it, laughing once and that drew Sylar's gaze up to his face from where it had been on his spoon playing with his lunch…or was it dinner? Peter said lunch.

Still watching his companion, a little curiously, he nodded a few times. "You got off lucky, then. You're always supposed to wear a helmet," perhaps his inner Virginia speaking up there. It didn't hit him that his statements were obvious and Peter was a grown, smart adult who already knew that before and after the incident. He ignored wanting to tell this 'Justin' a thing or two, the idiot; nineteen was old enough to know better. _Boys will be boys and what's more, Peter will be Peter._

Something that Peter said stuck out at him and it took him a minute in keeping with the phrase, "I know the….cotton feeling," he said slowly, by way of sharing. The cotton feeling wasn't just limited to concussions for him sadly, not when his Hunger entered the picture. It was the only sharpened thing in his mind, really. He had the cotton feeling now, his gray matter growing throbbing red fuzz or something that impeded his thinking. Sylar frowned again and thought some more or perhaps tried to while he stirred the soup. Was there something else he'd wanted or meant to say?

Sitting up like this wasn't comfortable with his abdomen and leg and wrist. His head was unsupported except for his neck, eyes exposed in the kitchen; he'd felt better earlier. "They're just really painful…take forever to go away," Sylar dismissed the condition with a wave of his right hand. Telling Peter any more, even when speaking to his 'doctor', was probably unwise. Turning his attention back to his food, Sylar lifted up a spoonful, wishing to inhale the odors without being weird or impolite to assure his guts, instead placing the liquid in his mouth and holding it there.

XXX

"Yeah, sucks," Peter said in response to Sylar's comment about concussions being painful. There wasn't much to say to that, anyway. He could point out that the painkillers would help and had probably worn off, but Sylar wasn't done eating yet and there was no reason to bring it up until he was. Peter intended to stay with Sylar (or at least check in on him regularly) until he thought Sylar was well enough to take care of himself. Making a point of that was also something best left unsaid so he moved on to a more neutral topic.

"I know about helmets, man. _**Now**_ , of course. Then I was a teenager and yeah, I was lucky. There was this one call I went on a couple years ago, motorcycle crash right in front of a fire station. No helmet. He was probably only going 45 or so but …" Peter looked down at his soup - red, or reddish-orange actually, with lumps and flecks. He remembered the mushy way the man's face - top of skull, cheekbones, jaw, everything - was loose and sort of free-floating on the front of his face. Peter swallowed dryly. "Yeah. Well." He was silent for a moment, forcing himself to eat a spoonful of soup before continuing, "I heard they managed to save one of his eyes. I wish I'd known about that healing ability a long time ago."

XXX

Sylar gave him a blank look, his mouth currently occupied with soup he was trying to acquaint his tongue with. _He just said he's never had a bad one and he thinks they suck? Oh, Empath, heal thyself,_ Sylar thought to himself sarcastically, yet with some affection. Just as he was working up the nerve to swallow, Peter dove into another paramedic story and even before he'd finished, Sylar's imagination had done the rest. It appeared he wasn't alone in being queasy on that one. It got so bad as the man continued he was forced to make the choice between vomiting or swallowing to keep everything down so he swallowed the mouthful of soup, keeping his eyes anywhere but on the rest of the bowl. _Neat, Peter. Let's talk about this over tomato soup, shall we? What part of that is smart? This is gonna take forever if you keep this up._

XXX

He'd given up that ability - that most prized and life-giving of abilities - to take flight from 'Nathan' and keep up with him after whatever mental transfer or reversal happened between Matt and the man Peter had thought was his brother. He'd surrendered the precious healing power in a heartbeat, thinking Nathan needed him, only to find out it wasn't Nathan at all. Peter frowned. It didn't seem to be a good thing to ponder. There was nothing intentional on Sylar's part to cause Peter to lose the ability, nor, from what Peter could tell, was Sylar acting 'badly' at that time. Lost, confused, perhaps having an identity crisis? Yes. But also, the identity crisis - not Sylar's fault. At least, not directly. Peter gave a small head shake to throw off the disturbing contemplation.

 _What were we talking about? Oh yeah, motorcycles._ "I don't even know how to drive a motorcycle. Every now and then they talk about recruiting for rescue riders around the fid-knee for downtown access but I have no interest in that _at all_." Peter looked at Sylar blankly for a moment, realizing that sentence was probably about as understandable to the man as Sylar relating watch functions was to Peter. "So, uh …" _I need to shut up_. "Crackers?"

XXX

Taking a few, subtle deep breaths, banishing both his overactive mind's eye and his own memories of open brain cases and bloody gray matter, Sylar got out, "I don't know how to either. Can't imagine it's all that difficult." He felt as though he gave some kind of a jerk, but he couldn't be sure, part of him hoped he had, given the foreign nature of the thought – Nathan recalling Peter mentioning rescue riders while the lawyer focused on his own affairs. With effort, he replied, "Really? I didn't know that." _Because there is a distinction between Nathan and I_ , he told himself. When Peter stared at him, he went on, assuming Peter was waiting for something, "That sounds-" Sylar had been going to continue in that vein of conversation before Peter piped up, again about food.

 _Crackers. Of course, so this lumpy red liquid will get all chunky and have texture and be more edible, right?_ Sylar closed his eyes with something of a mildly pained expression, his stomach working itself into and out of knots. "Uh…I don't think so, not for me."

He realized he couldn't exactly ask Peter to stop talking about blood and guts while they ate. That would just seem odd and rather stupid, given that Sylar was the "Brain Man", given that Sylar had sliced open Nathan's throat. Given that Sylar had tried to kill Charlie the waitress and handle her brain tumor while eating. All those times, he reasoned, he hadn't had an upset stomach to throw off his appetites. On the other hand…Peter wanted him to eat.


	29. Mental Exam

"How's the hand?" Sylar asked to distract them both. An idea occurred to him, belatedly, "On second thought I will take some crackers." _I'll eat them dry_.

XXX

"The hand hurts. Even when I'm only moving my thumb and index finger, but it's worst when I bump something accidentally." Peter fiddled with the box of crackers, pulling out an unopened sleeve. He looked at it briefly, considering the various ways to attempt to open it one handed, or without having to put much pressure on his right hand. Nothing came to mind that wouldn't hurt more than the attempt was worth, or was unacceptably rude like using his teeth. He handed over the sleeve to Sylar, hoping he'd understand. It was an obvious problem.

XXX

Sylar nodded, unsure of what to say to Peter's response about the hand. The other man brought around the box of crackers, although Sylar was barely paying attention, more focused on getting the soup into him. While Peter fiddled with the box, not opening it, Sylar quietly swallowed down a few more spoonfuls, cluing in moments later when the sound and motion of 'opening the bag' didn't occur. _Oh, yeah. He can't open it with the hand we just talked about._ He thought on the dilemma for five seconds than decided he'd see what Peter would do.

The empath answered the question not long after, pushing the bag towards Sylar, who merely blinked at him. He had no idea how to take that, said nothing. _Peter Petrelli seriously just handed me a bag of crackers so I could open it for him. Because he couldn't. What's that joke about tall men and pickle jars on high shelves? Something about useful husbands. So that makes him…?_ Sylar's lips fought a grin at the presumptuousness, taking the bag and digging his fingers in for a grip. _Wait…or is this like the "I'm the handy can-opener" thing? I'm sooo useful that Peter Petrelli is here to beg of my help? I'm not a fucking swiss army knife anymore!_ The grinning smirk he'd had on faded into a darker look as he took a handful of crackers, handing the bag back, considering his thoughts. _Or does he mistake me for Nathan?_

XXX

Peter ate quietly for a while, retrieving the sleeve of crackers after Sylar was done with them and taking a few for himself. The closed box and unopened sleeve had kept Peter from getting any earlier, not that he'd really thought about it. _Huh. I just used Sylar to open the crackers for me and didn't even notice it._ Peter's brows and the side of his mouth quirked briefly at the small, internal joke.

When his mind started to go back to the motorcycle victim, he reined it in and instead focused on something more immediate, reviewing what he needed to do for Sylar. _He looks like a mess. I'll bet he could sit for a bath, but I don't think a shower would work._ He pondered for a moment. _I can't think of how to do that without playing into that same thing that happened earlier with taking his coat off. Getting him undressed for a bath … no. There's no way to do that without giving him ideas. He'll be fine for another day, then he should be able to manage undressing on his own maybe._

 _What's more worrying is that from the way he's breathing, he's got some obstruction going on and swelling in the sinuses. He sounds alright otherwise. Maybe I could get him to go along with a cycle of cold and hot compresses. That would help him. Yesterday I was too fucked up to be competent. Speaking of which …_ Peter eyed Sylar's hands _. I need to check those out. If they've clotted up and sealed, then I need to get the bandages off him if all he's going to do is rest. They'll heal faster that way._

 _I need to check_ _ **him**_ _out, and not just his knuckles._ Peter's contemplation held nothing of lewd intentions, not even considering the optional meaning of his thought. His mind played back through the events of their fight. _I hit him in the face, then pulled … kicked him in the leg, he fell on me, then got on top of me, I head-butted him and … yeah, I think that was it. He can walk - leg seems okay. Where did my knee hit him when he fell? I was kind of out of it, but my knee hit something hard. I must have hit his hip because my knee's bruised up too much for just a gut shot. Could it have been his ribs?_ Peter's legs shifted a little as he tried to recall their exact positions. _I might have ruptured something in him, though obviously he's not dead. Jeez, what if he can't breathe well because he's got diaphragm problems from taking my knee too high? No, I think I was trying to rack him. He must have been lower, but there's still a lot of stuff in that region that doesn't take well to being landed on. I really need to make sure._

 _Hm. How do I manage that without setting him off?_ Peter's spoon came to the bottom of his bowl as he finished his soup and then set the implement aside, regarding his companion with an analytical eye for a moment. There was something else he needed to do before any examination, though. He rose and walked over to the counter, reaching behind a canister to fish out the Tylenol. He counted out a dose for Sylar and set it wordlessly beside him, then Peter counted out his own pills, put them in his mouth, set down the box, and washed the pills down with his water.

XXX

Sylar was now mostly disregarding the soup, instead munching on the crackers, slowly to suit his face. He took gulps of it via the spoon when the crackers made his tongue too dry, switching between water and soup for nutritional versus fluid intake. Peter was quiet, also hard at work masticating. Sylar's thoughts wandered to his next move – ideally getting clean. His companion had given him the impression that he would be leaving as soon as he thought Sylar was fit enough and now, to complicate things, Sylar was bothered by the prospect of the man's departure.

To some degree he enjoyed being fussed over. It had been a long time since he'd had some of that, but he was aware that it was temporary, probably a one-time occurrence, so he enjoyed it and didn't linger or pine for it's loss. It made him feel funny, though. Sylar didn't look forward to chasing after Peter, hounding him down for attention and conversation, companionship.

Peter got out Tylenol after he finished his meal and set a dose before Sylar. Moments after that, Sylar had filled up as much as he was going to on soup and took the pills. Placing his hands on the back of the chair and the table, Sylar levered himself up, waiting for his body to adjust to standing before he again assisted himself back out to the couch using a bit of wall. He bit back his grunts at the walking part, his limp more pronounced as he ran out of wall to support himself with, but he made it to the couch and sat down with a sigh. At least his stomach felt better.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar navigated his way back to the couch, of two minds as to whether he should stay in the kitchen and let Sylar have autonomy (and also where Peter had a better view of his mobility) or whether he should stay a pace removed in case he needed to grab or brace Sylar if he had a balance problem. Ultimately, Peter moved to the door of the kitchen and otherwise stayed back. Sylar seemed to accept his help grudgingly at best and had made it very clear he wanted Peter gone. It was a common problem with patients - displacing their upset about their condition onto their providers. At least, that's what Peter hoped was going on, although he had to admit there weren't many reasons why Sylar would want him around anyway, except as a distraction or source of entertainment. Sylar made it to the couch without issue, so there was that, at least.

Seeing Sylar had sat, Peter turned and rummaged around in the kitchen for a bowl, finding a plastic one - Tubberware or something like it - and then a washcloth. He looked the cloth over and wet it, thinking about germs. _This place … I guess it's sterile. Or … maybe it's sterile because we think it's sterile. It's his mind after all. If trash isn't a big deal, I can't see how routine infectious agents would exist._

He washed his hands anyway out of habit, but it kept him from obsessing about hygiene as much as he would have in the real world. Certainly he wasn't going to go through the normal protocol with gloves and protective barriers. He carried the bowl, with the wet cloth in it, out to the couch with the intention of catching Sylar before he got all settled in. His patient had eaten and taken his medications without complaint. Peter would see if he could help him with self-care and try to segue that into a better patient assessment than he'd done the day before.

In a matter-of-fact tone, Peter said, "Sylar, scoot over. Let's get your face cleaned off." Peter gave him a once over, noticing the bloodstains on Sylar's right cuff. He recalled Sylar holding Peter's neck with his right, prompting Peter to grab Sylar's wrist with his bloody left hand. _It's not even his blood on his wrist. But that's his on his face, under his chin there and on his jaw._ _I'll have to have him take his shirt off after all._ Peter wasn't sure what to think about that, what with Sylar's come-on that morning about it. _Maybe he's forgotten about that?_ Amnesia was never so convenient, though.

"If you will _let me_ , I'd like to do an examination on you, so I'm sure I understand what's wrong. I didn't check yesterday." _I should have. I was too messed up. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm concussed, too. Or was. Whatever. Just not nearly as badly._

XXX

Sylar reacted to his name before the man's presence became known, turning with a somewhat expectant look on his face. It dissolved when Peter continued, telling him to move, allow him room and get his…face cleaned off? Again he was reminded that he wasn't exactly squeaky clean and that he looked like he'd had his face kicked in. _And I smell, let's not forget that one. C'mon, Pete,_ _sidle_ _on up._ It did nothing for his confidence. His expression took on a much more neutralized, arrogant expression as he eyed Peter right back.

Sylar didn't move immediately, either, instead taking stock of the objects Peter had brought: a bowl filled with water he presumed and a washcloth hanging a bit over the side. The implication was unmistakable – Sylar was filthy enough to need a bowl, water and a cloth and Peter had noticed. Once more he felt like a child whose fingers weren't coordinated enough or a child who was too unruly to be trusted. He felt like throwing a tantrum or whining, too, which didn't help his assessment.

 _First my hands, now my face_. This was (or would be) a level of just plain weird. Suddenly grimy, bloody, sweaty and smelly were preferable, safer. But Peter wasn't stopping at a facial. Sylar's face shifted to try to allow his eyebrows to raise slightly, but it hurt and he wound up grimacing. "A what?" He almost choked. _He didn't check? He didn't check what?_ Sylar tried to quickly review what could possibly need to be checked without an MRI. _What's wrong? Nothing's wrong…._

Peter was pulling a card that made Sylar uncomfortable – a "good guy" medical man all but demanding to examine him, his head, his brain most likely. It wasn't going to be "stick out your tongue and let me whack your knee". Sure Peter had handled his previous concussion "examination" alright, but this was a more serious injury and some of the damaged areas were beneath his clothes. _Does he have abilities?_ Was his immediate, paranoid fear, clearly remembering Mercy Hospital and before that Stanton. He stayed still, not moving over as directed, unsure that if he let Peter sit if Sylar would remain some control over the situation.

XXX

Peter ignored Sylar's lack of movement and crowded onto the couch anyway. Pushing Sylar around was getting him what he wanted and so he kept doing it. He sat down on the end nearer the kitchen. With Sylar still in the middle, this meant Peter was in easy reach of him and in fact, Peter was kind of crammed into the corner of the couch. He was turned to face Sylar directly and sat to the man's left. Peter set the bowl down between them where it touched both of their legs. He hung onto it for a second to establish possession before releasing it. He used his left hand to pick up the washcloth (the bowl was a quarter full of water) and wrung it out clumsily and one-handedly.

Peter looked directly at Sylar, leaning forward a little and speaking in a calm, low voice. It was a little more companionable than his usual paramedic voice. "I want to give you a patient assessment to be sure I understand why you're limping, why your balance is bad and why you're nauseous. I need to work out how bad your concussion is. Sometimes you're uncooperative and I can't tell if that's because of the concussion or," Peter smiled a little painfully, "or because of … everything else." _Because you're an uncooperative asshole, traumatized history, serial killer, all that. But right now you're my patient, combative or not, and that's what matters._ The smile faded as he glanced down and wrung out a little more water from the cloth. Peter's voice dropped a little to be quieter and deeper as he looked back up. "I'm trying to be your nurse here. I'm trying to help you. I hope that if our positions were reversed, that you'd help me. And at this rate, one of these days they might be." _And what will happen then?_

XXX

Sylar's eyes widened as Peter had the audacity to sit when it had been pretty clear Sylar didn't want him there. _Damn Petrellis, you think you own everything_. He glared, putting plenty of heat into his gaze, hoping to sear and scare off this annoying pest. While being pressed up against another human body was nice, it wasn't under acceptable circumstances. He gave a loud grunt to signal his displeasure, obstinately not moving from *his* seat.

Peter went about setting up camp, cool and as welcome as you please while Sylar was seriously considering striking him, his fists going so far as to ball up. He had no idea what he was going to do when Peter reached for his face, but he didn't think it would be pretty. All he felt was confusion – he would like to be touched, but not like this. Peter's reasons, each and every one, were bogus and vague and now the medic was getting pushy like Sylar knew he would. There was no truce; he was defenseless and useless. To top it off, he'd tried to proposition Peter earlier, so where did that leave them now?

XXX

Peter was silent for a moment as he thought about that question. Despite his expectation that he'd be an even worse patient than Sylar had been, there were a lot of little signs that his fears of further mistreatment at Sylar's hands might be overblown. He hoped they were, but that was the thing about doubt and uncertainty - he wouldn't know for sure until the time came. Peter leaned in further, looking up at Sylar. "When I first came here you told me I ought to pick out an apartment. You invited me to lunch with you. You tried to give me some pointers about the place." He held up his right hand. "Later you offered to tape my hand up. You showed me where I could find a good brace. You even held it and helped me put it on. Yesterday you bandaged my face." He paused before continuing very genuinely, "I've _noticed_. I'm trying to help you right now. It's the _same thing_."

Peter was trying to set up an equivalency, a tit-for-tat, and make it seem like Sylar had been the first to start this process of give and take. He extended the cloth towards Sylar. "If you want to wash your face off, I'll do touch up on any spots you miss." 'You do this, I'll do that' - it was a method that worked with a lot of patients who were particularly touchy about being helpless.

XXX

Peter leaned in and Sylar's head went up, defensive and alpha, staring Peter down. In doing that, he hoped the smaller man would take the hint and back off as Sylar's undivided attention usually had that effect. _Why the hell would you_ _extol_ _my virtues now? Obvious much, Petrelli?_ He sneered in his head. His reward for said kind acts had not gone unnoticed. Concussions were subtle that way. Frowning slightly, but even that hurt, he still watched Peter as he proffered the washcloth.

Sylar almost expected him to pull it back as he reached for it: Ha ha! Just kidding! But it didn't happen, so he took it and made to scrub his cheek with the cloth, wincing and hissing as he hit bruises, ceasing his motions instantly. _Shit! And why can't I use a mirror again, Petrelli? You wanna be in charge_. He gave Peter another glare and went back to attempting to clean his face, this time with a more gentle touch. In trying to avoid the spot he'd just hit, Sylar adjusted his touch by about an inch which helped only minimally as the entire area was sore. _Wonderful. And he's going to sit there and watch the whole time._

XXX

Peter ducked his eyes away from the latest glare to be polite, but otherwise he didn't give an inch. He was beginning to get quite a bit less afraid of Sylar's looks, since he'd had the opportunity to weather so many of them without being killed. As Sylar cleaned, Peter shifted position, adjusting himself with his back against the arm of the couch. He and Sylar remained crammed too close together. One of Peter's many bruises along his spine wasn't happy about how he was settled so he found a better position to be in, grimacing a little as he did so. He bumped Sylar's leg with his knee, wishing the guy would move over but not asking for it again.

Sylar seemed to be doing a pretty lousy job of washing his face, which was about what Peter had expected. Peter reached up and touched at the very sore muscles of his own neck, feeling along them, knotted and tense, while he eyed the matching part of Sylar's anatomy. _I should put some of that Tiger Balm on him. Well, on both of us. Might as well get started on the test._

"Sylar, I'm going to give you three words that I want you to remember and repeat to me later. It's a memory test. You're probably pretty good at that stuff, right? The words are apple, penny and table. Just normal words, but in a half hour or so I'm going to ask you to tell me what the words were."

XXX

Sylar huffed, having heard the memory test before, "Yeah, sure." _Don't butter me up with what I'm good at. I'm so nice, I'm so talented all of a sudden, I'm not being that difficult, am I? That he would need to flatter me…I don't care either way._

He found his breath coming a little faster and not because of the pain of dodging bruises and lacerations as he cleaned his face. His mind was triggering his body to reaction, but he couldn't discern the cause – be it anticipation and anxiety or delight and desire at Peter's proximity. He ignored Peter's hint for more room, ignored it just barely. Digging up the will, he stared back at Peter while he dabbed and rubbed lightly at the filth on his face. In all honesty, his concentration was not on the task at hand. The longer Peter sat there, behaving himself, keeping his hands to himself moreover, the more Sylar saw this as an opportunity…to do what, he hadn't planned for yet. _Stupid brain, keep up!_

XXX

Peter watched for a moment as the clean-up proceeded. Part of what he was doing here was checking Sylar's ability to perform a simple two-step task: take this cloth, clean your face. Was Sylar mentally there enough to automatically add other steps, like rinsing the cloth and doing a good job? Theoretically, Peter should be giving him a single prompt for other steps, but it wasn't like he wouldn't have other chances to test him on that front. Part of why concussion victims liked to sleep so much was that they couldn't think more than a step or two into the future. It was exhausting, given their limited capabilities.

"Can you tell me what year it is, here?" He waited for an answer, honestly curious about that, too. Peter didn't actually know the date, but right or wrong answers weren't as important as whether or not the subject could give an answer that was reasonable-sounding.

XXX

After some silence, filled with only the sounds of their breathing, moving clothing and Sylar's face been cleaned, Peter spoke again. Hygiene paused, Sylar's face grew massively confused, and inside he was suddenly frightened but he hoped that part didn't show. _What….year? Doesn't he know? Wait…wait…._ "Uh…" he replied. Sylar couldn't remember back that far. Peter was recent…being alone was…Was that new? Peter was the only one here, too, that wasn't new. Sylar couldn't recall how much time he'd lost as Nathan or with Parkman or God only knew when else he'd lost time. The Carnival maybe?

 _Oh my god…I'm losing it. I can't remember! Is it happening again? What if I can't ever remember? What does that mean? Why can't I remember? I tell time, I should know this! I knew it before…Was it something Peter did? What happened to me? What's he going to do if I don't answer this right? Or answer at all?_ His eyes flicked to Peter's face then away multiple times, his face fluctuating between a frown and confused worry, the washcloth held loosely in his left hand.

XXX

"How about the season?" Peter waited again. "What month is it, Sylar?" Another pause, and a check for whether the season matched up with the month.

XXX

Peter continued so whatever he'd said had been…somehow acceptable. Sylar swallowed and tried to think again. "Its cold…Winter?" he hedged, eyes locked to Peter's for any sign that he might be right. "I remember thinking something about your birthday…so…December." This time the answer was more sure, more firm; yes, it was December. He didn't know how that had come to him, but it did. Hopefully Peter wouldn't press for details on that.

XXX

"How about the day of the week?" That was another one that Peter would be purely guessing at.

XXX

"Um…" Sylar's face scrunched up some as he thought. "Sat- no, Sunday. It's Sunday!" He got out in a rush, relieved he remembered and praying that effort was enough, but still Peter kept up.

XXX

Peter followed up with, "What's today's full date - day, month, year, everything?" The order of the questions was important. The mind was trained to focus on small things and go bigger. Requiring the largest unit (the year) for his first question and going progressively smaller required mental agility that was simple for someone in possession of all their faculties, but was difficult for someone operating at reduced capacity. The trick, with Sylar, was going to be telling when he was refusing to answer because he was intentionally difficult and when he was refusing to answer because he couldn't manage it. So Peter watched him carefully, attentively, trying to read him. Peter noted that his own ability to concentrate was already being taxed by the task, which was a simple questionnaire he'd administered scores of times in the past.

XXX

Blinking once, he nodded once jerkily. _Okay, obviously that's the pattern, but I don't…I don't get it. Its pissing me off!_ "Sunday, December, Winter…uh…" he replied, his words delivered as a recital, not including the year as he still couldn't name it. He felt something dripping slowly down his left wrist and glanced at it as it had tickled a bit. A wet washcloth. _Oh yeah! At least I remembered something._

"What year is it?" his gaze went back up to Peter's, wishing he were looking at a lovely, kind, soft-voiced black woman for some reason, one who'd stuck up for him and kept her promises. Of course her name was fuzzy at the moment, too. Sylar regretted that. Or maybe he wished for his mother and her red coats, manicured nails and pearl necklaces. Hell, maybe even his one-time tattooed lover with her long brown-blonde hair and revealed, tan skin. There were two other faces, both feminine, but they didn't jump to assist him even though he wished they would. One was another named 'Mom'…how strange.

XXX

 _He is way more messed up than I thought._ Peter shifted to being less cranky and more gentle with Sylar, getting a better idea that a lot of the man's recent uncooperativeness was due to impaired mental state rather than deliberate. Peter let go of his irritation at Sylar's 'stubbornness'. He reached out slowly and carefully took the washcloth from Sylar's hand, then put it in the water, swished it around a little and wrung it out. "I don't know. I guess I should have asked before. But let's see if we can figure it out." His voice softened up, too, like they were having a quiet, introspective conversation just between the two of them. It was a relaxed tone and Peter's body relaxed with it. He wrung the cloth out clumsily a second time, shaking off errant drops. "When I first came here, you said you'd been here for years." He lifted the cloth up, leaning in, pausing his dialogue to watch Sylar carefully and see if he'd allow Peter to clean him up. "Tilt your head a little here. You missed a spot under your jaw."

XXX

Again, he was relieved, unexpectedly, by Peter's response. _Okay…okay…_ He tried to calm himself from the brief interrogation he'd managed to pass. Still he felt like there were things he was forgetting about his situation. Peter took away the washcloth, rinsing and squeezing it as best he could and that was fine with Sylar. _Oh, wait…did that mean…?_ Yes, it did. Sylar's eyes widened as he leaned back a fraction of an inch as the other man drew closer. _He's really going to clean me? That's…that's…_ Concussion or not, he couldn't think of a word to describe this oddity. He ignored his instinct to move back and give the man more couch space.

He swallowed and exhaled a forceful breath before angling his head back. It left his eyes unable to follow the man, but Peter moved in again and gently rubbed the cloth over the spot just to the left side under his chin. _How'd I get dirt there?_ He thought, trying, for some reason, to focus on that other than the sudden warmth flooding his body. It felt weird to be so purposefully exposed, literally baring his throat. It felt so very nice, though.

The meds began to kick in so he grew more relaxed, fighting to keep his awareness and self-defensive nature up to speed. He listened muzzily to the soft scraping sound of the cloth on his significantly dark, thicker stubble, swallowing again from Peter's singular focus.

XXX

Peter went on conversationally like he was talking with someone familiar and friendly, "You had to have left at the end of 2009 so that would make this … what?" _Wouldn't be the first time I've lived in the future. Even if this time it's a fake future._

"The next questions I'm supposed to ask are about location. I know you and I had a disagreement about that before, but it's not important. What's important is where you think we are." _And that you can give me a location, a sequence, that shows some awareness of where you've been recently._ "What country are we in?"

"How about state?"

XXX

"Left…" _Left? I didn't leave anything. Who would have noticed?_ _It's_ _not like the_ _y_ _keep great tabs on me. Did Matt squeal? 2009 was a long time ago, Pete._ "Um…" with his head tilted up, Peter probably missed his blinking as he calculated. _I dunno….Don't really care to be honest._ Sylar held back his hum of approval on being pampered. It felt good.

He came out of it a bit when asked about the country, frowning. For some reason it struck him as a trick question. "United States," he answered a bit quizzically. Sylar was remembering Illusions of Hawaii in Mexico. Hallucinations, dreams, nightmares, comas and illusions were still things that came to his mind despite being powerless for so long. Since Peter was busy he decided to test to be sure, flexing his fingers and attempting to access that part of his brain to move the blanket Peter had placed on the back of his chair. No luck, not that he expected any.

A second time the question sounded like Peter knew more than Sylar did somehow. He _had_ mentioned an argument. "New York, this is my apartment." He asserted that a little stronger because he was sure this was his apartment.

XXX

"Do you remember the neighborhood, the district or the names of any buildings around here, like the one we're in?"

"Do you know the mailing address for your apartment? What is it?" _I'm supposed to be keeping track of his points for this, too. But … fuck it._

XXX

This was seriously taxing Sylar in every way, everything but the grooming, that is. "I don't…" he growled, leaving off in frustration, tempted to duck away from the contact on his face to make a point of his displeasure in the questioning.

XXX

"It's okay. It's okay," Peter soothed, wringing out the cloth and tilting his head one way and then the other, examining each side of Sylar's face as best he could without getting up. He looked okay, other than splotchy bruises and a healthy growth of bristle. They'd at least gotten off the blood, which had been worst around his chin and neck. His hair was a mess, but that was hardly fatal, nor worth trying to steer an unsteady Sylar into the shower. _I ought to bring over that electric razor for his face. I think I'll do that tomorrow morning._

"These are supposed to be kind of hard questions," Peter said. _For someone in your condition. For anyone without brain problems going on, they're really easy, which is exactly what the test is for - to tell the difference. You're not faking on me, are you?_ Peter considered that, but couldn't see what purpose Sylar could have in it. True, Peter might be suckered into treating him more nicely, but that was hardly a big deal. If anything, Peter felt that should that be true, **he** was the one who should feel embarrassed that he was such an asshole that his patients had to resort to conniving and manipulation to get good treatment.

He shook off that line of thought, saying, "This next one throws almost everybody at some point, unless they're really focused and don't have any distractions. I want you to count backwards from one hundred by sevens, until I tell you to stop. So that's from one hundred to ninety-three, then …" His mind briefly blanked on him. _Um ..._ "Eighty-six," he struggled out. _I am going to be shit for scoring this. But he doesn't need to know that._ "And so on. So start at one hundred and count backwards by seven." Peter worked his scene presence, acting professional and attentive. For the moment he set the washcloth in the bowl to soak while he leaned back and gave Sylar some room to think.

_Next step - getting his shirt off, or finishing the MMSE? Probably need to finish the MMSE. Don't distract your patient in the middle of the assessment._

XXX

Sylar blinked, bringing his chin down after a time of Peter's ceased hygiene, face to face with the man again. _You're not distracting at all, Peter, practically sitting in my lap._ The longer the touching (or near touching) had gone on, the harder it was getting not to blush; so far he'd dodged that bullet. He wasn't looking forward to whatever next test that was tricky as apparently he'd been struggling with the lead-up, semi-normal questions. "No more sponge bath?" he asked wistfully, disappointed, but Peter pulled back.

He sighed. He didn't see the point of any of this. A concussion was a concussion and he hadn't been attempting to cover up his symptoms – they were what they were; painful, ugly and obvious. And right now, his head was splitting. Peter had given him a few freebies in the questions, "One hundred, ninety-three, eighty-six…" A look at his recall of times-tables, quite out of practice, was in order. _Eighty-six divided by…no, no. Eighty-six minus seven is…_ A single tap of his finger to against his opposite hand, "Seventy-eight…"

Formulation was difficult; he managed a few more, "Seventy-one…" That one was easier. "…Sixty-four…fifty-..." One more he found himself trailing off into Lostville. He felt the urge to joke, ' _What was the question?_ ' And then maybe, ' _I was distracted by you petting and staring at me_ '. Make no mistake, Peter's mere presence, here, now, given the circumstances, given the way the medic was…well, _caring_ for him; it served to make Sylar uncomfortable in forgotten ways.

In a new twist, it occurred to him that he was being led around like a trained monkey. Irony had struck again. _Next he'll have me recite the alphabet backwards and touch my nose while standing on one foot_. "Oh, I get it. Ha ha," he said of the testing, his voice dry, eyes suddenly annoyed.

XXX

' _No more sponge bath'. He liked that? Or is he just messing with me?_ Peter mulled that over as Sylar struggled through the serial sevens. Peter wasn't that fond of it as a test because himself, and so many others, had difficulty with it completely sober and intact. _I think he scored two or four, depending on whether you count the ones I told him. Those aren't supposed to count. So two, I guess. That's pretty in-line with everything else. I think he's scoring down near the bottom of moderate._ 'Moderate' was not a good thing. It meant pretty damn fucked up, which matched with Sylar's symptoms of 'has difficulty walking', 'has trouble holding a conversation unless nothing whatsoever otherwise is going on', 'sleeps a lot', and the most important part as far as Peter was concerned, 'can't manage self-care'. There was no way Peter could leave Sylar to his own devices.

Peter noted Sylar's shifting expression and decided to pause the test for a moment. If Sylar was truly finding the questions arduous, then mental fatigue and irritation were likely. Peter was in no position to walk away or force Sylar to cooperate. He didn't even have much in the way of tools of persuasion. He reached over to take Sylar's nearer hand. "Let me take a look at your hand while you tell me what it is you 'get'. There're only two more sets of questions on the test. We're almost done." He eyed the bandages. Sylar would probably be better off without them, now that the injuries had scabbed over fully.

XXX

A thought bubbled up and out as Peter's rougher, warm hand took Sylar's, even though he had lingering annoyance and frustrations. Dealing in his common ground of gray, the mid-way between serious and jesting, he asked, "Does this mean we're serious if we're at hand-holding stage?" _Gee…there's a thought. Either about holding hands or 'getting serious' with Peter Petrelli._ Sylar meanwhile watched Peter tend to his hand, peeling off the band-aids with uncommon gentleness. _Who knew that would feel so nice? And coming from him…Who knew?_

XXX

Peter glanced up at Sylar with an almost perfectly blank face, no emotion whatsoever on it. He exhaled carefully and ducked his head back down to look at what he was doing. He wanted rather badly to give Sylar a 'oh really?' look, or 'are you serious?' face. He wanted to tell Sylar irritably to scoot over. They didn't have to be almost on top of each other here, which had bothered Peter a little all along, but made his skin prickle now at Sylar's insinuation.

XXX

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were filming this as a 'You Got Punk'd' joke to show your fellow heroes. Pretty funny, I bet. They've probably still got footage or at least records of even more ' _fun stuff_ ' somewhere." Sylar rolled his eyes, "That would explain things about…this," he gestured between them, with his free hand, of course, to signify Peter's current nursing.

XXX

But there was a second level to the comments. _He's soft-balling it to me - maybe unintentionally. Hand-holding, insecure about my motives - he wants to know why I'm being friendly. He wants me to tell him to back off so that he's the wounded party being ordered away. That way he's not responsible. He wants a reassurance that I'm not going to screw him over._

A distant memory came to him of one of his classes for being a paramedic, where the instructor took a session to talk about ethics and the tremendous trust the public put in EMTs, allowing them to strip someone naked, damage property and deal with them, stranger-to-stranger, in some of the most intimate ways. _Sylar knows he's concussed. He doesn't want to be taken advantage of. That's the big deal with trying to get me out of here. It's not that he doesn't know he needs help. He doesn't trust me._

Peter looked up again and said slowly, "You have an injury that I'm taking _very seriously_ , Sylar. That's why I'm here. That's the explanation for all of this," he said, making a brief duplicate of Sylar's earlier gesture between them. "No jokes, no stunts, I'm not laughing."

Peter worked his skills of removing tape and bandages without pulling at the skin too much, then raised Sylar's hand to look at it, turning it back and forth. "Yeah, you'll be fine without the bandages, as long as you're not doing anything to get your hands dirty. Let me see the other one."

XXX

Sylar stared him down with forgotten fervor. _So long as I don't get my hands dirty?_ "No!" he proclaimed, snatching his hands back. "You son of a bitch," he blurted out on top of that. Peter had had hold of a band-aid which Sylar had just assisted in removing with a swiftness – the skin tingled and burned and strangely itched in the aftermath. _Trying to rub it in now, huh? I'm just the crazy murderer who can't keep his hands CLEAN is that it? Is that it?_

The move tilted his torso away from Peter, who he kept his eyes on, wary that he might have placed himself in danger just by being contrary, offended and protective. _All that crap he talks about behaving myself, oh, I see how it is_. Part of him seriously longed to scoot away and whack at Peter with his feet _. But we covered this before…I'm the filthy one. Because someone had to make you look good, Petrelli, someone has to. You think I don't know how hard blood-stains are to remove? No fucking wonder no one can see me under all that blood…_

 _It takes two to tango, Peter_ , he thought viciously of the man's weird kink of playing 'house', his gaze turning into a deadly glare, he hoped it would fool Peter enough into staying away. Or maybe apologizing, one of the two… _Um…isn't he kind of…correct in thinking you're a filthy low-life? Yes, but he won't sleep with one of those. Keeping the status quo and all that._

XXX

Peter's hands came up immediately, first as a visible release of Sylar's hand, showing that he wasn't trying to hold him or grab after him. On the heels of the curse, they came up higher, looking like 'I surrender' but actually just getting them between the two of them to ward off possible blows. Peter leaned back in equal to Sylar, but he had nowhere to go as the arm of the couch reminded him.

Both men watched the other with utmost wariness, but when Sylar stiffened to turn his look into his usual formidable glare, Peter looked away and let his guard down. He let his hands sink to his lap and slumped towards the back of the couch, oddly sure that Sylar wasn't going to follow up his look with an assault. Peter sighed.

 _Was it something I did? Something I said? Dirty hands? He's talked about that before, that my family doesn't want to get our hands dirty. I am so tired of fighting with him. He's so defensive. I just want to …_ He wanted something that was well and gone forever, and that wasn't just because of being trapped here. He wanted to go _home_ , but not only were vital people missing from 'home', but all the illusions of safety and warmth and trust had been stripped away from there. Some nearly barren apartment with a bed shoved in the corner seemed like the only substitute.

 _If I'm tired, he has to be exhausted. Maybe I should just drop it, not finish the exam, not give him a physical assessment, and let it go? It's why I didn't do it yesterday, either. I can't do it without his cooperation. As he said, I'm in no position._ Peter looked over kind of forlornly at Sylar having one hand bandaged and one not. Peter dropped the bandage he'd accidentally torn off, putting it with the others that had been more carefully removed. His eyes rose to Sylar's face, then dropped again. He knew he was giving off some subordinate body language here, but he didn't care. Maybe it would help - to put Sylar in control - but mainly Peter just felt defeated.

He tried again, like he always did. He sat up a little and extended his left hand slowly and partway, palm mostly up and tilted. He looked up at Sylar, asking as clearly as he could with his face messed up as it was. "Sylar, let me finish, okay?" he asked softly. "I don't understand what I just did to make you angry."

XXX

Sylar's ego was quickly boosted when Peter not only obeyed, but reacted defensively. He straightened his shoulders and puffed up a bit. The great Peter Petrelli was afraid of him. _That's right! I can say no, too…Don't know why, but I can. Don't know why I even did that…I'm still a murderer and no one's happy about that. If anything he should be angry, not me._ That crashed his mood. Finding out, being reminded rather, that he didn't have a leg or crutch to stand on when it came to feeling wronged when he was the guilty party was always a fun trip.

Of course Peter wasn't cowed completely, looking towards Sylar's hands with a strange face. _Ugh_. The empath made another attempt, moving slowly and carefully which helped. It was funny that now, Sylar wasn't worried about a violent response from Peter; he worried about the exchange of words, not blows. Sylar scanned Peter's face, very open and needy from what he could see around the man's wounds.

With an exaggerated sigh, mostly to remind him who was in charge, Sylar placed his hand "in" Peter's, allowing him to finish after the man claimed not to understand. Sylar believed him – otherwise, Peter would have been ramming the 'Killer!' bat down his throat most relentlessly. Was it even possible Peter hadn't meant anything by it, seeing that he'd failed to understand the effect of his words?

"Doesn't matter; its old news," was his answer, assuming Peter was asking for one. While Peter worked, his head somewhat down, his eyes down, anyway, Sylar watched the man's swollen-shut eye. He waited a few beats before adding, "You should make yourself an ice eye-patch for that," nodding towards Peter. He'd been about to say 'we should make you…' but that just sounded…odd or forward.

XXX

Peter picked quietly at the bandages, unwrapping them slowly while he tried to decide if he should back off and let Sylar rest, or try to wrap up the mini mental state exam so he had a complete result set to work with. He looked up at Sylar's last statement to see what he was referring to. The man's sight-line was clear enough. Peter smiled a little. "And then I could put a hook on my gimp hand here," he said with a flourish of his mostly useless right, "and be a pirate." He started chuckling at the silly mental image. "Arr," he said with a lot of humor, but not much volume. An idea struck him and he grinned, adopting an even more outlandish accent to say, "All fear the Dread Pirate Petrelli, scourge of the high seas!" _The floor could be our ocean, and the couch our trusty boat, ship, vessel, whatever._ He gave a few short but very sincere laughs before going back to a normal voice and accent, saying, "Now I **am** laughing, and it's all your fault, you know?"

XXX

Sylar laughed along with him, a quick bark of humor at first about the hook hand. "Peter Pirate," he said, and that thought amused him more still, dissolving him into chuckles. "You are not that terrifying," Sylar informed him after they'd finished laughing, "And I don't think you have enough beard going on for it yet." Poking fun that Peter was too cute to play a fearsome pirate? Yes.

He allowed a grin to color his face as Peter 'blamed' him for the laughter – Peter had started it. That would be something new, to be blamed for someone laughing, not crying or screaming or similar. That part was incredibly nice _. I should try making him laugh. He doesn't do it often even when he's in a good mood, but…I could probably do it. If I could manage my…darker jokes; I think they're funny, you'd think he'd understand them, being a medic and all. And being someone who's had my ability. Serial killer jokes – takes one to know one?_

XXX

He smiled and had some more chuckles to himself as he finished with Sylar's other hand. This time he made no comment whatsoever about it - clean, dirty, nothing. Mostly sober, he looked up to say, "Okay, listen. I've got two choices here. One - I can stop asking you these questions and let you get some rest. Or two - you can put up with just two more sets of questions and then I'm done with them." _For today._ He exhaled rapidly and added, "I don't know if you know what I'm getting out of your answers, but this _**is**_ helping me understand what I need to do for you."

He thought about trying to pitch it harder and make a bigger attempt to persuade Sylar to answer, but decided not to. Sylar knew how tired and uncooperative he was feeling; Peter didn't. A sales pitch would only make him dig in his heels. _He wants control - give him control. Let him play captain for a while._

XXX

The meds were kicking in; the laugh they'd shared had relaxed him. Sylar did want to rest, had been wanting to for some time now. The soup also put him into nap-mode. Being drilled and upset with very little background reasoning hadn't helped anything, let alone the test. He took a moment to think, somehow socially aware that he _could_ take a moment to think, factoring things in.

Sylar wondered if Peter was even getting accurate results for this 'test' of his. Was he even in the right frame of body or mind to be taking a test? _I don't think there's much else you can do for me regardless of any answers, Peter, given the nature of the injury, but whatever._

"You can finish," he replied softly, looking Peter over with interest once again. An incredibly strange little man, Peter. One who was infecting Sylar with a horrid case of moodiness as their time spent together went on; he suspected it would only get worse. It happened when people got close.

XXX

Peter smiled. He was cheered by Sylar joining him in laughter. It relaxed him even if he couldn't rule out the possibility of saying the wrong word and setting Sylar off again, like he'd apparently done earlier. _Some things we'll just have to learn to deal with, with each other._ "All right. These are easier questions, promise." Peter held up his left arm and pointed at his watch. "What's the general name for this thing strapped to my wrist here?"

XXX

It took him an additional second to answer because he'd glanced up to Peter, double checking that he was, well, serious. "Wristwatch," was the amused answer. _Like I could forget that one. I even remember that when I forget. Which…happens way more than you'd think…_

XXX

He glanced at the shelves over the couch and leaned in to pull out a slender, blue volume. "Again, I don't need the title – just the generic word for what this thing is." The usual object to hold up for identification (other than a watch) was a pencil, which Peter was supposed to have to score the test, and to use in some of the standard steps to check ability to follow directions. Peter was going to skip the 'follow directions' part altogether. Or rather, putting together from other things Sylar had done, Peter was going to say 'can follow two-step instructions, but probably not three'.

XXX

Peter removed " _Chemicals and You_ " from the shelf and Sylar's brain was automatically looking for patterns, connections between the wristwatch (broken) and the book. "That's my book." He was still entertained by his companion and the fact that he was entertained at all made him feel much better. He assumed it was because amusement generally came when he was somehow ahead of the pack, or Peter in this case.

It was dawning on him, far too slowly, that he was running this little two-man circus.

XXX

Peter put the book back and considered the next question with a small frown of concentration. He was supposed to ask a series of basic orientation questions, like 'who is the president', 'where are you', 'what were you doing before your injury', or 'what's your mother's name', but most of those were problematic. Faced with the mental hurdle of figuring out which ones wouldn't upset his patient, Peter opted to ditch. _I can just imagine him answering 'you' if I asked who the last president was._ The memory of _being_ the president gave Peter a slight shudder. He jerked his thoughts away from that, shrugging off the unpleasant sensation and stuffing all the other memories from that day back into a box he didn't want opened. He opted to simplify to a single orientation question: "Tell me your birthday. And if that's more personal than you want to give out, then tell me mine. You mentioned it earlier." _Another thing I don't want to think about: how he knows that._

XXX

Whatever he'd been waiting for, it hadn't been that question. The first thing to run through him was 'Why do you need to know?' _No, he doesn't. He's asking for the test, for 'my health' I'm sure._ Peter was right; that was personal and he didn't know why it was as personal as it was. He watched Peter while he tried to make up his mind – his own birthday or Peter's? Sylar supposed he was worried about catching flack when his birthday rolled around. "Uh, December 23rd is your birthday." _Well, that came awful easily._


	30. Lose The Shirt

"Okay, last question on the test. At the beginning, I gave you three words to remember and I told you this was a memory test. Tell me what those words were, if you remember them." They were pretty cemented into Peter's head because he used the same three words every time. They were the ones the original test suggested, which meant everyone taught them, which meant when paramedics, nurses or doctors asked their patients they were always asking for the exact same three words. Even so, he had to think about it.

XXX

 _Really? Last one? That was surprisingly…un-informative for him. Oh, its this one, right, um…Crap, and I knew this, too!_ It was three simple, rather everyday objects, standard to the test now if he could only remember which objects… Sylar sat still and quiet for a few moments while he thought. _I told him I could do this, so I'm going to. Its really simple._

"Apple…table…something," he shook his head, irked at his own failure. _Ugh, what was it?_

XXX

"That's good. That's good. I'd put you in the bottom half of moderately concussed and me somewhere in the middle of the range for minor. Which I honestly wasn't convinced of for myself until I tried to do this." Peter gestured at his left eye. "You got me really good, there. That was like, lights out for a half second or so." He smiled dryly, less amused by it than he had been of his injuries after their first fight, but still shaking off any bad blood from it. They'd fought; it was over; move on … hopefully.

XXX

 _He has a concussion, too? Oh, yeah…something about landing on him._ Sylar chuckled, pleased about that. He didn't remember decking Peter that hard or aiming for his eye, but whatever worked. Sylar was also partly surprised he'd managed to hit Peter, a pretty tough SOB under the circumstances, hard enough to make him black out or see stars. Now he just hoped Peter's eye still worked…

XXX

He looked pointedly at Sylar's right hand, nodding his head at it. "If you can roll up your sleeve there, I'll clean up your wrist. I'm pretty sure that's my blood anyway, not yours. We really made a mess of each other." He wrung out the cloth a few times.

XXX

Sylar glanced at his wrist, recalling seeing the blood and just now seeing it at the same time. He wasn't worried about it so it probably wasn't his blood. It looked really superficial anyway. He hummed in reply, amused some more about making a mess of each other. _So playground of us._

 _Hmm. Wait…didn't I touch on his wrist earlier? Is that what this is? I mean a wrist…maybe on a woman, but why would he want to touch my wrist?_ Sylar thought on it, but didn't protest or fret.

XXX

He reached over with his right to take Sylar's hand very gently between thumb and index finger, pulling (or rather, encouraging Sylar to bring his hand closer, because Peter wasn't using enough force to really constitute 'pulling') Sylar's hand over so he could better reach it with the cloth in his left. Peter rubbed at the smeared, bloody handprints he'd left on the man. Still looking down at what he was doing, Peter said quietly, "You know, if you'd take your shirt off, I'd get you a fresh one to put on instead."

Peter worried about how that was going to be taken, what with Sylar having used the offer of shedding the shirt just that morning, as part of … Peter didn't know what. A pass, messing with him, lowered inhibitions, bad judgment, or simply unexplained, bizarre behavior resulting from traumatic brain injury. He didn't know and wasn't sure. But he knew that he wanted to see Sylar's abdomen if he could. He was worried about where and how Sylar had landed on Peter's knee. If he got to keep only one element of a physical exam, that was the one he most wanted to know.

For several seconds after speaking, he remained studiously engrossed in his work. Finally, he glanced up to see Sylar's expression, finishing with and releasing the man's hand as he did so.

XXX

Sylar looked quickly from where he'd been watching Peter clean off his hairy, blood smeared wrist, to pin them on Peter. Peter who kept working on the wrist as if that was important. Taking off his shirt wasn't his favorite activity; he didn't even want to do it now like he (sort of) had earlier. So all that equated to was that he'd probably do it anyway. Because he'd offered and backing out now would look bad.

 _Does he honestly expect me to believe he just wants to get me "clean"? Get me a new shirt? Oh, right, Peter, of course. You're the paragon of clean thoughts here._ He waited until Peter looked up to double-check the man's sincerity and seriousness – Peter hadn't been thrilled at being hit on any of the times before.

 _He just wants a preview. He'll get one – he'll enjoy mocking the hell out of your scrawny, hairy chest I bet. 'Missed out on puberty, I see. Still looking for that last growth spurt?' 'This is the loser that beat me twice? In what alternate universe could that happen?' Alright, alright, he just wants a look at the goods before he turns you down_ again.

That decided, Sylar said, "Do they make band-aids big enough for your wounded ego? Because this has to sting like a bitch."

XXX

Peter blinked at Sylar's comment, glancing between the man's face and wrist in defensive confusion. It was an insult - he got that, yeah - but at first he didn't get why _. My ego? He's going to take his shirt off and he's so amazing-looking underneath that my ego will suffer?_ A second later he processed Sylar's use of present tense, not future, and worked out that he might mean what Peter was doing right that moment. _He thinks that taking care of someone is … bad?_ Peter's face hardened. _Asshole. Of course he would_ , he fumed inside.

A wealth of things ran through Peter's mind all at once, a mixture of impressions and concepts _: If I ever get hurt, he's not going to reciprocate; not the savior kind; serial killer; murderer; smug asshole; he needs me right now; I've had patients say … well, no, can't think of any that was ever that ungrateful - indifferent, yes, but not this superior about it_ ; and _why would he insult me_ _ **now**_ _of all times?_ Peter's eye narrowed as he tried to figure it out through the building anger within him. _It has to be the shirt._

XXX

Snorting, Sylar waved his nurse away for the shirt, "We can play the 'new shirt' game, but I'd rather have yours." _Ha! Nurse, stripping, no shirts, get it?_

XXX

Peter looked down and made a slow nod. He was mad, but he wasn't going to let that stop him from what he was doing. In fact, he proceeded slowly and carefully, stiffly even. He turned the cloth over and made a last wipe to be sure he'd gotten everything. Then he dropped it into the bowl where the old blood would darken the water. He glanced up at Sylar again, his back clearly somewhat up from the man's comments. It wasn't really safe to be looking at someone with that much hostility when so close, but at the moment Peter was too pissed to care. If Sylar had been well, Peter might have gotten in his face and threatened him, because Sylar had punched one of his buttons with the apparent complete lack of appreciation. Peter scooted sideways of necessity, getting away from Sylar and glad of it. He didn't deign to respond to Sylar's preference to have Peter's shirt, disgusted with Sylar for the moment.

XXX

As he was watching Peter closely he noticed the anger right away. _Its official. That really pisses him off. Wow_ , he thought when his fairly unflappable nurse gave him a look of death at close range. Sylar met it with blank eyes. If he could 'get away with' that, then the only thing he need avoid (to prevent being re-injured) was family. _Isn't that a little backwards?_

XXX

 _You think it's a game, huh? You're right, Sylar, it is a fucking game! Why have I been reduced to playing_ _ **games**_ _with you to see how bad hurt you are?_ He stalked over in the direction of Sylar's dismissive wave, looking around for clothing. Buried under one of the omnipresent piles of books, topped with yet another clock, was a small wooden dresser near the head of Sylar's bed. _He really ought to be in that bed, not over there on the couch. Asshole._ Peter huffed irritably and squatted too fast. His hip complained mightily and he grunted at the sudden weakness in his leg and sharp pain in the joint, hanging onto the front of the dresser until he got his balance back. _I need to calm down. Just … calm down. You're going to hurt yourself, or worse yet,_ _ **him**_ _._ He exhaled heavily and pulled open a drawer, finding shirts on the first try. He took the one on top and stood up much more slowly than he'd gone down.

XXX

"Easy, butterfingers," Sylar said of his possessions when Peter dropped out of view and nearly tacked on 'You know the rule!' That rule being the one Sylar had…attempted to enact about Peter going around touching everything. It seemed a moot point now.

XXX

He brought the article back over to Sylar, noticing the man had done nothing as of yet to disrobe. _Traumatic brain injury. Inability to follow multi-step commands. I just had a pretty thorough illustration of that, Peter, with the MMSE._ Trying to be patient, Peter said, "Come on, Sylar. Take your shirt off. Here's a new one for you."

XXX

Given that Peter was surely still angry (the magnitude of which was, Sylar felt, uncalled for, but that was Peter for you) Sylar kicked his brain into overdrive and came up with a devilish plan. He couldn't have this lingering on Peter's mind when one day, God forbid it ever happen, Peter wanted or needed to assist in additional removal of clothing. Compliance was key here. Compliance was also not one-size-fits-all or a one-trick pony.

"Lefty, c'mere," Sylar motioned a hand to bring Peter in closer, his demeanor in charge and normal, not exuding threat or plot. That done, he held out his own hand, thumb pointed up in the typical male gesture of 'take my hand, don't shake or hold it'.

XXX

Peter considered trying to give Sylar the shirt, but clearly that wasn't what was on Sylar's mind, nor quite what the man's gesture implied. Suspicion fired to life in Peter's head. "What are you doing?"

XXX

"This'll be easier if I stand." And it was true, to a point. The couch would interfere, as would the sitting position.

XXX

Sylar did not need to stand to take his shirt off. Nor to put a new one on. He'd stood up twice on his own - once to go to the bathroom and the other time to join Peter for lunch. _But maybe that's hard to do. Or maybe it's painful. I'm supposed to be here to help. Maybe he just prefers to get dressed standing up? It's harmless, right?_ Not really. Sylar might take a header; he'd been very wobbly and used the walls for support on his previous jaunts vertical. Despite misgivings, Peter draped the shirt over his right forearm like a high-class waiter with a towel and extended his now-empty left to help Sylar with whatever it is he felt he needed to do before taking his shirt off.

XXX

Peter helped lever him upright and his swaying was only partly-legitimate. It wasn't hard to fake when he made a slow, predictable grab for his shirt, also predictably failing to snatch it, the slight bend involved screwing with him once again. "Uuh…Uh, you…hold onto that, I think," Sylar said of the fresh shirt, a T-shirt, he noted.

Honestly his brain was behind in preparing logistics for him – he wasn't sure if he should maneuver Peter into unbuttoning his current shirt or let the man play shirt-sitter. _Shirt sitter it is_. Besides, Peter clearly couldn't hold him up and be useful at the same time, not with one bum hand.

XXX

"Are you sure this is easier?" Peter asked, still holding onto Sylar to balance him. He saw Sylar's grab for the new shirt but didn't make any effort to assist with that. "You don't need the new shirt until you get the old one off." _And you're going to need both hands for that. Crap._

XXX

Sylar chuckled, not completely amused, "Yeah."

XXX

Peter looked from his hand holding Sylar's left forearm to the buttons of the man's shirt. There seemed to be only two options: let go and stand ready to catch Sylar if he lost his bearings and fell, or try to persuade him to sit back down. He tried for both, saying, "You need to hurry up and do what you need to do and then sit back down, Sylar." _Don't fall. You're big and I can't guarantee I'll do a good job of catching you._ Peter would certainly try, though, and so he stayed close even after letting go of Sylar's arm. The activity, mild danger and his confusion about why Sylar thought this was a good idea had largely distracted Peter from his burst of anger. He was still feeling frustrated and irritable - symptoms of prolonged mental effort paired with a mild concussion. His thinking didn't feel so much as foggy as it made him grumpy when he tried to do it too much and failed.

XXX

"Bossy," Sylar said of the repeated use of the word 'need' coming from his somewhat cranky nurse. He didn't intend to fall, but if he did…hey, it could have its upsides, he supposed. His fingers went to task on his shirt front's buttons, six in all (with the top button undone). _Really these shirts should come with seven_ , he thought, but that was just the curse of dressing tall and lanky. 'Large' did not always mean wide, as Peter was about to find out, Sylar was something of a string bean, and that made shopping a challenge sometimes.

Sylar didn't malinger over the buttons, tease, or make any overt sensual gestures, allowing the fabric to fold open how it would, reveal what it would for now. Mostly Sylar acted as if Peter were not in the room and he was undressing alone. Not a big deal. Even though his jaw clenched and loosened as he tried not to incite his nurse, as that would be too obvious.

As his cuff buttons were already undone, Sylar spread the shirt's opening and peeled the fabric over his shoulders as far as he could without unbalancing. Next was a careful, not calculated shrug to rid him of the shirt. _Oops. Where'd my shirt go? How nice of you to hold one for me, Petrelli. Congrats,_ _phase_ _one complete_. If Peter was as professional as he claimed, this wouldn't bother him a bit. _I hope he left the syringes at his place…all the guys I get close to end up drugging me. I must scream 'date rape me, please!' when in close contact. I hang out in the wrong crowd; that's it._

The instant his shirt had begun moving against his skin, he felt his body heat lessening. Once he was bare, his skin broke out into goose bumps automatically, sending a slight shiver through him.

XXX

Peter found his eyes locked on Sylar's face for nearly the entire process. Only for the first button did they stray anywhere else and that was mostly just due to the initial motion and a bit of lingering concern about whether Sylar would be able to manage it unassisted. When the first button parted ways, Peter's gaze went to Sylar's face and stayed fixed there until the shirt hit the floor, waiting tensely for an action, even the smallest twitch of a come-on. He might have told himself that he was waiting for signs of Sylar unbalancing or swaying, but that wasn't what he was really on the lookout about. He saw the jaw muscle flex, but it wasn't what he was looking for. By itself, not knowing Sylar's mind, it was meaningless. Peter took it to be frustration with the situation, or perhaps a particularly stubborn button, not that Peter glanced down to check.

When the shirt fell and Sylar's head turned slightly, tilted down, sparing a glance backwards at the dropped article and then looking over (not that he had far to look) at the one still on Peter's arm, Peter finally relaxed with an obvious exhalation _. He must have forgotten this morning. Maybe that was just him being weird. Concussions can cause mood swings and impair judgment. Maybe that's it._

Peter had never had a sexually aggressive patient before. He'd had a woman who was drunk make a number of blatant comments about how sexy he was, how she would have fallen and hit her head sooner if she'd known they would have sent such an incredible-looking pair of young studs to help her, and tried to feel up his arms. So … well, that was sexually aggressive, he supposed. He hadn't felt threatened, though, by her and that was what made the difference. At any point, he could have walked away, he could have called Hesam to help (who was caught between finding it amusing and being skeeved out), or he could have resorted to medical procedures and/or restraints that would have shut her up. Not that Peter would ever, _**ever**_ _ **,**_ use an intubation or an IV punitively against a patient, but it did happen among the unscrupulous. He had to admit the cannula had put her off.

Sylar's interest that morning was threatening. First off, it threatened Peter's self-image. Did Sylar seriously think Peter would do anything with someone as disadvantaged as himself? The idea that Sylar saw him as that predatory disgusted Peter and agitated him. It struck at the core of Peter's ego, that Sylar thought he was that much of a villain instead of the hero Peter wanted to be perceived as. Secondly, there was the issue that if Sylar was trying to make passes at him, then it complicated Peter's whole existence here. He was in this world with one other person. To have that person openly lusting after you when you had not the least interest in reciprocating (Peter recognized Sylar as attractive, but that had nothing to do with it) was several steps beyond awkward. There was no 'walking away' from this. There was also no summoning Hesam to intervene, which led to the third problem - Sylar might actually act on it. Peter's consent might not matter (Sylar's comments about willing partners notwithstanding). Sylar's capacity for physical violence was not in question, nor his complete willingness to disregard social mores and boundaries when it came to what he wanted. Peter was already paranoid about being killed, tortured or just toyed with by Sylar to see which way Peter jumped. Adding a sexual component to that was just icing on a particularly nasty cake.

So when Sylar was taking his shirt off, said shirt the subject of that morning's upsetting bit of sexual innuendo, Peter was watching him like a hawk for the least sign of flirting. When it didn't materialize, he relaxed enough to make his head buzz a little with the lessening of blood pressure. And finally his eyes dropped to the reason why he'd wanted Sylar's shirt off in the first place, glancing quickly down the man's chest to light on the bruise peeking out over his waistband. It looked like the worst of it was under his jeans, but at least Peter couldn't see any distension or abnormal swelling. Peter's left hand made a half-gesture as though he was about to touch Sylar's left forearm as he looked. He caught the slight motion of Sylar's as the man turned his head to pick up the gesture, but Peter didn't quite touch.

Completely serious, feeling that tension coiling up inside again that this question might be taken the wrong way, Peter looked up at Sylar's face and asked, "Would you let me do a physical assessment on you?"

XXX

"As you can see, no internal bleeding," Sylar remarked when Peter finally stopped eyeing his face on purpose, long enough to check out… _Um…okay._ His brain fuzzed out at that point, his former thought train something along the track of why Peter would be looking down *there* and how Sylar hadn't anticipated that.

He mostly tried to track Peter's face, where it went with something of an air of expectance, waiting for some form of reaction, either way.

XXX

Completely serious, feeling that tension coiling up inside again that this question might be taken the wrong way, Peter looked up at Sylar's face and asked, "Would you let me do a physical assessment on you?"

XXX

Sylar's head canted to the side in curiosity. "Is that what you call it?" _Wait, did he say 'let him'? Why would I let him- Because you basically invited him in for a roll in the hay, that's why. Several times, I think. Crap, did…Yeah. I don't like this: I can't make him leave, he won't behave if he stays, he won't let me rest and he refuses to be manipulated. Of course he'd push his advantage while he has one._

XXX

"I want to check your injuries and make sure I understand what's wrong so there aren't any complications. It's something we- EMTs do with any trauma victim to make sure they're not overlooking contributing factors. Again, it's something I should have done yesterday, but I didn't think I'd be allowed to. Take off as much of your clothes as you're comfortable with." What he was allowed and giving a patient an option in disrobing weren't normal. When EMTs thought they needed access to a patient's body, even expensive wetsuits were sliced open and cast aside. They were just clothes, after all, material things, and a trauma victim's self-reporting of their injuries was not to be relied upon, especially when their body was right there for examination.

XXX

 _Talk about being backed into a corner. One minute he's asking, the next he's demanding I strip 'to my comfort level'. Yeah, right._ Sylar mentally snorted at that. _This is going to be one of those fun invasive tests, isn't it? Guy's got a grudge, he's got the means, why not make me squirm when he has the chance? I'd do the same to him…(maybe). That's a challenge._

"If by injuries you mean bruises, seeing them all requires taking off my pants," Sylar ground out, _and we haven't discussed that yet…_ "All I've got are bruises," _you wanna smack 'em again for fun? What's there to see? I know I've got great legs and all, but…_

_Jesus, what underwear am I even wearing today? They must be filthy…I see what he's doing here, starting with the shirt and moving on down the line. How humiliating. I get it now, Petrelli._

XXX

"Only bruises?" _Can I believe him? Is he a reliable reporter of his own condition?_ Sylar seemed to be - sometimes. Other times he wasn't. His tone of voice was a warning, though, and Peter knew he wasn't even desired here in the apartment, much less doing an assessment. "I'll take your word for it." _Which is stupid in your condition, but the one thing you're sure to remember with perfect clarity is a feeling that I took advantage of you. Or better yet, you'll_ _ **mis**_ _remember that, recall nothing but the emotion, and imagine I did something horrible to you to cause it. I am not going to live here the next however-many years with you thinking I did 'something' to you. Not over whether or not I get to see some bruises._

XXX

 _That was easy…_ Sylar was almost suspicious. He was also more than a little miffed – Peter hadn't even lingered on looking him over. As far as Sylar could tell, Peter had barely looked at anything at all, let alone anything important even if he seemed to be focusing on his lower half…Odd. Something he'd have to think about when healed.

Sylar was also doing a lot of recon on Peter: what the man liked, what set him off and what the medic would take and endure while being unhappy about it. He would have to assimilate the information later when he could make a plan about it and figure out what buttons Peter needed pressed.

XXX

He gave Sylar a quick once-over, noting the smattering of other bruises, thinking he could see more swelling along the man's left leg than the other, noting that Sylar stood favoring that leg. And he didn't stand quite straight. It worried Peter, but he'd already concluded that Sylar had no bleeding and probably no suppuration, and if he didn't have abdominal swelling or distension then the other damage would probably heal on its own with bed rest, which Sylar was getting.

Sylar was still wearing his shoes - he'd been sleeping in them - which could have been forgetfulness from the concussion, but it could also be being so uncomfortable to have Peter there that he wouldn't take off anything as important as shoes. He had, after all, chosen the couch over the bed and only this morning he'd been huddled in the corner of said couch, looking supremely defensive about having Peter there. Peter took the t-shirt and shook it out, flipping it to get the bottom end in his left hand. He offered it to Sylar with an expression that he hoped was kind and otherwise neutral.

_I wonder if I misread that earlier. Was that really a pass at me, or was that him making a come-on because he knew it would freak me out? Did Nathan know about that? I seem to remember Nathan making a 'sexy nurse' joke and me jumping on him. Or was Sylar just guessing? Is he up to guessing and that sort of mind-game right now?_

XXX

Sylar barely held back a smirk, mostly just because. _Gonna stand there and watch me, Petrelli? As close as you are…Alright_. He took his shirt from Peter as seriously as he could, opening up the bottom hems and sliding his arms into the armholes _. He'd better not grab anything while I'm stuck in here_ , he thought, _but I guess I'd better not fall, too._ Sylar took his time, raising his arms up so the shirt would fall until the neck hole reached his head; whereupon his arms dropped and he tugged the bottom down to pop his head through. Adjusting his shirt so it covered his stomach and lay about his shoulders correctly, he admitted to himself that this was more comfortable…to be wearing pajamas with Peter Petrelli. _I think that's a contra…contra-…oh, whatever. At least I didn't accidentally hit him._

 _That was, for once, a very painless exam._ "That's it?" he asked, curiously. He wasn't sure if he was playing Peter or Peter playing him, but he had yet to be hit or put upon painfully, so whatever it was, it was working. Unless, of course, Peter was working up to some kind of brain inspection because, well…there was a line for that particular honor and Peter would have to take a number.

XXX

"That's it. It's your body, Sylar." Peter backed off a step. Sylar had made it this far without tottering and he was simply standing there. Peter didn't feel the need to crowd him so much for Sylar's own safety, to be there in case he fell. But Peter did feel the need to use his hands to emphasize the conversation and that wasn't easy to do while right next to someone. "And I'm not a paramedic, right now, here. I'm just a guy with paramedic training who is running a gamble. On one side, I've got you obviously unhappy that I'm here and wishing I'd take off." Peter felt let down inside just to say that, but that was how it was and not admitting to it did neither of them any favors. He frowned sourly before going on.

XXX

Sylar gave him a guarded look of 'duh?' _Course_ _it's_ _my body, where the hell are you going with that?_ Okay, maybe Peter was more aware than Sylar thought.

"I was as-" he attempted to interject, apparently having angered his companion and spoken too quietly. Peter was busy talking and he was using that 'laying out the issues' tone so Sylar shut up and tried to follow along.

XXX

"You're banged up, but you don't want me helping you and maybe there's not much for me to help with. I don't know about that, because I've already seen and figured stuff out from what you **have** let me do. On the other side, you might be hurt in some way I could help with and you're hiding it. Or unaware. You tell me they're just bruises, but _you_ don't know. You haven't even looked at yourself, so how _would_ you know?" He sighed. His gestures conveyed his frustration with the impasse. "So on one hand, I'm guaranteed to piss you off if I push it, but I might be able to help you more, and on the other maybe it's just bruises, you're right, and the best that I could do for you is to let you rest."

Peter wasn't getting his way and he was feeling cranky about it. He wanted to change the subject instead of stewing further over this one. It occurred to him to pull Sylar's tactic from earlier right back on him. "I'm tired. I want to sit down and rest and let my brain … I don't know, go on autopilot or something. I'll get an ice pack for your leg there - I hadn't noticed the swelling there before and that's the sort of thing I'm talking about that …" _that an exam would let me know but you're getting grouchy and so am I and I don't have a right to examine you … so. Just drop it._ He huffed. "And I'll get one for my eye. Okay?"

He tried to interject some humor as he walked to the refrigerator. "Maybe some other time we can rig up an ice-pack eye patch and work on my secret pirate identity."

XXX

 _I think I'm …confused? Good God, Peter, what do you want? Talk sense, please. I can't ask questions now, what?_ "I…um…" But Peter was buzzing away before Sylar could wade through that amount of emotionally charged dialogue aimed at himself. _He didn't even give me a chance to process all that, let alone think and respond._

Sylar exhaled an amused breath that Peter couldn't possibly hear from the kitchen. _He lacks the guile. Wait…my leg?_ He looked down at himself now, trying to see what Peter had seen. _…Which one?_ Sylar sat again. _He's frustrated. Why? I'm not doing what he wants. What is that? He's mentioned my leg a lot, bruises._

The medic returned and handed him the ice, which he put on his forehead for a moment, allowing the man time to sit and settle in, take a breath. Swallowing and clearing his throat, he said, "I was asking about this exam? I'm…I'm just confused." _You didn't explain, you looked finished with it and now you're upset. I shouldn't have opened my mouth, I guess._ "You can have the pants if it's that big a deal…. it's just bruises. But…resting…." _Shut up already. I just dunno what I did wrong!_ Sylar made an effort to physically, visibly relax into the couch.

XXX

 _You're confused?_ Peter wasn't sure how to take that, so he took his seat without comment. He'd already explained what the exam entailed. It was pretty straightforward. He'd done hundreds of them. They were standard – to Peter. _I should go over it again. Let him ask questions. Let him understand it._

Peter glanced across from under his own ice pack at Sylar's verbal offer of his pants. _I don't want your pants, weirdo,_ he thought without any heat. _Or your t-shirt. Why does he offer that? Does he really think I want his clothes here, rather than checking to see if he's hurt bad? Well … people don't use his name to refer to him, seems to think the Company did a number on him way worse than it did on me … it's not like being a serial killer isn't a glaring indicator that he's a little off-base on what people want in interactions._ The towel wrapped around his ice pack had been with it in the freezer, so it, too, was cool against his skin. It felt nice. He moved it around slowly as he thought, careful of the sensitive skin.

He watched as Sylar relaxed, keeping a polite degree of eye contact as he spoke. "Let's rest for a little while. I need it. The ABCs of medical assessment stand for Airway, Breathing and Circulation. Your airway's protected. You can breathe. You're not bleeding. We have time to rest and make sure we both understand what's going on and what … what the other party wants to have happen." He spoke calmly, his tone a little low as he leaned back in the chair, feet coming up off the floor as he shifted his center of gravity back. A tiny nagging voice in the back of his head worried over the poor reaction time he'd have if Sylar did anything, but Peter ignored it. Hours – days even – of interaction were dulling his paranoia.

He noted the man was holding the ice pack on his head instead of his leg. _Does his head hurt worse, or did he just miss that I got the pack for his thigh? That's the really frustrating thing here – I can't tell if I can trust his judgment on any of this. And even if I could, can I trust him to relay it to me truthfully? He doesn't trust me. I don't trust him. He really clued in a couple days ago about making a deal. He got real focused on that. Is there some deal I can make here that would help? Would he believe me if I promised him something? My good intentions?_

"Let's just sit here for a little bit. Maybe you could lie down if you wanted. You did when we talked earlier." _You-_ "We seemed to retain things better with fewer distractions. Lower stress. Just … talking." _And listening. To each other. Ha._ He was amused by the idea of him and Sylar having a nice, productive, meaningful conversation. It was laughable, but Peter had to admit they were getting to that point – past the hyper-defensive, past the hyper-vigilant, trying to be something else. "Rest a little, first," Peter mumbled, shifting the ice pack again.

He wasn't physically tired. He was just tired of dealing with Sylar. Or rather, tired of the constant uncertainty: what's he going to do next?, did he understand me?, what's that mean?, is he going to fight with me about taking his pills?, can I get him to eat?, is he going to make a pass at me?, does he still think I'm trying to kill him? … and not a question at all, but important nonetheless: he doesn't want me here. They drained Peter's energy. He shut his eyes and tried to recharge.

XXX

Sylar nodded, following the delivery and intent much easier now it was slower and stripped of emotion. _Ha, I tired him out?_ _Rest but lie down….okay_. He grunted in acknowledgment and agreement. _That's so…sweet, being concerned about my stress._ He watched the nurse get comfortable and just watching that made him want to do the same for himself, made his eyelids droop or something. _Okay, maybe there's something to that no-stress or less-stress idea. And that whole talking-therapy idea._

Sylar scooted down and around, working what was becoming a routine to lying down, cuddling up with his own ice pack. He would have liked to stay awake and think over anything he and Peter had said, but the more he tried to pin down a topic or a sentence, the foggier it grew and he knew there were things he needed to think over. He lasted a handful of minutes (or so he thought), before the magics of pain meds and ice packs; the lack of general tension did its job. 'Rest' turn into sleep the almost the instant his head hit the pillow – mouth open in a snore and he was out.

XXX

A few minutes later, Peter shifted the ice pack from his face, where it had become uncomfortably chill. He moved it to his right wrist and eyed Sylar. Predictably, the man was out. _Maybe he'll be in a better humor when he wakes up._ Peter looked at the ice pack on Sylar's head and frowned, wishing he could move it to the man's thigh without risking waking him. He couldn't think of how to do it and it wasn't a big enough ice pack to be a problem where it was - the scalp had great circulation, after all, the brain being the body's highest priority for oxygenation.

Peter sighed and settled back again, letting himself doze, letting his thoughts drift, greatly soothed by the sound of Sylar snoring. As long as Sylar was snoring, Peter didn't need to worry about where Sylar was, what he was doing, or what he was planning. He let himself relax fully. Time passed, with Peter spending it either sleeping or just zoned out. Later, a mix of strange noises and tones jerked him into full wakefulness. The rhythm of Sylar's noisy breathing cut through it and Peter's brain snagged on that sound as proof that things were okay. A second later he made sense of the tolling of the hour coming from a dozen or more sources scattered through the apartment. He exhaled and shifted, moving the almost-entirely-melted ice pack from his wrist to his eye again. He glanced over to see that Sylar's had been dislodged at some point and now lay on the couch next to him.

Peter grunted unhappily at being disturbed, but the short rest had done the trick. He felt better and he could tell he wasn't going to go back to sleep any time soon. He tilted back upright, feet on the floor again. He cleared his throat slightly and watched Sylar's face, smooth and carefree in repose, slack and undefended. The corner of Peter's mouth quirked up. _Someone needs to make a coffee-table book of pictures of people sleeping. That's part of what's so beautiful in those Anne Geddes baby pictures - they're so … open._ He watched for a little longer until it occurred to him that might seem a bit creepy should Sylar know he was doing it. There were other things he could do with his time.

Peter rose quietly and carefully tugged Sylar's ice pack from where it lay beside him. Peter left the towel that had been wrapped around it - it was still on and now also partly behind Sylar's head. He took the ice pack, along with his own and the bowl of water with the washcloth from earlier, into the kitchen.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, thinking about what he wanted to do next. He'd already wandered the apartment as much as he wanted looking at book titles and odds and ends. He expected Sylar would be asleep for at least a couple hours more. _I suppose I could go get some food for dinner. Mac and cheese, maybe? Or just scrambled eggs? I'm good at eggs. Spaghetti and some kind of jarred sauce? Didn't he say he liked pasta? Yeah, I think he said that was his favorite. And vanilla ice cream. That should be easy to make._

Peter turned to the door and opened it slowly. _Then … hm, what to do then? Can't work out. Can't play music. Can't draw. Don't want to read. I guess I could pick up a puzzle somewhere. I always used to work those when I was home alone. I liked them. They let me think. Kind of like working out - let my mind go free. That sounds good. I could clear off part of Sylar's work table maybe … hope he doesn't mind._

Lost in thought, Peter slipped out of the apartment, closing the door softly behind him.

XXX

It was a little chilly in his t-shirt as he slept, not that it bothered Sylar enough to wake up or maybe grab for the blanket or his jacket. The sleep wasn't pleasant; that was normal.

Any noise out of the ordinary had spelled bad news for years, not just the most recent ones, either. So when Sylar heard shifting motions, only half silenced, he was snapped awake although his lids were sluggish to respond. His hands jerked up towards his face and he narrowly avoided thrashing the rest of his body as he turned towards the sounds coming from behind him and to his right. He saw a man, standing with his back mostly to Sylar, moving things around on his watch station. He found himself staring, blinking a few times, groaning quietly in confusion. _Um…ow, what the hell?_

Slowly things came back to him, namely the jacket the other man was wearing as gazing blankly at the guy's ass while he rearranged Sylar's desk wasn't helping identify him. _Peter_. "What the hell are you doing?" he graveled out, his voice stuck between sleep, anger and curiosity. _So this is what he does when I sleep? What's he looking for?_

XXX

Peter glanced back at the voice, sorry he'd woke Sylar. He moved around to the opposite side of the desk - partly so Sylar could see what he was doing and partly so Peter could see what Sylar was doing. His motivation was about half and half. For the moment, he quit touching things and just rested the fingertips of his left hand on the desk. In a low, quiet voice, he said, "I was clearing off a spot. I picked up a jigsaw puzzle while I was out. It's quiet; something I could do while you slept. I didn't feel much like reading." His own cotton-headed feeling discouraged something as involved as reading. He lifted his right hand and indicated it. "My options seemed kind of limited. I'm trying to be careful with your stuff." He would have liked Sylar to just relax and lie back down, maybe conk out for a while longer, which was why he was giving the man the 'everything's okay, go back to sleep' voice, but he could see Sylar wasn't buying it. _Note to self: Sylar is cranky when he wakes up. But if I had a moderate concussion, I'd probably wake up cranky, too._

XXX

 _He has to baby-sit me out here? What's wrong with my kitchen table?_ Sylar supposed he should give Peter a pat on the head for behaving and getting something harmless as a hobby, i.e. the puzzle.

But all he could remember was Virginia taking away the parts of whatever he was taking apart at the time and hiding them, not as a joke, but as a corrective discipline. Never mind if the TV remote was absent when Dad came home to watch – Gabriel was going to break his 'destructive' habits and find something constructive to play with. It didn't matter that things worked better after he'd taken them apart and fixed them and he'd never broken anything. /"Leave the handy-man business to your father. Toys are an earned privilege. Besides, those aren't toys."/

"Oh, your options are gonna be limited alright, when I break your other hand," Sylar grumbled menacingly, but mockingly. "The use of the word…'trying', is supposed to fill me with confidence," he barely left off 'Wonder Breath' at the end, eyes narrowing at his companion. _Peter Petrelli, a man known for his fine-tuned control…no, wait, 'control's not even in his vocabulary._ _I just woke up, this is too early for this._ He didn't even know how to address this new breach in privacy. Peter got cranky right back whenever Sylar got protective so maybe the guy really did think he owned the world as Sylar wasn't supposed to have privacy. Perhaps the trick was being blasé.

Sylar sat up, staying turned towards Peter, making to rub at the bruises on his face. _Was there something I was supposed to do here, today?_

XXX

Peter went very still - poised - as it felt like ice water flushed through his veins. His weight shifted back and his left hand lifted so the fingertips just barely brushed the surface. Heart rate speeding, his gaze stayed sharply on Sylar even as his mind's eye quickly reviewed the objects on the desk in front of him. So many of them were metallic, jagged, and sized well for the human hand. Some of them were even tools - nearly always dangerous. Not a minute before he'd moved a screwdriver - a small one, admittedly, but the shaft was a good four inches long and exceedingly narrow, designed to probe deeply within clockwork mechanisms. It would be as lethal as an ice pick.

Very softly, Peter said slowly, "Don't threaten me, Sylar." He blinked a few times, took a deep breath and let it out. "Please don't threaten me." He glanced down, letting his eyes sweep the desk. There was the hammer Sylar had wielded before, in easy reach. Peter tilted his head and shook it very slowly, lips pursed. Maybe Sylar meant that in jest (and Peter figured he did), but coming from someone who was a multiple murderer and had said he wanted to crucify Peter in Times Square just a few weeks ago (as far as Peter was concerned with the timeline) … it was hard to see the humor, mocking tone or no. Empty handed, Peter walked deliberately from behind the desk over to the chair across from Sylar. He could feel the pins and needles of the fading shock of adrenaline prickling at his extremities.

XXX

Since his eyes were locked on Peter's general direction, he noticed the other man freezing up. Sylar ceased all movements in response before running an instant replay of what had just transpired. He came to an obvious conclusion. _Oh. Oops? That wasn't…wasn't the right thing to say at all. I'd be freaked out if someone said that to me._ Peter had lots of advantages that Sylar noted and dismissed instantly – the guy had practically been his wet nurse the past few days and killing him now over an idle (if dangerous) threat, however jokingly intentioned it was, seemed stupid.

Sylar eyed him calmly back before shifting his weight to get comfortable again. He'd been going to get up and check on his desk to be sure it was still in one piece – deciding instead to create some break in the tension with a harmless movement – but Peter was a wily little bastard and the amount of trouble he could get himself into, very similar to a kitten getting itself stuck in a tree, was astounding. _/_ _"WhatamI- What am I gonna do when I get there? I guess I could put on a costume an' fly around an' pull cats out of trees?" He heard his own voice rising to the ridiculousness his brother presented, not for the first time cursing his parents for allowing the kid access to comic books._ _/_

His expression didn't change when Peter made his demand, but his eyebrows arched when Peter said please…then scanned for a weapon _. Don't make a joke, keep your mouth shut on that one._ And really, the jokes he could make were endless. _Since you beg so nicely, little man. And using my name, too._ Sylar was much less tense about the whole thing, and not just because he'd been the one to issue the threat.

XXX

Peter looked at the chair for a moment, considering how to defuse the destructive tension he, or Sylar, had just lobbed into the fragile situation like a grenade into a crowded room. _I can't let that hang in the air between us._ He turned towards Sylar and extended his left hand as if to help him up. It was the one Sylar had just in such poor taste joked about breaking. In an even, sober voice, he asked, "Need help getting to the bathroom?"


	31. Lower Body

_Day 10_

Peter went very still - poised - as it felt like ice water flushed through his veins. His weight shifted back and his left hand lifted so the fingertips just barely brushed the surface. Heart rate speeding, his gaze stayed sharply on Sylar even as his mind's eye quickly reviewed the objects on the desk in front of him. So many of them were metallic, jagged, and sized well for the human hand. Some were even tools - nearly always dangerous. Not a minute before he'd moved a screwdriver - a small one, admittedly, but the shaft was a good four inches long and exceedingly narrow, designed to probe deeply within clockwork mechanisms. It would be as lethal as an ice pick.

Very softly, Peter said slowly, "Don't threaten me, Sylar." He blinked a few times, took a deep breath and let it out. "Please don't threaten me." He glanced down, letting his eyes sweep the desk. There was the hammer Sylar had wielded before, in easy reach. Peter tilted his head and shook it very slowly, lips pursed. Maybe Sylar meant that in jest (and Peter figured he did), but coming from someone who was a multiple murderer and had said he wanted to crucify Peter in Times Square just a few weeks ago (as far as Peter was concerned with the timeline) … it was hard to see the humor, mocking tone or no. Empty handed, Peter walked deliberately from behind the desk over to the chair across from Sylar. He could feel the pins and needles of the fading shock of adrenaline prickling at his extremities.

XXX

Since his eyes were locked on Peter's general direction, he noticed the other man freezing up. Sylar ceased all movements in response before running an instant replay of what had just transpired. He came to an obvious conclusion. _Oh. Oops? That wasn't…wasn't the right thing to say at all. I'd be freaked out if someone said that to me._ Peter had lots of advantages that Sylar noted and dismissed instantly – the guy had practically been his wet nurse the past few days and killing him now over an idly (if dangerous) threat, however jokingly intentioned it was, seemed stupid.

Sylar eyed him calmly back before shifting his weight to get comfortable again. He'd been going to get up and check on his desk to be sure it was still in one piece – deciding instead to create some break in the tension with a harmless movement – but Peter was a wily little bastard and the amount of trouble he could get himself into, very similar to a kitten getting itself stuck in a tree, was astounding. _/"WhatamI- What am I gonna do when I get there? I guess I could put on a costume an' fly around an' pull cats out of trees?" He heard his own voice rising to the ridiculousness his brother presented, not for the first time cursing his parents for allowing the kid access to comic books./_

His expression didn't change when Peter made his demand, but his eyebrows arched when Peter said 'please'…then scanned for a weapon. _Don't make a joke, keep your mouth shut on that one._ And really, the jokes he could make were endless. _Since you beg so nicely, little man. And using my name, too._ Sylar was much less tense about the whole thing, and not just because he'd been the one to issue the threat.

XXX

Peter looked at the chair for a moment, considering how to defuse the destructive tension he, or Sylar, had just lobbed into the fragile situation like a grenade into a crowded room. I can't let that hang in the air between us. He turned towards Sylar and extended his left hand as if to help him up. It was the one Sylar had just in such poor taste joked about breaking. In an even, sober voice, he asked, "Need help getting to the bathroom?"

XXX

Sylar's lips curled up towards a grin when the hand was extended towards himself. _Brave man. Also a kinky one_ , Sylar truly debated letting that one loose. Reacting, begging then a show of strength and offer of assistance, to the bathroom no less? He had to still a certain senator's jokes about girls flocking together to the restroom and men holding each other's dicks to pee. _Yeah, not using those._ He looked up the length of the arm, considering, too, his odds of feeling up the guy's wrist again. Slapping his palm to said wrist, he made to push himself up and take the offer. "Hmm."

XXX

Peter loosened up as his help was accepted, as Sylar didn't do anything to endanger his hand, and as nothing else was said of it for him to remain defensive about. Peter leaned away to pull Sylar upright and then swayed back to completely vertical once Sylar was on his feet. It put him really close to the other man, who seemed to take the proximity as something of an offer. Sylar raised his arm, eyes moving to size up what Peter meant by where he was standing: unintentional result of pulling him up, or intentional positioning to brace him? Peter answered it by sidling over to let Sylar put his arm over his shoulders, just like he had to get him to the apartment.

XXX

Sylar's hint at a grin bloomed into a smirk at Peter's display of muscle. _As if I need to be reminded?_ He smothered his amusement and delight at the proximity Peter offered, at least on his face, all the while enjoying a good chuckle about the empath. He was in a good mood, as much as he could be in his state.

XXX

The contact had the side effect of calming Peter the rest of the way down. Touching usually did that for him. He breathed deeper and relaxed under what little of Sylar's weight he carried, mostly just providing balance. He shuffled them both the few steps to the bathroom, pausing for Sylar to transition from using Peter for support to the bathroom door frame. Peter wasn't volunteering to go in with him. He'd changed his share of bedpans for sure, but Sylar seemed able to manage.

XXX

 _Maybe I'd stop coming onto you, Petrelli…if you'd stop touching me and being so obvious._ Really, that he needed that much support for those five or six steps was ridiculous, but he was far from complaining this time around. Sylar was pleased with how smoothly that had went – he hadn't had to telegraph or admit to weakness or need, Peter had offered (how nice of him), assuming what he would, which would probably only aid Sylar in future, and Peter felt very relaxed under Sylar's arm. _Don't get too comfortable,_ he told himself, switching his grasp to the door, not that he'd been grasping at Peter on the way there. _Wonder what he would do if I did grab him?_

Sylar turned as a precaution that Peter wasn't…inviting himself in for whatever devious or perverted purpose – he wasn't. In fact, he'd turned away after checking that Sylar was stable and in control of himself. _Interesting…_ Sylar shut the door, debated locking it before doing so, regardless of Peter being able to hear the sound. _He knew I didn't need him that much and he did it anyway? Or…maybe he just knows more about my condition than I do…totally possible, probable, actually._

A mental shrug and he bypassed the mirror for now in favor of the toilet. The world still tilted for him, the headache still raged, the rest of him still ached, so he sat this time. Sylar waited before starting any of his business there on the toilet out of habit, what kind of anxiety was that again? Peter had walked away, surely he had no reason to eavesdrop at the door and that set his mind at ease enough that he could go. There was part of temptation to stay in the bathroom, but that was girly and immature. He rebuttoned his jeans delicately around a set of matched bruises, washed his hands and considered his appearance. Again, he decided to forego it in favor of having Peter continue helping, or to see if he would. Usually his look was of the utmost importance but here he was, passing it up twice in a row, but he did rake a hand through his couch-head of hair. Besides, if the guy made him take a shower, he could always wig Peter out again if he didn't feel like it.

XXX

Peter went back to the desk and looked over the things on it. After a moment of hesitation, he continued where he'd left off before. He preferred to move the stuff without Sylar watching him, perhaps passing judgment on something as trivial as moving things from point A to point B. He was mostly finished by the time Sylar exited the bathroom, with most everything crowded together on the far right side. With Sylar's return, though, Peter called it done and left off to step over and offer himself as a crutch again.

XXX

Sylar unlocked and opened the door, seeing Peter was beside the desk again, nothing in hand of course. Almost to his surprise, Peter hurried back over to assist him, so Sylar assumed, back to the couch. He wanted to check on his desk first, so he offered up his left arm to put him on the outside of Peter, the better to see the desk as he passed.

Neither tools nor watches nor the desk itself looked damaged or scratched in any way, so he passed by and didn't comment on it. Peter had done alright with his things and had a nice one-thousand piece puzzle to work on, like he'd said. Sylar would be concerned about his things falling over as they were stacked and fairly near an edge, but he'd harp when he needed to, not before. When he was close enough to the couch and had some kind of support from it, Peter disengaged. He worked his way to sit, only getting comfortable but making no unnecessary movements.

XXX

Peter wondered if Sylar had taken the opportunity in the bathroom to give himself a look-over, but he doubted it. He wondered if the guy even recalled the part about the physical assessment. Peter decided to ask more generally. "Do you remember what we had for lunch - what was it? Do you remember what we talked about _after_ lunch?"

XXX

Sylar looked up to Peter. It was… "Soup. And crackers." _I can remember that much. I'm so accomplished, next we'll work up to two-digit numbers, geez._ "I know we talked about something important," _I was trying to remember, too_. Quickly his gaze dropped his thighs and knees, what he could see of his legs before he kicked his feet out to see his shins and shoes. "Something about my legs, wasn't it? They were…you said they were swollen," _because I hadn't noticed. How weird is that?_ His eyes went back to Peter expectantly, answer or rebuke or what.

XXX

Peter exhaled, watching Sylar remember lunch accurately enough, but then stumble through the next answer. He sat down in the chair, noticing for the umpteenth time that he was stiff and thinking that he really ought to have stopped by his apartment for some ben-gay. He settled in for a potentially lengthy Q&A about the exam he'd wanted to do earlier. Sylar seemed to be in a good mood and was being cooperative. It seemed like taking a break and restarting later had been a good idea.

"I wanted to do a physical assessment on you to make sure I wasn't missing anything. Your left thigh is swollen where I kicked you. I cleated you pretty hard. It's possible it's just a bruise, but I want one or both of us to be sure of that." _Worst case scenario, the skin got compromised and didn't bleed or suppurate enough for me to notice through your jeans; it's infecting; there's no way I or you will tell early onset fever from the concussion; and … Wait. Am I creating these possibilities just by thinking about them?_ His brow furrowed and he gave a small frown. The opposite - simply hoping for the best - had never worked in the past. Peter was more about doing and making sure. "If I do the assessment, I'll _know_ , and I can stop worrying about worst case scenarios and give you the care you need rather than guessing."

XXX

Sylar glanced again to his left leg, wondering how Peter knew that beyond the fact that he'd done the kicking. Because Sylar couldn't discern any swelling. _But my eyes are fine aside from this headache. What else would it be if not a bruise? A…sprain? A break? Hyper- hyper…Oh, wow._ Sylar had to stop and process that, turning it over in his mind as his eyes took their time returning to Peter's face. _He really is worried about this –_ _'_ _worried about worst case scenarios._ _'_

XXX

"The assessment isn't painful. It's not dangerous. It's a standard head-to-toe emergency examination. I'd need as much of your clothes off as you'll take. I'd need you to let me touch you and I'll need you to answer questions about what hurts and how much." He wondered about what Sylar had gone through at the hands of the Company, or anyone else, and what that might have to do with the sometimes odd 'reads' he was getting off the man. He tried to remember what Sylar had said of his medical history - Peter knew they'd talked about it briefly, but he couldn't remember any details. He had the impression that was because Sylar didn't have much of a medical history, not simply because Peter's memory was screwed up. _So … he may have never had one. Or seen one. Possible he's never been to a doctor for anything other than mandatory pediatric visits._

He considered trying to reassure Sylar there were no drugs, syringes or other implements involved, but decided he might be better off not reminding him of that. "We talked about it a little earlier, but you didn't seem to be understanding what I wanted to do." He considered his wording of other things he could say, like 'I put it off until you'd rested', but that sounded patronizing. Likewise, saying 'it's your decision' didn't sound right - that was obvious. 'Do you have any questions' made it sound like Peter was going to do the exam no matter what, which wasn't the case. He left his statement as it was and fell silent, sitting at a relaxed, upright posture in the chair, waiting for Sylar's questions or comments.

XXX

Sylar ducked his head to chuckle humorlessly, inaudibly to himself. _That we have to phrase it as 'its not dangerous'…you're officially damaged goods. I suppose it wouldn't be painful…for him, easy for him to say, he thought calmly. You're going to agree, you know you are. It's either agree or chance some sudden death he's suspecting and not informing us about. It could mean a deteriorating condition that'll leave you weak and at his mercy even more, so you're going to bite the bullet. I think it's just a matter of how much information I can get about this process beforehand. Can I even be honest about where it hurts, though?_

He nodded, slowly, once, eyes not focused on Peter for the moment while he tried to corral his questions into 'need-to-know'. "Just your hands, Petrelli. And I'm going to need at least one of them with the clothes." An admission of need of something from Peter – it was truthful one, surprising even to himself. It wasn't like he hadn't been stripped a dozen times before, but he'd been unconscious, drugged, dead or regenerating and it had never been (that he knew of) in front of a hero. And never, ever in front of one he'd propositioned a few times.

XXX

 _Just my hands? What? Does he mean, 'don't touch him with anything but my hands?' What else would I be using? I might brush against him with my leg or my elbow. Oh … wait._ Peter's thoughts just barely contemplated that perhaps Sylar was implying that Peter might do something sexual to him before firmly walling that off. He took a deep breath and focused very much on the now, and quit thinking about what Sylar might or might not have meant by that. "Yeah, I can help." He leaned forward in his seat, not sure if Sylar was going to ask questions or was going to go straight to undressing. Peter waited for more of an indication.

XXX

Sylar gestured for Peter to stand beside his right knee, close to the couch while he lifted the neck of his tee over his head. He then gestured with his hand for Peter to pull it off while he squirmed back, curling his spine to slide free of the garment, causing a light shiver from the sensation and temperature difference sans the shirt. It made him dizzy, too, losing orientation amongst the moving tunnel of static-y fabric so it was a good decision he'd made to stay seated. However, the next big challenge was the dreaded, awkward pants. He held out his left hand, thumb up, and waited for Peter to take it, assuming the guy wouldn't hand the shirt back or give him a high-five.

XXX

Peter tossed the t-shirt onto his chair and extended his hand to take Sylar's offered left hand. "This would probably be safer if you were sitting down," he murmured, but helped Sylar up anyway. Earlier, Sylar had wanted to stand to change his shirt, too. Maybe it was just a habit, or a quirk. It seemed harmless, so Peter went along with it.

XXX

When he felt Peter's good hand, he gripped and pushed off once again to stand, inhaling in reflex before staring over Peter's shoulder while he unfastened his jeans. That done, he gingerly peeled them over his hips, shoving them as far down his thighs as possible before sitting on his own on the couch. "Might have to take off my shoes…" he muttered so Peter could hear, clearly irked that he hadn't thought of it before he'd trapped himself with his trousers.

XXX

"Hold on," Peter said, moving to get Sylar's shoes. He started with bending more-or-less at the waist, reaching down with his left hand, but quickly discovered that was a bad idea. To combat the wave of unsteadiness, he grabbed at the chair next to him with his right hand. Pushing off the chair caused a painful jarring of his brace. Peter grunted and then sucked in breath between clenched teeth as he righted himself. After a single breath to get his bearings, he went to his knees somewhat carefully, recalling the problems he'd had in squatting too fast to get into Sylar's dresser.

XXX

Sylar blinked in surprise, moving forward too quickly himself to try to grab Peter, failing to make contact. "You okay?" he asked when the guy caught himself. I didn't know he was having…problems? He saw after that that it was the braced hand that was causing problems, but it didn't explain the lack of balance. _Look, I know you're eager to get me in my skivvies and all…but there's no need to rush, I promise it'll all still be there._

XXX

Peter grimaced at his right hand, which was still silently complaining about the minor bump. Shaking his head a little, he reached down to Sylar's right heel to slip the nearer shoe off. He eyed the laces, but the shoes weren't on so tight as to need loosening of the laces. He worked it off and dropped it to the side, reaching for Sylar's left foot to repeat.

XXX

The right shoe went without complaint. The left, when Peter bent the sole in order to slide it off without loosening the laces, crunched his toes and Sylar was swiftly reminded that they were bruised, too. "Ah!" he hissed and grimaced, restraining himself from jerking in his seat. _Great. This is gonna be fun to explain._ It felt weird to have someone on their knees, an awkward position if danger wasn't involved, helping him of all things. He kept having to crush the budding urge to kick the guy away or play with that tempting hair. _That's right, focus on something pleasant._

XXX

"Your foot hurts? How did that happen?" _Maybe when he kicked me in the leg?_ It seemed sort of unlikely, but definitely possible. He glanced up Sylar's body, eyes lingering at the bunched jeans, then on the bruised thigh and stomach. His gaze skipped up to Sylar's face, meeting his eyes briefly to be polite, but mostly looking at the patches of discoloration, mentally cataloguing injuries. A head to toe exam usually started at the head - that being the most important - and went down the body steadily for reasons of simplicity and thoroughness. It was harder to miss things when your search went in a single direction rather than when jumping around from one body part to another.

To the limited extent that Peter had imagined doing the assessment, he'd expected to do it in the usual way, starting with Sylar's head. That seemed awfully intimate for someone he didn't think trusted him or wanted him doing it at all. Which brought to mind a degree of confusion and suspicion about why Sylar was suddenly being so cooperative. _Huh._ Peter didn't feel he had time to think about it at the moment. Sylar's feet, smelling somewhat, presented themselves as a more pressing matter. "Can I take off your socks?" _I could just do toe-to-head and it would work just as well. I'm already here, after all._ Peter tugged at Sylar's jeans, pulling them further down his legs, gathering them up, and slipping them off his feet one at a time. The removed garment went on the chair, draped over the shirt.

XXX

"Apparently," was Sylar's wry answer, "Disagreement with a filing cabinet. I'm lucky to be alive," he downplayed the injury. Sure, toes hurt like a bitch, but he didn't think they were broken…he hadn't checked, though. Everything hurt and he already limped from a million different quarters; he didn't know what should take priority.

He'd been watching Peter just to watch him. So he saw the man eyeing his midriff (or so he partly hoped). He met Peter's gaze when it rose, cluing in that the guy was mainly checking the bruises when those hazel eyes shifted away. _What's he- oh, yeah._

Sylar flushed slightly when Peter swiped his jeans off. _I'm not paying any attention to how good he was at that, none at all. That's his fucking job. No matter what he said, this is going to be painful – this isn't fun time. So don't fuck with the guy._ He suffered another shiver from being clothed in only his underwear and socks (soon to be just underwear). Mostly playing dead, sprawled on the couch, recovering his confidence, he said, "Yeah," cutting himself off from any smart-assed reply. _Those are gonna smell, Petrelli. That's…really kinda gross, you being down there, man, I haven't showered in…Aren't I supposed to lay back or something here?_

Peter peeled down his socks, setting them aside and taking up his left foot after glancing over the right briefly. _This is just so weird. If he was being a jerk about it, it wouldn't be so weird. He's not a doctor, he's not my doctor, he's….he's…_ As much as he could, Sylar kept this game face on, confidant and in control, but he was horribly curious as to each movement Peter made, wondering what was coming.

XXX

"Well," Peter said as he lifted Sylar's left foot by the heel and inspected it, "if the disagreement went like any of your other fights, I suspect that file cabinet is struggling to find a new life in the recycle bin." Peter initially said that as a 'I've lost to you twice and I'm beat all to hell' commentary, but once the words were out, he reflected that quite a few people who had tangled with Sylar, or been targeted by him, were in the metaphorical recycle bin now. This was almost certainly one of the more dangerous people in the world he was tending. _He's still just a guy._ He looked at the relatively delicate, though pedestrian, extremity he held in his left hand, his face attentive and engaged in the task at hand. _A guy with a messed up foot._

XXX

Sylar allowed himself a moment of pride from Peter's assessment. _I won and now he's tending my feet, ha!_ That relaxed him and completely stroked his ego – something about the conquered having the decent sense to stay down for once, and that, for Peter Petrelli, was no small feat.

XXX

Visually, the only issues Peter saw were the toes themselves, but he didn't focus on those immediately. Instead he gave it a general examination. The foot was long, narrow, well-arched, reasonably clean, free of bunions, corns, scarring or other maladies, normal in temperature, moisture and texture, and free of edema. There was no trembling or other fasciculation; which that implied that Sylar's motor control was good, which meshed with what Peter had seen. It smelled healthy enough, as feet went. Particularly, he didn't smell infection, although he could feel heat as he passed his right hand over the toes without touching them. They had a mild inflammation, not-so-mild swelling and the toes were a little discolored. _This must suck to walk on. It needs to be elevated._

He looked up at Sylar. "I'm going to touch your toes. If it hurts, say so. If it hurts _bad_ , let me know that, too." With his right index finger, he touched the knuckle of each toe, starting with the first, pressing slightly and watching the change in pattern of coloration (which told him of circulation) and the flexion, looking for angularity thereby any signs of fracture. He was also listening to Sylar's breathing as much as he could, for less consciously monitored signs of discomfort.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar acknowledged the instructions. The first two toes, the large and index, went without a hitch as he expected. Peter touched, didn't even really squeeze or twist, but the middle and ring toes felt jammed and bruised. Sylar inhaled swiftly and let it out in a purposeful grunt after a beat (what the hell, it was just a pair of toes) after the four joints had been felt, but he didn't twitch away from the contact. "Those two hurt, the pinky toe is fine. Feels like…they've been stubbed." _Stubbed? Is that even a word? "Stubbed toes"? Ah, he knows what I mean._

XXX

"Okay. That's what it looks like to me, too."

Peter set down the foot gently and took up the right, which he'd given only a cursory look earlier. He picked it up and gave it the same careful, primarily visual examination. He didn't see any faults. He set the right foot down and looked back and forth between it and the left, judging the toes, estimating how the toes on his left foot were supposed to look based on the way the ones on the right were. Sylar was a pretty symmetrical guy.

XXX

The nurse reached for his right foot and Sylar couldn't, didn't stop himself from forewarning Peter about it, "That one's fine," but that didn't prevent Peter from similarly checking the right foot, too. _That actually feels kinda good_ , not that he didn't know that already.

Peter continued to surprise him in that he positioned his feet and looked between them. Sylar couldn't think what Peter would be looking for or at. _Oh, maybe more swelling?_ It wasn't important enough to ask about, but he was interested and curious.

XXX

"We can take a couple of these couch pillows when you lie back down and elevate this foot some." His voice was low and sober. He looked up at Sylar's face again, checking in, telling him, "I'm going to check your calves now," then proceeding to do just that, which was a simple matter of looking at Sylar's shins, then running his hands from ankle to back of knee. On Sylar's left leg, the one on the opposite side of where Peter was sitting, he ran only the index finger of his right hand.

All he was feeling for was blood, seepage or irregularities. He didn't expect any, but he hadn't expected the problem with the toes, either. That done, he shuffled sideways closer to the couch, moving on to the thighs.

XXX

 _Really?_ _It's_ _that bad? Or is that just basic stuff?_ After brief additional consideration, Sylar deduced that it was merely basic procedure. Sylar gave a nod when Peter looked his way. He understood now why women, and, he supposed, the braver men enjoyed pedicures (although Sylar thought it would be wasted on men) even if the exam he'd just had was of a more serious nature. _I so need to get concussed more often, but I could do without the headache._

So lost in his own thoughts, he came back to reality a little too late to answer, "O-" _My what?_ "-kay," he finished, again a little surprised, but pleasantly so. Sylar swallowed, kept himself still and started praying against evil bodily reactions. Did Peter not get it or what? _Is he repaying me for earlier?_ Now that he could see his thigh, he agreed it was swollen and mottled with a neat bruise. _But that's all it is, right?_ The skin even down around his knee felt tight and strained, almost like the bruise was pulling the muscles – it had felt that way since he'd got the bruise and it made walking painful, but not impossible.

"What, um…what's the worst that could happen from a bruise? Maybe like a…clot or something? Like…what are you looking for?" Sylar subtly prepared a hand in case he needed to push Peter's probing fingers away from the pain site because as a heroic man of the medical field, Peter would have that insatiable need to touch right where it fucking hurt.

XXX

 _What's the worst that can happen? Should I even really discuss that given that this is all in our heads? I suppose I should. It's his body, fake or not._ "Uh … given that the skin is intact, the worst that could happen now is probably compartment syndrome." _For which the primary thing I should check is that he has good circulation._ "Let me take your pulse." _Damnit. Missed that_. He reached down for Sylar's right ankle, reaching behind it with his right hand and feeling along for a few seconds. He wasn't as practiced at taking a posterior tibial pulse, but he found it. Peter raised his left hand, looking blankly at his non-functioning watch. "Eh … hm. Okay." _Wait, there's actually a disadvantage to that thing not working?_ He shook his head slightly in exasperation and looked around for the nearest clock with a visible second hand. This being Sylar's apartment, he didn't have to look far.

XXX

Having been a little startled with Peter's rather assuming touches, Sylar was pleased at being unintentionally amused when Peter had to look for another clock with his watch not working. He stifled a chuckle; Peter's reaction to it was pretty priceless. _I need to fix that for him, still driving me crazy._ Getting his pulse checked seemed so…ordinary. Again, Peter phrased it as a sort of question, but he didn't wait for an answer, not that Sylar would have given one, really, perhaps he just wanted to be asked. He wondered what his pulse had to do with a bruise beyond how fast blood was pumping through it.

XXX

A minute of silence passed before Peter said, "Your circulation is fine. So's your pulse." _In a general sense, at least. Now let's look at specifics._ He reached behind Sylar's left knee, pulling up his lower leg a little for the right angle, then found the popliteal artery. He didn't bother measuring out the pulse, but was just double-checking it was strong. "I've never had to treat compartment syndrome, because it's not diagnosed until a while after the cause. Essentially the tissue somewhere gets compressed enough that it cuts off blood flow, then it … well, it doesn't heal. You'll have tissue death, necrosis, and generally your kidneys fail a little while after that." _Then you die, because a part of you rotted from the inside out._

XXX

Sylar waited, remembering just as he'd been about to open his mouth that this procedure was required silence from the patient _. Ha, I'm the patient now. Strange I have no patience._ Mentally, he snorted. _And neither does he. He just said he took my pulse so why's he…?_ He allowed his leg to be maneuvered, wincing as it shifted the muscles under his bruised skin, watching in confusion that was not explained, but Peter did explain compartment syndrome.

It only sounded bad and he remembered hearing something about that. Luckily, even with all the injuries he'd sustained before taking Claire's power, he'd never had that issue. Oddly, it brought to mind something he'd heard about having to remove a tourniquet after four hours or risk losing the limb or life. He doubted it was the compartment syndrome, but it wouldn't surprise him if it were similar. "Oh. I see," Sylar said to state his continued interest and show he was listening.

XXX

"You'll see those problems with the sort of severe bruising that comes from auto accidents, but mostly it's in the lower leg and forearm." He touched around the edges of the bruise on Sylar's thigh, seeing faintly the tread pattern of his shoe. That made him a bit ill to think he put that there, but he put his feelings aside for the moment. "Can you feel me touching here? Does that feel normal, or do you have pins-and-needles, or is it numb?" He put slight pressure of two fingertips above, below, to the right and left of the injury. He was also looking at color change and level of edema.

XXX

"Oh!" was his muffled inhale of pain when Peter groped- no, he was just touching the outside of the bruise! _Holy fuck, um…hello?_ His body stiffened in sudden anger, that desire to strike again for Peter's stupidity. Of course he fucking felt that! How could he not? Hadn't Peter ever had a bad bruise before? Having this kind of attention made him feel like a drama queen for any reactions he had. Sylar forced himself to remember that this was for his own good and, as far as he knew, Peter wasn't causing pain on purpose – the guy was strangely invested in the exam.

"Yes," he grunted sharply. "About as normal as it should, I imagine," he couldn't stop the slight sarcasm slipping in. Sylar was watching him intently now, no more relaxing.

XXX

"What we need to do is get this swelling down so you can get proper circulation throughout. That's the best thing we can do to avoid complications. Or the worst that can happen." Peter rocked back on his heels, taking some of the weight off his knees and let his hands fall to his thighs. "What I'm looking for first and foremost are breaks or tears to the skin - any evidence of bleeding. There was glass all over the ground and you fell on it … at least once." Peter looked off to the side, finding it hard to remember exactly what happened in the fight. _Well, that's why I'm checking him_. "I swept up all the big pieces before we got into it, but that doesn't mean I got them all. If you're concussed and messed up, and have a piece of glass stuck in you, you might not even realize it. Maybe it's just an annoying pain that won't go away."

XXX

Sylar blinked. _A piece of glass? I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? How fitting, really. An annoying piece of invisible glass, stuck in your head. An annoying pain that won't go away - is that a metaphor for me now?_

XXX

"Next thing I'm looking for after that is to see where all your injuries are and to make sure I know what's happening with them." He gestured at Sylar's foot. "That needs to be elevated. I didn't know it was even there. Your leg definitely needs to be iced to get the swelling down." He nodded his head towards Sylar's abdomen. "I'd thought, before, that the serious part was your gut, but it looks fine. I'll check it here in a little bit and what I'll be looking for there is any evidence of ruptured internal organs. If there were, there'd probably be some distension and I don't see any." _Besides the fact that you'd probably be dead already._ "But I'm going to palpate to be sure." _If you'll let me._ "And I'll see what else you've got going on. I want to feel your skull and make sure there aren't any soft spots. It might sound weird, but it's basic. I need to know basic. Most of this is just looking and feeling."

XXX

Sylar held back something of an evil expression. _Of course you wouldn't know it was there. I took out the cabinet instead of your ass, so be grateful. Geez, Peter, would you stop saying 'swelling' already?_ He followed Peter's nod towards his stomach, glancing at it and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. _If he's making a fat joke, I swear to God…Wait. Palpate? Palpate…doesn't that mean…poke and prod?_

Sylar's eyebrows went up and his eyes widened on the heels of those thoughts about touching his stomach. _And see what else I've got going on?_ Peter had checked his thigh and desired to check his stomach now and what else lay between those two areas? He grasped at remembering Peter saying 'only as much as you can handle' about taking clothes off and he was already sprawled there in nothing but his underwear, not even socks to claim.

Sure, he would allow Peter to haul down the waistband of his drawers to view his hip's bruise, but his cheeks would burst into blushing flames – especially given Sylar's rather hairy situation down below which he couldn't imagine Peter appreciating. What if that made an unwanted appearance? Surely Peter wouldn't check _*there*_ …The nurse had been nothing but overly thorough to this point, but how thorough was thorough? It would be only too easy to get a preview of Sylar's business with flimsy underwear and four hands in the mix. What would Peter want with what lay under there anyway? The guy had no interest; he hadn't even glanced!

Stunned into mental immobility, another bit of should-have-anticipated surprise hit him. _You wanna feel my skull? I bet you do! Soft spots my ass. If its soft, its because you made if that way._ Sylar growled, passing it off as discomfort and repositioning as he shoved himself up the couch a bit, lounging up straighter. ' _Most of this is just looking and feeling'. I bet it is; I bet it is._

Sylar placed his right hand on his thigh, very prepared to defend himself or cover his groin if need be. To act prematurely and cover himself would be a sign of weakness and loss of control. This would be one hell of a way to find out he was ticklish. He was nearly covering up for other reasons. Sylar had literally avoided thinking about popping a boner on Peter during his exam for a reason – he was fucked up enough in the head (never mind concussions) that something like this, a foreign, forgotten, caring, intimate touch even a medical one from an enemy would arouse him. _Oh, god…what if that happens? What would he do?_ Sylar so wanted to whine 'Do you have to?' about the stomach prodding, paranoid now about an erection, but knowing it was for his own health, long term. _Make him hurry up? Don't know if I want him to…Ask for my pants back?_

XXX

Sylar struck Peter as being uncomfortable - maybe more mentally than physically, he couldn't tell. The man had straightened, cleared his throat or growled, and was putting his hands in the way or preparing to. Peter was still sitting, rocked back, hands to himself. He thought about what he'd said. _Well, you wanted to know what I was doing and why … but still, there was probably something in what I said that set him off_. He would have expected the 'worst case scenario' to have gotten Sylar on board with the exam rather than mobilizing defenses.

Peter considered and decided to back off for a few minutes. Maybe Sylar would calm. Peter shifted further, changing to attempt to sit cross-legged, but that wouldn't work well with his hip. He grimaced at that discovery and ended up putting his butt to the floor and propping himself up some with his left hand, tucking his legs in on his right side. It was an unprofessional and unmasculine way to sit, but his other choices hurt, or required getting up and sitting in the chair, which would look like a withdrawal from the process.

He looked at Sylar a couple times as he spoke, looking like he was in no hurry to do anything. "I'm going to need you to lie down for the next part." He waited a long beat, then glanced back again. "I also need you to let me know if you don't understand what I'm doing. Are there questions you want to ask?"

 _Maybe he doesn't believe me? Maybe he thinks I'm going to …. what? Hurt him?_ He considered the Company. If that was Sylar's baseline for medical care, which Peter didn't know if it was, or how Nathan's memories factored into things, then he could understand a lot of disbelief. He didn't need belief, necessarily, but he needed cooperation and he wasn't likely to get the one without the other. There was a ritual and a routine to emergency care that got tossed out the window when a person wasn't in uniform, not in a truck, didn't have a partner and were dealing with a patient who wasn't following their script for the process. Peter was left trying to feel along what Sylar would and wouldn't allow.

XXX

Sylar exhaled as Peter sat back, appearing to take a break. If he stopped and thought about it, that showed that Peter still viewed him as a threat, something so dangerous that he required constant watch. _Crap. Of course he would notice – he's a fucking empath! That always annoyed the hell out of Nathan._ The average person, even the average victim didn't notice the things Peter did and if they did they would only react from fear and self-preservation. _Damn_ , he thought, impressed despite himself. _He's…good._

Peter sat funny and one side of Sylar's lips twitched. _Yeah, I figured,_ he thought of lying down. _Relax. He'd have done something by now while you were standing if he wanted to_. Sylar huffed out a sigh, rolling his eyes as best he could, releasing his tension. "Fine, I want to know what you're going to do about my hip. And my stomach."


	32. Upper Body

_Day 10_

Sylar huffed out a sigh, rolling his eyes as best he could, releasing his tension. "Fine, I want to know what you're going to do about my hip. And my stomach."

XXX

Peter glanced over at the body parts in question, then up to Sylar's eyes. He drew in a breath and leaned back a little, trying to look calm. Trying intentionally to look like he felt a certain way wasn't something Peter had much practice at. He knew how to do it - no son of Arthur Petrelli, even the often-disregarded, second-rate one, escaped without that sort of basic training - but Peter tended not to bother. At the moment, though, he really wanted to sell Sylar on the idea that Peter wasn't pushing.

"For medical examination, the abdomen is divided into four quadrants." He gestured with his right hand to back up his words. "The line goes breastbone to pubis vertically and horizontally across the navel. I'm going to-" He paused, blinked once, then started again, "I want to feel of the three quadrants where you don't have any obvious injury. That will give me a baseline, plus it's a good idea to check even if a person doesn't expect problems. I'll use my left hand, obviously, two fingers, and probe, probably enough to deflect the skin down an inch or two. I'll move around and feel of where your organs are - are they in the right place, are there masses, is there throbbing, are there hard spots where there shouldn't be hard spots - that sort of thing. It'll be a little uncomfortable, but it shouldn't hurt."

XXX

The part about 'two fingers, probing, feeling where your organs are' seemed pretty damn ironic to a guy whose occupation was poking around inside people's brains. _Aaaand we've officially moved out of danger for erections. There's that at least,_ Sylar tried to console or pep talk himself. The ordeal was now decidedly unpleasant.

XXX

He stopped speaking for several beats, giving some distance in the conversation. Maybe it would give Sylar time to process. Definitely it was reinforcement for the image of 'this is no big deal, no hurry' that Peter was trying to give, and personally felt. He wasn't trying to project something he didn't feel - he was just trying to project how he was feeling more strongly and loudly than usual.

"Then I'll look at the quadrant where you have the bruising. And I'm sorry, but to know what I want to know, I'm going to have to touch it directly and push on it. It will probably hurt. If it doesn't hurt," Peter gave a single dry chuckle, "well, let me know that right away, because that means there's something seriously wrong." _Like nerve damage._ "I'll feel around there same as the others. I'll need to know _how_ it hurts - sharp or dull, a lot or a little. For your hip …" Peter glanced over, wishing Sylar had on skimpier underwear and somehow managing to think that without a trace of sexual innuendo.

"I would like to see the extent of the bruising. If it's actually over and on your hip bone like it looks, then I'd want to check hip stability. That involves me putting my hands on either of your hipbones while you're lying flat and pressing down, then rocking them laterally." He looked up at Sylar and added sotto voce, "It's not a lot of rocking. Just a little." He gestured slightly with his right hand as if trying to demonstrate, but it was probably too general a motion to get much across. He only moved his hand an inch or two back and forth, once.

"The point of that is to make sure all the bones of your pelvis are still firmly connected. Just because you can walk isn't an indication. People can walk with their backs broken. I saw an x-ray of a guy who walked around with a complete fracture of his femur." Peter shook his head at how weird the human body was, and that was without abilities. "So, that's the examination I want to do for your stomach and your hip."

XXX

 _I bet he thinks this is just hilarious as can be_. So…Peter had to see the inevitable, the hip. And he wanted to prod around on it. _Whatever_. It wasn't like Peter wasn't getting eyefuls to his heart's content (honestly, the guy didn't seem to give a fuck!) This was for his own good, he reminded himself, considering chanting that as his mantra to avoid accidental strangulations.

Peter had answered thoroughly so Sylar nodded once, stiffly. He made to lie on his back, assuming Peter wanted his front where all the damage was. He took his time and when he was horizontal, he dragged the pillow under his head, replacing his hands at his sides. "Alright," he signaled his readiness for Peter to continue.

XXX

Peter shifted up onto his knees, looking over at Sylar's right thigh. He hadn't given it a good look earlier, but there was nothing much to see. He gave the groin a visual sweep, but saw nothing unusual. At some point he'd need to see Sylar's back - again, concern about glass and other debris. Hadn't Sylar fallen on his back? Or was it his side? Peter wasn't sure.

He went on to the abdominal palpation he'd outlined before, feeling out the three uninjured quadrants. It took less time than to explain it - only four or five seconds each and he was done. For the last, he stopped and put his hands down for a moment, looking carefully.

XXX

The probing was uncomfortable, but not painful, at least in the three uninjured 'quadrants' as Peter referred to them in such a geeky way. It was mercifully brief and he couldn't help but consider that maybe Peter was rushing it out of fear or disgust; Sylar couldn't guess. Nothing caused him pain, so he said nothing and made no sound.

The fourth section came around and Sylar took a deeper breath, letting it out, his head propped up barely enough to see so he lifted a bit to get a better view. He winced a little, but he could tell it was merely a muscle/skin pain from denim and shirt grinding into him full-weight. "'S only muscle deep. I skidded off your knee onto that part."

XXX

Then he looked to Sylar. "Okay. I'm going to probe a bit more here." He waited for an acknowledgment before setting to it, moving more slowly than he had for the other sections, but still getting done in less than ten seconds.

XXX

Sylar released a 'hrmph' of pain, more intense than before as Peter drew closer to his hip and the actual landing zone (not his dick, but the bruise). "Same thing there," he clarified, really just wanting this to be over, dreading the next parts.

XXX

"Everything seems fine. Hips now." He glanced up at Sylar attentively, a little wary, then put his right hand on the waistband of his underwear. He'd asked for Sylar to strip as much as he was comfortable with and the underwear had stayed on. That meant Sylar wouldn't be all that wild about Peter peeling them down, even though Peter had warned him he wanted to.

XXX

Sylar raised his head further so he could see over his ribs, eyes focused on his boxers. His left hand came up to maneuver the waistband down, his right moving up to hold the rest of his the elastic in place (thus minimizing what he flashed) when he noticed, a bit late, that Peter's hand was already there. Sylar froze, blinking, confused. He was unable to comprehend why Peter somehow had to be the one to pull his underwear down. He'd assumed, incorrectly it appeared, that he would be the one handling his own drawers.

Sylar was getting quickly sick of these internal battles and mini-dominance wars between them. If he fussed and took control, it made put any previous (flirting and sexual) actions in doubt, made him look weak. If he sat back and let Peter handle his own goddamn underwear, he probably looked weak, too. Or did he look like he had in all under control and Peter was just doing his bidding, following directions to the letter with Sylar's trust and approval?

 _Why in God's name would Peter think that's okay?_ Was bouncing around in his head. Sylar was still stuck there as Peter moved on and he realized he missed, by not watching Peter's face, where the other man looked exactly.

XXX

Peter looked back to what he was doing and bared the minimum he needed, for all of a two second visual check. Had Sylar taken his underwear off, Peter would have touched around it as well, but as the man hadn't, Peter respected the unspoken request for privacy. He moved on to putting one hand on each hip, grimacing slightly at his right hand. _This is going to hurt - me, probably not him._ He tightened his jaw and did it anyway, and yes, it did hurt. Peter made a muffled noise of pain in the back of his throat, going through the correct motions anyway and confirming for himself that Sylar's pelvis was sound.

XXX

His hands hadn't moved from their paused position over his hips as Peter gave him a cursory glance and replaced his waistband to his proper place. Sylar had time to see that (a significant) edge of his pubic hair was revealed, dark against the light gray waistband and his skin so Peter couldn't possibly miss it no matter how long he did or didn't look. He tried not to feel horrified or ashamed, he did, but he doubted success.

Peter went for his hips and he grasped the man's wrists (well, one wrist, one brace), crying out when the man applied pressure and began to rock him because Peter's palm was rested on the bruise. "Aah!" He jerked and tightened his grasp on Peter as reflex but after only a few motions his nurse withdrew, breathing heavily.

Sylar heard Peter's sound of hurt as well and went as still as he could given the painful circumstances, sucking in air through his mouth and staring up at the man, awaiting reaction or action. _Ow….Oh, ow. That's so tender…that's such a tender spot and I fucking landed on you, Petrelli!_ He wanted to curl up, but knew that would just hurt worse. _See if my pelvis is intact? What the fuck?_

XXX

Peter held still for a moment, trying to process all of that: Sylar's cry, the feel of his hips shifting under Peter's hands, Sylar's hands on his wrists and the overwhelming pain from his own right hand. He swallowed roughly, breathed out through his mouth and put his left hand on Sylar's forearm. It was a light contact, but his fingers curled around to hold gently. "Easy. I'm done. Done." He breathed out and tucked his right hand flush with his side. That wasn't because he thought Sylar would do anything to him, but more just an instinct. It was throbbing and Peter knew it would keep doing that for the next minute or two.

XXX

Peter re-gathered, keeping his right hand away and Sylar thought that he'd hurt the guy on accident. _Uh-oh._ Sylar's lips were tense, his jaw clenched, recovering his own air, but Peter touched his arm, and did no more than that. He couldn't help the feeling of instinctive betrayal even while he knew the process would bring pain. He knew Peter was doing what he felt was his job and the injuries had been in the way of that – the hurt was not intentional. That didn't stop him from wanting to strike back, but maybe he had by grabbing Peter's brace like that.

XXX

"I … didn't feel anything out of place." He glanced to Sylar's face for reaction, then down his body and around the couch. "Here. Let me get the blanket over you." He gave Sylar's arm a squeeze and fished for the blanket awkwardly with his left. He finally noticed how he was holding his right, tight against himself, and loosened up a little. It would hurt no matter where it was. He made an attempt to spread the blanket, then rocked back on his heels and let Sylar finish doing it.

XXX

Sylar just nodded, not knowing what, if anything, to say. "Thanks," he said to Peter nicely laying the blanket up to his stomach. That was much better – warmer and less exposed. It said a lot in Peter's favor, too, that he really wasn't up to anything if he was willing to cover Sylar up. Sylar raised his arms for the blanket, setting them back at his sides atop the material, watching Peter in a more relaxed way now, even if his lower half felt alternately massaged and aching horribly.

XXX

"I'm sorry that hurt you," he said quietly, looking down at the brace to see if there was any chance it had slipped and maybe he could stop it from hurting by adjusting it. No such luck. He picked uneasily at the Velcro with his left before pulling his hand away and looking back to Sylar. He had a patient and there was nothing he could do for his hand except to quit using it and aggravating the fracture. Small chance of that. "All that's left is your head and your back." And technically arms, but Peter had already checked Sylar's hands and he could see the arms – they were fine. "But I need to know, about your hips: did that hurt anywhere other than the bruise itself? Did it hurt in your tailbone, or anywhere else?"

XXX

"Okay, Peter." Sylar was attempting to be agreeable to keep even with Peter. He did get tired of being the monster all the time and Peter's actions said the hip incident had been an honest accident. For reasons strange and beyond his understanding, Sylar felt the desire to continue on, humor Peter and get over what would otherwise result in a thrashing for the nurse. He blamed the raging headache and mental fuckery that came with the concussion. His health was on the line, too, and for once it was being attended to. That was a lot to turn away from, both in regards to medical aid and attention in general.

He shook his head, "No. Nuh-uh." Something occurred to him and he made a note to bring it up after the exam. It felt great to lie down again, better for his head and he lifted it momentarily to flail his feet around the blanket (limited by his bruises and stiffness) until he could elevate his feet like Peter mentioned. _See, I can be a good boy._

XXX

"That's good to hear," Peter said. He watched Sylar kick his feet around, wondering what he was doing until Sylar propped one – the one with stubbed toes – on the arm rest of the couch. Nodding in approval, Peter shuffled the opposite way a little and looked to the man's face. He looked at it first as a gestalt. A day out from the fight, the bruises were apparent against Sylar's light skin. Peter found himself less sympathetic about these marks than for those on Sylar's leg. For one thing, other than the first uppercut, he hadn't managed to tag Sylar very hard in the face. They'd be colorful and painful, but the damage wasn't that bad.

The concussion was another matter. Peter looked at the man's eyes, Peter's face very serious. He was mentally measuring pupil diameter and comparing one to the other. Not everyone had symmetrical pupils as a baseline, but it would appear that Sylar did. Peter wished for a flashlight to gauge dilation response. It was probably better that he didn't have one, as the bright light would be a stabbing pain, not to mention disorienting, for a concussion victim. A motion of Sylar's expression caught Peter's notice and the nature of his gaze shifted. Now he was looking at _Sylar_ instead of a body part. Peter's lips tightened and turned up in a small smile; the lines around his eyes softened. _…beautiful eyes._ They were dark brown, very clear even given Sylar's condition, very deep and returning his examination with a sharp interest. Sylar had lovely lashes. Peter didn't think he'd ever noticed that. _Stop that! That has nothing to do with him being hurt!_

XXX

The whole…experience, he'd call it that, was interesting to watch, aside from being exposed and having his bruises upset. Peter had quite the game face (different, obviously, from his 'I'm gonna kick your ass' face – he'd seen that one plenty). Currently his nurse was eyeing his face…okay. _My head was next on the list_ , he reminded himself, so he let it happen.

It was weird to be looked at by someone with eyes like Peter's because he just got the feeling there was more going on behind his eyes than most other people. Right now, he pictured Peter making a rundown list of either things he wanted to destroy about Sylar's face or the possible medical problems it would, well, face. Sylar just gazed back when Peter appeared to want to hold the eye contact.

He would have tilted his head had he not been lying flat when Peter smiled – he'd been doing that a lot more during the course of the exam. That was something he didn't think he could account for. _So Peter truly loves his job. He must, to be able to look you over so thoroughly because it's obvious he doesn't want to fuck you._ To Sylar that felt…acceptable, actually, much to his own surprise.

XXX

He pulled himself back, literally putting another inch or two between them. Feeling like he needed to say something to distract from the faux pas of his thoughts, even if he'd done nothing (well, not much) inappropriate, he said, "Your pupils look equal, which is a really good sign. I don't see any internal bleed, either. I'm going to touch where I hit you." He raised his left hand, turning it slightly to display it to Sylar and make it clear what he was going to do. He waited for some sign of assent before reaching for his forehead.

XXX

 _Right, pupils._ That explained the lingering eye contact. It felt completely strange for Sylar to feel as though he was literally thinking slower than someone else, although social situations he still struggled in. Peter moved in, even moving in a manner that was visibly patient, and it was always just before Sylar could process the actual move or twitch his hands in place for any defense.

Then he was stuck trying to recall where Peter was referring to. _I think you hit me all over, man._ Sylar kept his eyes on Peter's after a glance at his displayed hand, calming after that.

XXX

Peter pulled in a deep breath, probing well right of the center of the goose-egg, then to the left, then above. Satisfied there wasn't anything obviously wrong, he moved his fingers to the injury itself, saying, "This is going to hurt a little."

XXX

 _Oh, SHIT!_ He'd been suckered. Peter's whole act of 'look deep into my eyes, I'll go slow' and he'd totally fallen for it. At the words 'this is going to hurt a little', he had a horrible flash image of being in a similar position with that same hand going for his forehead.

"NO!" Sylar yelled and thrashed the rest of his body to twist away from that hand, pulling himself back into a not-so-escapable position into the back of the couch. Something pinged in his mind in that moment of panic that Peter said he had Matt's ability and Sylar thought he'd had Claire's…it made no sense. _He came here to finish the job. Right? Easy to fuck me and feel guiltless if I don't remember it._

XXX

Startled by the sudden shift, Peter's eyes flew wide and he froze, wincing inside because he expected to be hit. He didn't move. Sylar was jerking away, not attacking him directly, and in that second that Peter perceived that, he decided to stay exactly where he was and see what happened.

XXX

Shoving Peter's hands away, Sylar breathed a little harder now. "Oh, good one, Petrelli," he laughed a bit, shaking his head in a sort of semi-defeated, impressed, begrudging respect. _No syringe? No nail gun? And I'm the one being fucking strip-searched here._

XXX

 _Good one? No? What did I say? 'This is going to hurt'? Or was it …_ Peter looked down at his left hand. His left - Sylar's dominant hand to the extent that Sylar had one. A wisp of memory flickered in the back of his mind, teasing him with a possible explanation. He turned the light of his attention to it, focusing and drawing it out. The memory felt strangely foreign and a moment later he realized why. Dozens of snips of memory came loose and flooded the forefront of his brain. All of them featured a hand (his own?), raised with finger or fingers extended toward a forehead, grisly purpose and determination behind the gesture.

Peter's eyes (eye, rather) widened even further and he made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, rocking back on his heels in counterpoint to Sylar's withdrawal. He fought with himself to stuff those undesired thoughts back into the box they'd come from, or pretend they didn't exist - anything but think about them and cement them even more into his mind through the focus.

XXX

Sylar looked at Peter curiously for a moment through a bit of his fallen he was propped on an elbow, he sat up, more in the middle of the couch, away from Peter. He leaned forward, putting elbows on knees for Peter to check his back, waving an indifferent hand to the nurse, "Don't try for that again," _or my underwear or I_ will _crush your hand_. "Check my back. Then it's your turn for an exam." A bit of payback for Peter? Perhaps.

XXX

Peter didn't move at first, staring at Sylar and trying to figure out what he was supposed to think _. 'Check my back'? All of that … those memories … if that's what triggered him … did he think I was making a joke about cutting people's heads open? And now he's acting like it's no big deal? I upset him enough for him to yell and jump back, and just a few seconds later he's pretending that was a joke and waving for me to look at his back?_

Peter got to his feet slowly. His knees hurt from the prolonged kneeling on the short, not-very-well-padded carpet. He bought some more time by stretching them a couple times. _My turn for an exam? What does that mean? Mental? Physical? What the hell?_ He thought about how he felt, emotionally. He thought he should be angry about the reminder of how many people Sylar had killed. But he wasn't. He wasn't sure what he was, except sure that the next time he felt some pseudo-memory like that lurking around in his head, he was going to ignore the hell out of it.

He moved over to the couch a little hesitantly at first, then calmed down when he gathered that Sylar's outburst was over. Peter looked over the man's back, his eye immediately caught by the purpling bruise in the middle. It looked too old to be from the day before, which meant it was from the first fight. Or maybe it was from Sylar's 'file cabinet combat'. "How did you get that bruise on your back?" Peter asked quietly, trying to re-summon his role as a medic and, for the most part, failing. "Do you think you might have a cracked rib? Does it hurt when you breathe?"

XXX

Even leaning over that far was killing his head, but he was not about to roll on his stomach (on the goddamn couch) for Peter to eye his back for two seconds. "Eh?" _I have a bruise on my- oh!_ "The bedpost when you rushed me. The first fight." _Still causing me problems, but it could be worse. He might have snapped my spine had things been a little different._ Sylar stopped to think. "I didn't feel or hear anything. Been breathing fine except for my head, my face." _I wonder if he can do anything about my sinuses while he's at this._ He noticed Peter wasn't touching him now. _Is he still freaked out or he doesn't wanna touch me or my back just looks in tip-top shape? The spine is kind of important, but…he's the medic, I guess. I have to trust him to a point._

It struck him then just how much trust he'd been placing in Peter's hand and eye. Peter had been utterly professional, almost annoyingly so. _Oh, wow…Well, its useful information even if it was a huge risk._

XXX

Peter stood to Sylar's right side and looked over Sylar's slightly turned shoulder to give his back a thorough eyeing. There were a few other small marks but they looked inconsequential. When Sylar did nothing to disallow the observation, Peter rested his right, nearer hand on Sylar's bare shoulder, or at least he rested a couple fingertips and the brace. He considered Sylar's strongly negative reaction to Peter touching his forehead and decided that was probably limited to _just_ the forehead. Perhaps he could get away with finishing the exam. "Okay. Can I check the spot where I hit your head in that fight?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar hummed the affirmative, presuming Peter meant the first concussion from the first fight. That part of his head was pretty easy to access currently. He was much less bothered by the prospect of having his 'kill spot' scoped out than he was about having his mind wiped. Sylar turned to his left to bring the area within easier reach for Peter, who was on his right side and would have had to reach across without getting a visual.

XXX

Peter turned, reaching his left hand around the back of Sylar's head and sliding his fingers into the man's hair behind his ear. He felt around, barely probing at all in case what Sylar had reacted to was the expectation of pain. That seemed unreasonable, given the man's high pain tolerance in other areas. Peter erred on the side of being less sure about what he was feeling, but causing less discomfort in the process of feeling it. He was making sure the hematoma was going down normally, which it was. "Kay," he said as he smoothed Sylar's hair back into place with a couple short strokes, so customary that he didn't think anything about it.

XXX

Sylar's eyes shut when Peter put his hands into his hair; reaching for an impact site or not, it still felt good. The nurse barely felt around, but maybe since it was just skin over bone he didn't need to. When that was over shortly after, Peter petted his hair back down. Sylar opened his eyes and turned to look at Peter at that. _He didn't have to do that. Or maybe he did. You're not looking so hot and a big old cowlick out the back of your head would probably have him giggling and staring the rest of the day._ Peter took a few steps back to look at him, ending the contact.

XXX

"Tell me about your breathing. Tell me what's going on with your head and face that's hurting when you breathe." Done or not, he couldn't let a comment about difficulty breathing go unquestioned. Breathing was critical and was, in fact, the reason why Peter had been motivated to do the physical exam in the first place – he'd noticed Sylar's breathing was off and mis-attributed it to the knee to the man's gut.

XXX

Sylar straightened his back by placing more weight on his elbows on his knees. "It doesn't hurt when I breathe, it's just…restricted? Swollen? You know, headache in the forehead and the back of my head there," he pointed towards the back of his head where Peter had just checked. "Sinuses from my face as near as I can tell." _Does he need to feel those, too? I know they get bad and they sometimes poke and prod them._ That thought amused him. _He doesn't want to look at my body, but the one thing he does have to look at everyday, my face, and he won't check it? Ha._

Peter had tagged him hard enough, but it wasn't anywhere near as bad as it could have been as Sylar had clearly mashed up Peter's pretty face.

XXX

Peter's brows pulled together slightly as he considered that. "I can get you a decongestant," he offered, looking over Sylar's face and trying to think of what he could do to help with that. "Maybe a nasal rinse." He cocked his head, trying to think, but nothing else really came to mind. It wasn't an area of medicine he had much experience in. "Didn't come up much in nursing school or paramedic training." It didn't sound life-threatening, but it also sounded like something Peter could do something about. That was a welcome change from most of the rest of Sylar's condition, for which the required care tended towards the passive - doing whatever he could to minimize Sylar's exertion and assist him in bedrest.

XXX

"I'm going to rest. When I'm done, you're going to get your eye and whatever's making you limp examined because you look like crap that can barely stand up straight," Sylar said decisively despite being tired. _Has he showered? He doesn't smell…I guess he's had time to sneak out and come back. What do I care? Its not tit-for-tat either – he looks like shit and I haven't seen him do much self-care._ Sylar had a host of rationale in case he was pressed, but it was also to convince himself.

XXX

"You're going to what?" Peter gave his head an immediate, small shake. He didn't like the sound of that, so he dismissed it and continued, "Never mind. Do you have some sweat pants or pajama bottoms or whatever around here? You might be more comfortable in something looser than those jeans." _Not to mention they probably have blood on them_. He handed over Sylar's t-shirt, hesitating next to him in case Sylar wanted or needed to stand to get dressed ( _whatever that's all about_ ). He didn't stick out his hand to help Sylar up, but he would if he saw some sign that he should. Mostly he just stood there, looking at Sylar expectantly for a few seconds. "I'll go out and see what I can get for your sinuses before dinner."

XXX

"I'm going to give-" Peter cut him off and Sylar glared. _Now my jeans are too tight? No easy access jokes now, you've basically seen it all._ He swiped his T-shirt angrily then pointed to the dresser Peter had got the shirt from earlier. He worked on putting the shirt on, wondering what why he bothered and where his anger came from because it hadn't stemmed from being interrupted.

Disappointment, betrayal, relief, relaxation, a kind of soul-stroking joy with an underlying hint of despair about the whole exam was his feel of the moment. Peter hadn't done anything he expected and he was floundering about how to take the man's behavior – he'd expected _something_ to happen. Even Peter wasn't that perfect. Maybe he was looking for a bone, something to hold over Peter's head, but he mainly got the feeling he'd been examined…and found very, very lacking. Peter hadn't so much as peeked or passed a hand over anything with lewd, humiliating or painful intent and it was truly a little scary. Sylar was now realizing he might be in a deeper hole than he'd thought. The professionalism was gagging him and as such he couldn't even respond to Peter's remark about sinus remedies.

The medic returned with one of the two pairs of pajama pants Sylar kept, this one a red-green-black flannel, well-used, but functional and warm. He took that, not sparing Peter a glance and worked first his right leg then his left (slower and stiffer) into the legs before squirming the waistband up around his hips. Just to show Peter he hadn't won or defeated him, Sylar left the drawstrings untied. He was going to have to change his strategies if he was going to be inspected and discarded like an old newspaper, lightly skimmed over. Sylar scraped his hair back and lay down, pulling the blanket to his waist again.

XXX

Peter absorbed the angry attitude and had trouble not automatically adopting it as his own. He wanted to grit his teeth – that hurt, so he didn't, but he wanted to. Instead he exhaled sharply and fetched the pajama pants as directed. He immediately moved on to the kitchen just to get away from the feeling. It was an unexamined experience, but one he hadn't had in a while, either.

He knocked around in the food prep area for a few seconds before shrugging off the emotion as he decided on something useful to do with himself. He poured up a glass of water and looked in the freezer. They'd exhausted the supply of ice packs he'd made earlier and he hadn't made more. The ice trays were refrozen though, so he took the moment to bag up a new one, using a combination of his left hand and right forearm to pop out the cubes from the plastic tray.

XXX

Sylar was left staring at his ceiling. It wasn't a healthy thing for him to do – he'd done it before in solitude and he and solitude were barely on speaking terms. Peter's exit spoke of annoyed anger, too bad Sylar failed to care. He speculated if the exit meant, though, that Peter was finally going to do something about Sylar's increasingly troublesome behavior. What would happen, would happen – he wasn't, hadn't been in any position to defend.

XXX

He paused to scratch at his scalp over his left ear and stare off into the distance, letting his mind free-wheel for the moment. Little disconnected bits of thought made it to the surface of his consciousness, but he ignored them in favor of just standing there and being in the now. He still hurt in a lot of places, he noted absently, and the awareness of his discomfort was what started him back up again. He had things to do. He refilled the ice trays and replaced them, then collected up the glass of water and the single ice pack he'd just made. He draped it, and a tea towel, over his right wrist as he carried the glass out in his left.

Sylar looked like he was in a slightly better humor, lying back and preparing to rest. Peter handed off the glass of water, saying, "In case you want something to drink while I'm out. I should be pushing fluids more aggressively, but … well." _There's only so much I can get around to._ "If you'll pull the blanket aside, we'll put this on your leg," he said, indicating the ice pack. "Then I'll get those pillows over there to go under your knee. The ice pack will need to be taken off every fifteen minutes until it melts."

XXX

Peter appeared with water and he took it, the break between interactions doing the trick to remind him of his weariness. "Out?" Sylar noticed the word. _Maybe he means sleeping 'out', but what if he means 'out of your place' out? Or…crap, 'out of this world I think is inside your head'?_ "What do you mean out?" he pressed, pulling the blanket as much aside for his left leg as he could, but he could only reach so far laying flat.

Tired and being pampered undeservedly, he didn't respond to the part about removing the ice pack every fifteen minutes as it was something he already knew, albeit didn't totally remember at the moment. Peter placed the pillows, formerly near the chair, under his knee now and placed the ice on his thigh then laid the blanket back over him. It hurt for a minute as his nerves adjusted, but then it started to feel so good on his bruise. Sylar placed the glass of water at his side, firmly trapped there with his arm even as he felt a curl of unease about laying, sleeping on his back around Peter. During his hunting years, hell, even before when Martin was still around, he slept on his side to be able to defend and rise quicker. Peter's exam, particularly the hip-rocking stage, showed him the position on his back wasn't ideal.

"Get some sleep, Peter," he mumbled, letting his eyelids lower as he looked up at his companion, unsure if he meant for Peter to sleep or that Sylar was going to.

XXX

Peter moved back to his chair after Sylar's murmured comment. He'd planned to leave immediately, but there were two signals now from Sylar that he might be alarmed by Peter's departure - a direction to sleep, and before that an inquiry on where Peter was going. He spoke quietly to answer, "I'm just going to get you a decongestant, like I mentioned earlier. It'll help you breathe." _Is this a sign that maybe he's realizing I'm helping him? That maybe he doesn't mind me here? Or is he just checking to see when I'm leaving so he can lock the door?_ Somehow, that last didn't ring true, so Peter dropped it and moved on to considering what he was going to do. _Wasn't there something else I was going to get while I was out? Damn._ Peter looked down at the floor, trying to play through their conversation and the moment when he'd decided he should go out and do or get something _. Decongestant … and nasal rinse, maybe. It might be kind of tough to get him stable at a sink for right now, so really only the pills. But wasn't there something else?_

XXX

Sylar still looked him over, but Peter sat as he'd desired him to. It occurred to him, on and off, that Peter had or could get up and leave. It was unsettling on many levels. Sylar knew he had since Peter brought in a puzzle; how far Peter went to get it was the question. It was a tangled mess in his head that Peter had forced his way in and practically forced medical attention onto Sylar while he was, admittedly, too fucked up to give any kind of decent answer. That Peter had caused the damage and looked to assuage his own guilt by helping and Sylar had said (or strongly implied) that he didn't want Peter around…Then Peter had been surprisingly decent when Sylar had expected a massacre of a basic exam…He didn't know what to think, but he was enjoying the attention. He wouldn't turn that away.

Sylar's lifelong experience was of being left for dead or thereabouts unless someone came along to finish him off or "rescue" him for the sake of scientific experimental testing. Or being left while he slept, the other (whoever it was) creeping away in the night never to be seen again. _Peter would come back. He'd need me. He does need me; he said so. I'm still important enough for that. Besides, where would he go? I'm the only one here. He'd find a map, he'd find his way back._ Deciding on that, he gave Peter one last look over, hating having to trust and hope that Peter wasn't some figment of his imagination once again, before allowing sleep to take him.

XXX

 _There are his injuries … toes, thigh, hip/abdomen, back, knuckles, wrist, head in two spots. I never got to look in his mouth or ask about his tongue, but he talks fine and he was able to eat, so that's probably okay. Hm, anything else? Just the breathing, I think. Anything for me? Morphine,_ Peter thought jokingly _. More ice packs. Dinner. So I guess the question is whether I walk a couple blocks and back to that grocery store where I'm sure to find what I need, or search the apartments here some more where I might. There's that one that had the ice machine. I might as well go there and check, make some more ice packs while I'm there._

Sylar's breathing had dropped off into slumber. Peter felt his own energy starting to ebb and knew if he didn't get back on his feet, they'd both be sleeping pretty soon. He levered himself up and wandered into the kitchen to get the box of sealing plastic bags. He dumped the water out of the spent ones and took those with him as well, slipping quietly out the front door. He was in luck, finding a box of the appropriate pills in the medicine cabinet of the apartment where he'd been making the ice packs. It cut down blocks of walking on his still-wrenched hip to only a few hundred feet of walking the halls.

He returned with his load, stowing the extra bags in the freezer and snagging a pack for himself. He thought about dinner and decided, _Screw it. It can be late. He's asleep and I'm tired._ Leaving the decongestant on the kitchen table where he wouldn't forget it, he returned to his seat, setting the ice pack on it. He wondered if he could slide Sylar's off his leg without waking him. Peter smiled a little at how bad things might go if Sylar woke and reacted poorly, but he decided to try it anyway. He lifted the edge of the blanket, found the corner of the plastic bag, and eased it towards him, leaving the tea towel in place.

XXX

Sleep cycle interrupted somewhat with a touch or a shift just barely perceptible while he slept, Sylar's head moved from where he'd fallen asleep. Moving from right to left, presumably to check his left leg, which gave a brief jerk, he settled back into the pillow without having opened his eyes. "Hmm? Mmm."

XXX

Surprised that had worked, Peter settled back into his chair, putting Sylar's stolen, partly melted ice pack on his wrist, and leaning back to balance the new one on his face. He slept, or zoned out - one or the other, waking when the survival-oriented part of his mind decided that he was getting, or was going to get, frostbite of the eye if he didn't do something about it.

XXX

Sylar woke up some time later, groaning and frowning as he rubbed at his eyes. He'd been out pretty cold which he contributed to his current state of concussion. He had no idea what time it was and didn't care – he realized he'd started to care what time of day it was when Peter showed up. For now he yawned, eyes still shut until he realized Peter might still be lounging around. That cracked his eyes open, unhappy in the brighter outside world than that of his eyelids, "Mmm, Peter?" he asked, focusing his eyes around. He considered why he'd slept so well as he'd practically passed out at the nearest opportunity – he just hoped it hadn't been mid-sentence. Ideally the little jerk was still around because he had something on his to-do list…Sylar was sure it would come to him again. _Need to start writing crap down on my hands or something._

XXX

 _My name? What?_ Some sort of alarm went off in Peter's head as he woke, breathing accelerating and heart speeding before he even knew what he was afraid of. _Sylar? Sylar's voice …_ But it sounded muzzy, not threatening. Something moved on his injured right hand, sending a small stab of pain through him, followed by a mysteriously wet, glopping sound. He jumped a little, head throbbing with the rapid shift in blood pressure. _I'm awake. I was asleep? Shit. What was that noise? Why'd my hand hurt?_ Peter tilted in the chair, fully upright, his left hand gripping the arm rest as his balance went haywire and the world narrowed down for a few seconds. _Nothing happening. Calm down._ He drew in a deep breath and let it out, looking at his right hand as his body kicked off of fight-or-flight mode. The hand looked fine. He supposed he'd just tensed it unexpectedly or something. The completely melted ice pack that had fallen to the floor remained outside his field of view and unknown to him.

"Nng," he grumbled, taking in Sylar still on the couch, looking him over. Peter blinked and reached up to rub at his right eye with the thumb of his left hand. He moved his mouth around, swallowing. It felt dry and tasted bad. "Hnn," he elaborated on his previous noise.

XXX

Apparently Peter had been just as unconscious as he completely failed to juggle several bags of water. Sylar absolutely couldn't help that his ego was stroked within an inch of its life at seeing that kind of reaction just on saying the guy's _name_ , dead sleep or no. Otherwise watching Peter Petrelli flail (and sort of fail) was pretty entertaining, so he lay there and watched the show.

XXX

He became aware of something else, glancing down at his crotch where a bag of water topped his groin. _How'd that get there?_ Vaguely he recalled moving the one off his eye earlier. _Wasn't there another one on my hand?_ Maybe it was the water, maybe it was something else, but he had to go to the bathroom. He levered himself up stiffly, finally catching sight of the bag on the floor. Holding the one that had been in his lap, he said, "I'll be right back," and made his way to the facilities, shutting the door without locking it. Only as he was in the process of relieving himself did he realize he hadn't bothered with the lock. Nothing happened, so he shrugged it off. The slow process of getting acclimatized to Sylar's presence continued.

XXX

 _What? Where now?_ The bathroom was Peter's destination based on trajectory as Sylar watched as much as he could from laying flat on his back with a growing scowl. _Without so much as a 'by your leave'?_ He grumbled. _Better not make a fucking mess, I swear to God._

XXX

He washed up and came out, saying, "I guess I'll get started on dinner. I was gonna make spaghetti." He started past the couch, glancing down at the man. _I should get another ice pack for his leg._ He fetched one from the freezer for Sylar and then headed back to the kitchen to start water boiling.

XXX

Peter didn't take long so the odds of him doing something nasty in there were pretty low. The nurse went to the kitchen, but returned with another ice pack, which Sylar took, "Hmm." He didn't know what to think about all this…treatment. Ice packs, blankets…pajamas, now his favorite meal? _Changing me, sticking around, looking after me, using my bathroom._ He mumbled in sarcasm as Peter retreated,"Cooking for me, too? Marry me?" _I suppose that would imply that you'd have to sleep with me, too. No go, then._ Sylar dragged a disappointed hand through his hair.


	33. Turnabout

Day 10, Dinnertime

Peter's mind was occupied with lecturing himself for his poor judgment. _If I don't want to be in this situation again, stop doing things that create it. Next time, do not beat the crap out of him. Do not let him beat the crap out of me._ **Run** _ **.**_ **Away** _ **.**_ _Do not start fights against someone able-bodied while you have a broken hand and expect things to go well for you. As far as that goes, don't start fights. Just don't._

He sighed at how difficult all of that was, every bit of it, and looked blankly at the directions on the box of spaghetti. He looked from it to the pot of water, worrying that the pot was far too small to hold the appropriate amount of water. But he'd found from experience with boxed mac and cheese that the box lied about how much water was necessary. Peter hoped the same held true for spaghetti.

XXX

Sylar laid the ice on his leg even though he'd rather it be somewhere about his cranium as it hurt far more. He worked at sitting up, a harder task now he'd been lying on his back, feeling strange to be lazing while Peter, anyone was around. He was a bit lost under the blanket, noting the water glass had survived his snooze, setting that aside, trying not to inflict more pain through his thinner…pajamas? _What?_ Sylar frowned down, but before he could complete his mental question of how he'd come to be in this state of (un)dress, it answered itself. His shifting to sit up caused the ice to slide off his leg and he blinked at it.

XXX

He set the table while waiting for the water to boil. He portioned out Sylar's painkillers, along with his own, and set them by the respective plates instead of hiding them until after the meal like he'd done for lunch. He added the decongestants, popping out a high, but not dangerous dose from the packaging, because although he might trust Sylar to take his pills correctly, he didn't trust him to gauge dosage. It was one more possible conflict averted.

"Hey, Sylar, whaddaya want to drink?" he called out, wincing at how that hurt his forehead and his jaw both. He grimaced. _Don't do_ **that** _again either. This is all just a huge, self-inflicted injury. Next time, walk in the other room and ask like someone with manners, Peter_. The sneaking suspicion that the world was trying to teach him a lesson drifted around in his mind. He tried to ignore it.

XXX

Sylar twitched at the sudden, somewhat loud sound over the boiling water and kitchen noises. Wincing, he then scowled at himself and at the out-of-sight Petrelli. _Let the domestic games begin_ , he thought with some bitterness before he considered the question. _I already have water…trick question?_ "Uh, mi-," he had to clear his throat to get his voice to carry, "Milk's fine."

After that the cold from the partly-forgotten ice pack was tingling the skin of his flank and he realized that if he'd stayed seated his foot and leg weren't elevated any more. _But Peter's making…dinner._ What an out of place sentence to be thinking at all. He huffed and turned his torso to the side, facing outward to leave his left leg in position as he replaced the ice.

XXX

He poured up the drinks, milk for both of them, set out salt and pepper, cutlery and napkins. The water was finally boiling. He added the spaghetti and found another reason to regret that his watch didn't work. _Oh well, all these clocks are good for something, right?_ He walked out, saying, "I'm supposed to go get the noodles in like, eight minutes." He sat down with a sigh, looking at a clock perched on one of the shelves above the couch, checking the time.

Peter reached down and picked up the previously dropped bag of water and toyed with it absently. His expression was tired and mostly neutral, maybe a little down. He didn't have anything much to say. He just preferred to be sitting out here near someone than alone in the kitchen. Tasks done, he'd gravitated back to the only available humanity.

XXX

Peter emerged after further clattering, sitting in what was now his chair. Sylar hated the familiarity of this scene: his mother tired and frazzled, hovering and fussing about how he was so much stronger than this illness, he had such a tough immune system, he'd be up and about any minute now regardless of any facts that differed with her expert medical, maternal intuitions, blah blah blah. It left him with the acute awareness that he was slacking on the job, being weak, and that the other person (Peter this time, in place of his mother) was falling apart and required him functioning and upright. All this inspired by Peter's subdued limp-and-pout. _The world fucking falls to pieces without me. This dumbass kid can barely run his own life. He wouldn't be taking care of you if he didn't think he needs you so badly. He wouldn't have stopped at 'concussion.'_

"Okay," was all he said, turning over his intended goal to design proper phrasing for it. Peter was quiet and Sylar had nothing to say, so they sat in silence for an awkward (to Sylar) eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds. When Peter rose, Sylar pushed off the blanket and swung his feet to the floor, taking a moment to orient before he stood, groaning quietly at his splitting headache. It didn't matter if Peter was bringing the food to the living room or not; Sylar was going to make himself useful in the kitchen beforehand. So not long after Peter made it into the kitchen, Sylar was there, removing his hand from his prop, the wall, to appear more stable even as it compromised his balance. Once in position, he couldn't parcel his desire in a way that didn't make it sound like Peter was in charge of everything, so he stood and waited for directions. Surely Peter would give him something to do?

XXX

Peter looked back at a small sound – a combination of the huff of Sylar's breathing and the faint scuff of the man's hand leaving the wall. _Uh … he should be sitting down._ But Sylar looked steady enough and he wasn't headed for the table. He wasn't headed anywhere, and instead he met Peter's eyes like he was expecting to be addressed. Peter looked away and down at the pot he'd moved next to the sink, holding it by the towel-wrapped handle. He had something more pressing to do than try to herd Sylar to a chair. "Do you have a colander? Or a pasta strainer?" He hadn't thought forward enough to realize he would need one. He didn't even have a lid handy. He was just standing there holding a pan of boiling water and trying to work out what to do with it.

XXX

Sylar nodded and went over beside the stove where he kept the colander, stacked atop various small pots. The noodles smelled normal enough as they boiled, so Peter was handling that much right. He braced a hand on the counter to lean and bend down far enough to get at the tool, exhaling as he straightened up again. Sylar brought it over, figuring that two full grown men crowded into a small kitchen near a still smaller sink with a pot of boiling water and noodles held by a guy with only one good hand was overkill – he set the colander in the sink and moved aside to let Peter pour. He also didn't want to be splashed by any of the hot water, but the idea of steam in his face was kind of appealing. He was glad Peter had given him something to do at all, so quickly and without having Sylar verbalize.

XXX

Pasta draining, Peter looked around blankly. _So what now?_ "Um … Sauce. I left it out earlier." He looked past Sylar, spotting it sitting on the counter. "There it is." He gestured with his right hand at the unopened jar. _I probably should have heated that up already. I had eight whole minutes when I could have done that._ "I guess we microwave it." _I definitely should have done that already. Now the noodles will be cold by the time the sauce is hot_. He felt suddenly inadequate now that Sylar was in here watching him screw things up.

XXX

Sylar looked to the jar. _Ragu_. His gaze turned dubious, but he said nothing. _An Italian using a jarred sauce? That's kinda funny_. Not that he expected Peter to whip up his own family recipe or something. His stomach was perking up despite itself at the idea of spaghetti. Taking the jar in hand, he moved to get a microwave-proof bowl, moving with ease about his own kitchen. Only then did it hit him that Peter was out of his element in someone else's kitchen on top of everything else. So maybe Peter was in need of additional mercy.

Peter couldn't open the jar by himself anyway, what with his hand so Sylar took it in hand, twisting and popping the lid off. He got as far as to pour a healthy amount of tomato-and-spice goodness into the bowl.

XXX

"Hey, I've got this. Just … go sit down." That … was not going to go over well, but he'd already said it. Trying to salvage things, Peter said, "Just sit, and you can tell me what to do." _You'd like that, right?_ he thought hopefully and without any mental sarcasm. "I don't know what I'm doing here, anyway." That last slipped out embarrassingly easy. Peter grimaced and ducked his head, but it was true and he'd already said it. He put left his hand lightly on Sylar's elbow, trying to steer him towards a chair. "Come on. Sit down and gimme directions. Tell me how to operate the microwave." He didn't need more than a passing glance to see that the controls on this one weren't the same as the one he had in his own apartment. He'd rarely used his for anything more than making popcorn.

XXX

Sylar paused, hand still on the bowl. _Seriously?_ He sighed, giving Peter a 'nice try' look of only partially appeased annoyance. It was a wonder he'd learned to cook at all, what with Virginia ushering him from the kitchen and detouring his curiosity; it took him years, in his darker moments when he actually acknowledged it, to figure out that she was actually trying to keep him dependent on her…through cooking. _Too many cooks in the kitchen_. Sylar still hated the implication that he was a good-for-nothing waste of space in the kitchen, especially when he'd just done things Peter physically couldn't do.

Sylar shook Peter's hand from his elbow, half insulted, half pleased about it overall. He sat where directed, grumpy about it. "It's just spaghetti," he stated the obvious. The microwave he'd found (because he hated the fake, loud, off-time new ones with the glaring green lights to keep half the city lit) was probably from the 1950's, complete with a dial instead of buttons and few settings. Lots of experimentation went into how to cook, heat or defrost whatever the food or object of the moment was while keeping the dial on high for optimum results. Why cook it for longer with less power when you could get it done faster?

"Take a paper towel or two," Sylar instructed, pointing beside the fridge where the roll stood, "probably two, put that over the bowl when you put it in. Otherwise the sauce will 'pop' and splash all over inside the microwave and I'll make you clean that up." It was true. "Shut the door and…" he tried to lean around to see what Peter was doing and it offered him a chance to think out the rest of the steps, "Turn the dial for about a minute, minute and a half on high."

XXX

 _Yeah, you'd_ _ **try**_ _to make me clean it up,_ Peter thought with fleeting belligerence as he followed Sylar's instructions, unaware of the contradiction between his knee-jerk defiance and current obedience. He glanced over at where he'd stacked the dishes from lunch next to the sink. _Going to have to clean those, too. But not right now. Maybe tomorrow._

He transferred the pasta back into the pan while the microwave made a mechanical whirring noise, then brought the pan to the table. He hadn't been able to find a pronged serving spoon specifically for spaghetti, but it seemed likely Sylar didn't have one. They both had forks, though, and Peter wasn't all that picky about setting a proper table. He'd roll with whatever others wanted; Peter's own idea of 'acceptable' was pretty broad, especially when the topic was table setting for two guys isolated from all of reality.

He fished out a big spoon from one of the drawers and stood prepared as the microwave dinged brightly. In a weird sort of way, the sound reminded him of Sylar's clocks. There was a similarity here between the busy countdown of the cooking device and the regular ticking of the many timepieces scattered around the apartment. A more modern, electrical model wouldn't have had that parallel. _Huh._ He removed the bowl, making a grunt and a chuff at how hot the edges were and he retrieved the towel he'd used on the pan. Sauce was transferred to table and he hesitated for a moment, stirring absently as he looked to Sylar. "Is there anything else I need to do?" Peter glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the small kitchen. He was pretty sure he was done.

XXX

"Careful," he said when Peter picked up the sauce bowl with his bare hands. He knew that bowl always got hot due to the ceramic and glazing on it, but Peter's noises might have also been from his right hand being pressured. _Well, then, the idiot should have let me help._ Sylar turned in his seat to face the table now, noting Peter's thoroughness in table setting – pills, plates, forks, milk, etc. The pair of pills, obviously different in size if not in color didn't escape him. "No, don't think so." _Just your ass in the chair._

When Peter didn't move to serve himself first, Sylar eyed the pasta pan for a moment, the lack of proper utensil throwing him for a moment. His fork came to hand and he managed to slide the wet, steaming noodles onto his plate with a little bit of lifting, sliding and twisting. Sauce went into the noodles and he began to mix them, not paying a whole lot of attention to his plate, though it smelled delicious.

XXX

Peter sat, waiting for Sylar to serve himself first. He took a drink of his milk and fiddled with his fork until that was done. He portioned out most of the rest of the pasta to himself. It seemed done fine. After quietly demolishing the first third of his food (having turned out to be hungrier than he'd realized), Peter said, "I got some ice cream, too, while I was out earlier." After a brief pause, he went on, "So after dinner … do you think you'd be up for one of those games, or do you want to rest? I could start that puzzle and stay out of your hair." _Or I could wash the dishes … Playing a board game with Sylar never sounded so good,_ he thought wryly.

XXX

He watched Peter while stirring his own plate to see if the nurse could manage serving himself with the brace, but his concern was for naught as Peter managed just fine and tucked in. Sylar went about spiraling his fork to wind up his bites, mostly avoiding slurping messes all over his face. _Just adding to the dirt if I do_. Silence, chewing, and clinking cutlery were the only sounds for a while and it wasn't awkward. The sauce wasn't bad, the noodles were great and he was able to eat more and faster than he had his last meal.

 _He got me ice cream, too? Or maybe he got it for himself, that's more likely_. "Oh," he said, surprised, "Cool." _Thank you?_ He was still eating, slowing down not from fullness necessarily or the prospect of ice cream, because he could eat more, but his appetite seemed to fade. Masticating, he thought about the question with a slight frown. Any of those things sounded appealing at the moment, but Peter was still untended, literally limping around the place.

"After dinner I was thinking you need to get your hip and eye looked at." Peter had replaced the too-large band-aid Sylar had placed on his eyebrow and cheek, but how much else had the guy done for himself? Sylar had no way of knowing. If he phrased it as merely a few key points he wanted to inspect and address rather than a whole physical (which he was pretty sure would get shot down in light of the shirt and come-on fiasco that was currently ongoing) Peter was more likely to acquiesce.

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar blankly, face devoid of expression as though Sylar had said nothing at all. Peter's body language had something else to say about it though. He looked back down, licked his lips, shifted the set of his shoulders to be slightly hunched and then leaned back a little - all small indicators of discomfort and worry. He took another bite, trying to think of how he should or would react to the prospect of Sylar looking him over. _Well … what he's saying is probably accurate. I_ _ **should**_ _have them looked at. But you're the only one here ..._ He found himself running through the exact same paltry excuses that Sylar had used on him earlier: 'They're just bruises!' 'There's nothing you can do anyway!' He frowned at the next bite as though it were the cause of his disturbance.

XXX

Sylar met his gaze for a moment, just as blank and uninterested. He assumed Peter's imagination would be cooking up all the horrors of all the wrong things Sylar could do in an exam. Sylar didn't know much about medicine but he knew a substantial bit about anatomy. Just as casually, he munched on the rest of his plate, sipping his milk along the way.

XXX

Very grudgingly, with far too defensive a tone, Peter got out, "Okay," because he felt like he should say something and he had no legitimate objection, try as he might to find one. Yes, this was Sylar. Yes, he didn't like Sylar. Yes, Sylar was known to hurt people, badly, and he might even take a lot of joy in hurting Peter (more). Yes, Sylar did not have much in the way of medical training. However - Sylar was the only one here; Sylar had already helped him with band-aids and his brace; Sylar had already passed over several opportunities to hurt him; Sylar seemed perfectly competent in matters of first aid, a fact testified to by the very presence of a well-stocked tote of supplies.

XXX

Sylar didn't react other than to show he'd heard Peter in some non-verbal way and go about cleaning his teeth with his tongue even if it hurt a bit.

XXX

Peter sighed and reached up to touch gently at the right corner of his jaw. The strands of spaghetti were very soft, but the constant motion that eating put on his jaw left it a bit sore. He leaned forward and relaxed, unconsciously reversing the withdrawal he'd made earlier. Carefully, like he half thought Sylar might jump on him for admitting a weakness or just for discussing this, Peter said, "I'm not sure what's wrong with my hip, exactly. It hurts in the pelvic girdle, towards the front, left side. It feels like a muscle sprain." He took another bite, chasing the last few noodles to the side of his plate. Then he turned over his fork, done. "It doesn't help that my right thigh still hurts." The collection of aches and pains (as well as staying busy with Sylar's issues) had kept Peter from checking even basic range of motion limitations. This was why he was inadvertently stumbling (sometimes literally) into positions where his body couldn't support him the same as it had before.

XXX

Poking around in his noodles, Sylar was surprised Peter was being so forthcoming. He listened anyway, though, because Peter was the one with the degree and the experience, so it was in both their interests that he absorb it. How much of it he actually understood was up for debate. He gave Peter a glance and nodded.

XXX

Peter sniffed, changing the subject. "You should take your pills. The new ones are decongestants. Maybe it will help with your sinuses." Peter took up his own allotment, slipped them in his mouth and finished his milk. "Wait, do you have any allergies I need to know about?" It seemed like a safe assumption that the food in Sylar's apartment was acceptable, as was anything he'd said was a favorite food. But the decongestants were something new. Before he started dispensing medications, there were some basics he needed to cover.

XXX

 _Ah, Peter._ He went from grumping and giving permission to sharing then back to I'm-in-charge nurse. Sylar had reached for the pills and was about to throw them back when Peter stopped him. "Uh…" he tried to think, frowning. Nothing popped into his head that was life-threatening or would turn him into Violet Beauregard and that was good enough for now. He knew decongestants and OTC painkillers were fine. _Cur_ _are_ _and…gly-something_. "Just curare," he informed with a slight smile. With that, he swallowed the pills down.

XXX

Peter gave him an odd look ( _'curare'?_ ), but merely nodded and rose. It wasn't in the decongestant, so he was safe. "You want ice cream now or later?" He put out his hand for Sylar's plate, since the other man was finished, and took it, along with his own, to the sink for rinsing.

XXX

"…Later." _I want to get you figured out first. The limping look isn't so cute on you_. Sylar cut himself off before his mind could swim in the gutter and handed off his plate. "Thanks. It wasn't half-bad, the spaghetti, even if you used the wrong sauce," Sylar chuckled a little. _Then I'd love to take a shower._ He was pretty sure Peter wouldn't do anything, given that he'd had Sylar next to naked while incapacitated earlier, but still. He would be naked in the shower with a guy who broke down doors and enjoyed beating him up. Dishes didn't occur to him, thusly, in his mind, they didn't occur to Peter so he finished his milk and made to stand.

Peter was clearing the table so the excess food was brought to his attention, namely the jar of sauce and the rest of it in the bowl. Sylar took it and the spoon and fed it back into the jar, capping it and throwing it in the fridge. From the pan, he slid the remaining spaghetti into the sauce bowl and looked around. "Saran-wrap?" he asked of Peter, pointing to the correct drawer, "Hmm," when it was handed to him although it quickly devolved into a mess when he tried to take it out and use it.

XXX

Since Sylar was puttering around being useful, Peter took the opportunity to rinse the dishes, including those from lunch. At some point he knew he was going to have to wash them. If that was longer rather than sooner, this would keep them from smelling. It would make them easier to wash, too. He glanced over at the problem Sylar was having, but really didn't think he (Peter) would be much help with that. He had no secrets to making plastic wrap act right, so he just turned away to hide the small smile on his face.

XXX

It stuck to itself, getting tangled about four ways and Sylar remembered that he'd always hated this stuff. Peter wasn't helping so he struggled through it and got the bowl decently (if wrinkled) covered. Sighing, he snapped his fingers once to get Peter's attention before walking slowly back to the living room.

XXX

Peter was dabbing his left hand with the towel to dry it (since he'd kept his right out of the water) when he heard the snapping. He looked over, startled at the sound for two reasons. First, it was unexpected and second, if it was what it sounded like - Sylar snapping his fingers to get Peter's attention - then that was so insulting it was laughable. That was exactly what it was, too. He stared at Sylar, taking a half-second to decide how to react to that. Attention gained, purpose fulfilled, Sylar had already dismissed him as unworthy of looking at and was tottering off towards the living room. He probably missed Peter's expression of 'are you insane?' and 'what the hell was that about?'

 _Oh, I ought to take that seriously and be offended all to hell, but that's just so over-the-top … that takes the cake, man!_ Peter felt his stomach clench a few times with laughter that he otherwise tried to suppress. It came out anyway in a sort of partly-stifled chuckle. With an amused exhale, Peter went to the table and pushed in the chairs, then followed Sylar out with a slow shake of his head at Sylar's cheek. The guy had balls, he'd grant him that. 'Lefty, c'mere', Sylar grabbing his jaw so cavalierly at the tail end of their fight the day before, and a handful of other small things ran through Peter's mind.

 _Is he joking, or is he serious? Is he joking_ _ **and**_ _serious, and just seeing how far he can push before I tell him to cut it out?_ Peter had been razzed by plenty of patients, but that was so much less personal than this. Plus it didn't have the potential to affect his existence, such as it was here, for what might seem like years. But mainly, the finger-snapping had been so casually disrespectful that he simply couldn't pretend that Sylar actually meant it. Even though he'd seen more than one house-servant summoned in that exact manner.

 _Sylar has not mistaken me for his servant. I don't buy that. Not for a second._ But it was an amusing way to lighten things up.

XXX

Lo and behold, Peter was obeying. Now that he was, Sylar had to think what to do with him: put him in the chair or on the couch. He sat at the couch and patted it until Peter sat, too, facing mostly forward, both feet on the floor. Sylar looked directly at him, "Get your hip over with then do your eye, yeah? You took a lot of hits," _If I do say so myself_ , "we should be doing a head to toe." _But I don't think you'll take your pants off for me, even though that's not my goal. Typical boy who cried wolf, same as always_ , he thought ruefully. Sylar wanted to see if Peter would cooperate for a similar exam without being prompted or cajoled or having the obvious trust issue set to rest. His lips pursed as he tried to think how best to go about asking Peter that he needed to see the man's hip. He saw one potential problem in that Peter might not be totally honest with him about the nature of his injuries. If he had to, he would and he probably would, defer to Peter's professional, experienced, certified judgment.

XXX

"Hrm." _A head-to-toe?_ Peter eyed Sylar, who wasn't setting off any alarm bells at the moment. That by itself engendered its own brand of suspicion, but Peter's thoughts moved on. It was a decent question, or proposal, he supposed. "I have a mild concussion. I got hit in the eye, but its fine." As soon as the words left his mouth, Peter snorted at his own ridiculousness and looked to Sylar. Did he agree that was 'fine'? It was swelled shut and purpled - fine! Ha.

XXX

Sylar's brows lowered at that. Even if Peter's eye wasn't damaged, it needed attention now. "If I forget, we're coming back to the concussion part later." _Because I might not remember._

XXX

"Well, it will be fine, eventually. That'd be a little faster if I'd … rest and ice it more." He reached up with his left hand and felt around it gently, his gaze otherwise getting a little far away as he focused on the sense of touch. Getting the grip right, he peeled up his puffy, distorted upper lid, fighting the impulse to blink. It hurt some, less than one might think given that he could feel what he was doing and choose what hurt least - unlike if he let Sylar do this.

XXX

Snorting, Sylar made an attempt to roll his eyes at the obviousness of that. Peter went about touching at his eye, trying to force it open and that just didn't look like a good idea to Sylar. He winced, but allowed it – it was Peter's face and he was the one who had to deal with it; he was the one with the degree, et cetera. "Incoming," he murmured, bringing his right hand up to touch around Peter's eye socket for now, the contact minimal and gentle. The skin felt hot and angry, swollen, much as it looked and he didn't know what he would be looking for, but nothing felt overly weird. He brushed his thumb over the lid to be sure nothing was wrong with it, then fingered around the bridge of the nose and the lower rim of the socket.

XXX

Peter stopped when he had managed to confirm vision still functioned in it. "I can see. I think the only problem is the swelling." Honestly, before now he hadn't been sure he could even see with it, but he'd assumed he could. He could remember being able to intermittently during the fight. "My jaw …" He touched it, working it slightly and then stopping because that _**did**_ hurt and there was no way to do it that didn't. "It's in and out of joint. Anti-inflammatories are useful. Ice and moist heat would be, too." He went on, thinking through the parts of his body he'd be checking if he was doing an exam. "My mouth's cut on the inside." He thought about his neck as his mind's eye went down his body. "I could use some ben-gay."

XXX

The nurse had moved back by now; Sylar was done with feeling the eye anyway. He said of the eye being able to see, "Good," recalling that it had been on his worry-list that he'd decked the guy too hard – a first. Peter didn't seem inclined to let him examine the jaw again, so he let it pass as the owner gave what sounded like good treatments.

XXX

"A bunch of stuff is sore and hyperextended. A few days of rest followed by gradual stretching is what I need." He was pretty sure there was nothing wrong with his upper back other than bruises. He assumed that had anything been lodged in his skin, that he was sensate and aware enough to have noticed when leaning back in the chair, or taking his shirt off. His lower back hurt on the left side, but he was pretty sure that was connected to the hip issue.

Peter looked down at himself. "My hip hurts, like I described." He reached down to touch, feeling along the outside of his hip bone, then the top of his thigh as he put a little more pressure in it. He grunted and stood up, repeating his examination, this time feeling into his groin through his jeans. He supposed he should take them off so he could get a more accurate feel. He looked at Sylar, trying to judge his reaction as Peter's hand went to his button. Peter couldn't foresee any particular problem with being seen naked by Sylar, except the possibility of juvenile teasing later (or now). Even if Sylar was that immature, Peter couldn't imagine it lasting very long without an audience.

XXX

Watching as Peter stood and probed at (what Sylar assumed was) the injury sight, he only glanced to be sure of the guy's hand placement before he lost interest in the other (im)possibility. Their eyes locked for a moment, Sylar's cognition kicking in a bit late to figure out why, but his face made no changes – why should it? His focus did drop once to see what Peter's hand was doing on his button, obviously unfastening it, but that wasn't important. Strangely, neither was seeing Peter's lower half clad only in drawers. Sure it'd be a nice reference for later, sure it probably looked great aside from the injuries, but he was maybe starting to see why Peter hadn't been all over him during his own exam. They were both tired, banged up and untrusting, none of those things to inspire an intimate mood even for Sylar. (It didn't even occur to him that having Peter in only his underwear might pose additional worries about being sexually used as there was more than one way to go about it.)

XXX

Sylar's expression wasn't anything that warned Peter off, so he took a half step back so he was next to the arm of the couch for balance (and politeness, or even more likely, a semi-instinctive, unacknowledged desire to protect himself - he was out of arm's reach now unless Sylar lunged). He unfastened and pushed down, bunching his jeans around his knees and leaving his underwear on. They were white boxer briefs, clean as of this morning. Peter smoothed his hand over the left side of his groin, face intent. There was swelling along a semi-vertical band - not a lot, he wasn't sure if Sylar could see it or not, but some. "Hm." There were a lot of internal organs blocking him from feeling out the edges of the injury, but he had a pretty good idea of which muscle it was anyway. He craned his neck forward a little and reached over to touch at his right thigh. Where he'd been kicked had turned into a dark and very tender bruise, but it otherwise looked normal.

XXX

Yes, so much for that non-sexuality clause. Sylar understood that Peter moved away, but he also felt an unfairness that the man wouldn't submit to the same process that Sylar had had to endure. His eyes narrowed because he didn't plan to let Peter get away with that, non-practicing medical professional notwithstanding. Down went Peter's pants, around his knees and Sylar was meanwhile blinded by the white of the man's undies. _Huh. I almost expected whitey-tighties from him, given that whole 'zippin' around with my underwear outside my pants' bit. Generally, the undies go down for that act._ He had time to notice Peter's knuckle bandage was wet and flaking away from the skin, clearly it was in need of a fresh one and some cleaning after being exposed to the dishes and cooking.

"Slow down, Peter." _I can't…follow all this_. Sylar extended his right hand, looking up at Peter to clear its proximity, then moved forward on the couch to get closer altogether, placing his hand exactly where Peter had before.

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar's approaching hand and frowned at it. He wasn't keen about Sylar touching him, but it was within his limits of allowable. He straightened, bringing his left hand back to his side as he swayed an inch or two to the right, his right hip and buttock contacting the arm of the couch. It gave him just a little more balance. He rested his right hand on the couch as well and otherwise stood quiet and still as Sylar touched him.

XXX

Barely applying pressure, certainly not prodding, Sylar could feel the swelling around the hip socket so Peter's estimate seemed right. "You probably should ice that and keep off it, you know," he said, peering back up to the medic's face. _That's what I'd do, anyway._ He paused, his hand mindlessly still on Peter's hip while he thought. _Peter grabbed pretty close to his groin at first._ "This didn't hit your pubic bone did it? I mean…my hip to your…or something?" he shook his head, frowning to say he didn't find it likely, but wasn't ruling it out.

XXX

"No," Peter answered immediately. He couldn't imagine why Sylar would think he'd racked him or something, but it seemed likely, on reflection, that Sylar's memory of the specifics of the fight were even fuzzier than Peter's. "I fell on the ground. You were falling on top of me. My knee came up before you got there. I don't remember any other of part of you hitting me." _Right then. As far as I remember_. "It wrenched the socket." He made a small gesture towards where Sylar's hand rested.

XXX

"I'd like to see the skin," Sylar delivered simply, indicating the hip and thigh. That was about as much as he'd ask for permission before he went grabbing. Sylar shifted to be more comfortable on the couch, more stable. "Grab my shoulder if you need to." He was now placed almost directly in front of Peter, sitting while the nurse stood with his hand on the hip and with that his fingers reached up for the waistband.

XXX

Peter exhaled sharply in displeasure, lips tight. His brain locked up in what wasn't exactly indecision even if it was a swarm of thoughts competing for front and center in his mind. Suspicion, fear, how this was going to be played later by a taunting Sylar, what Sylar might do **now** to hurt him, how little or how much this might help Peter's situation, it was a harmless exam, his pants were around his knees and getting away was difficult, should he insist on a position for the exam that gave him more mobility like taking his pants off entirely?, what if Sylar just gave him a push and then laughed at him for being so trusting? _Grab his shoulder._ Peter put his left hand solidly on Sylar's shoulder, fingers splayed and thumb resting directly in the indentation behind Sylar's clavicle.

He let Sylar take some of his weight as he leaned forward to see what Sylar was looking at as the other man moved his underwear. _I could take that off entirely …_ But he didn't think that would help. Peter wasn't all that body conscious, but given a choice he'd rather Sylar didn't have the opportunity to know every possible physical attribute Peter possessed. Not that it looked like he had that choice at the moment. His grip tightened on Sylar's shoulder.

There were too many 'what ifs' going on with what Sylar could do next. Peter went back to what he'd started with - trying to discourage Sylar from doing anything (or as much) hands-on as he could by describing his condition. "I think it's the muscle that connects my spine to the femur. My lower back is stiff and killing me, too. If I'm right, then it runs back behind my colon and it's not something you're going to be able to see or get to." _Of course, I might not be right. Which is the point of looking._ "If you'll let me, there's some simple stretches I could do to isolate which muscle group it is." His voice was tense. _Let me go. Get away from me. Let me find out on my own. I'm starting to get upset._

XXX

 _He did it._ While he couldn't speak for Peter, Sylar felt better that Peter chose to touch him and brace himself. He noticed the positioning of the man's fingers, if he gripped, it wouldn't fail to hurt and he wondered how intentional that was. Other than that, it felt positively brotherly, almost- Sure enough, Peter squeezed. _Huh_. It didn't deter him, but it made him pause for all of a second.

Sylar thought on that, his left hand going up to Peter's waistband under the navel, not, as Peter surely thought, to pull it down, but to hold it up. His right hand, already under the elastic a bit, pulled it away from the body and down the leg. Given Peter wore boxer briefs, he couldn't just go up the leg or lift away the leg section of fabric to get to the hip socket – he'd have to pull it down further than Peter had had to for Sylar's hip. He had some sympathy, hence holding up enough of the underwear to preserve Peter's modesty even though pubic hair, trimmed, made an appearance. _Interesting_ …That would surely be scrutinized later when he could think.

His patient was still speaking so he listened while he worked. _If I'll let you?_ "It won't matter much right now," he delegated about muscle groups. If Peter was right, then there wasn't anything either of them could do to get to the muscle(s). The socket revealed (as near as he could tell) was neither red nor swollen, nothing was broken or bleeding. "I'm gonna touch around your side to your back to see, okay? Then we'll see about stretching if you want." _Stretching is always good unless_ _it's_ _torn, right?_

XXX

Peter tried to find a way to grind his teeth that wasn't painful. At this he failed and so after several false starts, he stopped hurting himself. Sylar had turned down his admittedly indirect request to be allowed to handle this himself. In response, Peter's grip on Sylar's shoulder tightened again and Sylar deadpanned an 'ow'. Peter didn't say anything, but he lightened up fractionally. He was standing very stiffly, breathing harder and stressing out. His head and right hand throbbed in time with his heart. This wasn't about the groin thing. Peter couldn't think well enough at the moment to know what it was about, but he didn't want Sylar touching him - not this much and not this way, but he couldn't work out what was wrong with it.

XXX

Sylar ran his hand slow and flat under the shirt and over the warm, soft skin of Peter's oblique, staying close to the hip socket. "Tell me if any of this feels tight or hurts." All he was doing was feeling the guy up, really; it wouldn't help any, but neither of them had any way of knowing otherwise. Besides, if he found something new, it might help Peter's semi-annoying self-diagnosis because Sylar sure as hell knew precious little of fixing the human body.

XXX

The slide of Sylar's hand across his skin made everything tense up. Peter's jaw spasmed despite his attempt not to flex it. His hand and his head ached. He grunted at the pain and shifted his weight in a futile attempt to escape it. His pants took the opportunity to slide over his knees and partly down his shins before he caught them by shifting his stance to spread his legs slightly. Sylar's touch tingled, like there was an electric charge somehow in his hand. Peter didn't understand it, but it was hardly the first thing that had happened in his life that had no explanation. He tried to focus on what Sylar had asked, but the words were ridiculous. Everything was tight. Most of it hurt. "Nn." He just wanted Sylar to go away and quit touching him. His brain was full of pain and static.

XXX

When Sylar got around to the man's back his fingers began to add pressure, his gaze sightlessly focused on Peter's midsection while he worked. He worked towards the spine where his fingers eased up on the pressure, but it didn't dissipate completely. His fingers then circled around Peter's spinal ridges, when that didn't hurt, his touch got firmer, aiming for the muscles this time. "Anything?" He stopped to ask, swallowing as he realized it put him closer to Peter, his headache was unappreciative and he was basically fondling Peter's back…for a good cause.


	34. Complete Physical

Day 10, Evening

"Anything?" Sylar stopped to ask, swallowing as he realized it put him closer to Peter, his headache was unappreciative and he was basically fondling Peter's back…for a good cause.

XXX

Sylar started … rubbing him. And all the frightened, angry, emotionally-knotted tension started to bleed away, leaving Peter feeling woozy. His death grip on Sylar's shoulder slackened and he leaned his weight forward more with a subtle and entirely unintentional shift of his back towards the motion. His brain started working again, coinciding with the point where Sylar probed at the erector muscles on the side of his spine. _That feels way,_ _ **way**_ _better than it should_. For a few quiet seconds, he let it go on; feeling the pleasurable surcease of pain and the evaporation of whatever upset had been drowning him. Filling that vacuum was the wonderful feeling of a set of warm, massaging fingers working on muscles that were sore just from general participation in yesterday's fray. Then, _No_.

Abruptly, Peter's hand left Sylar's shoulder and gripped Sylar's forearm, gentle but firm. "No. No. That doesn't hurt, but you're gonna stop." He was very certain of that and his voice carried that certainty. He would not let Sylar make him feel better. Not that much. Not like that. He pulled Sylar's hand from him and pushed him back slowly. "Gimme some space here."

XXX

Sylar inhaled at being grabbed, not as hard as he expected (not really hard at all); his hand twitched once, then lay flat and still on the man's back. He leaned away and looked up at Peter, suddenly remembering that he might actually get socked for that. _No?_ A mental giggle went up in his head. _No what?_

His brows lowered because concussed or not he was not happy to be told no. _'You're gonna stop', oh, is that how you think it goes? You're hardly in a position to stop me. It's for your own damn good._ "I'm not doing a-" he started before Peter demanded space. Sylar's jaw set as his hand was moved away, but the push was what really pissed him off. _I wasn't touching anything!_ It made him want to punch Peter in the kidney or smack his left hand away.

XXX

Peter said, "You can't feel the psoas major back there anyway. It's overlaid by a different set of muscles." _Not that that didn't feel good … really good … but no. No._ Peter pulled in a deep breath and let it out. Right hand on the arm of the couch, he reached down with his left to retrieve his fallen pants. He gave Sylar a glance as he bent, trying to gauge the man's reaction to Peter putting on the brakes.

XXX

Sylar glared at him, rolling his well-gripped shoulder away. "Then you should have said so before," _Before I started feeling you up, not on purpose._ His was voice snappish and quick, but he slumped down in the couch, making it clear it was of his own desire to. _Damn idiot won't take care of himself and won't let me do it, what does he fucking expect?_ Sylar rubbed at his eye socket, trying to ease some of his headache or sinus pressure and ignore Peter long enough to cool down a bit. He wasn't angry about being told to back off necessarily, the pushing was what got him going but even that, sadly, wasn't completely negative. Peter was presenting a challenge, throwing down the gauntlet, daring him to fix him almost. He just had to wait.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar leaned back and then glanced down at his jeans, catching the highest point of the garment. He felt a wash of vertigo and had the humorous mental vision of falling head first into Sylar's arms _._ _That would be difficult to explain_. He stood slowly so as to make sure that did not become a reality. "I wasn't sure it was the … still not sure," he finished lamely. _But there's nothing on my back there that's causing me to limp around. Stand funny, yes, but not …_ He had the mental equivalent of a sigh as he fastened his jeans. _That felt really good, though._ Peter grumbled at himself, complete with faintly audible noises.

XXX

 _What were you doing? I don't even know. That was really stupid of you, practically massaging him like that. I…wasn't paying attention, just trying to help. I can touch people and be helpful just like he can. Now we're both upset because he didn't speak up. How was I to know that? I said as much and asked twice._ He was ignoring how Peter felt, desperately trying to ignore the sensation of that much skin under his hands and how Peter's hand felt grasping his arm like that. It was still tingling hard through him. _Enacting the no-touch rule early, I see._ "You need a complete physical, Peter," he dropped his hand to look at his companion steadily, his anger on the back burner. "Same as me."

XXX

Peter moved over to the other end of the couch. Roughly the other end - actually it was most of a third of the way from the end, which featured Sylar's pillow if Peter needed to give some excuse why he didn't sit as far away as he could from Sylar. Not that he would - sit as far away at the moment, or give an excuse. He was more likely to say the exam wasn't necessarily over (though it might be - Sylar had said eye and hip; these had been checked, at least partially on the hip); though yeah, Peter knew the real reason was that Sylar's touch had felt really good and he wasn't inclined to move too far away from that at the moment. That such positioning was pointless if Peter wasn't going to take Sylar up on it had nothing to do with it; it was like looking at a picture of a loved one you couldn't embrace. The idea of comfort was comforting by itself.

Peter looked over at Sylar's words, then copied the other man's body language for the most part - slumping back against the couch and reaching up to rub lightly at his left eye. Peter dropped his hand with the same put-out exasperation he was reading from Sylar. Now _this_ \- Peter was doing this intentionally, just because it amused him. Sylar was being melodramatic in Peter's opinion, plus Peter was kind of subconsciously high on having asserted a boundary with Sylar and having that taken well. Or well enough. It occurred to him that Sylar might not appreciate his humor, or might find it mocking. _I should stop. What was he saying - I need a physical, huh?_

XXX

Sylar's eyes turned into slits. _He'd better not be doing what I think he's doing; little shit. Concussed or not, I will smack your ass, Petrelli._ At least Peter wasn't copying him verbally. He waited to see it the annoying-as-hell behavior continued. It didn't.

XXX

"Okay. I agree." _Not sure I want to let you do one. Don't want you touching me. I should probably tell him that._ His mouth opened to say something, but he couldn't think of how to phrase it. Instead, he frowned and lifted his right knee, bringing it vertical without too much trouble with his torso, leaned back as it was. The thigh hurt from where he'd been kicked, but it didn't keep him from flexing it. He let it drop slowly and repeated with his left. Or at least tried to repeat, grimacing and giving a slow grunt as it hurt the higher he moved it. He got it up to about forty-five degrees before giving it up. _Yep, that muscle - hip flexor, adductor, psoas, ilia-something - one of those. Probably the psoas major. I think that's the big one._ Sighing, he volunteered, "I tried to do stairs last night, when I went out. I was still pretty messed up. Got down one flight before I had to find the elevator. Couldn't get up 'em at all. I suppose I could if I _**had**_ to, but a one-legged man can get up stairs, too, if he's determined about it."

He looked over at Sylar. "What's this 'complete physical' involve?"

XXX

Sylar gave a grunted hum of approval. _Last night? When were you climbing stairs…What was last night?_ He watched Peter stretch and flex around, cheerful and childlike. And not paying attention. _One-legged- ah, who the fuck cares_. His gaze came up to meet the other's. _That's a good question, Sylar. Hoo boy…I'm out of my league. Helping people? Not my thing, Petrelli, you may have noticed._ "Checking out your injuries," Sylar said bluntly, keeping constant eye contact, "Same as you did for me." _It's only fair. You wan walk me through it…you'll probably have to._ "Visually at the very least." A concession. _I have to fucking police your own self-care? I don't think you'll do it if I don't. I dunno, man, I'm not all here right now._

"Your concussion? What did you do earlier for me…check your back for glass – you landed then got slammed," he tried not to smirk at his unintentional wording. "Um…your knee was scraped up, your elbows might be, too. Your bandage is coming off your hand," Sylar pointed at it. _Think, try to think. I hate this feeling like he's…watching me, waiting for a mistake but he won't take over, no, he wants to watch me fail. Have to impress him with this shit that he knows I don't know._

XXX

Peter frowned at the bandage on his left hand. It did look kind of messed up. He wiggled his fingers together and realized it was wet as well. _How the hell did that get wet? Dammit. I'll look at that later. Fine. He has a point_. Peter sighed. _And I might as well see what I can teach him to do. This isn't going to be our last fight, that's for sure. Would he take care of me if our positions were swapped? Well … if he doesn't know how, then he_ **can't** _ **.**_ _But if I showed him how … he might._

Peter sat up to a more proper posture, reaching up to rub at his jaw again. "Okay. Let's see. First thing any emergency responder should do is assess the ABCs. I went over those before - Airway, Breathing, Circulation." _Well, assuming the scene is safe and everything. I think I'll skip that and focus on the exam he wants to do._ "If your patient is breathing, looks able to continue breathing, and has some blood circulation going, then you do a head-to-toe exam. What I did with you earlier was backwards, toe-to-head, but I was at your feet already and it doesn't matter too much as long as you're thorough. The reason to start with the head on someone when you don't know their condition is because that's …" He looked at Sylar, then glanced at his forehead briefly, thinking about the man's interest in people's brains. "That's the most important part." _As you obviously know._ He looked back at Sylar's eyes. Peter's expression was serious and at least at this point, nonjudgmental.

XXX

 _Interesting._ Sylar hadn't asked for assistance, or a rundown or even a 'WWPD?' but he was getting one, slowly but surely. _My patient?_ Sylar's lips quirked a noticeably. _That would be you, Peter. You wanna play doctor? If you can't breathe, do CPR?_ He wanted to get the ball rolling as Peter was throwing a lot of (as he saw it) useless information at him. _Not that I'd remember a whole lot of it anyway, the way things are going._ Sylar gave him a very pointed stare, just waiting for Peter to say something, but he didn't. _The brain doctor, I see._ His face was getting a real workout today, glaring and narrowing his eyes and frowning.

XXX

Peter gestured at his own body parts as he described the route of the exam. "You start with the head. You go systematically down the torso, then the legs, then the arms. Whole body, even the parts you don't expect to have injuries. Even if the patient says they don't have injuries there. Even if they look at you like you're an idiot for checking. Check the whole patient, every time." He was pretty sure he was repeating nearly verbatim something his teachers had told him. Sylar's description earlier of what he wanted to check was all over Peter's body, haphazardly. An exam was a lot more effective if it had a pattern and stuck to it.

"All over, you're going to be looking for deecap-ballistics. Um … well, D-C-A-P-B-L-S-T-I-C." He hesitated. It was a long acronym, branded into his brain by repetition, but even as a paramedic, he couldn't recall what all the letters stood for. "Erm, never mind. You're looking for abnormalities, injuries, wounds, that sort of thing. You're also looking for blood, fluid and foreign objects. So for the head - go over the skull, feel of it, check for soft spots and firmness. Then look at the face. Check for facial stability, look at eyes and pupil reaction. Talk to your patient. Assess orientation and alertness."

XXX

Sylar was pretty sure he looked lost now. _I need to take notes. Can I even write like this, now?_ Peter moved on and he was relieved, focusing on drinking in what Peter said about head injuries because they'd probably get popular around here.

XXX

He waited a few moments, thinking over what he'd said, what Sylar had said earlier, Sylar's expression thus far, and what Peter was trying to achieve here. _I need to do this in sections. His retention is going to suck. Break it up with physical activity and hands-on. That's what they always did in the classes I liked_. "Okay," Peter said, perking up since he had a plan. "Head-to-toe, start with the head. Look for blood and any other damage. You said earlier you wanted to check my concussion." Peter turned his torso towards Sylar and dipped his head, more or less presenting it for examination. He was pretty sure he could handle touch that was straight-forward and not quite so … friendly. "Go ahead and check."

XXX

 _I thought that I wanted to check your hair…Head! Check your head! Yes_. Sylar blinked at being presented such a rare and important opportunity. Sylar scooted closer, not that he needed to move much, but he wanted to see what he was doing. His hands lifted and began to reach out, pausing halfway. A faraway thought floated by that this might be a trick question or a fluke, a joke maybe. Peter couldn't hurt him with his head unless he tried to head-butt him again, maybe bite his hands – being wary when Peter was putting his head literally in his hands was useless. And oh-so ironic. He really hadn't thought this out. How could Peter Petrelli be even vaguely comfortable letting Sylar feel up his head? He wrote it off for now as one of those things he needed to think on later.

To the task at hand: _Where did he get hit exactly?_ Sylar's fingers inched to Peter's temples, stuck between caressing into the hair to avoid pain and using his fingertips as feelers. _Wow. His hair is…nice._ He swallowed and tried to stay focused as his fingers moved behind the ears towards the neck, feeling nothing abnormal. Just…silky, live, human hair. This was tripping him in so many ways – Peter's smell and shampoo this close, body heat and a pulse; all this after Peter had grabbed his hips, shoulder and arm. The nurse, usually so touchy with everyone but his enemies, sure didn't seem to notice those things. Sylar didn't care; it was delicious and long overdue. His hands went to the top of Peter's head and began to test there, this time going straight to the axis of the neck and spine, aiming for what he assumed was the impact site.

XXX

Peter made a slight noise as Sylar's fingers crossed a spot that was sore. The guy was probably touching too lightly to have felt it – a very shallow hematoma and the heat from an irritated section of scalp at the very back of Peter's head. Peter reached up with his left hand and indicated the spot. "Here. I hit my head on the pavement here after you landed on me. I'd already hit the ground, for the most part, so I don't think I hit very hard, but right there." He pointed, digging through the hair with the casualness one used on one's own body. "You can feel it's a little hotter, a little puffy." Maybe he could show Sylar what to look for and that would help ... somehow.

XXX

"Oh. Yeah, okay," Sylar agreed when he went back and felt the spot Peter showed him. _Peter's so funny. He knows it's there, he knows where it is, but he's still gonna let me find it? Maybe even overlook it?_

XXX

He was beginning to get the impression that Sylar was feeling him up. There was something about the gentle, careful way Sylar was moving his hands, running them through his hair and skimming over his scalp. It was nothing at all like the utilitarian pokes and prods Peter was accustomed to, and he _was_ more or less accustomed to it. His nursing classes had included plenty of hands-on and his paramedic training, which he had to take classes yearly to stay certified, required even more. The cheapest and easiest 'dummy' patients were one's classmates, so nearly every exam and procedure they did was tested and practiced on one another. The more invasive ones were simulated, but you still got to lay on the backboard and have a pair of EMTs move you around.

That was not the way Sylar was touching him now. Peter's mind suddenly put together what he'd been so upset by just earlier, with the way Sylar had been feeling around his hip and back. Peter's brain had been trying to tell him this was okay, it was normal, but his subconscious, his empathy, or something else, had known better. Stroking, sliding hands across his skin, caressing, rubbing gently – Sylar hadn't been trying to find where it hurt. He'd been … doing something else. Gooseflesh pimpled across Peter's forearms. He sniffed and shifted his feet nervously, trying to figure out what, if anything, he should do.

XXX

"Nothing's open so no bleeding. No bumps or soft spots," Sylar repeated back, loath to withdraw his hands, but Peter's head came up, looking expectant. _Right_. Sylar inspected first one eye, then the other, doing his best to gauge the hazel iris's dilation. "Your eyes look even to me." He put a finger on Peter's jaw to turn his head to the side so Sylar could see the cut over his eyebrow but a bandage covered it so he assumed it was alright enough. _See how much better this is now you're cooperating, Peter?_ His thumbs went to the guy's cheekbones, then his nose because he had no idea what he was supposed to be checking here, but they seemed likely spots that might've been damaged as contact points for his fists. Next the bridge of his nose and on to the forehead, his touch only deep enough to feel the bone and passing by.

XXX

Sylar's touches were a little more practical on Peter's face, but then again, Peter was looking straight at him so maybe that put him on better behavior. _He knows I'm not into him. He knows that. Right? This is just … just him taking the opportunity_. Peter sniffed again and flexed his shoulders, feeling awfully stiff across them and a little warm-faced. He did not, as yet, resent Sylar's … interest, or whatever this was. _What would I do if I thought I'd been alone for three years and here's some guy who …? First thing he did when I showed up was touch me._ Peter's expression relaxed from the tense, wooden look it had adopted since he'd lifted his head for the facial exam.

"Um," Peter hemmed, raising his hands and looking at them. He was undecided about what to do: minimize contact altogether, or show Sylar how to check his face properly? He exhaled, blinked a few times, and decided to do the right thing. Sylar was not, in actuality, doing anything inappropriate. That his intentions might be wasn't something Peter wanted to dwell on.

He spoke in a 'teaching' voice, plain and somewhat disinterested. "You need to be using more pressure when you touch. You're not tr-, um, you shouldn't be trying to make me feel good. You're trying to find out if I'm injured. It sucks, but hurting your patient a little is required. You can't always trust what someone self-reports about their condition, so you poke, you prod, and you watch for reactions." He lifted his hands towards Sylar's face, keeping them low so as to avoid the impression he might be going for the forehead. "I'll demonstrate, okay?"

XXX

While he knew this wasn't what Peter was trying to say, his first thought was, _You want me to hurt you?_ And a whole side order along those lines before _Well, he did hurt me. He didn't baby me._ Sylar blinked when Peter made the same move on him. _You want to…touch my face? Okay_ , His expression loosened and he moistened his lips, moving into easier reach, _I won't bite_.

XXX

Peter put his right hand behind Sylar's head, touching it only a little. "Now stay put, there." He used his right to keep Sylar from swaying backward from what he was going to do. With his left, he splayed his fingers with index on Sylar's nose, middle on his cheekbone, ring finger and pinkie in front of the ear, with the thumb on the side of Sylar's stubble-strewn chin. Peter pressed and moved his fingers back and forth once before pulling them away, as well as dropping his right hand back to his side.

XXX

Sylar choked on a chuckle and ducked his head when Peter released him, that he had to hold him at all was amusing by itself, but this…His sense of humor was usually off-the-cuff, but now it was off the wall. _I'm so out of it._ "Yeah, okay." Peter's fingers had been calloused and warm, the pressure firm and almost uncomfortable, strange on his face.

XXX

"Like that. I can't really do it on the right side – my hand's jacked. But you have to press enough to see if the plates move." Peter glanced up at Sylar's forehead, then down at his eyes. "You do the same thing with your fingers on the bridge of the nose to the temple, across each brow, with your thumb under the nostrils. Just enough of a push to make sure everything's seated right." That one he did not try to demonstrate, not wanting to push his luck.

The back of Peter's mind pointed out traitorously, _He really is good-looking. Even all bruised up and with his hair sticking out like that._ He felt like his face was heating again.

XXX

Looking back to Peter, he noted the man's discomfort. _Don't know why I'm bothering to check his face beyond that it's a nice one and it's clearly unbroken._ Sylar raised his hands again, mimicking Peter's finger position, pressing and shifting slightly. Of course, everything was fine, hmm hmm. _Cheekbones check…_ He moved on as Peter suggested and from the guy who'd been inside a telepath's body to the guy who supposedly had telepathy, the whole Star Trek/Carnival angle was tickling his funny bone awfully again. _This is where I push the thought of stripping and making-out into your head, Peter Petrelli. Do not attempt resistance._ Fingers walking up the temple, which he'd already checked, they went up over Peter's eyebrows to palpate the forehead. _Yup, just as thick as we all remember it to be._ Sylar mimed knocking on Peter's skull, "If you hear hollow echoes that means something's wrong," he delivered straight-faced.

XXX

Peter smiled and pulled back from the playful gesture, not sure how he wanted to take that under the circumstances. _Okay._ _He's, uh … might not be making a pass at me right this second … or maybe he is … but yeah. Definitely interested. Friendly. Or brotherly. Nathan's memories?_ Oh, yes - that. Peter stiffened a little, the remembrance that 'oh, yeah, this is your brother's killer you're dealing with here,' doing wonders to clear up any confusion he'd been starting to feel.

Dull ache and simmering anger - for now well buried - impinged on his awareness. _Leave it alone. Don't think about it. It's not his fault._ Obviously, Peter meant it wasn't Sylar's fault for bringing that particular angle up at the moment. Nathan's death was his fault, but Peter was capable of putting that aside. If he weren't, he'd have never ended up inside Sylar's peculiar head-space.

 _Distract. Move on._ "Okay," Peter said, leaning back some and hoping Sylar copied his body language. He gestured to his throat, trying not to think of the slit in Nathan's or who had stitched it shut (that part almost certainly wasn't Sylar's doing - Peter suspected an agent of his mother's, but that was an entirely different can of worms he didn't want to open). "Next is the throat. You don't press on it, or prod. Examine visually, clear off clothing if there is any. It's important to see the entire throat. Look for respiration motions. Then reach behind, both hands, and briefly palpate the back of the neck, checking for vertebral alignment and integrity. Again - don't use much pressure here. Things are too delicate to risk it." He swayed back and gestured an invitation at his throat, averting his eyes and expecting Sylar to at least go through the motions.

XXX

Something in him declared ' _Jackpot!_ ' when Peter stated that the throat was next. Peter's throat, no less. It was a truly fine specimen – unshaven, lithe in appearance and soft from what he remembered. Of course he also remembered wrapping unseen hands around it and watching Peter choke and gasp for oxygen. _Good times. These just might be better._ Sylar licked his lips and smirked lightly, bringing his hands to the proffered throat. _Delicate, yes. You nearly have a woman's throat except for your voice box._ It secretly amused him to know that puberty hadn't spared Peter a few horrors either. "Hmmm," was his hum of approval, one he tried to change into a sound of agreement or thinking aloud. His thumbs came to rest on Peter's windpipe, amazed he was being allowed this and with so much knowledge to go along with it. The fingers ran over that section of neck because Peter was right. Sylar murmured from his crouched, seated position to be able to see, "Did you know that pushing hard when you shave and dropping your head back suddenly can damage your trachea and your voice?"

He went on to barely pressing over the neck itself, running a pair of knuckles over both sides of Peter's jaw to be sure that was intact (he was pretty sure it was), encountering stubble, and last was feeling the jugular which, almost surprisingly, given the situation, was beating normally near as he could tell. Around the back he went, this time going right to the spine, some of it buried under Peter's hair – nothing was out of place after a brief probing.

XXX

Peter stiffened, trying to settle between glowering, looking away, and acting unaffected. His face twitched, but no clearly recognizable emotion came of it. He'd expected to have the back of his neck touched and maybe the sides by necessity. Thumbs on his trachea were right out, unless Sylar was trying to classify that as 'looking for respiration motions'. And to what would the guy attribute stroking his jaw and everything else? He wanted to push Sylar away, but he suppressed it. The only reason he was finding this so irritating was because it was Sylar. Had he been walking anyone else through the process and they got too touchy, even if he thought they were putting moves on him, he wouldn't have minded. But it was just … Peter didn't know what to do with Sylar sometimes. Or a lot of the time. He was grateful for Sylar's comment as a distraction, if nothing else.

He cleared his throat and went on, "Usually this is when EMTs give a person a c-spine collar no matter what, just in case, and then we let the hospital decide if your neck and spine are stable enough to do without it. If it ever comes up that you think I have a neck or spinal injury, leave me laying there. Go get blankets or whatever else to make me comfortable where I'm at. If you absolutely have to move me, try to support my neck, like with a rolled up towel."

He glanced down. Next was torso, obviously. "I'm going to skip over a little of the exam part here because it's irrelevant, but I'll describe it. On the torso the main thing you look for, other than surface abnormalities, is lung and heart sounds. Generally that's with a stethoscope. There's a bunch of specific points to listen at and what's being listened for, but …" _Well, maybe we should just avoid body blows when beating each other up? And no more head shots. Or hands. And feet are important, too. And joints are tricky. So what's that leave? Thighs, biceps and butts. Well, nice to know that kicking his ass isn't out of the picture._

XXX

Sylar nodded, for once believing Peter and not assuming that he was being slighted because he couldn't manage or reason out a thorax exam properly. Besides, Peter was nothing if not known for his heart, surely it beat as hard as it always did.

XXX

Peter shrugged. "I showed you abdominal palpation earlier. I'm going to skip that, too, because there's a lot of things you're feeling for there that I don't want to get into right now." _Too detailed. You won't remember. And I think I'd come unglued if you caressed my stomach again like you did earlier._ "So for now, look for surface abnormalities, distension, cuts or punctures, and leave off with the probing until you know what you're feeling for."

XXX

Sylar frowned when Peter said to skip even letting him so much as glance at the chest and abdomen. Off the top of his head, he couldn't recall landing any body hits, but that was irrelevant. Huffing, he reached for the hem of Peter's shirt, lifting it to send a cursory scan from sternum to waistband. All he saw of note was a few faded bruises on a pectoral, other than that the skin was pristine. _Peter's probably right to hide this body – look at it_ , Sylar thought sourly, dropping the shirt just as casually as he'd raised it. Luckily, feeling scrawny next to the hulk of muscle on his couch served to kill any interest he would have had at the sight.

XXX

Peter jerked and stiffened again at his shirt being pulled aside, chest raising somewhat as he sucked in air preparatory to doing … something. His left hand stirred, not sure what he was going to do though because Sylar's expression was nothing that reinforced the hostile reaction the assumptive grab had set off. Unfueled, said reaction died a natural death a few seconds later as Sylar let go of the shirt. Belatedly, Peter made a motion as if to bat the garment out of the man's hand, taking his shirt and tugging it back down while he gave Sylar a 'do you mind?' look.

 _Swinging on Sylar, here in the middle of trying to show him how to do an exam, is really stupid. Chill. Chill, Pete._ He chewed his upper lip briefly and admitted, "Yeah, you're right to look anyway. One of my teachers used to say, 'Your patient should always be able to trust you, but you should never trust your patient.' Same reason why I wanted to see your hip." He huffed, trying to ignore all the qualifiers his mind wanted to put on the situation, like how he was an EMT and Sylar was concussed. Plus, you know, Sylar. None of that was helpful so he moved on.

"You usually do the back last in a head-to-toe, so next are the hips. Check for stability like I did before." Peter tensed a little. He'd managed to get past the core of his body without inviting a lot more touching, but the pelvic check was definitely hands-on, just like the face. "Put your hands here." He reached out to guide Sylar on where exactly to grip on a sitting person. "Push, then rock laterally an inch or two. The pelvic girdle is a frame. The whole thing ought to move at once. And pay real close attention to the patient's response. Sometimes something will hurt inside when you do this, and it will feel stable in your hands, but the patient will hurt. You've got to watch for that. So: hands on hips, look at the patient's face, push, rock, and you're done."

_And don't feel me up._

XXX

This time Sylar couldn't help but send an amused look up to Peter. _W-whoa…uhh_ …Sylar's breathing jacked into higher gear as his hands were once again grasped and led to Peter's hips. His face prickled with heat, too, because this just didn't happen…well, at all. "Just rock your world, rock the boat, I got it," he muttered to himself from interested embarrassment, his head ducked down, now having to combat worries of Peter fucking _giving_ him an erection during Peter's exam. He didn't grip much, but managed to look up enough to watch Peter's face for this part as he was supposed to, inching the hips left and right a few times after a push. His patient was awful relaxed about this whole affair. It was just making Sylar's skull pound and ache more from all the excitement.

XXX

 _Well, ideally your patient doesn't think you're getting off on the procedure. That's kind of a big problem, there. But …_ Peter sighed a little as Sylar withdrew. _I'm dealing with a serial killer who thinks he's been trapped alone here for years. And then there's everything else that's happened. To him. And to me_. He noticed Sylar was coloring. It made his bruises stand out more sharply. Now that he'd noticed that, he was pretty sure Sylar was breathing harder, too. _Awkward and embarrassing equals potentially dangerous._ "Um," he said as he pushed himself upright with difficulty from the low couch. "I'm going to go get a drink of water. Just a short break. You want anything while I'm in there?" Peter gestured in the direction of the kitchen as he headed there.

XXX

Glancing around to see if he had need of anything, Sylar spotted his water glass as Peter moved away, miraculously still full and standing, on the floor beside the couch. "No," he answered and shook his head. _At least, no more help than you can give someone as fucked up in the head as me._ That he'd been blushing and embarrassed over touching a man's hips, touching Peter's hips was a new low and he knew it was only going to get worse. It was going to twist him all up and spit him out as an even more deranged, disturbed person. In a backwards way, Sylar was relieved at taking a break – he had the feeling he'd do something they'd both regret, something Peter might not forgive, if it continued that minute. The rest of him was a needy, greedy, envious ball of screeching nerve endings, all blaming Peter for his teasing permissions.

XXX

He didn't do anything other than get the stated drink, change the scenery and settle his nerves. He came back, leaning on the frame of the kitchen entry. "You've already seen my hips and my thighs." Peter hesitated, thinking over what he'd do to a patient who had his injuries. A moment later, he spoke his thoughts out loud, speaking slowly. "If I were treating someone with my injuries, and I knew I couldn't hand them off to the emergency room staff who would reperform the test anyway … and if I didn't see any danger signs for hip stability and I knew they'd been walking around for a day … I'd say it was just a couple muscle sprains and go on. But I'd want to look at the knee again in case it needed to be wrapped." He frowned sourly and looked down at his pants. He really didn't want to strip again. Not with the realization that Sylar was into him. Or whatever. But they weren't loose enough pull up without a lot of effort. Even if Peter had both hands, the leaning over wasn't something he seemed able to manage without a lot of vertigo.

He looked up at Sylar, wanting badly to ask him if he was going to be able to behave himself this time around. He didn't ask, though. Instead, he waited for some affirmation, comment or direction, hoping to be told what to do and take the decision (and responsibility therefore) out of his hands.

XXX

Given time to calm down (and he had needed to), Sylar hoped his blush had faded, but he doubted it. Peter had a funny look on his face, after that cranky frown, Sylar saw when the nurse came back (sort of). Sylar had since gotten more comfortable; thinking that maybe as he wound down, so would his headache. Tending to the knee was not a big d- Or was it a big deal? It was his turn to make a face now because this might mean he'd have to take a knee. Problematic physically as well as socially; it might give Peter ideas and Sylar didn't necessarily want to follow through on. "You wanna do that next or after your…" _Crap, what was next again?_ "Back?" _And his hand, yeah_. His face was a little dubious, questioning. The mental energy was leaving him; hell of a time to do it, too.

XXX

A dodge was offered; a delay in taking his pants off again. Peter seized on it. He looked down at his leg again and said, "Back, first. It's usually last, but that's because in general your patient is on the ground or a stretcher." And if they weren't, the EMTs were probably trying to get them that way for transport. He didn't think any of that mattered to Sylar and so after another moment of hesitation, Peter walked over to where he'd sat before, on Sylar's right.

For the moment, Peter just stood in front of the couch, tugging at his shirt and shuffling his feet in indecision. He didn't want to take it off entirely and that had very little to do with Sylar's touchiness. Peter's back was stiff and sore, along with his neck. He'd landed on his back solidly once with Sylar's weight driving him down, and none-too-gently a second time when Sylar had come up off the ground and bowled Peter over. Plus, a lot of his muscles were pulling funny in an attempt to compensate for the sprain in his hip and keep his posture reasonably correct.

He exhaled and raised the shirt up to his armpits, then turned and lowered himself to sit on the couch, back towards Sylar. He held the shirt up in front with his right hand while his left reached over his left shoulder. Peter grimaced as his fingers scrabbled to gather up the cloth and expose himself.

XXX

Up the shirt went and it looked almost like a difficult task given how Peter was moving. Or maybe that was just due to fear. Still, something about the submissive nature of Peter doing it at all was entertaining him. All he was really doing was submitting to a half-assed medical exam because Sylar was sure he could give a better one without a concussion. Sylar helped lift the shirt when Peter reached over his shoulder to yank it up, his thumb brushing skin briefly. The back Peter displayed was muscular and almost tan, but it was littered with a variety of bruises, scrapes, and a few rather small, round punctures. The largest bruise was pretty circular, disappearing up under the shirt on Peter's left side, near the shoulder blade, but even that wasn't a black-n-blue. Sylar laid a few fingers beside it, "Where'd you get this?" _Don't tell me you backed into a pole or something stupid. He did land hard; that's why you're checking him. Maybe he landed on a rock…?_

XXX

Peter felt Sylar's fingers brush his own as he helped push up the fabric. He pulled in his current breath a little faster than he would have normally, but had no response beyond that. He tightened his grip on the shirt and relaxed, curving his back. He was expecting one quick look and that was it, but apparently there were things for Sylar to see. He didn't twitch or jerk when Sylar touched him, but he did tip his head to the side a little. To Sylar's question, he asked, "Where'd I get what?" He started to turn his head, but his neck was stiff and it was a useless motion anyway so he stopped.

Sylar answered, "This bruise."

Peter shrugged his left shoulder twice, feeling where the muscles drew and shifted, thinking about where Sylar was touching. He narrowed his eye, trying to think of when he'd taken an injury there. "Maybe I fell on the broom handle? Or during the first fight, when I was trying to get inside your reach … I knocked you over onto the bed. I think you hit me in the back a few times during that. That's probably it." _Hurts_. He shrugged his shoulder again, stretching it.

XXX

"I need the…ah!" Sylar looked around for the tote and found that he was in luck – Peter hadn't relocated it. Briefly, it occurred to him to ask Peter for the ointment, wipes and band-aids, but the guy only had one hand, right? Sylar leaned over very close to and past Peter to rummage around for the items, his shoulder grazing the man's side as he moved, but it wasn't a relevant, skin-to-skin contact so he paid it no mind. His head felt like it was ripping in two and it felt like moving his eyes was difficult; he managed the task with a few pants and grunts of effort.

XXX

Peter shifted to the side a little, glancing down to see what Sylar was doing. _What … what is he doing? I have something on my back that needs taken care of? He's going to …?_ Peter blinked several times; a little surprised that he might need some care and more surprised that he was going to get it. He craned his neck as much as he could to see which supplies Sylar was getting out.

XXX

Those retrieved, Sylar leaned back, waiting for his head to settle, and opened the wipes. Belatedly, he realized he should explain; the guy couldn't see the injuries or what was going on. "There's some…lacerations and breaks in your skin," _Very nice skin_ , he thought after he dug up the more medical name for 'scrape'. Gently, so as not to upset any of the scabs, Sylar went about cleaning them up. Next was the ointment he smeared liberally around them all, amused by the texture but the band-aids were a little trickier. The whole affair was taking him longer than it should have yet he couldn't bring himself to be bothered about that; it just wasn't important. It was pleasant to see what he'd been feeling blindly earlier and he knew he wasn't supposed to be paying attention to things like that. Sylar pressed the freed band-aids over the appropriate areas, smoothing them down a few times each.

XXX

Peter kept glancing back, trying to gauge when Sylar was done. He was being handled gently, carefully and thoroughly - and not being felt up. He didn't comment, but he appreciated it quietly, wondering about Sylar's motivations. _Not the savior kind? Why would he bother with my back like this? This isn't because he's concerned I'll die and leave him alone - whatever he's bandaging back there can't be very bad. It's not life-threatening. He's being nice. And maybe he sees this as a quid pro quo. Fairness - that seems important to him. I'm helping him, so he's going to help me so he can feel better about himself. Competitive, maybe? Hm._ Peter let the thoughts mull around, not trying to force any conclusion.

When the man seemed finished, Peter let the shirt fall, stretching as it settled on him. He could feel it catch and cling a little were the ointment hadn't been covered by band-aids. He wriggled his torso with a pained grunt, getting the shirt where he wanted it. The back thing had gone well enough to calm Peter down about having Sylar look at his knee. Sighing resolutely, he began the process of getting out of his pants. He turned to sit normally on the couch, unfastening his jeans.

"I've got to get my pants off again if you're going to look at my knee," he explained. He squirmed and shifted to get out of them, pausing once for several seconds because he just didn't feel good. Too many things were sore. _I should have just stood up to do this. I wonder if that was why Sylar stood up to take his shirt off?_ But he got them down and pushed the garment past his knees, shuffling his feet to let gravity take them the rest of the way to his ankles. Sighing again, Peter leaned forward to look at his left knee, the one that was injured. Conveniently, it was the one on Sylar's side. It featured what looked more like a scrape or a jean-burn than a bruise, and was a little puffy over the patella. He touched at it, probing to find the tendons above and below the joint. Nothing seemed out of place.


	35. Just Desserts

Day 10, Evening

"Hmm." Sylar frowned at Peter's pause, tilting his head to eye the man's face better to see what the hold-up was. It wasn't anything he could discern. The nurse got his pants down sufficiently low and Sylar leaned in to begin looking at the knee when Peter did the same thing and he had to pull back to avoid cracking heads. _Um…or you can look first._ All the same, when Peter leaned back, Sylar went for another band-aid, taking a moment to find a larger, more square one to cover. _This is getting awkward, all this leaning over him._ But it couldn't really be helped. Gently he smeared the ointment on evenly, adding to the scattered mess of litter from band-aids to cover the scrape-bruise injury. _Where'd he even get this one from? He wasn't really on his knees, was he?_

XXX

"It's fine. Compared to everything else …" Peter grimaced as he gestured to himself with his right hand, "it's fine." He sagged a little, reaching up with his right thumb to touch across his swollen lid. "My first night here, I slept out in the street, up against a brick wall. It's not getting much better." He frowned at his moment of … weakness? vulnerability? whatever, and straightened in his seat.

"So, you want some of that ice cream now? I'm kind of in the mood for it." He tried to figure out how to get his pants back up without leaning over to get them. _How the hell did I get these things on this morning?_ He seemed to recall doing it while lying on the bed, putting his legs up and letting the jeans fall enough so he could snag them with his left. Making a frustrated noise, Peter gestured at his pants. "Can you help me? Just raise it enough so I can get a hold of it."

He could lean over and get them by himself if he had to, but that would hurt his hip enormously and then his balance would go wacko. Sylar was sitting right next to him.

XXX

"It'll be fine now," Sylar clarified. For a nurse this guy was kinda stupid. "That's really dumb, Peter. Why would you sleep on the street?" Sylar's voice was oozing condescension because, really? _Now a roof, I can see you sleeping on because you really are that stupid, but the street? He doesn't get it_. In the middle of grabbing up and fisting the bandage wrappers, Peter asked about the ice cream and squirmed around for his pants before asking for them, too. He got the feeling he should see a connection between the two, but he just couldn't rub the right wires together to get a thought going so he abandoned it.

"I can, yeah," he smirked, "What if I don't want to?"

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a look of pure disapproval with a hint of disgust on top. _'What if I don't want to?' Then I'll do it myself, you unhelpful jackass!_ He exhaled heavily and looked away. _Why did I expect anything more? What was that he pulled during the fight - ask me nicely, or beg or something?_ Peter put his right hand on the edge of the couch for balance and reached down with his left for his jeans. He hooked his right foot up and sideways, which was a direction of flex the injured sartorius muscle in his right thigh didn't like to do. He grimaced and made a small lunge downward, having to do it three times before he finally snagged the waistband of his pants. Three times that it hurt in his pelvis like a muscle cramp combined with an intestinal spasm; three times that Sylar sat by and was probably smirking at his difficulty.

XXX

"Spoilsport." Sylar watched his companion struggle up and grab at the garment, completing his own request. He sat, waiting for any form of reaction from Peter about the whole event. _I'd have done it, you know; silly man_ _._ He got a reaction, alright. Peter's look turned him sour. After a moment, he said, "Ice cream sounds good."

XXX

Peter pulled up his pants to his thighs and then struggled up off the couch before finishing. He kept his eyes fixed on what he was doing. Once clothed, he went to the kitchen with a gait that was both bedraggled and angry, turning his face a little so he didn't even look at Sylar.

He reached for the bowls where they were stored in the cabinet and looked at the back of his left hand where it was raised before him, mid-reach. The bandage was still wet from washing dishes earlier. He didn't want to touch dishes they were going to eat out of with it, much less serve food. _I need to wash my hands._ He turned on the hot water in the sink and leaned his left hip on the counter as he picked at the tape with his right thumb and forefinger. It was surgical tape, designed to hold even under exposure to bodily fluids, so even though the gauze was peeling up in spots, it was still difficult to unravel, especially one handed.

Sylar could have done it easily, but Peter would be damned if he'd ask him for help again given the mood he had at the moment. That mood was angry, sullen and resentful. He wanted to smack Sylar; he wanted to smack himself for being so stupid as to think the guy would pass up an opportunity, however small, to make sure Peter knew he was the lesser. A small part of Peter suspected Sylar might think they'd moved into being teasing and friendly with each other, but the larger part of Peter's consciousness would reiterate how they were not 'teasing and friendly', they were merely at the stage of 'refraining from killing each other'!

_What I'm doing here for him is basic, mandatory, required medical care. It does not mean I like the guy, or that we're friends. Sylar and his fucked up whatever … attraction to me? Does that have something to do with it? Damnit. I don't want that! I should have just stayed in my apartment and left him alone. Should have stayed in New York. Should have found another way to save Emma. Damnit!_

XXX

Left alone, Sylar grumped. Why couldn't Peter just play along? People said Sylar was too tense, wound up too tight? They clearly hadn't met Peter. Sighing and rubbing his forehead in solitude, he and the man's brother agreed that in some things, a piece of coal up Peter's ass would make for a fine, quick diamond _. I'm not thinking about his ass right now. I'm not thinking of his pubic hair right now_ , Sylar thought tiredly, honestly, almost admitting it to himself. _I'm…out of it, I don't know what the hell I'm thinking about, what I should be doing…_

After a long time, several times dozing and waking up because his chin kept dropping to his chest and the steady sound of water in his ears, Sylar sent a few glances towards the kitchen, spotting Peter a few times, still moving about. _He's a big boy; he wants to be a big boy, let him do it then. I don't care._

XXX

The water ran steadily and unheeded, steaming finally, as Peter eventually managed to pick off the tape and expose his middle finger - the one where the skin wasn't just scuffed and torn, but actually split through the entire dermis. Bandages off, he opened the freezer, then realized he still hadn't washed. He shut the freezer, feeling confused. The sequence of necessary actions was jumbled in his head, thrown off by the prolonged mental effort of the exam and now the excitement of the emotional rush he'd just had. He couldn't think straight. _Shouldn't I get bowls out? Wait … wash first, then bowls._

He sighed and went to the sink, distracted by the bits of tape and gauze. _Unsanitary. I left these here?_ He gathered them up and threw them in the trash, returning to the sink. _The water's too hot._ He moderated the temperature and tried to work out how he was going to wash up without getting his brace wet, or getting stinging soap into the open wound on the back of his finger.

He put soap on the washcloth ( _that's probably unsanitary, too, even for eating, probably worse to expose my finger to that than to leave it unwashed_ ) and hesitated. He couldn't think of how to clean himself otherwise, so he continued. He held the cloth gingerly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and swabbed at the palm and fingerpads of his left. He rinsed, patted his hand dry, and shook his head at the difficulty of such a mundane task.

XXX

Sylar struggled for wakefulness because wasn't he waiting for something? He frowned on principal of being put out from…whatever it was he was supposed to be doing because it was doubtlessly screwball Peter's fault. _Dumb kid's probably still hunting around for the ice cream scoop or something like that._ Grumbling to himself as he adjusted position, he called out, "Peter!" in a bitchy-to-hide-my-concern way, even if it probably didn't translate, "What's with the water?" _Not that I don't like to hear it running…not that_ _it's_ _necessarily wasteful…To be honest,_ _it's_ _just that_ _it's_ _Peter in MY kitchen. And I have_ _no_ _idea what's going on in there and little way to find out._

XXX

Now Sylar was yelling at him. _Great._ Raising his own voice in return _hurt_. "I couldn't get the tape off!" And yep, that hurt. It had, by this point, been long minutes in the kitchen for a task that should have been simple and straightforward. Peter got out bowls, spoons and a serving spoon, then the ice cream. Only now liberated from the freezer, it was frozen all the way through.

XXX

Sylar frowned some more. Now he was getting torqued. _That little fuck comes in here, claiming to help me and here I am picking up this loser's marbles. First Luke, now you. Thank God Nathan was around because I think you needed a fucking babysitter._ "What?" He called back, louder, as if that would get him a sensible answer (not likely), his tone more authoritative. Come to think of it, he couldn't think of why Peter was in the kitchen at all.

XXX

 _Great. Wonderful,_ Peter thought. _Of all the times for Sylar to go deaf. I was loud. He_ **had** _to have heard me_. "I said I can't … Just go fuck yourself. There was blood on it." It rattled around in Peter's laboring brain that what he was saying might not make a lot of sense from Sylar's point of view, but figuring out how he needed to phrase his situation to give Sylar the information the man was actually requesting … well, it was beyond Peter's capacity at the moment.

Getting the lid off the ice cream container hurt his right hand as he tried to hold the carton still while peeling at it with his left. Trying to dig out ice cream, left-handed, was difficult. His hand slipped and after all his attempts to be hygienic, it planted directly, frustratingly, in the ice cream.

He didn't even curse. He just made a small noise, like a tiny whine, and retreated to the kitchen table. He sat down and stared at his hand. His instinct was to suck and lick the ice cream off of his knuckles. But that was gross. He wasn't going to act like an animal, or a primitive, or a kid. It began to drip, so he put his hand down on the table. He sighed, shut his eyes, and sat there silently.

XXX

Growling under his breath, Sylar stood, too quickly, and made to start walking to the kitchen before he had his balance or his vision set properly. Somewhere along the line, he either tripped or became unstable. Luckily for him, the distance between him and the wall wasn't far so he partially slid and braced himself on it with an embarrassing thud in his haste. Sylar worked on calming himself because he shouldn't be allowing the little shit under his skin like that anyway, certainly not in his condition. Taking a nosedive into the guy because he couldn't corner or stand upright was going to have the opposite effect he intended. For some reason, the odd tone in Peter's voice made him worried. That, as much as his temper, was the reason for his speeding. He could conjure up plenty of images of all-thumbs-in-the-kitchen Petrelli bashed, burned, and bleeding out from some accident. Sylar eased around the corner, using both hands on either side of the entranceway, to see Peter sitting at the table, apparently, physically fine.

"What is your problem?" he demanded, a little high-strung because he'd gotten all the way up (nearly falling) and Peter was fine. And sassy. _He'd better not be pouting. I didn't touch him, I didn't hurt him….I did okay_ , he thought of the exam.

XXX

Peter hunkered a little at Sylar's tone. _I should leave. I should just leave. Go home. But I can't go home. Just an empty apartment. Nothing there. Might as well stay here. But with him? Fuck that. Just go_. He looked up at Sylar blocking the entrance. _No going. Not yet. What was I doing? Ice cream. Shit. I don't wanna._ He raised his left hand with the intention of rubbing his forehead. There was melted ice cream on a couple fingertips, making them sticky. He grimaced and put it down, lifting his right hand. He stared at the brace on it blankly, then put it down as well and lifted his left again, studying it. Some internal decision was made. He turned it and rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. It at least looked clean.

"The ice cream's frozen," he said thickly. "Just go lay down. I've got this." _Scene control. Never let the patient know you're panicking._ "Everything's going to be fine," he muttered. _Not that I_ _ **am**_ _panicking. What am I doing? I think I'm spacing out. What is it I'm supposed to be doing? A routine. I need a routine. A schedule. Yeah … don't have one. Watch isn't working. Ice cream. I was getting ice cream. I'd like some ice cream. I'd better go get the ice cream before he does._

XXX

Failing completely to pick up on the problem, Sylar stood there, gaining a quizzical look. Peter's hands were all over the place; he looked nervous and twitchy. _Not with you running the show, Petrelli._

XXX

Peter blinked several times and straightened in his chair, trying to pull himself together. _I don't know why I'm so out of it. Did I hit my head (again)? Did he do something to me? Was dinner bad? No, wait, I got mad. What the hell was I mad about? I think I hurt myself. Bobbing up and down grabbing at my pants? Guess that was it. Whatever._ He stood up and went over to the ice cream, intent on serving up two bowls of it no matter what.

XXX

His attention shifted when Peter seemed to pull together. Task accomplished, he thought on why his brain felt like it was becoming more detached by the minute. _Am I that tired? No, Peter must've done something….those pills. Decon-…pills._ There had been quite a few, more than the other previous doses. Namely, he wondered if they were warping his current view of things. Generally, his pain tolerance was high enough that the user friendly serving suggestions didn't have much, if any, effect, but Peter had mixed pain killers with sinus pills; maybe that had something to do with it. _It's not like I know how all that is gonna play together with my headache_. "You should probably eat it here at the table then find a bed to sleep in, Peter," Sylar said, sounding muzzy even to his own ears. _I guess that implies that he needs to go down the hall? It'll give me a chance to shower, if he's gone. Will he come back, though?_

XXX

Peter reined himself in from scowling at Sylar. "Yeah. 'Kay," he said instead, as it wasn't like Sylar was saying anything disagreeable. He rinsed the ice cream from his hand, unwilling to use the washcloth due to a disoriented paranoia of it and the germs he imagined it might harbor. He patted his hand dry and picked up the serving spoon. As good news, the ice cream had softened around the edges, making it easier to dish out. He filled the first bowl quickly, but the second took longer and more struggling, as he was now left with the hard-frozen portion. He kept at it determinedly. Frozen desserts would not defeat Peter Petrelli.

XXX

Peter mangled through the ice cream serving; Sylar probably should've been helping with that, being the one with two good hands. The nurse got it done to his credit and Sylar sat at the table when the bowls were presented. _I'm officially babysitting my babysitter. Why can't things ever be simple?_ "Spoons," Sylar reminded when Peter forgot; honestly, it took him a minute, too, longer than he would have liked, but he was the one left staring at a bowl of ice cream wondering how to eat it while Peter was looking to sit down. He waited until Peter sat, after retrieving the utensils, to begin in on his own dessert – vanilla. _Yum_.

XXX

 _Spoons? Yeah, spoons._ Peter had gotten them out, but they were still over on the counter, next to the ice cream carton, which was also still out. He put the carton up and returned with the flatware, settling in to his first taste moments later. The ice cream was cold, sweet and creamy. Peter hadn't paid any attention to the brand (not that he was much of a shopper), but he'd grabbed one that looked expensive. Might as well, when living in a world where money didn't matter. The flavor lingered on the tongue real nice. Immediately, he could feel the sugar raising his energy and his spirits. A small smile even made an appearance after his third spoonful.

Somewhat restored, Peter prodded the chunks in his bowl. He could get picky now. Vanilla ice cream - uniform throughout. That characteristic was somewhat disappointing to him. There were no nuts or chocolate chips to dig out, no ripples or caramel swirls to play with. It was boring. He flipped the lumps of ice cream in his bowl and decided that the different stages of meltedness would be a sufficient difference to engage him. He began clumsily scraping off the melted skein, one section at a time, then sucking it off the spoon and letting his mouth warm the metal before dipping for another bite.

XXX

Sylar was thinking about vanilla, something he couldn't prevent when faced with it which was generally in the form of ice cream. His curiosity had been woken as a child wondering when he'd come across all the dark flecks in his vanilla (white) ice cream – turned out that was the vanilla. A spoonful melting in his mouth, Sylar watched the rest of it slowly, slowly melt while he ate. "Did you know the dark little chips in there is the vanilla? It's the second most expensive natural flavoring in the world. And its not actually a bean – it's a seedpod – that part has flavor, too, not just the seeds," Sylar spoke softly, absently, much more about imparting said flavorings onto his tongue than delivering wisdom.

XXX

"Yeah, I tried to eat one once. Didn't go over any better than the cinnamon stick I tried chewing." Peter smiled a little again at the memory. "Ma was not happy." She wasn't enraged, though. More exasperated that her young son had taken it upon himself to explore the spice cabinet, having come to the conclusion that it was the source of all things tasty and sweet. "The cocoa powder was a complete bust, too. Actually, everything I got into was pretty bad. Except the nonpareils. Those were good. I think I ate half a bottle of them." He chuckled a little. Oh yeah, the ice cream was really loosening him up. "I think I was seven, maybe eight. I remember I could read the labels."

Nathan had been off at the military academy at the time, so it was one of the many very minor adventures of Peter's youth that he'd missed. Peter had avoided anything that he didn't think went into cookies, cakes, pies and sweet treats, along with anything that said 'pepper' on the label. Plain sugar was kept in a different cabinet, but it had never held his interest anyway. He flipped his remaining globs of ice cream to repeat his skimming process on the now-exposed, newly melted underside.

XXX

Blinking, Sylar looked up slightly from his ice cream, facing straight, while he parsed through that odd response. Oh, Peter knew all about spices, did he? Couldn't cook, but the family had money – so much so that when their youngest son got into the spice cabinet and chowed down on a doubtlessly expensive product Mommy Dearest didn't throw a fit. _Rub it in_. Yes, so he'd been thinking Peter wouldn't know about vanilla. It amused him, though, and touched him a bit that grown-up Peter still referred to her as "Ma." It was part of the strange enunciation the men in the Petrelli family shared – he'd noticed it immediately. Peter's was a bit subtler; Nathan's horribly obvious as was Arthur's. He still couldn't place where it came from, although Nathan's dalliances in Texas may have been partly to blame. "Ma" still imparted some sense of warmth; it always had, even when Sylar was on the outside looking in before Nathan's memories. The affection was strong and genuine to have lasted that long, the bonds very close.

Ignoring all that, including the assertion of wealth that a person who didn't come from it would pick up on, Sylar chuckled, dragging his thoughts back to task. "Cocoa is insane for caffeine. And dry as hell." _And Peter could read?_ The goof.

XXX

The fog had largely cleared from his mind - anger had dissipated, he'd rested and cooled off. His thoughts were making more sense now. "After this is done, I'd like you to help me with … uh, this." He gestured with his left hand, all fingers lifted even though only the middle one was badly damaged. "I don't just need a bandage on it. I need to have it taped right." He ducked his head, realizing he was repeating the same thing as earlier - asking for help, probably not going to get it. His lips thinned. His hand mattered a lot to him. _He wants me to beg_. Peter wasn't going to.

Peter tried to think of how he could do this by himself and get it taped right. It was a simple matter with two hands - pinch the skin together, tape it shut. If it wasn't even, remove tape and repeat until it was. What Peter had done for himself earlier was a simple bandage taped down, which was fine for initial clotting and protection from bumps. But the skin was torn badly enough that the edges needed to be pulled together. It could stand to have stitches, but tape sutures would do as well and there was no way Peter was going to let Sylar use a needle on him. Even assuming the man was willing.

Peter finished his ice cream and looked up steadily at Sylar. This was as much 'begging' as Sylar was going to get on this subject - a statement of need, an indirect request for aid … and that was it.

XXX

Sylar had gone back to savoring his treat, slowly taking the full spoon into his mouth and allowing his lips to scrape some onto his tongue – a deliberate process. Gobbling it down would feel like soup or maybe induce the need to chew, not to mention give him what would probably be a nice brain freeze…Oh, he was so trying it. _Maybe that'll help flush out this goddamn headache. It's killing my neck already._ Peter's voice took on that tone of 'I'm planning, we're doing'. _God, he's so assertive. He really thinks I'm just gonna do whatever he says. (Did it for Nathan, too)._ Pursing his lips briefly, he glanced up when the request was made. Inwardly he chuckled. _That's right. You need my help. You just come crawling to me when you screw up and need me to fix it. Or kiss it and make it better. Damnit! I knew I was doing something wrong._ Half his mouth inched at a smirk. "Alright," he intoned and glanced at the hand, frowning at it. "Wait…Tape's not gonna do the trick. Especially if you're going to keep getting it wet and hitting people. A wrap over it would help." _That's what I'd do. Keep the tape down and…sticking to you._

XXX

Peter waited a few beats until Sylar went back to his bowl for another spoonful. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for - perhaps the cost or the trick that came with the agreement to help. "Huh," he said quietly, moving his spoon around in his empty bowl as he considered (and got just that little tiny bit that was left in the bowl on his spoon, which he then licked off). "I really can't help getting it wet. That's just going to be how it is. If we tape it up tight, get it right and leave it that way - no gauze, no bandage - it should be okay."

He considered trying to suck up to Sylar until he had his help, maybe choosing his words and actions more carefully so as to get what he wanted out of the man. _Begging_. It was just words. Words that meant things. Words that meant things he didn't mean. He discarded it. If his life was in danger, then he'd consider making a special effort. In the meantime, he didn't like the air of superiority he got off of Sylar from time to time. He wasn't interested in playing into it.

XXX

Sylar shot Peter a look at that annoying sound, 'huh'. It meant nothing other than what was going on in Peter's head, he knew, but still...It was probably that Sylar didn't know what was going on in that head that was the issue. All he knew was that wounds healed better in open air, half the problem because of infection, blah blah blah. He also knew there were other options to seal up split skin, but for the life of him he couldn't think of any and it bothered him. "Whatever," he muttered, dismissing it and going back to something more pleasant. Ice cream.

XXX

Peter got up from the chair and carried his bowl over to the sink to rinse it. He briefly eyed the stack of unwashed dishes. _Maybe I should go get some paper plates or something tomorrow? Am I even coming back tomorrow? He seems sort of okay. Funny - I don't want to be locked out, but I don't want to be in here, either._ He sighed. _Might as well get to it._ He washed his left hand and right fingertips as well as he could, then turned his back on the sink and headed off into the living room, rummaging through Sylar's tote. His hand fell on the ben-gay. _Really need to put some of this on … like, all over_. Peter dropped it for now though and gathered up some antiseptic wipes, surgical tape, alcohol and gauze. _Gonna need to debride this first. Do it here, or in there? He might not be done eating._ Peter snorted. _Of all the people to get squeamish on me,_ Sylar _isn't on the list._

XXX

Peter was finished; he got up, then he left. That wasn't a good sign – it meant Sylar was taking too long. Who knew what Peter was up to in the other room? He couldn't anticipate much beyond Peter's boredom with him now, impatience and haste and a desire to leave. So he sped up his time table, eating faster which, for vanilla ice cream, was really a crime. He was disappointed, too; he thought things were going fairly well. He didn't think his slip-ups had been all that bad, considering. Taking larger bites and actively going about consuming got him frozen teeth, an over-stimulated tongue and eventually…"Mmm." His headache spiked badly and he gasped as if opening his mouth would help the invasion of cold-feels-hot burning pressure of a brain freeze. _Okay, I get it. Bad idea. That was dumb. Thank God Peter didn't see that happen._ Massaging his forehead proved futile as it was bruised, but the 'freeze went away in time.

XXX

He carried the stuff in to the kitchen table, arranging things where he wanted them. Peter put alcohol on the gauze and then put his left hand on his knee, under the table and out of Sylar's line of sight. He scrubbed at it lightly but steadily, wincing occasionally. It hurt like hell - alcohol, open wound, scraping - but it was the best way to get it to heal shut. There was also no way in hell he was letting Sylar do this part - he'd resent the man for the pain, and there would be nothing Sylar could do about it.

XXX

The nurse returned and Sylar still had a few bites left. They were gone a minute later, but Peter set out gauze, alcohol, tapes and wipes. Sylar feared they were for him in some way and leaned back. The objects had been set on the table with clear intent to use, why had Peter brought them in here? When the wetted gauze pad disappeared under the table, Sylar breathed again, releasing his tension. He leaned out to try to see what Peter was doing under there. Ah, the hand. _Right, what we were just, you know, talking about._ Clanking his spoon to show he was done, pushing the bowl away, Sylar reached out and took up the tape. _Gosh, its been…how long since I put this in here? I forgot I had it._

XXX

Peter paused in the exceedingly painful process of removing live tissue from an injury using an alcohol-soaked abrasive. He was breathing a little harder than he would have been under normal circumstances, and was a little pale. "You need to go wash your hands." _Not sure that it matters, given where we are. I suppose it matters because I think it matters. It's an easy, harmless precaution anyway._

XXX

Peter finished with the gauze and indicated that his hands needed washing. _Again?_ Naturally, the assumption that Sylar's hands were always filthy wasn't far from any hero's mind. Once a murderer, to their logic, he bathed regularly in blood and sacrificed virgins on Saturdays and kicked puppies on Sundays. It was insulting, and what's more, demeaning. So he let Peter know by giving him a steady, dark look, hoping to impart that he knew Peter's game and it would be remembered. Dropping the tape, he assisted himself to stand and weaved to the sink to clean his 'bloody' hands. None of them bothered to know the truth, too content in their ignorance and blame-games to think beyond their ways. Soap and warm water, drying his hands, Sylar came back and stood next to Peter, hand on the back of the chair to balance. "Why aren't we doing this on the couch again?" he delivered sassily, staking his claim on the tape once again although the motion felt like his brain being on a boat at high tide.

XXX

Peter noted the threatening look. _Hands again. Didn't he freak out earlier when I said something about him needing to keep his hands clean? Or keep from getting them dirty? There is_ _ **definitely**_ _something there about the hands_. Peter filed that away next to 'touching or reaching for Sylar's forehead' as probable triggers. He went back to his task, finishing to his satisfaction. Somewhat blinded by pain, he sat quietly, staring down at his hand, mind empty for the moment.

When Sylar returned and spoke, Peter jumped slightly, glancing to the side and up, then up further (Sylar was particularly tall when standing directly over him). "I, uh, what?" He blinked at the man. Peter's expression was not afraid - he'd felt fear right at first on realizing Sylar was beside him, but it had faded the moment he'd gotten a good look at Sylar's body language. He was just standing there. Peter looked up at him blankly through a screen of hair and pushed aside the relentless stinging of his hand to process the words. "Because I need you sitting directly across from me, and a convenient place to put stuff." He gestured at Sylar's chair with a general wave of his right hand.

XXX

That made sense. Or, at least, enough sense. With Peter, it did not always go hand in hand. After a brief inner-debate, Sylar decided that Peter's dismissive wave was acceptable under the circumstances. It wasn't aimed to control him. Sylar kept his eye on Peter, though, as he walked around to take his seat, noting slight changes in his behavior that he couldn't place.

XXX

"Also, I have trouble getting up and down from the couch. A lot less than I do from a chair." Peter put his left hand on the table, fingers splayed. It wasn't a very big tear, but it was all the way through the skin. What concerned him was how much it endangered the tendons of his only remaining functional hand. "Now, I'd like you to get a four inch piece of tape off the roll. I'm going to hold the skin together with my right and I need you to wrap the tape around my finger right where a ring would go. Wrap the tape around itself. After that, I'll turn my hand the other way, hold the skin and you can put a little strip across the back of my hand. I'm pretty sure I've got some surgical glue or Tegaderm in the trauma kit. I can apply that myself later, right over the knuckle itself. Okay?"

Peter used a free bit of gauze to absorb a little seepage, then pinched together the skin as he wanted it. He lifted his hand so Sylar had the access he needed to tape the finger.

XXX

Pulling out some of the tape, Sylar measured out about four inches, tearing it off. "Yeah." He went about rolling the tape onto the finger as Peter described. It was difficult when the other fingers were in the way and the tape was enough to stick to them, but after a minute he got a pattern and finished it up. It wasn't a difficult task, being simple in nature; the execution was a different matter, requiring smaller fingers, but ones with his degree of delicacy. That accomplished, Peter turned his hand and Sylar tugged off another strip, maybe two and a half inches, placing it just under the knuckles where it would stop any further tearing of the split. "Where'd you get this one? Seems like my head is harder than I thought, busting up all your hands," Sylar chuckled lightly, his eyes still focused on the injury. _Guess I would have thought Nathan's head was harder than mine, but whatever._

XXX

"Ha," Peter said, smiling warmly. "I always thought I had a hard head. Guess you've got me beat. Either that, or maybe I need to toughen up my hands." He turned them, looking down at his palms. They were undamaged - at least his left was. Most of the right was covered by the brace. He touched the tips of the fingers on his left hand to his right thumb, stroking back and forth along it in a gesture that was common enough for him. It usually spelled pensive, and now was not much different. _I can still touch things, feel them. I just can't use force without hurting myself. Is that saying something about this place?_ He shrugged to himself and looked up as Sylar spoke again.

XXX

"Sure is a crappy spot to get split skin – can't tape it up any further and have it work." Sylar knew his tongue was starting to loosen, but he was tired and loopy from the drugs and food and it was late; time for another rest break unless he missed his guess. _I was gonna…shower first, though_. That thought perked him up a bit, the idea of getting cleaner, even if he felt like he might drown in any water.

"I might have superglue in the tote, you know. Do it while it's clean." _Superglue? Will it flake off as it heals or something? Otherwise wouldn't it get stuck inside and make a scar?_ He knew it was developed as an on-site battlefield suture in World War I, but that was for gaping gut wounds, not knuckles. Still, if it got the wound closed…

XXX

"Yeah, that's a good suggestion," Peter said agreeably, noting that his companion's mood was shifting to something that could pass as friendly, or at least relaxed. Too bad he was tired and it was time to go home, which led to the thought that maybe this was why Sylar was lightening up - perhaps he was looking forward to Peter's departure.

"I didn't see any in the tote though. I'm sure I've got some back in the kit." Peter got to his feet, gathering up the unused supplies for return to their proper place. Before he walked away, though, he said, "Listen, it's getting late. I'm going to take off. Try not to get in any trouble." He considered for a moment, then as he stepped past, he put his left hand down on Sylar's shoulder, telegraphing the motion clearly. Given that he was holding the alcohol in that hand, it was a little awkward, but it was friendly contact nonetheless. "I'll come back in the morning for breakfast. If you want to lock me out … I'm not going to bust down your door. I think you can take care of yourself, in broad strokes." He patted twice (mostly just bumping his hand up and down, but it got the message across) and walked into the living room to deposit the stuff into the tote.

XXX

"Oh," Sylar mumbled about the glue, or lack thereof. _What?_ He wanted to ask as Peter made to pass him by, save for the hand on his shoulder. _You're leaving?_ Sylar turned to frown up at the man as best he could, a little worried now where he had not been before. Then Peter had to go and mention the door-breaking incident. That made him officially worried. _What is there I can say? I told him to sleep in a bed. So he's doing it. Smart thinking, real smart. Would he stay if I offered the couch? Why would he stay on your couch when he could have a bed away from you?_ Sylar sighed and wandered after Peter, leaning against the kitchen/entryway wall across from the door, sliding his hands into his pockets once he was stabilized. Peter was nicely replacing the alcohol and gauze before making for the door as Sylar watched him. It struck him that coming out from the kitchen made things more awkward because what was there to say? "S-see you tomorrow then?" he said quietly.

XXX

 _He's acting like he wants me to stay. Or that he's going to miss me. Huh. That's human nature for you._ When something, or someone, was available, there was no need to make an extra effort to keep them around. It was when they were gone and wouldn't come back that you missed them the most. Peter _ached_ for Nathan. Particularly, he hated himself for those weeks that had gone by after the pyre and before Sylar's reawakening when Peter had actively avoided contact with him. Even though Nathan had been sort of fake then, it would have been something, and maybe …

Peter shook his head to derail that train of thought. "Yes," he said reassuringly, seeing Sylar at that moment as a guy who had been his brother, twice over, and in a weird way represented and embodied the family Peter had lost. "I'll be back tomorrow, in the morning. I make some pretty good eggs. I'll see you then." He headed out.

XXX

The door shut behind Peter and his apartment felt that much smaller and quieter even though his clocks all sounded in time still. The loneliness came rushing back, too. Sylar went to the couch, sitting there, alone now, once again, trying to muster up a thought or an action but without the stimulation and adrenaline Peter had provided he deflated like an old balloon. He noticed dimly that he'd been fairly relaxed the times he'd, you know, been relaxed with Peter around. Barefoot now, and dressed for bed, Sylar took a glance at it and moved there, getting under the covers, pulling them to his waist before realizing his pillow was on the couch. _Screw it._ His arm would do – folding it up he drifted off with minimal thoughts.


	36. Breakfast at Sylar's

Day 11, Morning

Peter woke to a pounding headache. His hand hurt. His hip and butt hurt. Most of the rest of him was passable, though, despite being a collection of minor injuries. They seemed inconsequential compared to the major ones. He groaned and dragged himself out of bed. _Painkillers. First thing._ It was over an hour before he felt presentable to the world, such as it was. He was dressed, reasonably clean and all the parts that needed new bandages (which were just the cut on his eyebrow and cheek) had received them. He also finally had the presence of mind to slather himself with ben-gay. He smelled, but he felt better.

He brought the electric razor with him in case Sylar wanted to use it for himself. Peter wasn't thrilled about the idea of sharing hygiene products, but he was even less inclined to search apartments for a second one, or find a store around here that carried one. In any event, maybe Sylar would have managed with whatever it was he normally used. Peter smirked to himself at how much he was getting to know about the guy. _Next thing you know, I'm going to find out whether he folds or wads,_ he thought to himself as he walked between their respective apartment buildings. _Hm, I think I'd definitely peg him as a folder, not a wadder. He's too precise._

Peter managed to distract himself with trivial speculation until he arrived outside Sylar's door. Here he had a mild dilemma. A nurse caring for a patient in a hospital setting would knock gently (to alert a wakeful patient and not wake a sleeping one) and open the door a second or two later, without waiting for any acknowledgment. But in that case, the nurse was going to care for you anyway; your presence in the hospital established your consent to care and monitoring. He had no such indication from Sylar. This wasn't a hospital setting; it was the guy's apartment. For that, one knocked and did not enter unless invited. Twice now, Peter had ignored that.

He raised his left hand and rapped solidly, expecting that Sylar would be asleep. Four times, and silence. He listened, head tilted slightly.

XXX

Sylar started out of his nightmarish sleep to the sounds of loud thudding from the direction of… Opening his aching eyes, he discerned it was coming from his door. Who…? He jerked up and felt himself tense all over from a host of injuries and the memories returned with them. _Ooh…_ He mentally groaned, _Peter._ "Y-yeah!" Sylar called out to allow Peter in; that was after, of course, he cleared his throat to even be able to yell. _Oh, god, I feel rough_ … Propping himself on an elbow, he rubbed briefly at his eyes, feeling the surrounding sinuses were a little swollen.

XXX

"Yeah, Sylar. It's me, Peter." That much was obvious, given where they were, but Peter had yet to get into the habit of understanding they were the only two people in existence as far as this place was concerned. His jaw twinged a bit with the volume he was using to be sure his voice carried through the door. He didn't want to require Sylar to come let him in, so he tried the knob, hoping the other man would excuse the breach of etiquette for what it was - concern about his safety. When the knob turned and the door opened, Peter called out in what was more like a loud conversational tone, "I'm coming in."

XXX

With the door opening it occurred to Sylar only then that he might not be decent – a swift checking glance confirmed that he was in his pajamas ( _weird_ ), otherwise decent, and his clothes were on the chair, pulled before the couch. Sniffing, he worked to sit up. "Peter?" He hedged, groggily, feeling like a sand trap all over what with his beard, unwashed skin and hair and creaking injuries. He sniffed again, trying to clear his nose to no avail while he ruffled his hair back.

Sylar took a look at his watch; it was 9:23. _He said something about breakfast…Shower; that's what I was thinking. Or a bath…a bath sounds so good right now._ "I didn't know you did room service," he croaked to distract the man from pointing out anything about his less-than-seemly appearance.

XXX

Peter looked Sylar over, pleased to see that he'd moved back to his bed. It had to be more comfortable than the couch. The guy still looked like something of a wreck: pale, bruises even more evident than before, hair sticking out irregularly and facial hair growing in thickly enough to put a cave man to shame. But he'd sat up with more speed and less unsteadiness than he'd shown the day before. He was looking around more alertly, directing his eyes to his watch and to Peter more quickly.

Peter read all of that in a few glances, made sense of Sylar's words and decided to test the water on joking back - all in a few seconds, because he was more mentally coherent today as well. "Hey, yeah. I didn't want to dirty up my own kitchen, so I decided to make the mess over here in yours." He smiled in a friendly way and shut the door behind himself. "How are you feeling? You look better." That last might not be true for a snapshot of Sylar's physical appearance, but it was for overall behavior.

XXX

Peter's eye looked a little better, less puffy and red. Sylar was still worrying quietly that he'd permanently damaged one of the guy's eyes. That was a big deal – to both of them, Peter's eye useful and pleasant for him to have functioning, pleasurable for Sylar to look upon. Sylar snorted, twisting a bit to look out the window at Peter's retort. "You're a loser," he parried back about Peter's kitchen catastrophe status. He'd seen the smile, though. _I look better? Saying I look like crap when I'm normal? Or I looked bad before and this is good to know now?_ For all that his brain sputtered out when it came to self-diagnosis. _How do I feel?_

Licking his lips, Sylar looked back to Peter, his expression falteringly neutral as he admitted, "I don't know. I just woke up." _Things get worse with time before they get better…if they get better._ Already his skull set up its war drum tempo to match the increase in pressure everywhere in his head and the rest of his body had steady, pulling hurts.

XXX

Peter had woke Sylar, which made sense. Concussion victims slept a lot, a pattern that would stay for several days. Peter assumed Sylar would need to use the facilities and clean up, perhaps even change clothes depending on how well he felt and how scrupulous he was about such things. "I was going to make eggs, maybe an omelet. If you want, you know, I can walk down to the grocery store and come back with a few things. I think you're almost out of milk. I'd be out of your way while you get your morning taken care of. Or if you think we have everything here, I could just get started cooking."

Peter was trying to offer Sylar the choice of having him around or having him get lost for a bit. Peter's main goals for patient care were frequent check-ins and prompting Sylar to eat and take care of himself. If Sylar could navigate from couch to kitchen and back again as he had the night before, then he could probably handle basic bathroom needs without help. Peter pulled the electric razor out of his left jean pocket, unfurling the cord behind it. He walked over and set it on the corner of the worktable. "The other times I've ever seen you, you've always been clean shaven. I thought you might want to use this. Might be easier than what you've got." He backed off a step. "So do you want me to go get some milk and stuff, or get started cooking?"

XXX

Sylar just blinked. He didn't know what to say to any of those offers. It was very overwhelming, more so because of his foggy brain. The only excuse he could reasonably come up with was: _But what if you're just waiting outside the door for me to…I dunno…be vulnerable? Be distracted?_ Then he thought that maybe this was a trick question. Peter even set out the electric razor they'd- he'd found, the one that was doubtlessly…Peter's. It belonged to Peter. _So how am I supposed to use it?_ Sylar wound up just staring at Peter, his brows drawn together in confusion, lips parted while he tried to work them to say something.

After what felt like an age, Peter didn't swoop in to explain or anything and no thoughts popped in to save the say, Sylar finally started, his delivery stream of consciousness, "Why are you treating me like this?" His gaze dropped lower and away from Peter as he slowly pivoted to lay his feet on the floor, facing the problem. "I want…I want space now, but…I don't think I have time to shower and shave and…stuff while you're out getting milk." He was hardly aware he'd spoken, let alone aloud; he'd have been embarrassed if he'd known he'd slipped up that information. _But breakfast sounds good, too_. This was probably an either/or choice; an answer that he hadn't wanted to acknowledge for fear of complicating his mind further appeared.

XXX

 _No one even calls him by his name._ Peter didn't know why, but that stuck in his mind and Sylar's tone brought it to the forefront. "Sylar," he said gently. He took a step or two back to bring him back to the corner of the worktable. "I'm going to ask a favor of you, something I don't have any right to, but I'm going to ask anyway: trust me. Just a little. Not a lot." He extended his left hand towards Sylar without moving closer. It was a gesture of offering, like he was offering to help Sylar up. "Let me help you to the bathroom, just like I did yesterday. I'll go in the kitchen and see I what you have for breakfast. You do your thing. You'll be fine. If you fall or something, I'll be right here. Don't shower. I don't think you're steady enough for it. Just use the toilet, brush your teeth, use the razor if you want to." He smiled a little, looking at Sylar's hair. "Comb your hair maybe."

XXX

Sylar looked up on hearing his name, his face a perplexed pout. He listened in contemplating silence. _A favor._ That was…new. _Is the trust just for today or just while I'm sick or…forever? I'll be fine? I'll really be fine? I haven't been fine in so long…was I ever fine? IF I fall? Is he demanding I don't shower or suggesting?_ Sylar's brows twitched towards a frown, but the rest of the information outweighed any upset he may have had about a potential crack aimed at his hair _. At least I have an adult hairstyle, Peter, more than I can say for you._

XXX

"Then we'll talk about whether you want me to take off so you can take a bath, or just change clothes, and how long you want me to be gone." _He wants to keep his eyes on me all the time, is that it? Doesn't want to be distracted by brushing his teeth. And no one wants to be caught on the toilet unaware. I knocked this time though - didn't bust the front door down. Can he trust me just a little? It's not like I'm asking him to turn his back on me. Just … turn to the side a little and look the other way. I'm not a monster. I won't jump on him just because he's not looking right at me._

That was a disturbing thought to Peter - that he was Sylar's monster, come to torment him. It made Peter feel small, miserable and uneasy, along with the wish that Sylar's impression of him was unjust. But he couldn't look at Sylar's bruised, confused face and claim that Sylar didn't have damn good reason to be wary of him, and that was without all the baggage of the past weighing him down.

XXX

Thinking on it for longer than he would have liked, looking at the hand Peter presented, Sylar made a decision. _Anything he's going to do he's going to do eventually, whether I'm incap-… injured or not makes no difference. If he does something, take it like a man. He's been fine so far – he didn't even peak at your junk and he could have._ Maybe that's what was bothering him. A single nod, Sylar reached out for the proffered assistance in the form of a hand. _But I'm wearing my pajamas!_ His mind suddenly hissed at him; the idea of Peter's hands and body being on him or that close in that frame of 'undress' was…His arm was slung over Peter's shoulder once again, overkill for the distance, but he was not about to be led like a granny to the fucking bathroom, no sir. The man was warm and he smelled a bit stronger than he had last time, like strong chemicals, not unpleasant if a bit manly. It helped wake him up. Sylar turned once he was in the bathroom, Peter moving away, towards the kitchen like he said, so he used the surfaces of the bathroom to move inside better, shutting and, yes, locking the door. That was about as much as he could allow right now. He tried to continue in calming down – his heart racing for several reasons (fear of interruption for something bad, having just touched and smelled Peter and getting up in general).

The toilet accomplished, he washed his hands and got out his comb, honestly debating whether he wanted to fix his rather dashing bed-head (so he thought) after Peter's comment. _Does anyone besides your mother ever tell you to fix your hair, Pete?_ With an abbreviated sigh, he ran it through his unwashed, completely unappetizing hair a few times to get it out of his face at least. _Happy now?_ Was the accompanying sarcastic thought. Gathering his toothbrush and paste, he carefully smeared the goo. Brushing his teeth went okay, two minutes on the dot like you were supposed to and he knew because he checked his watch. Spitting, rinsing, it occurred to him this was before breakfast, but that happened sometimes. _Hmm…shit. Beard. That monster has a life of its own._ Sylar tilted his head to eye his beard from another angle, considering what to do for it. _Do it later, yeah. He said I might get a bath. Geez, that's pathetic of you. He can't attack me with an electric razor. Wait…why the hell did you tell him about the bath idea? Or did he say that? He did. Does that me- fuck it! I want a bath so I will take a bath, whether he's here or not._ That decided, Sylar wandered back to sit on the couch, awaiting Peter's appearance, if there was to be any, from the kitchen.

XXX

Peter took inventory inside the kitchen, part of his attention still back on Sylar, listening to the flush of the toilet and running of water. The shower or tub didn't get turned on and neither was there any call for help or sound of disaster, so Peter figured things were going well. In the meantime, he counted eggs (six), examined cheese (cheddar - good), and explored the vegetable crisper drawer (nothing there he wanted to use). He checked the pantry and nosed around at Sylar's pans, finding a good non-stick skillet like he wanted. He held it in his left hand, hefting it slowly as he frowned and tried to think about how he was going to manage to cook an omelet - which required some degree of dexterity - using only his left hand. _Scrambled it is, then._ Which was too bad. He'd wanted to show off. He could do breakfast foods well enough. It was just everything else that he had trouble with.

 _I want to show off … to Sylar?_ Peter smiled at his foolishness and put the skillet on the stove top. _It's not like there's anyone else to show off to, but somehow I don't think he'd be impressed even if I'd saved the world three times over. In fact, I sort of think he'd resent me for that_. He sighed and wondered idly, _I wonder what_ _ **would**_ _impress him?_ The catchy tune to a song from years ago drifted through his mind, but all he recalled of the lyrics was that it was a list of very impressive things that the singer didn't care about _. I think what impressed her was something about romance and empathy. Right? Wasn't that it? Something about the touch_ _, if someone had the right touch, keeping her warm at night_ _… wait, what the fuck am I thinking? That's the most useless option out there! Or … maybe not useless_ (as Peter was sure Sylar would sit up and take note) _, but it's not an option._

He shook his head to clear it, hearing Sylar exit the bathroom _. I don't think there's any point to trying to impress anybody here, so let's just settle for not inciting violence and hatred._ Peter walked out to see Sylar look up at him from where he was sitting on the couch. Peter reached up to scratch at his left brow, unthinking about why it might itch. His fingertips fumbled against the tape and he pulled them away, unsatisfied. It still itched. He tried to ignore it as he considered the simplest way to ask Sylar what he wanted, without relying on the man having remembered anything of the conversation from before he went in the bathroom. Peter settled on asking, "Do you want to have breakfast now, or take a bath now?"

XXX

Sylar was secretly amused in watching Peter's itch-n-twitch routine, but it didn't hold his interest. "Breakfast," he said more decisively than he felt. If he wanted control, he had to act like he was already there. Asking questions made him the one taking orders. For some reason he needed to be reminded of all this – it was like his brain was on vacation to the past or something. Peter buzzed back to the kitchen and Sylar took that as either invitation or some other cue that he was supposed to follow; so he rose and walked in, once again waiting for Peter to address him. That, he told himself, was just proper manners – it's what he'd always had to do to get away with anything with his mother way back when, waiting and 'asking' for permission of sorts – Peter was the first one there; this was (kind of), in essence, _his_ kitchen even though it belonged to Sylar. Sylar wasn't up for making himself anything more than cereal so by default, Peter had chosen to assume the role of chef.

XXX

Peter nodded firmly and returned to the kitchen, getting out eggs, cheese and milk. _Shit, how am I going to dice the cheese? I think I can manage that left-handed._ He felt reluctant to have Sylar do _everything_ for him, even though he saw the man had followed him into the kitchen and looked like he intended to help. There wasn't a shortage of things to be done, though. "Can you set the table?" Peter asked, internally debating whether to add 'please' to be polite, and stroke Sylar's ego, or leave it off to be casual and thus indicate a little more normality between them, and that Peter wasn't quite so cautious with Sylar as he had been. He thought about that long enough that the pause created made it awkward to say it, so he ended up leaving it off. Sylar went about helping without the 'please', which was good enough. Peter unwrapped the cheese, got out a knife, and concentrated on not cutting his fingers off while he sectioned the stuff.

XXX

Getting out the plates was probably more than Peter wanted to handle with his hand and all, so while the task was menial, it was helpful he knew and that made it very acceptable to him. He'd noticed Peter steering him away from the food two consecutive times, but maybe it was just coincidence. Placing them on the table, he went back for silverware, glancing over at Peter's dealings with the food to try to anticipate what utensils they'd need. Interrupting his own thoughts, it occurred to him that maybe Peter wanted some sort of breakfast sausage with the eggs or maybe bacon. "Did you want some ham to put in there or…?" he couldn't think of what other kind of meat would go in scrambled eggs.

XXX

Peter glanced over, finishing up with the cheese without incident (thankfully) and moving on to getting out a bowl to crack the eggs into. "No. Maybe some other time. I try to avoid eating meat." He ended by muttering partly to himself, but loud enough Sylar could probably hear it, "Most meat, anyway." He put the bowl on the counter and picked up an egg, suddenly way too aware of how dirtily that could be read. So he elaborated at a normal tone, "I mean, like, shellfish and stuff is okay, but anything with a spinal cord isn't. I'm not a very strict vegetarian."

XXX

"Oh, right. I…knew that," Sylar said lamely, conscious now that spinal cords and food weren't appetizing. "M'kay," was his senseless acknowledgment, staring at the utensil drawer in an attempt to remember what he'd been doing before he opened his mouth. _Setting the table?_ He dug out a pair of forks, plucked some disposable napkins and laid them down. Another moment to tell him what else was missing before he asked, "Drinks? You like milk, right?" already on route to the fridge. Nathan never really paid attention to how adult-Peter liked his eggs – they were so different in age, Nathan hadn't been around for it in actuality. He would therefore assume if Peter wanted anything in his eggs, he would get it himself. _He's a big boy, don't baby him._

XXX

"Milk's good, yeah, but get me juice. Here's the milk. I'm done with it," he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the mostly-empty carton next to him on the counter. There was enough there for Sylar's drink, if he wanted it. He whisked the eggs a bit before realizing he needed to turn the stove on. The forgetfulness was a concussion symptom he'd readily leave behind. At least he was a lot more together than the day before, though it wasn't like the dull throb of the headache and continuous pull of sore muscles was going anywhere.

XXX

There was about four sections, if he counted, of different direction and meaning in Peter's sentences: An opinion, stated desire, a helpful hint or was it an order that he needed to replace the milk in the fridge? After a pause, Sylar moved closer to take up the carton, shaking it to gauge it, another pause before he placed it in the fridge. _He used milk? A lot of it, too. How odd._ Sylar remembered after the fact how the Petrellis made their eggs, sure; different from how Sylar himself did. There was nothing wrong with that; he was actually intrigued to try eggs another way. Sylar certainly didn't want to ingest that much dairy so early so juice was his option also. _Peter will deal with it if he thinks I'm copying him._ The fridge door still open, he used that as support while he leaned in for the apple juice; _He'll drink apple, right?_ He glanced over almost in question, but Peter was occupied, so he went with it anyway, getting out glasses and pouring and placing.

XXX

Peter finished whisking while the nonstick skillet heated, then put a little butter in it because that was the way he'd been shown to do it years ago, using a cast iron skillet at Pinehearst. Or, at least, the place Peter had first associated with the name - the hunting lodge his father had taken him and Nathan to a precious few times. Like so many memories of his father, this one was mixed. That was usually as good as they got. Peter had been taken hunting as part of some sort of male bonding that he'd screwed up by not shooting the harmless deer. Nathan had killed it instead. In the absence of servants, his father had shown Peter how to cook eggs, a lesson that had stuck with him. He'd been assigned a lot of scut work on that trip. It wasn't that he minded the jobs if they needed doing, but he had the feeling that if he'd killed the deer, the work would have been divided evenly. Since he hadn't, he'd been treated as a second-class citizen – that was what grated.

He glanced back at Sylar, saying, "You should get your pills set out. They're over there on the counter. Painkillers and some decongestants. Double the dosage for the painkillers, normal for the decongestants." He wondered if he needed to explain why - body mass, metabolism, the way the drugs functioned and the effects of exceeding the recommended dosage for each all factored into it - and decided to skip it. He had his reasons and they were more complicated than he wanted to explain, which meant they were almost certainly beyond what he expected Sylar to retain. Hopefully the 'trust' would extend that far.

XXX

He'd been watching carefully, if somewhat uselessly, to make sure Peter didn't hurt himself because not only was the empath less-than-handy in the kitchen, he was short a hand. _Then he's kind of short on top of everything. Cute and petite, fiery, a nurse, he's special and he can cook…sorta. He will cook, anyway. Be still my heart. Don't worry, we'll fit together in bed; that's the important part._ Peter turned and Sylar adjusted his expression to accommodate direction. Pills. _He'd really let me handle the pills?_ (He didn't know if they were _their_ pills or not). While Peter actively cooked now, Sylar went over to the microwave to check out the doses on the back of the boxes, one in each hand. _Yes, I can see what they are, Peter, I don't need you to tell me_ , he thought in unvoiced response. He was busy frowning at the directions. The Tylenol said two pills was the serving suggestion. _Serving suggestion? Why do they call it that? It's drugs, not cookies. Is there a calorie limit, too? I mean seriously…Like I'm gonna get fat on painkillers. My liver will go before that._ A look at the decongestants; two pills, _Isn't that a lot?_ A nagging thought about how Peter was much more cognizant and able to drug him, should he so chose, circled back around. _They do help, though…_ he thought in the medic's defense, _Why are you defending him? Does he need it? No, not from me. Then let him deal with it._

XXX

The eggs cooked fast, which was fine. Peter looked back again, announcing, "Almost done. Want to have a seat?" A moment or two later, he was bringing the meal over and dishing it up while still sizzling faintly in the pan – scrambled eggs with cheese, milk, salt and pepper. Simple and good. Peter scraped out the last half into his plate before returning the pan and turning off the stove. He took his seat, quietly appreciating that the table had been set for him. It was nice having someone help.

XXX

Sylar snapped his glazed eyes from the boxes. He'd been staring and indulging mental tangents too long and Peter was finished. _Impressive. For him, that is_. He saw the eggs as Peter brought them over and they looked normal, smelled normal; having breakfast made for him was fantastic. "Yeah, I was…yeah," he nearly addressed his zone out and brought the boxes to the table. _In case Peter wants some_ , he told himself, slowly seating himself. The next challenge was his appetite because it wasn't as strong as it should be, normally was, and would otherwise be at having someone else cook for him. He sat eyeing the food, idly taking up his fork while he tried to address his stomach. His right arm once again placed on the table, he knew it would be incredibly rude if he didn't eat now. Peter wouldn't believe he simply lacked appetite all of a sudden. Then again, Peter had done weird things with the pills that seemed to be connected to if Sylar ate at all or how much he ate; so it was clearly a performance thing Peter was trying to force. Or maybe enforce, but it hardly mattered because Sylar got the feeling not eating would have more consequences than being bad mannered. That decided, Sylar took up an eggy clump and laid it on his tongue before chewing it without haste. "Hmm," he said in appreciation, his eyebrows going up a little. These were much creamier and had less pure egg taste than the ones he made himself. His taste buds woke his stomach and it rumbled embarrassingly. Sylar locked his eyes on his plate to avoid any looks sent his way about that, picking up another, bigger bite.

XXX

Peter heard that noise – both the 'hmm' and the stomach sound. Both of them made him want to preen idiotically. He smiled some, then more when Sylar dipped his head and kept his eyes down. Peter was amused at himself for being so … well. It was stupid and silly to be that easily moved by such small praise, but he was what he was and he wasn't going to apologize for it. Not like he got much of a choice on the matter anyway – he felt how he felt and that was that. He savored the nice feeling while he had it and moved on to savoring the eggs as well.

They were good, very filling and didn't require much chewing, which Peter found to be a strong advantage. There were a lot of things Peter liked to put in eggs and he spent the next few minutes contemplating that – bell peppers, sweet peppers, hot peppers even, mushrooms, broccoli, onions of course, bamboo sprouts, tomatoes, all kinds of things. He ate quietly, comfortable in the silence. Sylar's head was still down, discouraging conversation even if Peter had wanted it. He looked across the table at Sylar's hair, which had seen better days. Peter smiled again to himself. _I've defeated Sylar's hair, if not Sylar himself. I'll bet that makes me a hero to hair everywhere. Hm, what would my super-hero name be? Captain Hair? Super-Bangs? Hey, that's not bad. Then I could have a big 'bang' sound effect whenever I smacked the villain. That would be cool. I could have a neat catch-phrase about 'permanent' damage … My nemesis would be bald, like Lex Luthor …_

He wiped the semi-vacant, daydreaming smile off his face when Sylar looked up at him. Peter was sure he was too late to keep that expression from being seen, so he cleared his throat and set to his food a little more aggressively than necessary. Sylar was eating pretty slowly, so even though Peter readily speared a forkful, he pushed it around the plate fussily until he had less. He tried to pace himself, which was leaving him with more time to think than he wanted. He eyed Sylar as if he was about to speak, then changed his mind. 'What are you planning on doing today?' was a stupid question. Sylar probably had no plans at all, and even if he did, he shouldn't. He'd be best served by bed rest with minimal activity, and maybe another round of ice packs.

 _Telling him he needs to stay in bed won't go over well. And maybe that's what he plans to do anyway. I can think of other ways to phrase it, I'm sure. I'm kind of looking forward to working that puzzle. Should I say that?_ Without actually thinking out what he wanted to say, he opened his mouth and began. "I was going to go to the grocery store after we finish eating. Is there anything in particular you think I should get? I was thinking milk and another dozen eggs."

XXX

Sylar gave the inquiry a few seconds before allowing any reaction, just in case it was a trick question. It didn't appear to be. "Um…I guess whatever you eat for snacks…" _Because that way I'd know what you like to eat. Assuming you're staying around, that is…_ "If there wasn't any of…what you eat here. No cinnamon raison bread, sorry," he gave Peter an amused, jesting smirk. _Time out. Did he say another dozen eggs? Is he re-stocking my kitchen or does that mean he'll be sticking around to make more eggs, say, every morning?_ His expression faded to contemplating for a bit, but he was still focused on Peter. "Milk and eggs sound fine to me," he conceded eventually, neutrally, his thoughts still processing the egg conundrum.

"Are you looking to move in or something?" _Which is fine…more than fine, actually_. It would be great, fun maybe, when they weren't busy decking each other into unconsciousness. Or maybe that's what make-up sex was for because it wasn't like he knew anything about it. Sylar asked as he poked with purpose amidst his eggs, chewing to keep his face busy and to hide his delight at the idea. _He practically lives here anyway. He busted my door down twice, making me breakfast and getting groceries?_

XXX

Peter half choked at Sylar's question, then laughed - tense at first, then relaxing. "No," he said bluntly, unconcerned about the potential rejection he might cause. He eyed Sylar, a smile hurting his face as he tried to corral the swarm of thoughts and feelings that very casual, open question had provoked. "I guess it kind of seems like that, huh? But no, I'll leave you to yourself once I think that's safe _." Right now you can't get from bed to bathroom without help. Or rather, I figure you_ _ **could**_ _, just like you got yourself to the kitchen and helped out, but expecting you to take care of yourself unassisted right now is like expecting me to play the guitar with one hand broken. It's not gonna work._

XXX

Sylar stabbed the eggs, staring Peter down with a lot of heat. _Moving in with me is laughable. Not that we didn't know that already_. The anger of being mocked filled him up because it had nowhere to go. _You laughed at me_. Why was babysitting and making sure Sylar stayed healthy suddenly a matter of national security? It had never been before (until they'd needed him alive to test his brain, of course, for those few weeks, but after that…) _But I'm a damsel in distress. I refuse to be cast as Claire in this. I don't need fucking protection!_ That continued to simmer in his chest because his hands were tied; he wasn't healthy or capable of throwing down with Peter because Peter would probably manage to "accidentally" kill him in retaliating. _I don't think you get it, Peter! Don't laugh at the killer with a goddamn fork in his hand!_ Sylar fiddled with it, partly, seriously considering using it – _It won't kill him…_

XXX

He shook his head to further deny Sylar's implication. "My apartment's just fine for me. I spent a lot of time the other day getting it set up how I wanted." _Meaning mostly empty._ It occurred to Peter that Sylar probably wouldn't understand what Peter was trying to do there, with shoving most of the furniture and stuff into a different apartment. _**Peter**_ wasn't even sure what he was trying to do. But it felt important, like if he could just get rid of enough stuff, things would be simpler … understandable … unentangling. All of his ties had been cut, he'd lost his people, so why not throw everything else out of his life, too?

XXX

 _What the fuck does that mean?_ Strangely, the implication that a nice apartment building needed "setting up" ( _what a mobster term_ ) before it was acceptable to Prince Petrelli really got under his skin. _Another factor of not wanting to move in with a psycho pack-rat. Your apartment's a mess._

XXX

Peter shrugged, trying to pull himself back to the now and out of contemplation, however indirect, of what was really wrong with him. _Besides, you don't want me here. … Do you?_ He didn't ask that though. Either answer would spell trouble. "I figure we'll see a lot of each other, though." Circling back to the food issue, he went on, "I was just asking about groceries because I don't think you should be walking around for a while. Give it a few days. And a trip to the store gets me out of here in case you want to take a bath or change clothes." _Or lock me out. Which is kind of amazing you didn't do that last night, but maybe you forgot._

XXX

 _Is that like saying you broke my legs so I shouldn't be walking type thing? Wait_. Sylar flashed a humorless, dark smirk. _We'll be seeing a lot of each other. This wasn't what I had in mind for 'seeing each other' but whatever gets you off, Petrelli. Right, sure. Because you're just a good citizen who wants me clean….in a lot of ways, I'm sure. Days? Did he say days?_ Sylar was still watching his companion, but the glare had faded. In some ways, it was helpful and reassuring that Peter was aware of Sylar's need to have him gone to be able to bathe and change clothes. In others, it just presented more questions and confusion. _C'est la vie, Pierre_. Of course, part of him wanted to do it around Peter as a test, for amusement, to see what the man would do.

Calmly, and more smoothly than he felt with his headache, he said, "That we will," and, taking a risk, Sylar asserted, "I'm going to clean up, yeah." Peter would then stay or go as he saw fit and Sylar would defend himself or harass Peter as needed. Peter now obviously knew he'd been getting the evil eye for some time (and ignoring it admirably) as Sylar's gaze shifted back to the eggs. "What did you do to your apartment that was so important? Install a waterbed? Trampoline and slide combination? A nightlight?" _No, no, I bet it was_ "Chuck Norris or Luke Skywalker poster on the ceiling?" Which was useless now as faces were extinct. "A super-size bottle of hand lotion and a Playboy?"

XXX

 _Wow, angry asshole._ He glanced down at the boxes of pills on the table, trying to remember if Sylar had taken them. _Possible. Not likely._ 'Have you taken your pills lately?' was plenty rude, but being in pain made a person cranky and irritable. And sometimes unreasonable. Even knowing that, Peter couldn't help but smile at Sylar's ever-more-ridiculous guesses. Playing along, Peter quipped, "Chuck Norris or Luke Skywalker? I'd take Luke any day. Chuck Norris is just a brute. If you're going to kick people's asses, you need to have a good reason for it. Whose poster would you want up on your wall – you know, popular media heroes and all that?"

He completely ignored the thrust of Sylar's verbal attack as well as the intent of his questions. But he didn't ignore that there was something under those questions fueling the emotion. Something had happened … something Peter had said. _Laughing maybe? Yeah, that was when his mood changed. He wants me to move in with him. 'No more sponge bath' … 'I'm going to clean up, yeah'. Does he seriously think I'm going to take care of him to that level? He doesn't need it! What did he say the other day about me cleaning up that glass and stuff? And the reaction about dirty hands. And the glare when I asked him to go wash up. Hm. Means something. But … he doesn't want to kick me out? He wants me to move in, instead? Boundaries. Already covered he seems to have a loose grip on those. I guess a comfortable balance is a little hard for a watchmaker-turned-serial killer to manage. I think that's it._

XXX

 _And we're all thrilled you didn't take the Chuck Norris option because that would make too much sense. You want to see yourself as the fate's-ordained hero with a complex. I should have seen that one coming. Brat_ , Sylar thought of Peter's dodge. Mentally, he mimicked Peter's voice with a good deal of feminine tone to the mockery: _'Chuck Norris is a brute. If you're going to kick people's asses, you need to have a good reason for it.' I take it you had good reason, hero-breath?_ Sylar snorted as loudly and contemptuously as possible, otherwise focused on getting the eggs down but his interest in them was waning quickly.

"I'll bet." It struck him that Peter had thrown his own question back. That had him blinking a few times. _Uh…What's the context?_ he nearly thought to ask, a dodge of his own. "Darth Vader, Peter, obviously," was sneered out, glaring daggers at the innocent breakfast growing cold as he stabbed and shifted it around. He was not happy with the turn of the conversation or his answer. Foolish young Gabriel had had a host of heroes and superheroes he'd enjoyed when he could. He didn't believe in that now, having witnessed a lot of things firsthand. Sylar shifted in his seat, body tense now, uncomfortable.

XXX

"Darth Vader's cool," Peter said neutrally, finishing his eggs. "He was powerful." _While it lasted. He had a lot going on emotionally. He was kind of a scumbag, actually._ Peter's lips pressed together in a frown only momentarily broken by taking a drink of juice. There were a lot of disapproving things he could say about Darth Vader, but Sylar seemed to be (mostly?) joking and the joke was at Sylar's own expense. Peter could see the subtext - Luke tried to win Darth Vader over to the side of good, which was momentarily successful, but Vader had died immediately thereafter. He gained so little out of that moment of virtue; it was easy to see how he'd feel used … as well as how that applied to Sylar's current situation. _Save Emma, die in the process – it's a price too high_. Sylar's growing anger made Peter feel like he should apologize, or failing that, touch the guy and reassure that 'hey, I'm not against you,' but that simply wasn't true, was it?


	37. Black, White, and Gray

Day 11, Morning

 _You're such a liar. And a suck-up. And you seem almost immune to sarcasm sometimes. Vader's fine, I'm sure, but he wasn't ever what I wanted to idolize growing up. Not that you'd get that._ "Whatever, Peter." Sylar settled with gritting his jaw not to explode until his headache spiked from the pressure, then he unclenched. Badly he wanted a chance to explain, take back or deny the Vader cop-out. _I was a person, too; I was a kid once._ It made him incredibly angry that Peter, generally an all-around nice guy and comic book nerd, wouldn't be accepting of anything less than pure villainy. It wasn't just a reputation thing either – Sylar had tried several times to discredit it himself to no avail. People would believe what they would believe and he didn't come from high standing for his words to have effect. The people who arbitrated had been judge, jury and executioner; that much was consistent.

Sylar knew with a fair amount of accuracy how Peter felt about the Vader choice, hence the lying and sucking-up parts. _Or maybe Peter wasn't sucking up, maybe he was…just…being polite? Really, how else do you handle a concussed killer?_ Sharing was something he'd learned early on was dangerous because people were judged on their preferences and judgment led to the jury which led to execution. Besides, no one cared and no one listened. People didn't listen to each other and sharing was a pointless exercise that wasn't therapeutic, but painful.

XXX

Peter looked at the boxes of pills again, but could see that as the beginning of a fight, should he demand Sylar take them. Sylar was acting like he _wanted_ to pick a fight. He wanted to win one (or, rather, another, given that Peter felt Sylar had already won more than his share of fights here). Peter wasn't above taking a fall as necessary, but what could he give Sylar that would calm the guy down? _What does he want? Well, he wants me to move in and give him sponge baths, for one thing._ Peter thought through the consequences of taking a firm stand - trying to force Sylar to take his pills, coming and going without asking his permission, being authoritarian and acting like he knew better. It would be how Nathan would handle the situation, as Peter well knew. And it would only make things worse.

 _It's nice to have someone to eat breakfast with. Ah! That's the thing, isn't it? He's not upset that I wouldn't move in with him, he's upset that … he'd be alone again. He said that over and over when I first got here - how much time we were going to spend together. He thinks this is a real world - that I really could just move away and live somewhere else and leave him all alone for another what-seems-like-years to him. That … yeah, that would freak me out, too._ And Peter had something to offer and try to stem Sylar's rising anger.

"I'm not going anywhere, once you get to feeling better." He reached out and took up the nearer box of loose painkillers, shaking out four pills. "I live right across the street. There's nowhere else I'm going to be. I'm pretty sure I couldn't hack three _months_ alone, much less three years. You're going to see me all the time." He set the pills down and reached over for the box of decongestants, glancing over the back of it to remind himself of the dosage, before setting about peeling two pills out of the foil.

XXX

Peter began talking nonsense; it had nothing to do with the subject, but that was fine because it took the wind from his otherwise angry sails. Sylar exhaled roughly, the sound nearing an accepting, agreeable tone about Peter's lone survival skills. Breathing out again released the majority of the tension he held in his body as Peter went about a normal, helpful task, not making any eye contact or demands. No judgment. That was…awfully kind of the nurse. It worked its magic, though; calming him and shaking loose the real answer. As Peter worked with the pills, Sylar spoke quietly, mostly to himself, but loud enough to be heard over the rattling of the foil, "I never really thought about it, but...Batman." _N_ _o powers, just brains. Money, too, I suppose. That oath never to kill anyone, how ironic. Parents were killed. Maybe Spock, total weirdo brainiac. I always thought Luke was kind of a dummy. Does Princess Leia count? Maybe Rocky; not a lot of brains, no money and a lot of drive, odd-ball southpaw, one-trick pony, did one thing, did it well._

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar blankly for a moment as his mind worked at that one: Batman. Suddenly he grinned, which hurt his face a bit but he did it anyway. "Your favorite color is black, is that it? Batman, Darth Vader? Ha." He chuckled, amused by Sylar's choices falling into a neat category of 'dark, harsh, prone to snap judgments, emotionally repressed, dresses in black'. "But yeah, man, Batman's got it all. Superman always struck me as being a little … inhuman. Which makes sense given that he's an alien, but I never got the impression that's …" _Um, comic book talk. Rambling. Not good._ The expectation that his enthusiasm was unreturned dampened it immediately. Effusing about the backgrounds of comic book characters was generally socially inappropriate. Peter caught himself, scaled back, self-censored, and finished the about-to-be-a-monologue as briefly as he could. "That's, uh, I didn't think that was what the writers intended. It was just a feeling I had about it." He shrugged, his smile fading fast as he pushed Sylar's pills over towards him and set down the box of decongestants.

XXX

Sylar muttered, "Darth Vader was sarcasm." Obviously. Vader was opposite Luke, enough said. _This is not the time to tell him I know a kid named Luke._ He looked up at Peter from under his brows, only partly hiding his smirk about the switch to Superman. He had kind of offered superheroes as the topic so it wasn't that far off, but this was Peter…and comic books. And the guy was really into it, too. "I think he's supposed to be," he murmured, then louder, ignoring the pills for the conversation, "I mean, he doesn't really socialize and isn't that kind of the whole point of the Justice League? Intergalactic crime fighting. The only humans there are Bruce, Diana, Wally and John. He is an alien and he's got the morals of an alien, he just looks human."

He shrugged. "I thought Nathan was everyone's Superman, but I don't know what that makes you." Nathan – poster boy, looks, job, ladies, power, flight, also dead by Sylar's hand and he was now mentioning this to the guy's baby brother who'd beat his face in a few days ago. "Robin maybe? Same morals and ability of getting into unsolicited trouble." Also, Batman's sidekick, but that wasn't how he meant it. Snapping himself away from what was probably his own awkward-if-honest monologue, he returned to mumbling as he picked up the pills, rinsing them down, "Always thought he was annoying as hell." _It's perfect for you, Pete! Never mind that I think comics are immature – its harmless and he's funny when he's so into it. Dorky, even. Besides, it was something in need of correction._

XXX

Peter had a jolt and gave a grimace at the mention of his brother. His head pulled back and his back hurt as the muscles tensed, especially the small of it. He pulled in a deep breath and fingered the edge of his plate uneasily as he gave Sylar a narrow-eyed look of simmering anger. _Let's not talk about Nathan. I've told you that before - don't talk to me about my family. Wait, is he saying Nathan had the morals of an alien?_ Lips tight and jaw giving him small, shooting pains, he couldn't decide whether to say any of that or leave it alone, as Sylar didn't seem to have spoken with the intent to insult Nathan's memory. It was someone they both knew; Nathan could fly; the analogy was obvious. But most of the time, Peter still didn't think Sylar had a right to so much as speak Nathan's name. Peter winced and pushed himself up, picking up his plate and carrying it to the sink, still without speaking. It created an odd silence in the conversation.

"Not Robin," he said a bit sharply as he finished rinsing his plate. _Not fair to judge him. Always living in Batman's shadow. Me in Nathan's?_ The idea that Sylar was trying to pigeon-hole Peter annoyed him. _Is he saying I should be his sidekick? Or just that I'm annoying as hell?_ He turned around, leaning against the counter and trying to discreetly stretch the lumbar region of his back. "We're not comic book heroes or villains. None of us are. It's not that simple." His voice retained the sharp tone and Peter was irritated to hear that he'd become irritated again. Sylar was concussed; Peter was beat to hell; and they were in Sylar's apartment where Peter had taken on the role of nurse. All of that conspired to discourage Peter from even contemplating violence, which was what all the tensing up was about. "Listen, I need to get out of here; go take a walk; get some air. I'll come back in an hour or so. You have any idea what you want to eat for lunch?"

XXX

Sylar wrapped up the last of his juice in the face of Peter's baleful glare. _You've got to be kidding me_ , was all he could think about that. Laughter burst from him unexpected, sliding quickly into an unamused, hollow sound because it wasn't funny, just…startling. "That's rich, coming from Mr. Black and White," Sylar stated simply. The only color Peter saw was the rosy hue of his glasses. Peter's response was insulting, or it should have been. Peter stretched the truth just like any other Petrelli, like any other hero, so why should Sylar be surprised? _Since when am I not simply a villain in anyone's book? When did that change?_ Sylar gave him a dubious look, asking 'are you serious?' even though Peter was visibly torqued. Pity, too, that he wanted to leave because Sylar had almost been looking forward to keeping him around for…whatever came after breakfast. A whisp of unwashed hair sliding onto his bearded cheek had him pushing it back and remembering what that was – bath time.

Another downside of Peter's absence was that Peter, when bothered, was quite fun to play with when he wasn't using his fists (or maybe when he used them, too; the adrenaline rush was quite something now a days). He sighed at Peter's immaturity. _Give him a conversation he wants, I say my piece and he wigs out_. A moment of actual thought to the question, he threw out something basic, "Sandwiches? Whatever you're fixing," the tone was grumpy, but the answer seemed obvious to Sylar.

XXX

Peter scowled and then snorted at Sylar's dubious look, but honestly the man laughing had defused him a little, even if Peter was the target of it. _Message of the day: don't take yourself too seriously._ Plus, Sylar's failure to keep hitting Peter's buttons helped: not mentioning Nathan again right away, letting the Robin thing drop, not directly disagreeing, arguing or telling him he was wrong … _Fine. Let it go. He seems okay about doing that himself, really. Not what I expected. I wish he'd remember to quit bringing up certain subjects._ He still wanted to get in Sylar's face and tell him not to mention Nathan. Ever again. Peter wasn't quite angry enough to do that, though. Instead, he looked away, signaling that he, too, wanted to drop it.

Peter sighed, blowing out some tension as he listened to Sylar's surprising answer on lunch. Surprising because it was an answer - straightforward and easy even if Peter didn't know if he could chew a sandwich. _I suppose I'll find out. Maybe I can get some of that really soft, fakey white bread._ In a neutral tone, maybe a little guarded, Peter offered, "I can make a good PB&J." He watched as Sylar straightened from the table, picking up his plate. Peter moved away from the sink to be out of the way. "Or grilled cheese. I like grilled cheese." He paused to open the fridge and poke around inside, mentally adding cheese to the grocery list.

XXX

Sylar felt his lips trying for a smirk or a grin at Peter's need to specify sandwich-type and talk up his sandwich-making skills. It was completely unnecessary from his standpoint, but not to Peter, apparently. He chuckled to himself as he threw away the eggs, "Sure," he announced about either option. (He did think Peter would make grilled cheese regardless). The plate was harder to manage; he just rinsed it and didn't bother trying to scrub it with his balance.

XXX

He shut the fridge door and looked at Sylar at the sink. "You know, if I thought everything was black and white, I would have never bothered coming here for you." He frowned, not sure what he thought about what he'd just blurted out without thinking. There seemed to be a lot of implications of that statement that he wasn't sure he understood. Peter gave a short shake of his head and left the kitchen, intending to leave the apartment altogether in a few more moments, but not rushing out quite yet.

XXX

Absorbing the empath's words, Sylar frowned. That…made sense in a totally nonsensical way; in a Peter way. _Is that what makes him different? That he can see mainly in black and white, but he can see and accept….deal with the…gray? He can see me?_ An unauthorized, unplanned surge of hope tried to warm him but he reminded himself he was fucked up at the moment and took the time to remember why Peter was actually here. He wasn't here for Sylar. That brought the hope crashing down. Sylar turned to see Peter walking out so his companion missed the utterly mournful, plaintive expression on his face. That was for the best.

He followed Peter to the entryway, leaning against the wall there, probably trying to somewhat block Peter from getting to the door now he was here. Arms crossed, his expression was still dismal. "You're right," he said softly into the quiet of life, loud of mechanics room, "Congratulations, you can see a little of the shades of gray. Must be what makes you special." And he meant it – special. It was possible to live in gray and not see it, or rather, chose to ignore it like Angela and Bennet. Or was that…trying to alter the gray and make it fit the black and white?

XXX

Peter looked over his shoulder at Sylar, eyeing him and trying to judge his intent. Sylar's voice was soft and perhaps melancholy, but his individual words seemed like sarcasm even if his tone sounded sincere. It was confusing and so Peter decided that perhaps Sylar felt confused - all of those things at once were quite possible. Far be it from Peter to insist that a person had to feel only a single way at a time. People were messy, as Peter well knew.

XXX

After a moment, Sylar inhaled and went on, almost hesitant in delivery; "It's going to be a tough adjustment for you, huh? I mean…this whole world is gray now. Or, at least, I am."

XXX

 _Sylar as … gray. Sylar … Gray. Sylar Gray. Or Grey. Why do I think it's gray? Why does that seem like a name?_ He turned to face Sylar, but looked down as if lost in thought, feeling that nagging 'I can almost remember this' sensation that had preceded straying into Sylar's memories the day before. He didn't want to open that door again, but the small curiosity remained: _Is that his name? Sylar Gray? I thought it was Gabriel? No. No, he said his name was Sylar, period. So that's his name. No matter what._ And that was all Peter needed to keep that memory door shut.

He looked up and considered another angle to it: _You don't know whether you're on the side of black or white anymore? Villain or hero? 'Not the savior kind'._ "People are complicated. I get that," he added the last sentence more softly than the first one. He opened his mouth to speak of his family, then became unsure if he should, as it might encourage Sylar to talk about the Petrellis as well. Peter reached up and scratched at his nose, wrinkling it a little as he looked down, then back and forth uneasily. He exhaled a huff of air and let his face feature half a smile as he lifted his right hand. "If my face and your head are any indication, this is going to be a tough adjustment for both of us." Again he closed more quietly by adding, "We'll get through it, though. I'm … trying."

XXX

'People are complicated'. An interesting statement. One that might even be mistaken for understanding. Forever digging, Sylar thought he smelled….a distinction, maybe something along the lines of 'people are complicated…but _you_ …' _More complicated than most, I'm afraid._ The line of reasoning was otherwise lost in his fogged brain however. Sylar had been sweeping his eyes intently yet without any real effort beyond, well, understanding over the man's face, but Peter finished and his gaze dropped to the empath's knees or thereabouts while he contemplated. _Get through…what, Peter? You make it sound like there's_ _and_ _an_ _afterlife after-party I'm missing out on and there just…isn't. What you see, for once, is what you get. Me. I can understand you being…unhappy with that reality._ All that was words he wanted to say, nearly did, too. Peter addressed something even more mysterious. Oh, yes, undoubtedly Peter was trying, but what was the brat trying to accomplish? Anyone else would rest on the laurel of being the most important thing to another human being – they might even be flattered. Not Peter. Even without a crowd, the guy was still looking to blaze his own trail. Sylar could understand that even if he didn't like it so well.

Sylar nodded slowly after a long moment of thought, a flick of eye contact to tell Peter that he knew the man was trying, yes. The use of the word 'we' was foreign to Sylar, who heard plenty of 'you', but Nathan was more used to hearing a 'we'. Sylar didn't know what to say to any of it, so he said nothing about it aside from his earlier nod. "You don't have to leave, you know," he said of Peter 'getting some air.'

He was exhausted and filthy – the idea of a bath, while something he reserved for special occasions like injuries and severe stress relief, was kind of girly. Mainly he hoped he didn't fall asleep and drown during said bath. _Peter said not to shower, though_ , he prompted himself when he thought of showers. _I know that._ His thoughts came singularly, like a spinning lighthouse shining out in a storm. _Maybe I should invite him in?_

XXX

Peter tilted his head slightly, accompanied by a small rise of his left brow. "Yeah?" Trying to work out Sylar's motives, he mentally reviewed, as best he could, the short exchange preceding breakfast. Sylar had asked for space, but he'd just woken up. Maybe it made a difference that they'd gotten through a meal on civil terms? Though they almost hadn't … yet that, too, might be a help. Peter had gotten angry and it hadn't resulted in Sylar getting punched in his overly large schnoz. It was a small proof Peter was getting better. His frustration at being stuck here, at his mission being derailed due to his own stupidity, had combined badly with his already not-very-latent hostility towards Sylar.

 _Do you want me here? Do_ _ **I**_ _want to be here? Do I want to be helping you in the bathroom if you've been trying to make moves on me? Do I want to risk you having an accident in there because I'm too squeamish and uneasy about you making moves on me?_ It was a conundrum Peter wasn't up to working out at the moment, not least of which because he didn't know what was likely to happen should he volunteer to help. Despite his usual lack of curiosity about powers and the world at large, he had quite a lot about _people_. What, exactly, was Sylar implying with 'You don't have to leave'? Sylar covered his ass exceedingly well, saying things that were open to a lot of interpretation and then waiting to see how it was taken.

"You need some help getting to the bathroom?" Peter offered, stepped forward and extending his right arm off to the side, pantomiming the motion he'd use to put the arm around Sylar's waist while Sylar's left arm would go over Peter's shoulder. It ran through Peter's head that he'd washed people's hair in basins many times as a hospice aide. It wasn't that hard and it was much safer than risking a fall in a shower. And then there was the possibility of a sponge bath - a real one, not just cleaning the hands. Or not cleaning at all - routine cleaning of the skin was overrated. Aside from cleaning soiled areas, it was largely unnecessary, carried out as a soothing routine rather than something people needed for the maintenance of life. But, then again, soothing routines were pretty important. On the other hand, Peter had not offered any of these other solutions to Sylar and Sylar hadn't said what he was going to do except for his previous expression of intent to shower and shave.

He supposed he could always ask. "What are you going to do, so I know what I can help with?" _Or if I should just stay out of your way._

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar answered at first. Peter went on about…helping. _Who said anything about help? Is that what you think I'm asking for or what I want or…is that just what you wanna do? Why do you need to know what I'm gonna do? Worried I'll have a fun time without you, just me and my hand?_ Sylar was forced to reconsider the cons of having Peter in the bathroom. _Is this one of those 'help me by putting me out of my misery' things?_ He didn't think so, but it was still very much on the table whether Peter acted the part or not.

Sylar longed to snap back 'I'm concussed, not a fucking invalid!'…or something along those lines. The actual thoughts were fuzzy, the words not taking shape in his head, but his feelings were a bit clearer.

In the meantime, Sylar just blinked, processing the actual question after his stupidly (somewhat necessary) emotional tangents. "I- um…" _Why do you have to be so fucking helpful? And….specific? Just play your part!_ He hadn't prepared for a Q-and-A session as usual. More importantly, he was trying to think why or what he could use Peter for in this instance. The list was short. All he was going to do was shave and bathe; sure Peter could be useful in a one-handed sort of way in removing clothes and avoiding slippage, but unless Peter was going to play barber, he would be useless. Then he contemplated the whole issue of nudity and his odds of success if he proposed it – was it likely to get him nothing or everything? _Knowing him? Nothing._

Of course, none of this told him Peter's limits and surely the guy had some. Lots, probably. Maybe this was a test. "Just…shower and shave." _Clean my hair because that will bug me if you're sticking around._ The beard was merely impolite if a bit bothersome. Quid pro quo, "What did you want to help me with?" Sylar's hands dropped away from resting against his biceps, arms at his sides now, opening his body and straightening while he leaned on the wall still.

XXX

Peter hesitated, sizing up Sylar's body language. He stopped his approach altogether, not sure what he was getting from Sylar, which was true on more levels than Peter was aware of. His arm, the one that had been extended, returned to his side. "I was going to help you get to the bathroom. As far as maneuvering around in there - it's kind of cramped. I would suggest you put the toilet seat down, put a towel across your lap, and I'll get you the razor. As far as showering …" Peter shrugged and shook his head. "If you're having trouble making it across the room," _and I've noticed you're still leaning against the wall right now, even though you're trying to act like you aren't,_ "then I don't think it's a good idea for you to try to take a shower."

At that point, Peter had to think about things. All of his hospice patients - not that there had been that many of them during his six or so months of holding down the job - had been aged. Those who weren't bed-bound were strongly encouraged to manage their own hygiene. It kept them mobile and independent, as well as letting him focus on the things they needed help with rather than the ones they didn't. But Sylar's main problem seemed to be balance; secondary was memory and focus. Peter didn't worry too much that Sylar would zone out while showering, but a fall? Yeah, that worried him.

His hang-up though was in what to offer instead, or at least what to suggest, because he wasn't going to stop Sylar from attempting a shower if the man was determined that was what he wanted. Peter … just flat didn't want to wash Sylar's hair for him, so he wasn't going to offer that. He'd gotten a moment's odd thrill out of Sylar's appreciation for having his hands cleaned, but Peter couldn't imagine that a more intimate body service like hair-washing wouldn't come with baggage that he didn't want - precisely because other than balance and memory, Sylar was basically competent. Or at least he seemed that way most of the time. Sylar would have comments; he'd probably take the whole thing wrong; it was way more friendly than Peter wanted to get with the only inhabitant of Planet Sylar.

Peter made a 'what can you do' gesture with his hands, turning them palm up and shrugging them out to his sides. "But if you want to try it, or a bath, I can either take off or stay and work the puzzle until you're back out and settled. You tell me what you're going to do."

XXX

Sylar felt frustration; the head rush of being flattered; the interest of a challenge; the stunned pang of being insulted and the sheer annoyance of someone who just…wouldn't. play. along. Peter was placing decisions and preferences, hell, _wants_ on _Sylar's_ plate, shoving them directly in his lap. Sylar was struggling with finally getting something that he wanted; as usual, it came with the fine print of what was appropriate and acceptable in the eyes of others (in this case, Peter). He didn't know what to do with the choice. Again, he had to consciously take the braver step after thinking it over. Around a closing throat, he said, "You can stay." It would show trust…or a complete disregard for Peter's potential for being dangerous.

That said, he didn't know what to do next. Peter kept bringing up the shower option and Sylar was glad he was too mentally blown to process that accurately, otherwise he'd take it as a challenge, a dare, or maybe even a threat. So he stood there, body posture shifting again as he tried to gather his thoughts.

XXX

Peter got another dose of weird body language from Sylar, which Peter decided meant exactly what it looked like - a mixed bag of reactions. It seemed a little high energy for someone with as bad a concussion as Sylar had, which meant something Peter was doing was setting the man off. Peter tilted his head to the side slightly, feeling out in his mind if he should back out, back away, and let Sylar take care of himself.

Peter imagined what it would be like: _You're uncertain, not able to think three steps ahead, trapped here with the guy who beat the crap out of you and you killed his brother. He said, 'You can stay'. Odd tone of voice. Mixed body language._ Something nonverbal in Peter's head clicked to 'take charge', his own demeanor kicking over entirely to the new role. "Okay," Peter said briskly with an easy calm. "Come on. Let's get you to the bathroom and I'll hand you the razor. While you're working on that, I'll get the bath going and you can handle the rest yourself." He gestured at the work table where the puzzle was. "I'll be out here."

With that said, he stepped forward into Sylar's bubble and started the process of getting the guy where he wanted him. He was aware that what he was doing reeked of a sort of threat, but Peter wasn't thinking about that, or second-guessing his instincts. He was, in his own way, mirroring Sylar in that he was taking the plunge, unexamined and unsure, but unlike Sylar, Peter wasn't entertaining his doubts. He didn't even have them to ignore.

XXX

Peter drew closer, his hands and arms not in positions for attack or even grabbing, so Sylar didn't react much to it beyond standing a bit taller. The medic took charge of his body, situating himself to assist Sylar around, nothing more. Despite the innocent intentions of the touching, even through clothes as it was, it had Sylar's brain hot and buzzing with little explanation. It was about then he processed the words. _Peter's coming in with me? To the bathroom? Uh-oh…._ Then he felt like a lamb being led to slaughter and his breathing picked up. He did not want to be trapped in a tiny space like this with how many sharp, hard objects to bounce off of with Peter Petrelli.

Sylar exhaled through his nose. Something about 'I'll get the bath going and you can handle the rest yourself' was bothering him unduly and he couldn't figure it. That was terrifying, not even knowing what was a threat and what wasn't. He couldn't plan anything, let alone a defense if Peter decided to blindside him.

They walked together into the bathroom and Sylar clung to the sink counter, almost refusing to budge. "I-I can…get my own bath," was all his brain had to suggest, not thinking it through because he didn't know if he wanted to get it himself or even if he could get it himself. _Maybe that's why Peter offered…?_ An inner voice whispered to him, but he ignored it. "I'm not…." Next his vocabulary failed him, the word 'invalid' escaping him. Mainly he just had to prove he wasn't going to let Peter bulldoze him into who-knew-what. Bath – water - drowning – Peter (nudity). _How am I gonna get naked with him…hovering?_

XXX

Peter got Sylar just inside the bathroom before the man balked, disengaging abruptly to cut in front and hang onto the sink. Peter hesitated a moment, not sure if Sylar had pulled up short because he was afraid, angry, or just decided he'd rather have the sink for balance than Peter. After a second or two of no movement, Peter stepped around the man, trailing his hand over the fabric of his shirt above the lower back. "Coming around behind you now," Peter warned, edging around Sylar. He put the toilet lid down and looked at the tub: no handicap bar, no showerhead extension. Not that he'd expected either in an apartment inhabited by a young person, but you never knew. Plus, it wasn't like it was an ordinary apartment. Or an ordinary person.

Peter looked back, catching Sylar eyeing him from the mirror, accompanied by Sylar making a rapid shift away from eye contact. _Probably not anger, definitely not just getting his balance. That leaves fear._ It seemed reasonable. Peter's job, then, was to follow his script and avoid making unexpected moves. Sylar would calm down on his own, or not (Peter knew there was a limit to how long Sylar would stay on the high alert he seemed on without lashing out). "Kay, I'm going to get the razor." He sidestepped past Sylar once more, again signaling his course with physical contact, and then removed himself from the bathroom entirely.

XXX

Sylar couldn't help sucking in air as Peter's hand drifted over his lower back. The gesture was either a simple 'here I am' or a statement of intent, like 'I'm going to be here soon, don't get comfortable'. While it spiked his adrenaline, it also felt good. When Peter left, he was able to calm a bit. Slowly he moved to sit on the toilet seat, but Peter had beaten him to it and moved the seat cover down so he could sit. While it was kind, it was also annoying – independence not being easy to let go of. With a huffed breath, he sat as directed, thinking he was fairly safe and clothed once there.

The main problem, he was beginning to suspect, was in not knowing what he himself wanted from all this. He either wanted Peter a lot closer and a lot more helpful or a lot farther away, minding his own business. It was safety versus neediness. As usual.

XXX

Peter collected up the razor, all of a couple steps away, and fiddled with it for as long as conscionable. He looped up the cord and shifted the device back and forth, checking it over to make sure he'd wiped it down sufficiently to remove his own stubble leftovers from it. Certain he'd wasted as much time as he could without raising questions, and having heard Sylar maneuver to the toilet, Peter returned.

"You got a plug …" He looked around the sink and mirror, spotting the outlet he needed. "There. Let me just get you a towel to put over your lap and you'll be all set." He fetched one, then got out of the bathroom again, going over to loiter behind the work table. The bathroom door hung open because Peter hadn't closed it. He assumed Sylar would do that once he was done shaving. Or maybe hook it with one of his long legs and kick it shut. In the meanwhile, Peter stared blankly at the puzzle box, the whole of his attention actually devoted to careful listening.

XXX

Peter set him up as promised then vacated. Sylar stared first at the razor in his hands, then at Peter (what he could see of him). It was all rather anticlimactic. The door stood open and that more than anything confused him. _Does he want to keep an eye on me? Watch me strip? Not lock the door so he can barge in once I'm naked in a full tub?_ After a moment, he realized he'd forgotten his first task and that he could think (try to) while he shaved. Cutting on the machine, he started on his right cheek first, using his left hand. The vibrations weren't pleasant in his wrist, but whatever. It felt strange to be shaving without a mirror – he'd done it before while on the run – but thankfully his balance issues didn't really extend to proverbial hand-eye coordination.

So he stared at the wall holding the towel racks in front of him and tried to multi-task, thinking and shaving. _Am I…supposed to shut the door? Will it piss him off if I leave it open?_ As he manipulated the razor around and the instrument was brought closer to his facial bones, the buzzing hit his headache and he made an unhappy sound, forgetting his audience. _Crap. Now my head's really buzzing._ His neck was easier and faster and the last thing to be shaved; his lap held a very hairy towel, which he folded up to deal with later. Taking his time standing, he cast a look Peter's way. He was pretty sure the shave job was patchy and insufficient, but it would have to do.

Sylar began to peel and pull his shirt off, lost his balance and thumped his shoulder into the wall with a grunt, still tangled in the shirt. _Get it together!_ He snapped at himself, annoyed by his own clumsiness. Growling under his breath, he managed to sit and get the shirt off. Next, he inched off the pajama pants and tossed them on the shirt, making a pile on the floor. Underwear was obviously last and the toilet seat was cold on his butt once they were off and that was right about the time he noticed the bath wasn't going yet. _Being smart really has its advantages, eh, Gabe?_ A swear word and some careful maneuvering involving flailing arms and legs to keep balance had the water running on warm, slowly filling the plugged tub.

XXX

When Peter heard the steady operation of the razor, he opened the box for the puzzle and sorted through the pieces without dumping them out. He looked across the desk at the chair, still sitting in front of the couch where he'd last been using it. For the moment he was content to stand, which was more about his subconscious being unwilling to calm and settle while he was still worried about Sylar.

The razor stopped and Peter went back to listening carefully. A thud and a vocalization got his attention. Peter leaned out to look in. It hadn't been a fall and he could see Sylar struggling out of his shirt, making a variety of unhappy noises. Peter smiled and leaned back. Sylar's grumbling was human and heart-warming, a weird way to feel about _Sylar_ of all people. Clothes were tossed off, landing on the floor of the bathroom. Only when Sylar's pajama pants joined them did it occur to Peter that Sylar was going for the full monty with the bathroom door wide open. He blinked in the direction of the small room, eyes a little wider than they should be, watching as Sylar's feet kicked into and out of view, to be followed by the sound of the tub turning on.

 _Huh. I wonder what he looks like completely naked?_ He tried not to think that, but the thought had already fired through his synapses.

XXX

The door stood open. Sylar left it that way because Peter left it that way. He certainly wasn't going to be shy about things. If Peter wanted to look, he'd look; if he wanted to come in, he'd do it. If it made things awkward for Peter, so much the better – that would just be fair play. The sound of the water was positively narcotic. Sylar sat on the toilet, not jumping in just yet because he'd hated sitting in the rising water as a child while his mother watched him like an overexcited hawk. _/"I got to the bathroom just in time. She was holding you at the bottom of the tub"/ No one wants to be the monster's mother. Can you blame them?_

XXX

Regardless of the direction Peter wanted his thoughts to move, his hindbrain had him staring into the bathroom fixedly, waiting, while a more advanced portion of his brain tried to remind him that patients were patients and Sylar very much fell into that category, or else he wouldn't be hanging out here in the guy's apartment, fixing him meals and dispensing pills. His train of thought was finally broken by motion, and the leading edge of a tall, nude form entering his field of view. He snapped his gaze downward to the puzzle, hurriedly flipping a few straight-edged pieces into the box lid and trying to pretend he'd been sorting them all along.

Various sounds - shower curtain rings squeaking against the metal bar, water splashing - informed him that Sylar had settled, apparently without taking a nose-dive. Peter reached up and rubbed his brow with his left hand, feeling oddly stressed by the whole situation, a lot more than he thought he should be. _Must be something to do with this all being Sylar's head. Must be._ He gave himself a shake and made a single, guarded glance up through his fingers towards the bathroom. Yep, Sylar was in there, with a line of sight straight at where Peter was standing now. Peter's chest felt tight with the awkwardness of the situation. Sighing, and keeping his eyes very much to himself, he rounded the desk and went to retrieve the chair. He might as well get settled in.


	38. Water Torture

Day 11, Morning

Sliding into the almost-too-hot water had his stomach tickling or clenching, it stung his hip and knee and fried his toes; once in, he felt great. Of course, it wasn't going to be wholly relaxing with the door open…Sylar couldn't decide if the heat was helping his headache or sharpening it. With eyes half open, he observed the water pouring from the spout, thinking only briefly if Peter had watched him or cared. _I'm not gonna ask if he liked what he saw._ Peter's ever-professional demeanor was going to drive Sylar further up a wall or it was going to be fun to get rid of. It was getting in the way of Sylar's fun currently. _Who'd have thought he'd be a stick in the mud?_

Idly, his hand rubbed at his chest while he mainly tuned out, feeling himself melt. The water rose and he eventually turned the handle with his foot to shut it off, far too lazy and head-achy to sit up and do it. _Why didn't I think to do this before? Athletes take ice baths and get massages after working out and competing._ Given his size, though, sinking in as far as he would have liked (up to his neck, at least to his pecs) was difficult and left his knees poking up above the rim of the tub with his feet near the drain.

Sylar called out, purely to rattle and irritate his companion, "Peter, you need to try one of these. It's counteracting your fighting skills."

XXX

"Try one of what?" Peter asked sullenly, not looking into the bathroom as he maneuvered the rolling chair back to its original position behind Sylar's worktable. He sat down in it, inwardly regretting his snappish tone. The open bathroom door was bugging the crap out of him, far out of proportion to what it was. Nudity bothered him not a bit, but all Peter could figure was that this showing off was an extension of Sylar making moves at him - either that or some passive aggressive 'you didn't shut the door so I won't' thing. What was bugging him was his uncertainty as to how to respond to it - look?, don't look?, act normal?, go shut the door himself?, what? If he was talking to the guy, though, then he was going to look at him, even though he figured Sylar was trying to bait him into just that. So he looked. He could see Sylar's head and face, along with the tops of his shoulders. From his angle, that was all Peter could see, but to be that slouched down in the tub, Sylar had to be somewhat scrunched up. He supposed he was relieved.

XXX

"A bath, Peter." Sylar was smug in his amusement, shifting his eyes towards Peter enough that he could see that the man was looking at him ( _Interesting…_ ) but Sylar couldn't see the exact expression on the man's face. That had him smirking slightly, facing forward again, sinking further into the bath to try to partially hide it.

XXX

Peter blew air out his nose and shuffled the puzzle pieces mindlessly for a moment. He frowned sourly and ignored Sylar's implication that Peter hadn't been bathing. _If it weren't for being here taking care of_ you _, I'd be down at the hot tub at that hotel, soaking it up._ "I beat you up because I was _angry_. It wasn't so you'd be laid up. There was no _plan_. My plan sucks. Don't have a plan." He shook his head and dumped the puzzle pieces out of the lower part of the box, spreading them out and flipping any straight-edged pieces he came across into the box lid. He thought bitterly about recounting, yet again, his mission to have Sylar return with him to save Emma, but it seemed pointless to assert to someone who didn't even believe there was anywhere else to return _to_.

Watching his puzzle pieces as he sorted out the edge pieces and started flipping the rest pattern up, he said, "I'm not a 'planning' guy. I find out what I need to do and then I go do it. It's that simple." _I just usually don't get stranded in people's heads in the process._ All that planning and premeditation struck him wrong in a moral sense. It was too much machination, too inherently manipulative. His father had strongly endorsed complicated, long-range plans; he called them 'strategy'. Nathan had followed along, most of the time rather blindly, which Peter thought invalidated the whole purpose. There was no point in working out your personal goals if they all boiled down to following orders.

XXX

Sylar burst out chuckling, not really interested in holding it back. _Planning? How did we get on planning?_ "No shit, Petrelli." That was so funny and stupid Sylar couldn't think of anything more to say for a while, too busy enjoying Peter's random tangent. Sylar raised a wet hand to comb it into his scalp, the heat starting to make sweat start to prick on any dry skin. His face was next to be swiped, then his neck. Now it was beginning to feel weird to hold a conversation while he was in the bath; that basic instinct of talking while naked starting to get to him. _Oh, well._ "Of all the things you could plan for, getting me a bath wasn't on your list," he chuckled again; _I wish._

XXX

"Sylar … that's why I'm _here_." Peter turned to face the bathroom, looking straight at him. "Do you not get it?" Peter asked peevishly, being less reserved with his comments than he usually was, not that he was a model of restraint when it came to telling people how he felt. "I'm sticking around here to help you take care of yourself - to make _sure_ you take care of yourself. Concussion victims have a bad habit of lying around doing nothing if they aren't watched and st- motivated." He caught himself from using the standard medical term, 'stimulated', which he didn't think Sylar would take right.

XXX

He could feel Peter's gaze trying to bore some sense into the side of his face – Sylar knew Peter. He knew that look. There were different ways to handle it, depending on how much he wanted to placate, play along and make a move later, let it bounce off unheard, or just plain send the glarer into a rage. He settled for a combination of playing along and letting it bounce off because Peter's whole rant made little sense as usual, that and he'd heard it before (and it still didn't make sense). _I should have shut the door._ That was his hacked off thought about the situation. _I could have been having peace and quiet in privacy._

Then Peter really hit it: _Motivated, huh? You make me fucking lay down, rest and let you do everything and I'm LAZY?_ Not that the theme was a new one. In all honesty, he should have seen it coming, especially with Peter's whole channeling-of-Virginia thing.

XXX

His tone short and sharp, Peter went on, "I am here to make sure that you eat. To make sure you take medications that will help you feel better. To make sure you take basic care of yourself. _And_ in case you have an accident. So yes, as a matter of fact, having you take a bath was on the list. I just didn't figure you'd do it until tomorrow," he huffed.

 _Of course he doesn't get it! He's got a fucking concussion, Peter._ He gave an exasperated, purely mental sigh. _Maybe I ought to go take a walk. Maybe he'll be out of the bath with the fucking door closed when I get back. Or maybe he'll have slipped trying to get out, fell and brained himself on the edge and then drowned in the freaking tub - that would be just my stupid luck_. For the moment, the unreality of the world wasn't on Peter's mind.

XXX

Sylar appeared to calmly get out his bar of soap from the tray and shower cover he had. Inside he was seething and doing his best to think of horrible things he could do to Peter with the soap. Continuing with his same thought process as before: _And filthy, too. And stupid_. Sitting up a bit, he went about soaping up, starting with his legs. And just to really send Peter over the edge of sanity, he began to whistle ' _Hound Dog_ ' at low volume – for now. It was fitting. He took another side-glance at Peter lest the man be eyeing him while he soaped up because that would blow holes in Peter's 'I'm not interested' stance he had trouble hanging onto…

XXX

Sylar ignored him; Peter blinked in the man's direction a few times, rolled his eyes a little and went back to the puzzle, ignoring him back. _Leave the fucking door open and want to talk to me and argue about things and … wait, did he start the argument or did I? Are we even arguing? I think we're just sniping at each other. Or maybe I'm just sniping at him. Yeah, that's a great idea, Pete - lecture the guy who has an altered mental state. I'm sure that will totally work for you, right?_

He frowned at the puzzle pieces, completing his initial sort and staring at the straight edges, wondering which ones went where, given that they were inside the lid that he needed to look at. Sylar's whistling caught his ear at that moment and he looked towards the source of the sound. A vision of his mother came to Peter's mind, talking to him with a pleased smile, some fifteen or twenty years before, about how much she'd loved Elvis when she was younger. He stared blankly at the bathroom for a moment before jerking his eyes away. Sylar was doing nothing worth watching - just washing up as far as Peter could tell. The lyrics did not immediately make an impression, but the tune was an earworm.

XXX

Once his body was clean, it was time for shampoo. Convenient that he had to get his hair wet in the waxier, soapy water…Again, lack of or bad planning was biting him in the ass. Sylar quit whistling after a few renditions of the main verse, dipping to wet his hair, clearing his eyes and going about the shampoo. Another check Peter's way as he did it, both arms raised to get all the sections of his head, which didn't appreciate the tilting and angling. He seriously debated making some sort of panicked noise or appearing to 'stay under' too long to freak Peter out. He didn't because Peter would probably come over and get a real view (if he hadn't already), but the idea of CPR was tempting. He went back under to rinse, spitting suds from his mouth, swiping his face to clear it, too.

Not to be 'lazy' and linger, he braced his foot and made a bit of a controlled lunge for the towels hanging near his head on the wall, succeeding in grabbing one. It had his head spinning to the point of dizziness and his hip complaining. Recovering, he took a moment to think how he would get out. He wanted a body-rinse in the shower to get off all the suds from the water and remaining stubble, so he leaned to unplug the tub and begin the draining process.

XXX

The different splashing noises earned glances towards the bathroom - just a basic awareness of what was going on, in case there was trouble. Otherwise, Peter was starting to zone out. Something about 'hound dog' and 'crying all the time' and 'high class' was running through his mind. He tried to recall the rest of the words, remembering having done a few Presley songs on the guitar but having a tough time, at the moment, working out if this had been one of them. Even if he hadn't played this one in particular, he figured he might be able to pick out the notes, with no real limit to the time available to practice, or to think he was practicing.

He had a few straight-edged pieces on the table that he was pushing around, but he'd let himself be distracted and it wasn't like he was in any hurry. Focusing again, he began a more purposeful project of carefully shoving aside all the interior pieces so as to create a space to transfer the edge pieces into and thus free up the lid so he could see the picture. He heard the plug get pulled from the tub, or rather, the resulting noises of cavitation.

Two things struck him one on top of the other: first, Sylar was going to be getting out of the tub and the look/don't look dilemma was still in force; second, Sylar had picked that song for a reason. One of the other lyrics surfaced from his memory all of a sudden - 'you ain't no friend of mine'. "Damn," Peter whispered, wishing he could remember the rest of it, then almost as quickly deciding that he probably didn't want to know. It was most likely insulting. He felt more deeply stung than he wanted to admit that Sylar was probably passive aggressively reminding him that they were enemies and he hated him. Peter shook his head, shoved the chair back, and got to his feet. This was an excellent time to go get a drink, or otherwise fiddle around in the kitchen.

XXX

When the tub was drained or nearly so, Sylar sat up, dropping the towel to the floor, and moved to the middle of the tub, swishing the curtain about halfway and turning on the shower nozzle. He had to move back a bit to get the spray to hit his head and front, the water disorienting, but eventually the rinse was a success.

XXX

Peter had hardly reached the entry to the kitchen when he heard the shower kick on. It was like Sylar had been waiting for his attention to wander and that thought - that Sylar might in fact be _trying_ to hurt himself so he could guilt Peter with having failed - propelled Peter back faster than he should have moved. His head pounded from the sudden surge and he felt dizzy as he gripped the frame of the bathroom door. The shower curtain was partly pulled, obscuring his sight, but he could see Sylar wasn't even standing up. The imagined, deliberate self-endangerment was merely a figment of Peter's imagination. After a few seconds of watching the back of Sylar's darkly haired head dip in and out of view as the man rinsed off, Peter gave himself a shake and returned to his seat at the worktable, all thoughts of getting a drink or politely absenting himself having been driven from his mind by the moment of near-panic.

 _Sylar. Showering. Rinsing. Water running down his body._ Peter tried to focus on the edge pieces he was moving out of the box lid. That was really hard to do for some reason.

XXX

After a quick rubdown, Sylar turned off the water completely. The curtain was shoved back and he leaned out to get the towel again, maneuvering with slippery difficulty to get his left leg over the rim to the outside. It was more difficult than it looked and his head being lower than his knees every so often, the effort his heard had to put into pumping was making him dizzy, but not dangerously so. He was so not playing up to Peter's paramedic background – needing saving from the tub like a little old lady. He managed to push himself to straddle the rim (which was now freezing in comparison to the warmer material of the inside of the tub – freezing him in places that failed to appreciate the temperature difference, drawing a hiss from him), still clutching the towel in a death grip; he used it to cover himself decently. It was easier to brace himself on the far wall and spin to get his right leg on the outside so he sat on the rim.

He had either the worst or the funniest image: _/Ripping the buttons of the jacket he wore as a shirt, yanking off shoes and socks to turn on the shower as he jumped in, his jeans still very much on. A fast dip to get his hair and torso wet, he snatched a hand towel and ran for the door, already annoyed by the knocking because he knew the irritating source on the other side; what with her "Gahbrielle"-ing. Adrenaline was high, his brain buzzing most pleasantly at having conquered and dominated – ridding himself of a threat, really, a step closer to completing his goal. He slowed enough to open the door. "I didn't hear you with the water running; is everything okay?" He'd added some fake hard breathing while he pretended to dry his hair, baring his chest all the more to her former-nun's innocent eyes. It worked like a charm and he enjoyed the whole ten seconds of silence and lusty, devoted attention./ Guess that answers whether or not I walk out wet_ , Sylar sniggered to himself, wrapping the towel around his hips.

Smug, still dizzy and heat-baked with a blasting headache, he padded right out of the bathroom.

XXX

Peter heard Sylar getting out of the tub, but he wasn't paying any attention to it. Sure, he would have perked up, maybe even jumped into action had Sylar fallen, but it didn't happen and so his thoughts continued unhindered. His brain was totally fuzzed up with his imagination filling in what he wasn't seeing behind the curtain, troubled about Sylar hating him and being unwelcome, troubled about having lectured Sylar stupidly and rudely, troubled about whether he needed to worry about Sylar hurting himself on purpose and trying to nail down why he'd even think that. It was too much to process, so he sat there, absently rubbing the edges of a particular puzzle piece.

A part of his brain perked up at Sylar's entry to the room. Sylar's very presence was a vague threat and there were too many mixed signals for Peter to discount it. Plus, there was that burning curiosity in his head, working at him, wondering what he'd see. Peter decided immediately to satisfy that urge rather than sit there consumed by it. Sylar had left the door open; walked out; apparently he didn't mind being seen. _Whatever_. Peter turned and looked, for as long as he thought he could politely get away with, which wasn't long. Head (bruised face); wet, hairy chest; nice stomach (bruised over one hip); black towel; thighs; calves; feet (reddened skin on the toes of one foot); and back up his eyes went, no faster or slower, just a steady, quick once-over. Or twice over. His eyes went last to the hand holding up the towel. The cloth wasn't tied off or tucked - just held. Kind of … precarious. Peter turned back to his puzzle.

XXX

Peter looked up immediately which was gratifying as was the look, head to toes to head again, all with the Peter version of a non-expression. He didn't miss the glance at where he held the towel, either. _Uh-huh, Peter. Not interested at all, are you, big boy._ Sylar wanted to smirk, but didn't because that was a solid point for him – his face was probably smug anyway. When Peter had looked his fill and returned his gaze to the table, Sylar went about his way, walking by the watch table Peter sat at to get to his dresser on the other side. He paused, though, to look the puzzle over. Peter wasn't finished getting the outline out yet, but Sylar thought he'd imbue some wisdom for when he did. "The pros use color- or shape-organization in groups of six, by the way." Then went on his way for clothes.

XXX

Peter swayed away when Sylar stopped to look over his shoulder, far enough away that Peter couldn't feel the heat that he knew was probably radiating off the man's skin. He could certainly smell him and Peter wasn't usually all that sensitive to such things. But freshly washed, virtually steaming, right next to him? Yeah, Peter was not a stone, even if all sorts of parts of him were perking up about the awkward situation.

He kept himself from snapping something argumentative and bitchy, because he knew that was just frustration wanting to talk. He kept telling himself there was nothing to be frustrated about, even if he desperately wanted Sylar to get his clothes on and stop acting _weird_. Even more he wanted to stop his brain from helpfully and eagerly suggesting that _**now**_ was a perfect time for Sylar (or someone else, like … someone helpful and considerate) to apply ben-gay to Sylar's undoubtedly sore muscles, or reapply the wrap to the man's wrist, or … whatever. Peter tried to ignore all of that, his forefinger and thumb having long since found the center of rotation for the puzzle piece in his hand, the same one that had been there minutes before, spinning it slowly and jerkily as he continued to endure this freaking water torture going on behind him.

 _He's an asshole. He's a serial killer. He's a psyc- he has mental issues - he's got to. He's messed up. He's compromised. He can't be trusted. He's doing this on purpose. He's trying to get to you. Shake it off. Ignore it. Do your job. Focus!_ He set down the puzzle piece at last and started to reach for another, then changed his mind and dumped the entire lid, beginning to flip those that had landed upside down, right side up. He got faster as he went, mind slowly pulling itself out of the gutter as his self-talk finally had the desired effect.

XXX

Sylar found a problem. Well, more than one, but they fit under the sub-heading of 'one problem'. _Well, I can't ask Peter to stand up and do it. He'll think I'm…Uh…I could…kneel down….but with the towel…Bend do- no, I'll fall over. And Peter's right there. Crouch?...That'd be worse. Maybe hold the…dresser? And ease down or…something?_ So there he stood, in front of his dresser, slowly getting goosebumps from being wet and drying in the cooler room while still dripping due to the dilemma.

XXX

Peter glanced back, out of the corner of his eye, wondering about the continued inactivity. It occurred to him he was a lot more calm about having Sylar unobserved behind him than he had been even a few days before, but perhaps Sylar's condition and relative nakedness had a lot to do with that. But why was Sylar just standing there? "You okay, man?" he asked in a low voice, head canted to the side, looking at Sylar out of the corner of his right (good) eye.

XXX

"Uh," he grunted. _Maybe just…get my jeans?_ Sylar pivoted to look around for the pair from the other day, "Where are my…" he whispered to himself. _Those were dirty anyway. New jeans?…I need clothes! I just need to get dressed! Can I even get into jeans by myself? Who cares? I am not asking him for help._ He wobbled his way to the closet, settling for 'plan B' of jeans and button-ups instead of the easier, more comfortable, yet inaccessible pajamas. Opening the door, looked at jeans and a shirt. He would still be missing his undershirt, boxers, and socks, but he could go commando, right? Sylar adjusted his towel, firmly tucking an end under to hold it up. It freed up a hand to get out the clothes and shut the closet door whereupon he walked back to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat again. His headache was only getting worse and he was getting tired, but there was nothing for it. He had to dress. What about the door? Shut it now or…

XXX

 _Changing out of pajamas, I see_ , Peter thought, watching Sylar's progression with clothes. _Does he think he's going to get out and about today? Or does he want to defend himself better? Should I say something or mind my own business?_ He exhaled voluminously, gave his head a slight shake, and finished flipping his puzzle pieces. He hooked a couple obvious pieces together and then looked at the four corner pieces, figuring out where two of them went for sure. The other two were less easily determined, but he took a guess and put them down on opposite corners. They had to be somewhere.

He watched as Sylar finished wobbling into the bathroom, moving carefully so as to hold clothes and not lose his towel at the same time, or so Peter supposed. _Really, he should have just left the fucking towel in the bathroom. If he doesn't want me to see him, then why is he parading around?_ "Sylar, please shut the bathroom door." That 'please' cost him, but he got it out anyway. He couldn't do anything about the somewhat grating tone of voice though.

XXX

Sylar growled underneath an exhale. _Fine!_ Was his immature response while 'Yes, dear!' would have been his answer had he not been concussed. _You were the one who should have shut the damn door, Petrelli, but nooo…It was not my idea to leave it open_. Sylar reached out a foot and gave a swinging kick to get the door closed, but not latched properly. Conveniently, it jacked his hip and made him groan, which was probably Peter's scheme all along. "Uhh…" He made to clutch at his hip, but stopped himself short. Now out of sight, he gave himself a moment to recover from the stretch and sudden pain. Sylar removed the towel; again freezing his ass on the toilet seat, he began to rub down to dry as quickly as possible without losing balance. Jeans were shaken out and he put both feet in, wrangling the fabric around until his soles touched the floor again. He took his time to stand again, much more at ease knowing he wasn't being watched, yet still nervous for that same reason, so he didn't rush the pants process. Buttoned and zipped, he looked around the bathroom while his fingers rubbed at his abdomen, seeing nothing that he was forgetting, he still wanted to brush his teeth. _Egg breath_. Brushing went without a hitch beyond a few stumbles and blinks for balance.

He slowly leaned for the used towel he'd set on the toilet seat, hanging it up to dry. Sylar raked back, as best he could, his tangled still-wet hair, making more unhappy noises at it. It needed to dry, so he snagged a hand towel and his shirt and threw open the door, probably subconsciously to see if he could startle Peter.

XXX

The door shut; Sylar made a pained noise. Peter's head jerked up and he watched the door for a moment, but there was no other sound to indicate help was needed. Miscellaneous, normal sounds issued from the room, so Peter went back to his project. He set up the lid, nested in the box itself, where he could see it easily and started to work.

Minutes passed. Water flowed - it sounded like Sylar was brushing his teeth again. _He really seems to have something going on about being clean. Considering what he's done - all the blood - that's just so weird. Maybe there's something psychological about not being contaminated by the kills? 'Blood of Jesus washes me clean' sort of thing? I wonder what he believes in? 'I am not a religious man. But there is one thing I do believe in: blood.'_ Peter grunted suddenly, tensing in his seat and hunching a little as his mind stumbled over a traumatic event he had definitely not finished processing. From Peter's point of view, the whole mess at Thanksgiving had happened less than a month previous. He put his hand over his brows, shielding his eyes while the moment passed. Being forced to sit helplessly and watch while someone he loved was about to be murdered had wounded Peter in a way that had yet to heal. Betrayal stacked on betrayal that morning.

_Poor choice of things to think about. Just don't think about it. My own fault, really-_

And at that moment, Sylar flung the bathroom door open abruptly, sending Peter back along the fight-or-flight spiral with him kicking away reflexively from the desk even as his right hand skittered suddenly along the top of the table, reaching for something, anything, any of the likely and usable weapons stacked neatly on that side. Puzzle pieces scattered. His brain started catching up with his body as he managed to bump the lamp hard enough to make it wobble in his blind grasping. Since Sylar was just standing there, Peter risked a glance at the source of the new motion to his right, saw the lamp was already oscillating back to stationary, and his hand fell on that screwdriver he'd looked at much earlier.

He stared at that instrument for a half second, then lifted his hand away from it, leaving it on the table. _We're not fighting. Stop it._ He shook his head and glanced sullenly over at Sylar. Peter reached up and stroked his left hand over his forehead again as he tried to calm his racing heart, shielding the left side of his face from view even as he continued glaring with his right eye, teeth slightly bared.

XXX

Sylar stood still, eyes wider than usual, waiting for Peter's reaction to…end. _Nice to know he's calm, medicated, and well-adjusted_. His gaze followed Peter's hand, whacking the lamp before settling on the screwdriver. _Are you gonna use that, Pete? You have a serious thing for ironically sexual tools that make for great...whatever that term is_. Sylar wasn't worried for his safety, though, but his face showed disapproval, when he made eye contact, that Peter would feel the need to grab for the screwdriver at all. His head was officially killing him, the drugs he'd had for breakfast were probably long gone from his system; thinking was becoming difficult and all he wanted as a nap. Cranky and feeling a permanent frown coming on along with his own partial glare to match Peter's, "That made my top ten list of…" he paused, pushing the pounding blood in his head away to allow words to formulate, "reactions to me being shirtless. Bravo." Sylar gave a single clap, moving to sit at the head of his bed, behind Peter.

XXX

Peter pivoted the chair to track Sylar's progress. When the man settled on his bed, Peter swung back the other way, partly facing away, but completely blind to Sylar because it was Peter's left side towards him. That was intentional - he wanted to prove that he wasn't afraid of Sylar, to himself at least. Peter shook his head slowly and ran his left hand back through his hair in a single, prolonged rake. He sighed, letting the tension defuse as much as it would with the nagging awareness that Sylar was a few feet away, unseen. Peter didn't think he had anything to rationally worry about - it was the irrational responses that were getting him. He didn't beat himself up about it. It was just a thing he'd get over eventually, or maybe someday his paranoia would be proven right. Frowning at that thought, he leaned back in the chair a little and looked to his right on the desk. He hadn't managed to knock anything over. He pushed the puzzle pieces at the edge back onto the table and looked down at the ones on the floor.

XXX

 _Well, that was dramatic_ , Sylar thought, moving his pillow beside him, laying his shirt on it. He leaned against a tall bookshelf that served as his headboard, crossing his ankles and taking up the towel to dry his hair. Something was tickling his brain to fits of amusement because Peter had strewn puzzle pieces across the floor and Peter was going to have to pick them up. With his head buried in the towel, he chuckled a little, eyeing the pieces. "Think you missed a few, Peter."

XXX

"Yeah," Peter said blandly, having finally calmed back down. One thing the excitement had done was driven out of his mind whatever had upset him in the first place. He decided not to dwell on recovering that thought and instead stood, rolling the chair out of the way. He stepped away, used his foot to scuff some of the puzzle pieces out of his way, and used his right hand and then elbow to brace himself on the desk as he went down to his knees, roughly facing Sylar. He scooped up the pieces quietly.

XXX

Sylar watched in equal silence. Hair as dry as it was going to be from the towel, he patted his shoulders, chest and neck to rid his skin of any additional droplets.

XXX

"I'm going to go to the store," Peter said in a subdued tone, as if trying to compensate for having overreacted by going to the other extreme of sedateness. "You want anything else other than bread, eggs, milk and snacks?" He collected up the last of the pieces and dumped them on the worktable, giving a final look around to make sure he hadn't missed any before rising to his feet.

XXX

 _What? But I just got here. I'm awake, fed, clean and…_ Sylar glanced down at his bare chest, then back at Peter. _Mostly dressed._ He winced and his hands itched at the sight of Peter carelessly dumping the recovered pieces onto the table, atop other pieces and the border the nurse had been working on. That arrangement, or lack thereof, would bother him greatly – pieces on top of pieces, most likely upside down, all over the place with no order, the framework a mess and buried. _But if he's leaving am I allowed to play with his puzzle?_ It might be a consolation. "I don't think so."

XXX

Peter nodded, pushing the chair in as far as it would go on the worktable and walking past, making another unnecessary, nerves-driven swipe at his hair as he did.

XXX

 _Are you sure he's coming back? His watch his still broken…_ "I can fix that, you know. Your watch." Sylar pointed to it, looking up at Peter, his face hesitantly hopeful and resigned to pout eventually at being left alone.

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter asked, looking down at it. _I don't want it fixed_ , was his immediate thought. On the heels of that was, _Why would he want to fix it? Is that like something to do in return for me taking care of him? Or just a clumsy apology for scaring the crap out of me just by opening a door too fast?_ He made his way to the apartment door and paused next to the far arm of the couch. The ritual of politeness required him to say his good-byes and receive an acknowledgement before leaving.

Speaking of acknowledgement, he had to say something a little more meaningful in response to Sylar's … not really an offer, more like an observation. It was oblique, like a lot of what Sylar said. He was very indirect in his communication. 'I _can_ fix your watch', not 'would you like me to fix your watch?' or the even more direct of 'leave your watch here and I'll fix it while you're out.' His actions weren't much better - something that was a straightforward expression of intent and sentiment in a normal person came off ambiguous and uncertain when Sylar did it.

Peter held the watch up to his ear, but it was impossible to make anything out given the constant background ticking in here. It made him wonder how Sylar managed to do repairs in here at all, or maybe the other man's senses were just more refined than Peter's. Peter had, after all, no difficulty in following Sylar's pulse or picking up minor variations in his breathing.

XXX

The empath lifted his watch up in an attempt to 'hear' it. Somehow, that gesture, to this day, still bothered Sylar. He knew the average person's hearing was far below his level, so what the hell did they expect to actually hear when they did that? They only checked it like a heartbeat – if they heard sound, they moved on, assuming everything was working properly, too stupid to know that the watch might not be keeping the correct time. Most times he saw it, the customer of Gray and Sons was double-checking his work, like they thought he was some half-trained, dim-witted circus monkey fixing their watch. They'd do it within his sight, too, insulting his profession and his talent. Then there were the times he saw that gesture made when he knew the person didn't care about the watch – they cared only about the time, rather, the time they might not have if the watch was malfunctioning. They, the watches, were rarely broken, but that flew in the face of everything Americanized, consumerist, digitalized society thought. Sylar felt a tendril of hope when Peter ceased his listening and actually examined the watch.

XXX

Peter studied the timepiece, thinking _, I wonder if it's working by counting off time as it is in the outside world? I don't remember what it was when I looked at it before … twelve something. If I measured it and it was a little different, like seconds in the real world are hours here or something, would that matter? I don't think that would tell me anything. All that matters is how long it takes to get out of here; if I can think of a way to save Emma …_ And he didn't want to admit it to himself, but he knew it was there somewhere: that he didn't want to go back and admit defeat, that he'd come here to get Sylar and save Emma, and it wasn't working out.

He frowned at the watch and his thoughts. "What do you think's wrong with it?" he asked mostly hypothetically, not intending to turn it over for Sylar's fixing, but willing to make conversation about it.

XXX

That was another thing Sylar had often heard – the DIY-er or the cheap or deal-hunting shopper, the businessman, the paranoid or fond owner's question. It was almost a test, a standard one, but he liked it. It meant the person might have a care for the watch itself, not just the time it carried. "Could be lots of things: could be general damage, age, or poor construction, a screw might be loose," Sylar listed that one with some relish; the tie-in being close to what he thought about Peter's mental state. "Some parts may be warped. I doubt water damage or weather. Sometimes the owner's electrical fields screw up the battery, but your battery is fine. It might be a dial pin getting in the way of a train wheel, something might be too tight, it might be overly magnetized, a screw might be too long…uh…The list goes on. Think of all the things that can go or be wrong about a human body and you'll come up with…a similar number of things that can go wrong with a watch. Usually I can tell from a distance, but I don't…see anything wrong with it, so I'd have to look." He noticed he'd not been given a hint of preference towards having it fixed or not beyond Peter's distance. Sylar doubted he'd be getting a peek inside, but that didn't stop his hands and brain from itching to do just that.

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar initially as the man began to rattle off possibilities. Then he looked at his watch and fiddled with it on his wrist. _How do you know my battery is fine?_ He'd gone through a number of watches in the last few years, screwy electrical fields being the least of his problems. "Heh," he grunted softly as he recalled that he'd lost one while in the future getting, or trying to get, Sylar's core ability. And then being nearly vaporized minutes later. Proof positive that regeneration could bring him back from ludicrous amounts of damage - one of those times when he was glad the perceiving portion of his brain had checked out. Either that or Claire had recovered first and shoved something in the back of his head. _Yeah, that's probably more likely._

Sylar finished and Peter looked back up at him, trying to recall the end of that list he'd … um … sort of tuned out on. "Yeah … you'd have to look." He fidgeted with it a little more on his wrist, still making no move to take it off. "I … I'll think about it." His eyes dropped, skimming briefly over Sylar's still shirtless form, over the worktable and across the floor. There was the tote, unattended and off to the side. A thought from earlier resurfaced, probably in response to Sylar making something of an offer to be helpful, even if Peter wasn't going to take him up on it.

"Hey," Peter said, walking to the tote and starting to bend to it too fast. Assailed by dizziness, he caught himself on the arm of the couch; swayed for a moment, then continued on to snap off the lid like it was no big deal. He had to go down on his knees to dig through it properly, finding what he wanted and struggling back to his feet. "Here." He started to toss over the tube of ben-gay, then reconsidered and walked the few steps over to Sylar. Peter would be throwing left-handed at a guy whose equilibrium was compromised - simpler to walk.

"Smear that stuff around before you put your shirt on. You'll be more comfortable." He offered the container. "I'm going to head out now. I'll be back in a couple hours."


	39. Puzzling Future

_Day 11, Late morning_

Sylar knew Peter was trying to make an exit. Peter balked at handing over the watch. _What's to think about?_ 'What?' started to make its way out of his mouth before the nurse looked him over again. _You'll…think about that, too? My body?_ Screw the shirt; that thought was plenty warming. Peter bent too quickly and Sylar almost started up himself in response, but the empath covered it. Sylar frowned, desiring to nag 'be careful' at him. _What's he looking for? Duct tape?_

The man made to throw something at him; he reacted on instinct, sitting up, and moving his hands out to intercept but whatever it was didn't leave Peter's hand. Sylar felt his lips thin out. He took the tube of…ben-gay, following the arm that held it up to Peter's face. _Smear it where?_ He thought to ask, clueless. _Okay, I'll…figure it out. Can you find your way back, Peter? I've heard 'I'll be back' before. But he did come back. For now, at least._ He nodded once, roughly. Peter might very well disappear as quickly as he'd appeared and that was very worrisome. It wasn't above his mind to fuck him over, too, just for laughs.

XXX

Peter gave a final bob of his head in response to Sylar's uncertain nod, like the other man's acknowledgment and approval of Peter's departure was difficult to grant. _Whatever._ He left, shutting the door behind him and walking slowly to the elevator, listening. It was only as the doors dinged open that he realized what he was doing - listening for the sound of the lock on Sylar's door, which didn't come. But as the elevator doors shut, he supposed that wasn't conclusive of anything. He'd kicked the door open before, so why would Sylar bother?

It was something he mused on as he walked to the store, meandering off course for a block, but then finding it on his first course correct. He wandered inside, not feeling any great rush. Sylar's bath had not taken hours, nor had their talks. So Peter figured he had plenty of time until lunch. He found himself staring at the frozen food section, where he liberated a couple bags of veggies before returning to the front of the store. He arranged a seat for himself on a pallet of forty-pound bags of dry dog food, lounging back with a bag of broccoli on his right wrist and hand and frozen peas over his left eye. It felt good to relax, but he felt lonely and purposeless.

He shut his eyes and daydreamed about being a kid, laying on the couch in the living room and reading his comic books, having positioned himself where he could see and hear the comings and goings of people in the house. His mother, the principle one whose movements he'd followed as a kid, had meant so much to him. She still did, but there wasn't a member of his family who hadn't abused his trust in profound and what seemed irreparable fashions. He supposed it was nice he'd managed to reconnect with Nathan before … _Walking down the hallway at the Stanton Hotel … 'I love you, Nathan.' 'I love you, Pete.'_ He shifted the bag of peas and wiped at his eyes, sighing. He didn't want to think about that - it just made him hurt inside. He tried to think of nothingness, tried to remember the lessons on meditation and the passages he'd read in trying to educate himself on the human spirit.

Peter succeeded in zoning out, getting up a couple times to switch cold packs until the rumble of his stomach finally signaled the end of his repose. He rose stiffly from his odd resting place, setting aside the latest slightly squishy bags of vegetables and rubbing the cold-numbed parts of his body. He took up a basket, and set to shopping. _Milk, eggs, bread and … what else was there? Snacks, right?_ He picked up a can of applesauce, hefting it. A moment spent contemplating attempting to use a can opener had him putting it back on the shelf and going for the single-serving plastic cups of applesauce with foil lids - much more manageable. He snagged a few banana pudding cups and those for clear, red Jell-O. He grunted to himself at the hospital-food-like aspect of his choices, and picked up a canister of cheese-flavored Pringles partly to dispel that image. But in observance of his still sore jaw, he added a loaf of the softest white bread he could find, and a couple bananas, then hit up the section in the back of the store for eggs and milk.

XXX

Peter left and Sylar was left staring at the ben-gay and a frazzled puzzle. It was worse than when he'd dropped Peter off at his apartment. He'd had a concussion then, too, but it was difficult to give the equivalent of waving good-bye. And to do it so casually. It was baffling. First things first, Sylar moved to sit in the seat Peter had vacated, getting closer to the puzzle. He began flipping over the wrong-side-up pieces, taking his time, using both hands. _He came out of nowhere, babbles some nonsense at me, beats up a few buildings, my door, avoids me, then comes back to beat me up…Oh, yeah. Then he takes care of me, but insults me._ A pause in his thoughts; he adjusted the border pieces, making them straight – the rearranged pieces were set inside and outside (as he lacked room to do otherwise) the border, face up now. Of course, his mind, despite being busy, prompted him to coordinate them by shape. _I suppose insulting me is…natural. But who does that? Beats someone into near-unconsciousness then takes them home and gets them ice and…clothes and food and baths?_ Sylar wasn't complaining. He loved the company, once it was established that it was fairly safe company to be in (so long as he was injured, it seemed)… _I wonder if he'll go back to beating me up once I'm better...Probably._ Sylar wondered if he would mind that cycle… _Not if he takes care of me afterwards. That's new. So long as he sticks around, that's the important thing_. And that was what worried him most now; being unable to go find Peter, bring him back if he had to. _He wouldn't leave. Little idiot thinks he needs me._ That relaxed him somewhat, enough, anyway.

The pieces organized as he wished, Sylar stared at them for a while, his natural itch present, wanting to connect the parts, make a whole. In a way, if he pushed aside his urge, he enjoyed looking at the deconstruction. His head throbbed harder; probably overheating with the amount of thought he was trying to push through it. Sylar stood and made his uneasy way to the kitchen, making an ice bag with cubes, grabbing a towel with additional consideration. A few minutes later, he sat on the bed, sat on the tube of ben-gay, actually, to his annoyance. He sighed. Putting it on would mean he'd have to wash his hands, get up again. Setting aside the towel, he uncapped the tube and began rubbing the stuff into the back of his neck. He debated putting it on his forehead and wondered if that was bad for his skin, so he didn't. _Should've had Peter do this_ , he mentally grumbled, applying it to his left wrist after removing the wet bandage he'd forgotten before. After washing his hands, he slid into his shirt and buttoned three or four of the lower buttons, collapsing at last in his own bed, throwing the ice pack over his forehead for some relief. _I'll be 'lazy' while he's gone…_

XXX

Fully laden, Peter returned to the front of the store and picked out one of the reusable canvas bags hanging near the door, the products trying to encourage imaginary shoppers in Sylar's brain-space to go green. Peter smiled at the thought, although his own motivation was the thicker strap of the handle. Everything in one sack certainly wasn't what he would call 'heavy', but it would cut into his hand if he carried it for blocks in a plastic bag. He set off through the creepily quiet city, finding himself looking forward to the mere presence of another human being more than he thought he should be. He assumed that was another aspect of the place. But aspect or not, as he took the elevator up, he had to admit to the reality of the feeling. He knocked at the door, thinking the day wasn't too far off when he'd be knocking just for companionship rather than any concern for Sylar's health.

 _I gotta learn how to be friendly with the guy._ "Sylar? It's me," he called out unnecessarily.

XXX

Sylar awoke with an uncomfortable start, hearing a noise, then a voice. _Peter_. His sense of relief at that thought, that name, was strange, yet very welcome. He was becoming more comfortable with the empath, faster than he thought he would. Dimly, he wondered if that should bother him, but he didn't much care. Clearing his throat, he called back, removing the bag of water from his forehead, "Yeah?" _How long was I asleep? I didn't mean to sleep…or did I? My body wanted me_ _to_ _, I guess. Is there any help for that?_ He moved to sit up as Peter came in, passing to the kitchen with a bag. A moment later, the fridge opening and shutting, he returned and Sylar looked him over, almost as if checking for trouble's fingerprints that might be all over the nurse. _There's a thought…_ Peter's eye looked better, though; and that was a good thing. Sylar wondered what Peter had been doing while he slept.

XXX

"Hey, how are you-" Peter caught sight of the fact that the puzzle pieces had been rearranged. Part of the thing had been worked - at least by Peter's definition of such. He stepped over to the edge of the worktable and looked it over, an expression of mild amusement on his face, not at all territorial of it. _He worked part of my puzzle. Why would he work part of my puzzle?_ He looked back at Sylar, smiling bemusedly. "How are you feeling?"

His eyes next took in the truly rambunctious hairstyle Sylar was sporting now and Peter's smile widened. _What was that I was thinking at breakfast? Peter Petrelli, Bang-Man or something? Oh yeah, Super-Bang. I have defeated Sylar's hair._ The corners of Peter's eyes crinkled up as his smile warmed further. Sylar looked … well, like really something, with his hair fluffy and sticking out in odd directions, shirt partly buttoned and chest visible, bare feet and the usual intent, threatening expression that just looked laughable given the rest of his appearance. Peter managed to succeed in not chuckling, but the desire was probably clear on his face, or as clear as it would get with one eye still mostly swollen shut.

XXX

His companion shamelessly checked out first the tabletop (at which Sylar's face took on a 'what?' type of innocent expression. It was clear his work had been spotted) then Sylar himself. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. _No idea why he's smiling at me; don't really care – its nice_ , Sylar thought of the smile. _Make that very nice._ It wasn't hard to see or imagine how Peter got around considering it; that dazzling, disgusting combination that was the Petrelli charm. It was hard to play Johnny Raincloud to that face, too; Sylar's own mood boosting or staying lifted even after waking. "About the same," Sylar said, neutrally positive. _Better now you've brought your smiling face, sexy. Seriously, what is so funny?_

XXX

"Yeah? Listen, my stomach's been rumbling all the way back from the store, so I'm going to make some sandwiches." He started for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "What were we going to have on them, anyway?" The raised voice and twisting his neck hurt, so he stopped and turned back around near the far end of the couch. "Peanut butter and jelly? You've got jelly, right?" _Damn, was I supposed to get that at the store? Did I even check it this morning? I checked the eggs this morning. Did I put the eggs in the fridge just a minute ago? No, just the milk. Probably doesn't matter … they're just eggs. I don't think they go bad quick._

Peter seemed companionable, cooperative and relatively cheerful, all things considered.

XXX

 _Why does he keep asking me what I want?_ Sylar thought once he got over his slight surprise at getting away, sans lecture or beating, with the rearrangement of the puzzle. _You're weird, Petr- hmm?_ Sylar's quickly moved his gaze from 'unfocused and thinking' to Peter's as the man turned. He couldn't help his grin. _Yes, Mom, I have jelly for the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches_. "I have jelly," was the ambiguous reply.

XXX

"Good." Peter turned to head on into the kitchen, setting out the bread and putting away the eggs. He found jelly in the door of the fridge while he was in there. The peanut butter was also an easy find. He'd already located where Sylar kept most of his canned food (other than that which was shelved next to the front door). He put together two sandwiches, heavy on the toppings for both, and poured two glasses of milk. He put the jug away, standing in the kitchen trying to figure out what it was he was forgetting.

A few moments of silence later, it came to him what he was missing and he fetched painkillers and decongestants, portioning them out on the appropriate plates. A few moments more passed as he pondered. _What's next? Eat out there, or in here? No real reason to eat out there … and getting him to walk in here's probably useful. A little activity. Probably good for him._

"Hey, it's ready." He moved plates and glasses to the table, looking out several times to watch Sylar's progress.

XXX

Sylar easily slid back into catatonia without the stimulus that was Peter in the room. If pressed, he'd say he was thinking about his injuries, and he was. After the bath his muscles (all but the worst bruised ones) had done a fairly good job of relaxing. After his nap, they'd stiffened up, lost their heat, but the rest of his body did feel better, however it served to make the key injuries feel that much worse. "Huh?" Sylar asked to the empty room when Peter called out. Blinking, he focused. _Lunch, right_. Standing slowly, checking his balance, Sylar then limped to the kitchen. At the door he was forced to brace, pause and scrape his wild hair back as it fell in his face before continuing to sit. Faced with sandwiches, he grinned again. _That's right. Peanut butter and jelly Petrelli. I don't have the heart to tell him five year olds can make these themselves._ He did wonder why Peter kept pouring milk for every meal with the occasional break for water and once for juice. Was there significance or did Peter just want his hand to heal up faster with all the calcium in milk?

He lifted the top piece of bread to check the contents of the sandwich. Satisfactory, nothing odd going on, not that he really expected it. Picking it up, he took a bite, carefully around his bruised face. Peter did the same and Sylar really couldn't find anything to point out or criticize or bring up, so the meal was an exercise in chewing.

XXX

Peter's brows pulled together in mild surprise at Sylar double-checking the sandwich. _Paranoid, or just weird? Like you'd even be able to tell if I'd slipped something into the peanut butter, Sylar._ When Sylar gave him no suspicious look to see his reaction and carried on as normal, Peter dismissed it as merely weird. Not that he was above unexplained, outwardly odd behavior himself. He was eating his sandwich in very small bites, drinking frequently and trying not to actually chew so much as gum his food and swallow. That made sense to him, though probably not to Sylar. Peter's jaw didn't hurt very much at the moment, but the key to getting it to _stop_ hurting was to avoid doing things that aggravated it. If he could do that, then the inflammation would fade all the faster.

XXX

Sylar was not very hungry, the time elapsing between lunch and breakfast, the nap not included, was hardly enough for him to digest let alone work up an appetite. He was eating about the same speed Peter was, but the guy had said he was hungry. It wasn't like finishing a sandwich was going to insult Peter's cooking skills…anymore than they were already insulting. As Peter looked to be finishing, Sylar having ground to a halt, he thought to ask something. "So, um…why milk all the time? Milk is fine, doesn't…bother me, but you just…drink it a lot."

XXX

Peter wiped at his lower lip with his left thumb, thinking he felt a crumb or a dribble of milk, but the skin was just odd-feeling as usual. "No, it's, uh … concussion victims don't have much appetite. I'm told for severe ones they sometimes refuse food altogether. Sometimes they're nauseous. Sometimes nausea comes and goes and it can be like that for weeks." Peter gestured at Sylar's plate. "A single sandwich for lunch, a couple eggs for breakfast - they're small meals. Your body needs a lot of nutrients to heal. I'm trying to get as much into you as I can without nagging. I _should_ be pushing fluids, too, but …" He shrugged. "I don't want to wear out my welcome." Peter looked up at the ceiling over Sylar's head, then off to the right as his mind played out the likely consequences of that. "You're not being a combative patient. Last thing I want to do is give you reason to be."

XXX

Sylar blinked and looked down at his sandwich. "Oh…" _That explains it. Wait…he hasn't been nagging, has he?_ He gazed up at Peter a little from under his brows as much as his injuries would allow, "If I kicked you out, you'd probably come right back in." Peter surprised him. _I'm not combative? Hold on….He's…afraid of setting me off?_ After a moment's thought: _He is treading carefully, isn't he? I've got him right where I want him._

XXX

Peter looked back at Sylar, giving a small dip of his head. "Speaking of nagging, don't forget to take your pills there." He took his own advice, swallowing down his dose a moment later.

XXX

Sylar was dragged out of his discovery by Peter's voice. Once again, he blinked in surprise. _Did he really-?_ The nurse's last delivery had him chuckling loudly, nearly a laugh. "Okay, okay." He didn't think he'd forgotten the pills. "But I don't think you have the right tone down to be a nag." A compliment disguised as insult. _Nagging is…usually….really bitchy_ , at least what he knew of it.

So he didn't finish his sandwich, but he took the pills as directed, making attempts at drinking a lot of milk. _You should be a house-mother, Peter. Such an odd duck._ It got him thinking, though, something that had been on the back of his mind. "What's the order of the day?" He asked when Peter's back was turned. _He's running the ship, I suppose I should ask. He's not…forcing me to do anything._ And again, he had a moment of being mind-blown. _Whoa…he really isn't_. That put his thinking-face on.

XXX

Peter helped put away the plates, eyeing the growing stack next to the sink. "At some point I'm going to have to wash those. But for now, I thought I'd look at the puzzle and see what you did."

XXX

 _Yeah, because that's not weird, you doing my dishes_. Sylar stared at Peter, his face blanked and patient. _So he knows I did something. And he's….confronting you about it._ His head tilted slightly in curiosity.

XXX

Peter asked, "Do you want to help? I've never worked one with someone else. It was always something I did alone, when it was raining and I couldn't go visit friends."

XXX

 _An invite?_ That was unexpected. "Yeah, sure." He wasn't so much into thinking about the rest of Peter's words; those told him he was a last resort, nothing new there. Or maybe Sylar _was_ his friend and Peter was just stuck home by the rain? Sylar doubted he'd be able to sleep again – for one thing, he was starting to think oversleeping like this was worsening his headache. He'd be at a loss of what to do with himself beyond reading which wasn't much of an option. A puzzle, though, with Peter…

Sylar stood as that seemed to be the thing to do, slowly hitting on what to do next. He brought his glass to the sink and then, wobbling, went back to hover over the puzzle. He knew the bed was too far from the table, the couch was leagues away and there was only one chair… _I must be standing. Maybe I'll be directing or something…but won't that annoy him?_

XXX

Peter half-dragged, half-carried one of the kitchen chairs along behind him with his left hand. Sylar was standing next to the worktable, apparently lost in thought, maybe already putting the pieces together in his mind. Peter remembered that flash of brilliant clarity he'd felt in that future world, where he'd learned how to tap into Sylar's ability. He set the chair down next to Sylar. "I get the good chair. You get this one," he said lightly, making it a joke even as he wondered how Sylar would take the humor. The guy had, after all, called him a loser or something like it the day before, but just because he dished out ribbing didn't necessarily mean he'd take it well.

XXX

Head whipping around as fast as he could, he saw Peter bringing him a chair. _He brought me a chair. Like a girl. He brought me a chair. That was…How'd he manage that with his hand? Oh, well, he looks fine._ Then Peter went about…what, being sassy? Clearly, this was Peter's project and Sylar was just a guest. He stared after Peter, boring his eyes into the back of the man's skull. It took him a moment with his concussion to dig up a response. "Typical Petrelli," he said in the same tone as Peter, seating himself calmly. Peter hadn't delivered it to be a dick or 'put Sylar in his place' so he was much more forgiving of, what he took as, a harmless joke.

XXX

Peter settled in on the other side of the table, his thoughts returning to when he'd held a Sylar watch in his hand and disassembled it with a deft telekinetic touch he hadn't known he possessed. "These puzzle pieces … they're not like … clock parts for you, are they? Something you feel, like, driven to fix?" He gestured across them, looking up at Sylar with particular attention. It seemed pretty unlikely that the guy would go all brain-man on him (no abilities, after all), but Peter was remembering his own sudden descent into, if not madness, then at least homicidally skewed reasoning. _Might be important to know that before we get started. I'd really hate to find out that he's been trying to fix stuff in his head all this time and failing … and that if he succeeds in putting the puzzle together it will turn on his ability like it turned mine_ _on_ _that time. I wonder if that's why he was asking about my watch?_

XXX

As he was getting comfortable, Peter posed an odd question that gave him pause. Generally, questions about his former profession or his ability were not a… positive thing. Quirking a brow, he answered slowly, carefully, looking right back at Peter, "I didn't know they were broken, Peter. I thought the point of a puzzle was to put the pieces together." A tilt of his head was the only inquiry he made in return, keeping his hands to himself the moment. "I hope you're not one of those weirdos who cuts the pieces to size or mashes them in to make them fit."

XXX

Peter snickered. _Ah, that would be funny! I bet I could drive him up the wall by screwing things up intentionally. I wonder what he'd do if I pocketed a couple pieces? Yeah, not that I'd really do that, but it's nice to know my options._ "No, I'm sure I'm some other kind of weirdo than that." Peter smiled and shrugged a little, letting himself be distracted from the moment of mirth by eying the division of pieces Sylar had made. They were grouped up in some sort of pattern. It wasn't by color, so he wasn't sure what the difference was. All the straights were still together as he'd left them, so he mentally settled himself on working on the frame first and leaving the rest alone until he understood why Sylar had sorted them as he had.

XXX

That said and done, he reached for a piece to see what Peter would do, fingering it and batting the box around so he could see the picture on the front of the lid, comparing the piece to it. As an afterthought, he decided to address the actual question. "But, yes, they are like clock parts. Why do you ask?" now he was curious.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar turn the box, and true to human nature, felt a sudden desire to look at it himself. He craned his head a little, but Sylar was on the opposite side of the table, box pointed towards him. Peter couldn't see it now and he made no rude attempt to reclaim it. Instead, he tracked Sylar's next motion, watching which piece he picked up - just one at random as far as Peter could tell - and Peter picked up a straight edge piece as well. Since, you know, it wouldn't do to sit there empty-handed if Sylar had a piece in his hand. Peter looked at the piece, then at the four corner pieces he'd placed earlier.

He glanced up at Sylar's question, then put down his piece and picked one out more intentionally, trying to match it to the corner he was working from. It didn't fit, so he took the corner and held it over the straight edges, looking for a better match. Still looking, he said, "I got your ability once. Got it and actually used it, you know. But to use it, I had to … you … there was a …" Peter grimaced, put the puzzle piece down and rubbed his forehead with his left hand, then down his jaw and across his chin.

He picked up the corner piece again and started over. "I went to the future. I met a future version of you. You showed me how to activate your ability, but to do that you had me fix a broken watch." Peter looked up at Sylar now, focusing on him. "Once I got started on it, everything was … well, it was kind of weird. _I_ felt weird. Like my thinking was weird. And you'd kind of warned me about that, but I didn't …" He gave a pained smile. "You know me. Anyway, I sort of wondered if maybe fixing something, or putting things together had something to do with triggering your ability." He gestured at the puzzle board. "You've said we don't have any abilities here. This is safe, right?"

XXX

Sylar's lips pursed in lieu of his jaw clenching at hearing that news. _I knew that already – he comes out of nowhere to break my neck, snarling about 'not being me'. Ha._ He still didn't take kindly to having his ability jacked, in any tense, past, present or future. He'd thought to question it at the time, but then dismissed it given the nature of Peter's natural ability. Then, _Admission of use…interesting. I knew he used it; of course he did._ Sylar didn't feel like ringing the bell for round three in (again) asking Peter who he killed and what ability he got. Peter got to the part about his watch, which watch wasn't even in doubt; he knew it was the Sylar. He felt the fingers of his left hand curling into a fist defensively as it lay on the table, but didn't otherwise move it. _That…isn't what he's here for._ Sylar kept wary eyes on his companion; he'd had thieves try for it before, unworthy thieves. _He doesn't want to take it, he can't anyway; he came here for me, something only I can do…which is suddenly saving girlfriends._

His face didn't move except to relax a little from 'high-alert' wariness, but being called weird? Peter really wasn't one to talk, it was not _his_ natural ability. Sylar exhaled an 'I told you so' breath. _Yeah, I do know you._ A few greatly amused, rough chuckles came from him; bitter and a bit hysterical in feeling though the sound spoke of being dry. "Yeah, as far as I know, it's safe," he gave a hint of a nod and moved on, trying not to feel like he was losing it, ditching the puzzle piece he had and going for another. It gave him time to think.

"So…Why the hell would I give you my ability?" _He's seen my future? Like, actually been there? There was something about my name earlier, too…Is_ this _that future?_ Sylar shoved down his instant momentary panic that Peter's warped abilities might reach out for his and the puzzle would have Peter turning into that neck-snapping psycho again. There wouldn't be any Angela or other family members, not even the Haitian around – just Sylar and a hungry Peter, on the hunt for his next, obvious victim. With said victim loaded up with lots of delicious powers, the grudge between them and Sylar's inability to defend himself at the moment, he was explicably nervous. Until he remembered that Peter was a complete doofus with his powers and the hunger didn't work that way.

XXX

Peter sighed. "I … talked you into it. I think the future version of you cared a little more about people getting hurt." He found a match for his corner piece and hooked them up, unduly pleased to have found a link before Sylar did. He thought back over what he'd said and realized it sounded like he'd threatened someone (like the child named Noah) to get Sylar to cooperate. "No, that sounds … well, wrong. The thing was, if you didn't give me your ability, the whole world was going to be destroyed. And I don't mean ninety-some-odd percent of humanity, I mean the planet _exploding_. You didn't believe me, so I had you paint the future. You saw it. You gave me your ability." Peter's face made a tiny smirk. "I suppose you weren't keen on not having anywhere to live anymore." He swallowed, trying a likely third piece and then rejecting it. "But you had other reasons, too."

"I think the planet thing had something to do with everyone getting abilities. Or too many of them getting them." _Kind of a bigger version of Kirby Plaza. Doesn't even have be a bad person getting them - just a misunderstanding, bad place in their life, family members with plans of world domination. Could happen to anyone, right?_ He snorted softly at his thoughts, trying a couple other pieces fruitlessly.

XXX

Sylar forced himself to relax further as Peter spoke, yes, telling him another kind of story. This one of the future, instead of the past. The world was barren so whatever this future was, it couldn't come to pass. He'd practically forgotten about the puzzle, going mindlessly through the motions, much more taken with listening and trying to reason things out with his limited capacity. The puzzle, he suspected, kept Peter busy enough to talk comfortably. _What does that mean?_ He was surprised to hear about the whole planet going 'boom!' But knowing there were loons like Samuel on the loose…"Ha," he said to that. It was true. The downsides of regeneration. It put 'going green' in a completely new light, actually. Interested at the new food-for-thought, he only replied, "Huh," otherwise invested in solving the mystery. He was sure he'd enjoy thinking about it later, when he could process better, maybe pestering Peter about it more.

"Why would I have other reasons? That sounds like a cause everyone should get behind," _For once. Stopping the destruction of the world for once instead of causing it._ His brain was too tired, thankfully, to cue up the host of Nathan's memories surrounding those instances (plural), but he knew there were plenty. He sat up straighter as the thought of something, a hand making a quick patting gesture to get Peter's attention. "Wait, this doesn't, like, violate the rules of the universe in telling me this, right? I know you're not from the future." _Right?_ He knew that because Peter said he'd had a 'dream', not visited the future, although neither of those had to happen in that order, nor were they mutually exclusive. _Not that that future is relevant anymore, so…it should be safe._

XXX

"Yeah, you'd think so. The world was pretty messed up, to tell the truth. Not that blowing it up or whatever would have been an improvement." Peter toyed with the puzzle pieces, mulling over Sylar's question in his mind as he found another piece to connect. His moment of elation drained away as he realized Sylar was just sitting there idly fingering the puzzle piece he was holding, watching Peter and his movements. _Well … okay. Stop patting yourself on the back for outdoing Mr. Traumatic-Brain-Injury._ He considered prompting Sylar on their joint project, but decided to space it. Sylar was calm; they were interacting, if not happily, then at least well. Sylar was listening to him and that was nice. Very nice.

"You had people you cared about. You'd settled down, I guess. I don't really know everything that was going on there. It was like a Bizarro world - everyone who had been an ally was an enemy; everyone who had been against me, like you, was my friend. You came up and _hugged_ me." Peter grinned and chuckled, remembering how utterly freaked out he'd been about that. "You patted my cheek and were … real friendly." He shook his head, shooting Sylar a smile, then reaching out and turning the box lid towards him so he could figure out why he wasn't finding the next piece on the edge he was working on. "Ah, that's what those little marks are. There's a signature there." And a rust-colored splotch of mud on the otherwise light grey, rain-slicked street. He reviewed the available straight-edges for 'rust-colored'.

XXX

Now Sylar was really all ears. _I had, like…a life?_ He pondered that, eyes shifting back and forth over nothing of note. _Settled down…How…? It must have been – 'Bizarro' world_ , Sylar thought amused and annoyed, hopeful yet sad about the situation. A part of him always noted that particular word being used between Peter, Nathan and Claire. Right now, he was almost wishing he could have seen this future himself; it was one of those 'see to believe' things. Sylar ignored the chance to take shots at the Petrelli family, this once. Poor Peter, everyone he counted as an ally usually was an enemy; odd, though, that he'd wind up turning to Sylar a few times. His eyebrows went up in surprise, eyes widening as the man went on. _I did…what now? I suppose I shouldn't look so surprised…_ _I'm trying to sleep with the guy now. I guess he did? Does, then? God, I hate the future. No wonder Angela's crazy, dealing in…half-possibilities. Some of it might come true, some of it might not…_ Dare he hope?

"That's, um…a new angle," Sylar reflected aloud, clearly confused about it, doing his best to think in what universe he would hug Peter from Clan Petrelli. _What did I hope to get out of that?_ Generally, hugs were the kiss of death, so he'd noticed. Not that, you know, he ever got hugs from any Petrellis, not even Angela when she'd been his mom. He didn't spend much time thinking on what it would have been like otherwise; reminiscing was pointless and rather sappy. _Maybe Peter's…bringing that up for a reason?_ His face lit up a little and he grinned. Ignoring Peter's blurt about the puzzle artist's signature, Sylar asked, without lewdness as he was genuinely pleased to have reached this conclusion, "You liked the hugging?" _I can do hugging_.

XXX

 _Yeah, you don't say,_ Peter thought of it being a new angle. He found the right puzzle piece, rust-colored and all, and hooked it up. He looked up at Sylar's question, his gaze fixing sharply on Sylar's face for a few seconds, then drifting down as he mentally backed off from reflexive near-hostility to think about the question, rather than the motives behind it. _Simple question. Obvious. He's not necessarily still making a pass at me, so get over it. We're just talking._ Peter shrugged exaggeratedly. "Yeah, I liked it. I was shocked. I'd come into the house expecting a fight, and then …" He tilted his head to the side, shrugging again with less affect. _Then there was a kid there, and that changed everything._

"I've had some pretty rough days … in my life. That one certainly ranks up there in the top five." He drew in a deep breath and blew it out. "That was pretty much the only decent thing that happened to me all day." Peter shook his head and made the mistake of actually thinking about it. He'd woke up in someone else's body, got hauled along on a bank heist, then got yanked out of the body and into the future by himself of all people (made it hard to lay blame, that did), then future him got shot dead in front of him, he had to flee Claire, met friendly-Sylar, got a little kid killed, got blown up along with part of California, woke up to be tortured by Claire and then killed his brother. Oh, then teleported back home in the midst of a psychotic rage, assaulted _this_ Sylar, tried to kill his own mother, and was knocked out, neutralized and tied to a table. It was probably for the best.

His right hand hurt. He looked away from where he'd been vacantly gazing at Sylar's right elbow to see he was trying to clench his fist, having already done the same with his left. He stretched out his fingers and tried to focus on his breathing, tried to relax, tried to keep the tremor he could feel in his hands from becoming visible. Peter's voice dropped to artificial calm, like the voice he used with patients who were hurt bad and needed to know someone was still with them ( _'Yes, I'm right here. No, everything's going to be fine. We're just going to get you to the hospital so the doctors can take a look at you. Stay with me, alright? I'm right here.'_ ) "I'm going to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

He pushed himself upright and weaved towards the little room uncertainly.


	40. Bizarro World

Day 11, afternoon

Sylar's elation at being the best thing someone had, in a mutually positive way, in an otherwise rough day wasn't lengthy. He didn't think he'd have any better luck wrapping his head around whatever scenario while at full mental strength. But when was the last time he'd been a highlight in someone's day like that? _Probably never._ It was completely novel even if his present self wasn't responsible. "Oh," he said, not knowing what else to say yet feeling the need to respond. Peter started to coil up. _Maybe I screwed it up then?_ The guy didn't look good and Sylar leaned back a little in case Peter leapt at him or something, but Peter excused himself. Sylar just blinked and watched him mournfully because something wasn't right and, since it was a person, he didn't know how to fix him, Peter. He replied quietly, hoping he wasn't intruding on Peter's thoughts too much, "Okay."

Pouting, partly for or because of Peter and partly for the loss of company, being self-centered as he was, he slowly focused himself on the puzzle. He held a vaguely gray piece and he found that unhelpful. The majority of the puzzle was a rainy gray, including the buildings and street. He tried to think, he did, but very little came to him. _What makes a day bad for Peter Petrelli? Losing Nathan or finding his body wasn't the worst day ever?_ He frowned. _No, he said…top five, so it still probably is. Damnit._ He sighed and went back to fiddling. Sylar couldn't tell Peter to quit with the moody, but he sure thought it because he did not want to go back to being on-guard. This talking business was much nicer.

XXX

Peter gently shut the bathroom door behind him and sat on the toilet, forgetting to put down the seat. It felt awkward to sag into it in the middle, but at the moment he had other things on his mind. Getting a grip on himself, primarily. He appreciated Sylar leaving him alone. All he needed was a few minutes of quiet to clear his mind, stuff the bad memories back into the archives and re-establish the 'Do Not Retrieve' sign over them. He put his face in his hands, finding spots that weren't sore and rubbing them lightly.

There was a lot of his past that he spent a great deal of mental effort on not remembering, not integrating, keeping it separate and not a part of who he was. Sometimes things were so big that he couldn't avoid them, but a lot of the traumatic events that had happened to him were neatly compartmentalizable. Most, in fact. The very nature of being special had restricted the circle of who he might talk to about these things, so that it was easy to get along at work without ever speaking of the things that were important. Instead, they could talk about Donald Trump's hair or the latest Saturday Night Live skit.

He pulled himself back to his feet, turned and put up the toilet rim, using the appliance for its purpose. He put the rim down after and washed his hands, then his face. _What's it gotta be like for Sylar? How does he sort things out? He's got to have more crap than I do to deal with, and from the sound of it, he's had even less opportunity to discuss it with anyone._ He realized that he was, oddly, in a reverse situation from normal. His main, shared frame of reference with Sylar was the very subject matter he usually tried so hard not to disclose. Peter sighed and got out a fresh hand towel, wiping his face carefully. He looked at himself in the mirror, then picked up Sylar's comb to bat loosely at his bangs. He looked at the comb blankly. _Maybe I_ should _talk about this with him? It's the main thing we've got in common._

Peter gave a mental and physical shrug, then opened the door, exiting, comb still in hand. "Hey, Sylar. Comb your hair, would you?" He offered the comb, looking over the guy's hair, wondering if he should offer to do it. He let Sylar take a stab at it first and looked instead to the various puzzle pieces, asking quietly, "Do you mind me talking about … what happened in the future? Some of it wasn't good. I don't know if you'd want to hear it. And I'm serious about that." He walked around to his chair, glancing at Sylar again. "There's other things we could talk about, like Giulani's political chances or your favorite comedy routine." These were things Peter was more practiced in discussing - meaningless social niceties - and ones where he was unlikely to hit landmines, both for himself or for Sylar.

XXX

 _So the guy had to pee_ , Sylar distantly noted. He wondered which Peter he'd be dealing with when the man emerged. Leave it to Peter to be unexpected – on exiting he slapped a comb into Sylar's instinctively outstretched hand, the other going up to touch his hair in surprise. _What's wrong with my- oh, geez._ That was embarrassing. He had no idea how bad it looked; yet Peter hadn't laughed so it must not have looked too clownish. Fighting the desire to throw the comb into a wall across the room from being commanded to groom or from the implication that he looked bad and needed 'fixing', his hair was still a mess. Sylar used first the wide, thick end of the comb; working out the slept-in tangles took him a moment and some interesting facial expressions. Then he switched to the fine-tooth side and swept his hair back. Without water or gel it wouldn't stay long. _No wonder he's relaxed, you look like a fool. He can't take you seriously. Giving you sandwiches…playing with a puzzle, crap crap crap._ His loss of decorum was probably aiding the current friendly-ish aspects of the situation; his pride stung a little regardless. Peter again did himself a favor and didn't rub it in and he'd sounded normal enough.

Peter actually watched him comb a little and that made him feel a little tingly. Sylar slowed down the actions, dragging them out for show just because. It didn't hold Peter's attention forever, but it was enough. And entertaining.

Peter spoke as he finished and Sylar looked up at him, setting the comb aside. He gave a small chuckle about Giulani's odds – it was so irrelevant. Sobering, he thought about if he minded talk of the future. Answering slowly, he intoned, "I don't mind it if the universe won't unravel. And if you're not from the future." His look was serious as he stared Petrelli down. "I think you'd be a lot more bitter and I'd be in a lot more pain if you were, but…I won't rule it out." _My life really is that weird. I don't know what I'll do if you are from the future._

Sylar's gaze lost focus, eyeing the tabletop as he considered his answer carefully. "And provided that future isn't….possible anymore?" He really refused to be one of those idiots that demanded to know about his future. Inevitably, as Peter said, if it was bad, he'd try to change it thereby screwing it up. The trick with the future was just not to know. He tried not to pity Angela, the pitiless, merciless Medusa, but her ability, much like his own, came with the fine print in invisible ink about insanity side-effects. "The future's never good, Peter," he stated simply, looking back up at the man with dead certainty, trying to break bad news and challenge at the same time. _/"You die alone. No one will mourn your death."/ I mean…has he looked around lately?_

 _Provided all those things are answered for…_ "I don't mind talking about it, no." _Whatever happened…happens? to me…it isn't me. Its nice he's actually offering. I usually have to pin people with my mind and threaten to get this kind of face time._

XXX

Peter considered Sylar's points. He couldn't see how discussing something that had actually happened to him would be a problem. _The information is in my head. How is speaking it out loud gonna make a difference?_ "That future isn't possible anymore." _Nathan's dead, for one thing._ He frowned and herded his thoughts away from that. "The universe isn't going to unravel if I tell you. And I'm not from the future. If anything, I'm from the past, relative to you. For you, it's been three years. For me, a few days." Peter knew how he got here, but hey, time travel made as much sense as anything else and Sylar had already rejected the truth. "Let me think about what I'm going to say. Gimme a minute."

XXX

Sylar simply nodded, partly amusing himself with the puzzle (what little he cared to do of it right now).

XXX

He pushed around a few puzzle pieces randomly as he reviewed the events of that day again, this time without such a strong emotional reaction. He reached up and rubbed slowly at his forehead with his left hand. He put it down and started with, "Okay. The part with you in it. To explain what I was doing there, I have to start earlier than that." He sighed, looking at Sylar for a moment before looking down and going on. "A future version of myself … came and got me, then teleported both of us into the future. His time. Lots and lots of people had abilities. I was in New York, and it looked like _**everyone**_ had them. He said the world was going to explode and showed me a mural of it. I don't know if he painted it, or someone else who could see the future, but there it was. He said he'd been trying to figure out what to change in the past to prevent it, but he couldn't understand all the factors. He said I needed to find you … the future version of you, and get your ability, so I'd know what to change."

This was where Peter lifted his head and paid careful attention to Sylar as he spoke. "Then …" Peter shrugged. "I told you it was Bizarro world? Yeah. Claire showed up, shot him right in front of me - probably fatally. Then she turned on me. I ran. Our powers were jacked by the Haitian, but she missed me. Once I got a little away, I teleported to where you were. You were … in the Bennet house. With, uh, the Bennet's dog. And with a little boy, three or four years old, who called you Daddy, and called me Uncle Peter."

Peter paused to let Sylar digest that most unlikely of news. Everything he'd said had been delivered fairly slowly, as he was trying to feel his way around what he wanted to say, as he said it.

XXX

 _Um…whoa._ That was all he had to think about that clusterfuck. Sylar watched Peter steadily, tilting his head slightly, blinking, raising his eyebrows and frowning in reaction to the shocking details. He pictured the events in his head, helping him get through it, but Peter's speed was manageable. Then he went back and linearly thought things out. He felt a pinprick of something that he'd almost aided Arthur in creating that future. Nathan, well…Peter had been right all along. Somehow, that didn't really surprise Sylar. He frowned at the part of Peter, any Peter, needing his ability. If Sylar was stuck in that world where he was no longer special…how was Peter going to do any better, ability or no? Clearly, Sylar had dropped the ball somewhere. _I'm the perfect example of…power, I guess._ He wanted to pursue that thought but the damn concussion was inhibiting – the thoughts weren't important per se, merely self-reflective, but that was still annoying. _What about Hiro? He must have been…an enemy, Peter said. So that left me?_

Then things got a little harder to process. _Claire shot him, she shot Peter. I mean, I told her she was like Daddy Number One, but that's taking things too far. Why the hell would Claire, who loves Peter, shoot h- But that scary-ass future Peter shot Nathan. That makes more sense._ Peter was giving him the space and time to think this through. Sylar scratched a fingernail at the cardboard side edge of a puzzle piece as he did. _Peter is hard to follow sometimes_. What else had Peter said? There were some serious details that were….preposterous, truly almost unthinkable. He wanted to call Peter a liar, he did, but Peter was a better liar than this and he could come up with a lot better material – the really, really ugly kind - when the inspiration struck.

 _The Bennet's house? Were they there? It is a nice house…I mean…why would I-? With their goddamn dog? I hate that yappy rodent!_ He quit trying for linear and rearranged priorities from least emotional first, the proverbial bomb last. Assuming of course that he has a kid, some way, some how: _Uncle Peter. It might have been Nathan's kid and I thought I was still a Petrelli?_ That made his head hurt. _Unless I…married a Petrelli and there aren't that many females. (Dear God, I hope it wasn't Angela…but that would make the kid Peter's…well, not his nephew. Thank God). Or maybe its an….what's the- honorary title, yeah. But even so, that's a stretch. That would require Peter and I to be somewhat friendly. Maybe he babysits?_

But the real kicker was 'Daddy.' The assumption was obvious, the truth…it was safe to say Peter hadn't dug for it. In their 'specialty', Daddy didn't always mean biological or even legal parenthood. Hell, parenthood was a loose term, barely defining the reproductive sperm-giving process. Of course this was the first thing he wanted to address, blurting out, "A kid?" _Not just a life. A real live kid?_ Sylar leaned back, frowning deeply at Peter. The thought made his heart beat faster and ache at the same time. He'd thought for years he was infertile. Like Bennet said, he'd screwed up his own DNA. Surely shapeshifting had been the final nail in that tiny coffin. _How on earth did the kid survive all that time? I must have been a Petrelli, had some kind of…protection or deal in place. I wonder if that was before or after the kid._ "I had a kid?" _Are you sure? Mom's dead, I don't need kids, I can't have them – it must have been an accident. Unless someone stole my sperm. Was it a clone or something?_ Given his and Samson's ability, it surprised him the power would allow for that kind of…competition a child with potential abilities represented – or perhaps the infant was prey being groomed. Sylar knew his own conception had to have been an accident. Or maybe one of those tricks to keep his mother quiet and unaware while Samson hunted. He ignored the shiver in his spine, putting aside those ideas.

 _It called me Daddy?_ He tried to picture what three or four years old even looked like and failed pretty miserably in ways that had nothing to do with his injuries. He didn't really know what children looked like at any given age; he didn't see many children except on television. Hell, he'd never even held a baby before. _(Was I a good father?)_ None of that mattered. Peter said that future was gone. And it wasn't the end of it; Peter had implied that the story didn't end well.

XXX

"Yeah," Peter said quietly, looking him over to see how he was handling the outpouring of information. "You had a little boy." Sylar seemed to be doing okay, but moving very slowly on indicating when he was ready for the next sentence.

XXX

Sylar inhaled and let it out slowly. "Go on."

XXX

Peter nodded in acknowledgement, but didn't speak right away. He moved around the edge pieces, sorting them roughly by color, and tried to fit a few more together. He found two pairs that linked up in the pool, but wasn't sure where they went. He referenced the box and put them along the sides where he thought they belonged. "You know, I've never told this to anyone. At all." He glanced up at Sylar for a brief, still moment. "Never had anyone to tell it to." He smiled a little and went back to segregating puzzle bits for a while.

"Kid's name was Noah. I don't know what that means, really. I spent most of that day in shock, running from one thing or another - too many things I didn't understand hitting me all at once."

XXX

Sylar gazed back at Peter, serious and astounded. _Never? Not even your family? But why tell me, why tell me now? Maybe its not…important since its not a possible future anymore, but its sure interesting. I know something Nathan doesn't?_ That was a serious boost, being told something new (from Peter's standpoint) without having to demand or threaten or blackmail it out. Information was power and Sylar wanted both, as such, information didn't flow on tap around him like it did for the other specials. The closest he'd ever gotten was with Mohinder and as a Petrelli twice. This was like being treated as an equal, as someone on the same level of Peter. It was like being one of the hero gang almost (never mind that Peter had no one else to talk to). Sylar couldn't help but feel a little touched by the trust and honor and vote of confidence in his intelligence and capabilities to have this shared with him. And that someone, a hero, would tell him something about Sylar himself? When had that ever happened? Secrets were power and the more everyone knew about Sylar that he didn't know himself was another playing card against him. But now, it was almost like being told a secret in confidence. He couldn't help but feel a little bit special. Of course he wanted to live up to that trust.

Okay, now Peter was just pulling his leg. _No son of mine would be named Noah, that's for sure. Pulling names out of hats, gimme a break. Bennet's house, Bennet's dog, probably Bennet's kid. Like Noah Jr.?_ Strangely, that the kid might not be his was…equal parts relief and longing, which was just really confusing and stupid of him.

XXX

Peter glanced up a few times, but otherwise kept to his work, letting Sylar think and process - letting _himself_ think and process. He'd certainly brooded over the incident since it had happened, but he hadn't done it much and it was different to mull it over in front of someone, imagining what sense Sylar might make of it.

"You … the future version of you, pegged me as being from the past almost right away. You left Noah with his breakfast and we went in another room to talk. You told me we were brothers, which was the first I knew of it. Or rather, you said you were sorry I'd come so far to find that out." Peter's lips pursed. He'd troubled himself over that line in particular, because it didn't make sense. Why did Sylar, so sharp on so many other issues, believe they were brothers in that future? Was Sylar adopted … somehow? Why did he think that Peter didn't already know this? Had he instantly understood the exact moment from the past Peter was from? Because a day or two, or a week ahead of when he'd left and Peter would have known. And why did he think the reason Peter had come to see him was to discover that? Wouldn't it be easier to find that out in his own time, if he just found a phone and called the right person? Also, Sylar had been so certain that future-Peter hadn't told him, which was a huge assumption to make. Unless he'd been clued in to Peter's impending visit … but he'd seemed surprised … This was a puzzle Peter didn't have all the pieces to.

"I've begun to wonder if that wasn't just a different timeline, but maybe an entirely different dimension. Like I said: Bizarro world." His brows drew together, unsettled by what that meant. There were too many ramifications for him to wrap his mind around. "Maybe there were things that were true there that just weren't true here? I could have picked up the ability to cross to another reality from that other version of me …" He grimaced and shook his head. He'd like to think he would have known which ability he was using to teleport back to his own time and place, and that dimension-hopping would be noticeably different, but he used a lot of powers reflexively and some entirely unconsciously, so who knew?

He sighed and reiterated the part of the story he'd given earlier, so Sylar knew where it fit. "I told the future-you why I was there - I'd been told to get your ability. You warned me about it and refused. I had you draw the future. You did and agreed to show me how to use your power. You gave me your watch," Peter gestured at the one on Sylar's wrist, which indeed looked like the same one. "It was brok … broken." Peter's voice caught as he realized something, putting together words from then and much more recent. He tilted his head somewhat, looking past Sylar at the apartment door and the bloody handprint. "Funny - you told me then that you kept it for the same reason you told me, here, that you have that handprint on the door. But the you here couldn't have known …" He smiled a little, looking back to Sylar. "Well, I suppose you're both the same person, essentially. You said it was a scar - a reminder. And you had me fix the watch."

XXX

 _I made it- him breakfast? The kid?_ Thoughts of dimensions had him stumped. Sadly he was nowhere near up to task when it came to dissecting the difference between the linear future and a dimension, but that was kind of a new thought to the power of teleportation. 'You're both the same person, essentially'. He'd blinked because those kinds of…echoing words from the mouth of some domesticated future self was weird in anyone's book. Yeah, but the future Peters he'd seen weren't exactly cut from the same cloth. The only times Sylar had seen his future…well, it hadn't gone three or four years out, although there was that one time where he painted Nathan in his office. That had been weird, too. Sylar had painted the nuclear guy and assumed he was the bomb. (He gladly ignored the part about using his mother's blood to recreate the explosion on her floor – that was traumatic enough). Then he painted himself opposite Peter at Kirby and that was the end of that ability.

Sylar waited until part two of the story concluded before chuckling about Peter explaining how he'd found out about the whole brotherhood thing, the first time around at least. "That explains you popping into my cell with a bone to pick all of a sudden. Well…extra bones." _(Stop saying bone…)_ He'd kind of wondered about that at the time. _Convenient of Ma to show up, too_ _._ Funny of Peter to be talking about scars.

 _But hang on_ _._ "I gave you my watch?" Sylar motioned with the appropriate wrist. _Broken or not, I've never let anyone touch it. Its connected to my ability? I can give it away? Oh, Samson, you fool!_ Sylar enjoyed an internal cackle about that, but it was cut short as he thought some more: _I could have had abilities before 2006 if I'd only fixed the Sylar faster? Holy shit…_ _._ That was mind-boggling. _Chandra, you fucking asshole. Enjoy rotting in hell._ "What's more, you fixed it?" his tone was extremely dubious. Not that the watch couldn't be fixed – obviously it could, the one he wore currently was in working condition – but surprised that Peter, untrained and really clueless had managed it. The kid was like a sponge, maybe it was fitting that he got the easy way out of everything. _Stand next to me, tinker with a watch, ta-da! He has ultimate power. It's not fair._ That caused a spike of pure jealous, righteous anger in him on instinct. _I don't play well with the other little children_ _._ He felt better that his future self had resisted. And warned Peter. _I wonder if we fought about it._ Heaving a grouchy sigh, he eyed Peter as he crossed his arms, muttering warningly, "You're lucky when you came back your mother thought she had me by the balls." _She so did._

XXX

"I …" Peter shook his head, not sure how to respond to that last statement, or to Sylar's accompanying semi-threatening posture. _I_ should _have come back to some other time, like right before Kirby Plaza or before I thought Dad died or maybe some night while I was in college, studying human physiology. You know, like sometime when I could have changed something. Not so that I could … wait, did Sylar think I teleported from his house to the cell? Why would he … oh yeah, I haven't finished the story._

"Yeah. Um, yeah. I held it in my hand, it came apart, you talked me through it and all of a sudden everything made sense." Peter held his hands in a remembered approximation of how he'd done it before - left hand palm up like he was holding something, right hand poised over it as if manipulating, but a good foot or more between them. His brow furrowed. "Sort of made sense. Like I said, my thoughts got … weird."

XXX

 _Well, did it make sense or didn't it?_ Sylar thought. _And there we go again with this 'your ability makes my head feel weird' business. That's kind of insulting._

XXX

He sighed. _Might as well get the bad part of the story over with._ It was part of why Peter hadn't dwelled much on Noah or Mr. Muggles during the story. He knew how this ended, so there was no point to trying to get Sylar emotionally invested in them. "Right after I got your ability, Claire, some blonde speedster woman, and Knox showed up. I don't know how they tracked me. I don't know how they got there so fast. We … you and I, that is, fought them." _You told me to leave, but I didn't listen._ "Noah was killed." _It was all my fault._ "You …" Peter reached up with his left hand to scratch at his right temple. He touched at his injured eye briefly, checking to see if it was still, in fact, injured. _Of course it is._ _I'm stalling._

XXX

Sylar gave a slow, solemn blink, tilting his head as he watched Peter _. It was inevitable_. The irony of losing his child to a victim who's brother he'd taken wasn't lost on him. _Eye for an eye, as it were? Kid had to pay for 'Daddy's' sins I'm sure._ Still he knew that was beyond the pale – a four year old who was innocent except by genetics and tainted only by his father's association was leagues different from a forty-three year old mobster politician who'd dug his own grave. Or his mother had dug it for him, either way. The point was, Nathan had lived his life and made his choices, the kid, 'Noah', hadn't gotten the chance. Of course, the whole thing was probably an exercise of some sort - _Ma taking evil to new levels._

XXX

"When you saw that, you got really angry." _Grief._ He looked up at Sylar, taking in his expression and determined to get past this and get it all told. "I'd already dealt with the speedster and Claire was still trying to pull herself together. You took care of Knox. Then you blew up just like I did in the sky over Kirby Plaza, except … uh … you know, you were on the ground, in, like, a residential area. And about ten feet away from me." _The only good thing I can say about that is that it was fast._ He looked down finally, shaking his head.

XXX

Sylar observed Peter, getting something of a kick out of taking the news (that he'd had a kid and said kid had been murdered) better than Peter expected. That type of thing was to be expected. Besides, the kid never existed and now, never would. _So Peter shows up, takes my watch and my power, gets my kid killed and I explode._ "So I really was 'the bomb' after all." Obviously Peter healed so he wasn't going to apologize for something as ridiculous as a future he had no part in.

"So after all that you decided to come back, kick my ass, rub my face in it and try to kill me? Because, four years in the future, I blow up the California? I think you should be thanking me – I stopped that future without your help." _I held your mom and Claire and Bennet and Meredith at Primatech and played twenty-goddamn-questions with Angela about my parents. Finding out I wasn't a Petrelli was…difficult. No, well, yes, but surely that interrupted things. Hell, I stopped the group from waltzing over to Pinehearst if you want to look at it that way. Bennet and Elle were most useful in finding the right path._

Tapping the puzzle piece on the tabletop, he pondered the story as a whole. "Was that the future you…mentioned the other day? The one where you heard that other….name?" _My first name. I hope to God you've only seen one future of mine._

XXX

"Yeah. Yeah, it was. You told me not to call you Sylar there, and you winced like the name … bothered you. You said to call you Gabriel." He'd also heard that name in the memories he'd inadvertently stolen from Sylar - not that he'd used Rene's power accidentally, but he hadn't expected that side effect. And not that Peter was going trolling around in those memories, tempting as that was to aid in understanding his companion. The least he could do was to stay out of them. He supposed he was lucky that he was concussed enough not to remember his recent dreams. It was either that, or his subconscious was getting better about observing boundaries.

"I didn't teleport from the explosion to your cell," he said a little petulantly, despite how much he wished that were true. He shook his head and grumbled out, "The day just kept getting worse after that." His mind struggled to compare the death of a child plus mass death and destruction to the very personal experience of Claire torturing him and then him losing his mind and killing Nathan. "At least, it sure didn't get any better. I was not in the best frame of mind by the time I got to your cell." _Which is to say, I was crazy, or at least crazed. It's not an excuse. Sort of sounds like an excuse - 'I had a bad day, so I decided to kill you'. I think I was blaming him for me killing Nathan._ He sighed. _Almost added Ma to the death toll. How many people did I get killed that day? Few hundred thousand? The sucky thing is that it isn't shit compared to the ones I got killed in that other future._

Very quietly he added, "Thanks for knocking me out, there." _Lucky my mother had you by the balls, like you said._ It was a disturbing image when taken literally, but there was little he would put beyond his mother these days. Peter went back to work on the puzzle, head down enough to hide most of his face as he turned his attention away from his companion. He carefully blanked his mind, going through the usual, well-practiced mental routine he used to avoid thinking about something he didn't want to think about. He hunched inwards, head pulling in and shoulders up. His arms drew in a bit closer to his sides. He might not be thinking it consciously, but there were a lot of deaths Peter counted himself responsible for.

XXX

Both brows went up in shock. "I'm sorry, was that a 'thank you'? Is that allowed?" That was a first. It took the guy how many years to say it? Contrary to popular belief, Sylar had saved some lives in his time, including Peter's more than a few instances. And that wasn't counting the people he hadn't killed, chose not to kill or couldn't kill, the people who'd been spared for whatever reason. Not Claire, Angela, Bennet, Micah, or Luke. Some disbelief was required. _Just think, if I'd have let you kill her then, we wouldn't be in this mess! Nathan would be alive and Peter wouldn't have problems with me – my life wouldn't be so fucked! Fuck the future._ Those assholes preaching about doing good deeds (doing none themselves) and when he saved a life, he was rewarded with death, violence, imprisonment, biting replies or stone cold silence. Truly a fucked up reward system. And they wondered why he wouldn't play ball? "Are you sure you want to be thanking me for preventing you from, you know, saving the world?" All that after having his neck snapped in half. Sylar heaved a tense sigh, tossing the puzzle piece down and snatching up another, too angry to communicate more, he turned his focus to the puzzle. _I swear to God, if he tries to blame that on me and my ability in any way, I will crush him._

XXX

Peter looked up for a moment, watching Sylar's angry motions. With a slight, conciliatory lift of his brows, Peter said, "By the time I got to you, I was so fucked up that if I'd saved the world, it would have been a complete accident." He assumed that his statement would help Sylar, as it was a sideways confirmation - yes, Peter had meant his thanks genuinely, and yes, he understood as much as he could, what it might have cost. Maybe if Sylar hadn't stopped him, Peter's psychotic careening would have taken Arthur out instead of being a bit calmer, later, and allowing that ill-fated hug that drained his abilities. But Ma would still be dead. Peter was content Sylar had done right.

 _If only I could have been stopped sooner_. He looked down again, brows pulling together. He reached up aimlessly with his left, fingers roaming around his forehead and pinching the top of his nose briefly before letting his hand return to the table and his attention go back to the puzzle. Sylar muttered something Peter didn't catch, nor did he care all that much, not feeling very defensive at the moment.

XXX

Under his breath, "Typical empath." Moments passed as Sylar did try to find the piece's location in the puzzle. The idea of interlocking parts was enough to calm him some. As quietly as Peter had spoken before, he said sadly, "Seemed the least I could do for a fellow sufferer of an ability." That was, at the heart of it, the truth. A son had lost his mother and to watch that same scene replayed right before his eyes…At the time, he hadn't wished that burden of guilt on his brother and he'd longed to protect their mother.

Sometimes he thought it made sense for him to have sprung for Angela's womb, the root of all devastation. Evil begat evil, after all. Now he was forever locked in her shadow, tied to Nathan like an anvil, one of her brood in one way or another. Blood was fickle as well he knew.

XXX

Peter gazed at Sylar steadily for a long beat, then looked down at their joint project with a generically displeased grunt. He felt rather down, emotionally, which was hardly surprising given the subject matter, but at the same time he was glad to have gotten that out. _Here we are, telling each other secrets_. One corner of his mouth lifted a little and he found another piece to link up on the continuing border. _Or at least I'm telling_. It wasn't something he'd kept a secret intentionally, but it felt better to know the information was out there in someone else's mind now. It was a tiny, hair's breadth connection and maybe it gave Sylar some context for Peter attacking him out of the blue. Peter hoped so.

He watched Sylar finally connect one piece to another - the first he'd done as far as Peter had noticed. Before the man moved on, Peter pointed at the corner closest to him, where the bottom third of the signature was visible on the linked pieces. "Hey, look around for the rest of this signature, will you? There should be two more pieces with writing on them." He started to add how easy they should be to find, but some intuition about Sylar's ego stopped his tongue. And on second thought, he wasn't sure at all how Sylar would take direction, but he'd already spoken. Nothing for it but to find out.


	41. Piece Offering

Day 11, afternoon

 _Finally!_ Sylar purposefully did not consider how many pieces Peter had connected since the start. He huffed as Peter addressed him, or the puzzle. _Don't catch me telling you how to connect your pieces, do you?_ But Peter had phrased it nicely enough that he didn't snap. It was actually…kind of friendly. _Its one of those things friends do_. Or brothers. Ehem. _Right? Does that make us…friendly?_ "I thought you were working on the signature, Peter?" He inquired, teasingly innocent and somewhat serious. _You know, that whole bein' important thing you've got going on? Or does he think I just magically know where all the pieces are?_ Sylar made a 'whatever' face and went back to eyeing the puzzle. Another question struck him, "Did that future Peter have a scar and scare you shitless?" It would be interesting to see how Peter answered that one and what he thought of it.

XXX

"I'm working on the border. You have …" Peter waved his hand generally over the other 90% or more of the puzzle. "I'm still trying to figure out why you sorted them like that earlier. But if you want to clue me in, then I'll help out when I get the frame done."

XXX

 _Oh, I do, do I? I have all that?_ Sylar chuckled internally. "I told you earlier," _Or I think I did,_ "They're sorted by shape," he explained without much lip, making it more of a simple statement.

XXX

"That future Peter had a scar, yeah. I didn't like him." He shook his head, tucking his chin closer to his neck and shaking his head in refusal. "I didn't know how to take him. It's a sort of … I don't know, something existential? To be faced with a, huh," Peter grinned briefly, chuckling and gesturing, "a future version of yourself who's trying to tell you not to make the mistakes he did?" _I don't know. I had the feeling I was a loser in the future. People thought he was a terrorist, the bad guy_. "I figured he wouldn't kill me, but … His idea of leaving me somewhere safe was ridiculous. He shot Nathan. And …" Peter shook his head and shrugged, because even though Nathan had been brought back, the whole situation was just sort of unforgivable. And he was telling this to Sylar. _Um … yeah, bad move_. "He didn't explain himself very well."

Peter leaned forward suddenly, saying, "You know that kinda creepy feeling you get when you hear your voice on a recording and you think you sound weird? Or you see a video of yourself and you think you look, you know, awkward?" _Like a dork. Like a_ _ **complete**_ _dork. And really stupid?_ "Seeing another version of myself was kind of like that." _A huge disappointment, too._

A thought struck Peter out of the blue as he pulled back. "Wait, where did you meet him?" Peter cocked his head, not able to work that one out at the moment.

XXX

"Ah," was Sylar's reply, thinking that over – existentialism, mistakes, Peter's lack of clear communication and then memories of hearing his own voice on the phone's message machine (he'd never seen himself on tape, but Nathan had many times) and thinking he sounded like an absolutely deep-voiced ghoul. _Uh-oh_. Peter had dinged him on it. "I didn't meet him." Sylar placed slight enunciation on 'I', but no more. Then he wondered if he should explain, if that was in any way 'in bounds' or if the mere mention would get him killed.

XXX

"What?" Peter said dumbly. _What does he mean? Then how did he know he had a scar? Wait, maybe he saw him on tape, like video from the Company or something?_ He started to ask about that, eyebrows raising in question, and then shut his mouth with a snap. _Nathan._ "Oh." That made so much more sense, explaining also the small shift in emphasis that he'd initially discounted. Peter pulled in a deep breath, looking up at Sylar's careful scrutiny. Peter looked away immediately, the image coming to mind of Sylar from only the day before, cowering at the corner of the couch. _He's waiting to see if I flip out and attack him._

Peter looked down, picking up one of the pieces and trying it fruitlessly. He tried another - also failure. He started through the straights with simple determination, thinking of nothing except the need to try every single one until he got his match. That was so much easier than thinking about whether he should accept Sylar using Nathan's memories for casual conversation - a casual conversation Peter had been enjoying.

XXX

Peter went back to the puzzle. The lack of reaction made Sylar exhale in relief and appreciation. Not so much as a pointed look or a sound made to express disgust or anger or pain. Sylar might have slumped a little, too. He almost wanted to ask 'that's it?' Swallowing, he poked around in the available pieces applying himself the same as Peter. The memories were boiling up inside him and he clamped his mouth shut, head down to keep them in with no luck. "You weren't around after I got shot and it was that other Peter, with the scar. You were in that inmate…Jesse. He said he came back and shot me to stop a future where people like us were being used, then asked for my forgiveness. He said he didn't think he'd changed anything."

XXX

Peter wasn't listening at first. He was trying one puzzle piece after another, trying to pretend Sylar wasn't sitting across the table from him. So when the other man started talking, he heard him, but he didn't really process the words. It wasn't until the bit about Jesse that Peter's brain starting lighting up with incongruent phrases: 'I got shot', 'that other Peter', 'I didn't meet him', 'people like us', 'asked for my forgiveness.' It was wording that Sylar didn't use, but Nathan sure did.

Peter surged up, partly out of the chair, his left hand balling into a fist, knuckles hard against the wood of the table as he used it to rise. His right hand ached as the muscles tried to obey a similar command. The pain from that, and an uncertainty on what he wanted to do, paused him with his butt a good foot off the seat, not quite standing up. He wanted to lunge across the table and hit Sylar, smash his face in, but he knew he shouldn't. _He isn't trying to pick a fight, right? What the fuck is he doing? Why does he keep doing this shit?_ Half of Peter's mind was saturated with the idea of grabbing Sylar by his badly combed hair and … he couldn't finish the thought. Sylar was concussed and his patient. It short-circuited Peter's head.

XXX

Sylar's body tensed as he tried to react to the shifting threat and failing. He hoped the fade-to-black was quick. He was trapped in some kind of memory Jell-o - unable to move to defend himself yet bogged down. His voice grew strained, "He said my future was changed and I was…on the path to becoming the brother he'd always looked up to. You- you missed a lot of strange things, Pete." _Like Tracy and Linder_ _man_ _and that 'sent by God' routine._ Sylar inhaled quickly, coming back to his own reality, his own life. _Memory Lane is one bitchy neighborhood_ , he mentally groused, cringing a bit, hoping again not to get punched. _Shit, this isn't going well. It was going well and now it isn't._

XXX

 _He doesn't even_ _ **sound**_ _like Sylar._ 'My future', 'I was', 'the brother he'd always looked up to', 'Pete'. _What the fuck? He's talking as_ _ **Nathan!**_ Peter's eyes flew over Sylar's face, over and over. It wasn't a taunt. It wasn't mockery. If anything, Sylar looked … troubled, freaked out, struggling maybe. And cowering again. Peter backed off, sinking down a few inches as if to say, 'okay, I see you cringing; I wasn't going to attack you anyway.'

XXX

Sylar cleared his throat, desperate to recover, to distract, weasel his way out of this situation. The nearest thing was the puzzle. Adrenaline was rushing through him painfully, his head feeling swelled and useless even though he was freed from the memory haze. "Uh…" He spied a useful piece and snatched it up, extending it towards Peter and that section to lay it near the man. Perhaps a peace offering of sorts. _Or a piece offering_. He withdrew his hand and hunched over the table somewhat, keeping his distance from Peter. He didn't want to die over something he couldn't help and that something was only half his fault.

XXX

Peter stiffened at the motion, his eyes, which had begun to widen, narrowing sharply again. Had he not been relying on his left hand for balance at that moment, he might have batted reflexively at Sylar, but instead he just jerked a little. He glanced briefly at the piece, then at Sylar. No threat from Sylar, whose head was down, chin tucked defensively even as he kept enough of his head up to keep a wary eye on Peter. Peter looked back at the puzzle piece, then at Sylar.

Sylar wasn't doing anything, so Peter took a longer look at the piece. It had half the signature on it. He picked it up with his right hand, looking at it more closely. _Yep, that's one of the pieces I asked him for_. He exhaled slowly and moved it into place, fitting it on top of the others. He glared up at Sylar, who watched the process, but wasn't meeting his eyes.

The small of Peter's back was killing him from the posture. It was not normally a big deal to hold such a position for a few minutes, but the strained muscles were in play, limiting his ability to stand this way, even supported by his arm, to only a few seconds. He had a choice between standing confrontationally or sitting. He sat.

He exhaled slowly and shut his eyes for a long beat. Sylar was not a threat; he was not being threatening. He didn't look snarky or even in possession of all his faculties. _He's scared. This is Sylar scared._ Peter opened his eyes and looked across. Sylar avoided his eyes again. _Yeah. He doesn't show it like normal people do._ Peter filed that away for future use, but in the meantime, his head was starting to hurt and the same confusion he'd had the night before was beginning to settle in. The wind-down from provocation scrambled his thoughts, but this time he was at least cognizant of it. "I need to … take a minute." He reached up with his left hand and rubbed his brow, covering and then shutting his eyes, feeling safe enough in Sylar's presence to do that. He suspected he should be offering the guy some reassurance - 'no, I'm not going to kick your ass for that' or 'I'm not going to kill you later' or even the generic, 'it's okay'. It was hard to wrap his mind around the implication of the words at the moment, so he said nothing.

XXX

Nausea kicked in. Peter was angry, desiring to hurt him, possibly kill him by intent or convenient accident, it didn't matter. Peter was poised and tense, half risen and bent over the table. Sylar hadn't moved because there was no point. What could he do? Crawl away at high speeds and hope not to incur fatal blows on his way to falling head-first down the stairs? If there was going to be another beating, he'd take it like a man. _Maybe half a man the way my brain's working lately…_

Peter sat and spoke, which was relieving, but it was ambivalent about potential violence. So Sylar waited, not moving a muscle beyond his eyes, his fingers laid atop the table, unoccupied with their project. He slowly traced his eyes upwards over Peter's body for a moment, his gaze cautious before returning to the table while thinking. _I wonder if throwing up would make me feel better. Purged, maybe, of a ghost?_ His insides, those nuisance emotions, were a mess. Gratitude, fear, anger, disgust, relief, frustration, sadness, strangely grief, paranoia, apology, helplessness were all on his Wheel of Fortune: Emotions Category, but the indicator arrow was still spinning. Sylar had no idea what to say, what Peter would hear or wanted to hear, and what would sink him. He knew the window of punishment opportunity was still wide open. Peter surely wanted to get his balance again, plot his revenge, walk around the desk to enact a proper discipline. _I suppose that's the end of talking. I hate this! He was talking to me! Why'd he- why'd he have to go ruin it? No one wants to hear what he has to say – he's dead! Look, Peter doesn't even care what precious Nathan has to say...He was talking to me_ , his mind circled back to that pitifully. _He told me things._

XXX

More than a minute passed. Peter wasn't sure how long, but the silence of the place started bringing him out of it. He opened his eyes, looking over at Sylar, who was sitting exactly as he'd been before. The guy was hardly even breathing. He looked ill. _Is he … terrified? Of me?_ Peter put his hand down and swiveled the chair to the side, made nervous and uneasy by that quiet indictment. _Of course, I beat the crap out of him for this last time and yesterday we were all talking about me and my bad anger management. And a few seconds ago I was about to … yeah._

XXX

Peter swiveled around, the motion a precursor towards standing and walking around. Sylar just sighed in resignation. _The fun had to end sometime._ But Peter wasn't moving and he certainly wasn't aggressing…Sylar was clueless as to what was going on. _Why the delayed reaction? Is he going to rub my face in things first? He was so close, he wanted to do it, why pull back?_ His body was still one giant ache; he knew he wasn't healed or functional; the thought of incurring more damaging blows already hurt.

XXX

Peter pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, raising both hands a little, palms outward. "I got this. I'm fine." Then he grumbled, "Better, at least."

XXX

 _Yeah, I've heard that before_ , was Sylar's sole thought.

XXX

 _What the hell was that? Why does he keep doing that? He knows it sets me off, but he genuinely doesn't seem to be able to stop doing it. Is that why he's a killer? What is it in him that's causing this shit that he can't control? Is he … one of those multiple personality people?_ Peter blinked at Sylar for a moment, then looked at the puzzle blankly. _What do I do if he is? He doesn't want me to treat him like he's crazy … but what if he really_ _ **is**_ _crazy? What am I supposed to do then?_ He felt helpless, frustrated, and still angry, even if that last was ebbing.

He sighed and turned the chair to the side, telegraphing his motion so it wasn't abrupt. "I'm going to get some chips from the kitchen," he said, an unnecessary line under normal circumstances, but he had the feeling he needed to tread lightly with Sylar at the moment. For one thing, if Sylar jumped wrong, Peter's upset was still lingering under the surface. One quick motion might set him off again. For another, Sylar was still reading as so totally defensive that Peter wanted to sooth him, even in the face of his anger.

XXX

 _Chips?_ Sylar's mind and any reaction he may have had arrested at that. His next thoughts were directed towards his own movement – whether to stay still or mobilize to keep Peter in his sights. He went so far as to move his hands into his lap after Peter had passed, doing nothing, deciding that any more than that would just bring his attacker down on him. _Why do I have to deal with this? It's not my fault_ , he thought miserably. His back was to the kitchen. _Die alone, after all._ _Hoping for a quick blow to the back of the head? Just fade to black?_ That was fairly accurate. _Chips. Anger makes him…hungry? Or he just likes to snack before beatings. Probably wants to rub the food in my face, too. Typical bully._

XXX

Peter walked to the kitchen, finding what he was looking for easily enough, over on the counter where he'd put the stuff down earlier. He racked his brain for what to do about mental issues, but all he really had was a rundown of what physical conditions might cause 'altered mental state' and what to do about them as a paramedic. When the EMTs got called for a 'violent psych', it was just a 'violent psych' - there was no psychological diagnosis or treatment. His job was just to get them to a psych ward where they'd handle whatever the problem was. They didn't have those calls very often. There'd been once when it was a kid throwing a tantrum. Another time was a late teen/young man with autism. Then there was the guy with carbon monoxide poisoning and there had been a demented elderly woman in a nursing home that Peter had managed to talk down. He'd just talked to her in a low, calm voice, navigating through her misunderstandings and delusions until she stopped being threatening and did what the staff wanted her to. He remembered Hesam complimenting him on his patience. He tried to summon that patience up to help him now.

XXX

Peter returned with a tube of Original Flavor Pringles ( _so presumptuous_ ), seating himself and offered him some by extending the tube with a questioning face, and a "Want some?" Sylar shook his head after a glance at the tube. _Why would I want Pringles? Why would I want any chips or any food? Am I supposed to want food right now? Is that code? He's the nurse, does he know something I don't? Why would you offer? Like, final supper in prison or something? Fattening the prize pig? Is that what all this is? What is this?_ Sylar exhaled queasily with a small sound of distaste as Peter opened the can and began to crunch down on the chips – the smell permeating the air enough to set off his stomach. _Yes, I think vomiting will be dignified._ The sandwich digesting in him suddenly felt unwelcome, so he turned his face away a few inches so he wasn't presented with the large visage of Peter chowing down.

 _He did this the last time he concussed me. He had….crackers. Does that mean something? Does he….get off on this?_ Sylar wouldn't be surprised, or particularly bothered now he saw the pattern. It wasn't far removed from how he'd grown up, the only difference was they weren't actually related, Peter had more legitimate reasons to hurt him and those reasons were different from Martin's from the past. Not bothered by the situation, maybe, the pattern, but that didn't mean he liked it. It was familiar enough that he knew his role and there was some security in knowing that. _Maybe he doesn't…want me here? Should I go lay down? Does he want me to go away now, like, 'go to your corner'? Could be worse…_

XXX

Peter ate a couple chips slowly, not in any hurry. Mostly he looked at the chips themselves, and the container, mulling over how Sylar still hadn't spoken, still hadn't moved, and was still watching him whenever he thought Peter wasn't looking, like now. Peter took several slow, deep breaths, looking around the apartment and trying to think of what it meant for Sylar to speak as Peter's brother. _This place is all his head, in his head. This is how he thinks of himself? Or maybe what he thinks is normal. Books, clocks, little bed, little apartment._ His neck hurt from twisting it to continue his evaluation of the other side of the room. _Nothing here says Nathan. Not in the least. This isn't Nathan's apartment_. He looked at Sylar himself, giving him brief study, easier because Sylar wouldn't look at him. _He doesn't look like Nathan. He could. Here. He could look like whoever he saw himself as, right? Wouldn't he look like whoever he really was?_

Peter sighed and looked down at the puzzle, momentarily distracted by a piece that looked like part of a horse's head. The carriage in the middle of the picture was the next easiest to piece together, or so he imagined. He felt the urge to look for the related pieces. _No, leave that for him to do. I'll do the harder parts. Why didn't he sort by color? Then the white horses would be together in one spot and the black carriage pieces would be together somewhere else._ Peter turned his head, brow slightly furrowed. _I don't know him very well, or why he does the things he does. If I can't figure out the puzzle pieces, then how am I going to figure out this identity thing?_

"Sylar?" Peter glanced up briefly, then away politely. His voice was even and normal, maybe a little tired. "There's something I need to know. Do you think … you're Nathan Petrelli?" Peter's tone wasn't accusing. He was genuinely asking, without judgment, because the honest answer, if he could get it, mattered a lot to him. He didn't stare at Sylar, but looked to his face several times, then away, trying not to be challenging. _He came to me for help, when he was Nathan. He came to me because he thought I_ _ **would**_ _help._ eHe c

XXX

Sylar was left to wait – agonizingly. He detected the disrespect as it was intended: Peter was making him wait _and_ watch the man eat. There was nothing he could say or do, Peter would pummel him into a quick submission. Besides, Peter's justification, the Nathan moment, would be valid. _Will he break a leg? Snap my fingers as double payback? Or just punch everywhere non-vital?_ The thoughts gave him pause. _Won't that mean more recovery time? He doesn't want that, surely. Will he be guilty, and hungry, after that, too?_ His head was under pressure with his raised heart rate, his stomach still turning, his nerves pinging, the chair, the setting, was uncomfortable.

Peter spoke and Sylar's attention snapped back to him, gaze going to Peter's, head coming up, the only thought in his head was _What? What now?_ The nurse's phrasing meant the question wouldn't be pleasant, obviously. He was rather stunned by the question; he'd expected it…earlier and…with different delivery. Peter, now, was calm (near as he could tell) and polite, unbothered, his voice…it was bizarre. Sylar would have expected this question mid-punishment, but no, here it was now like he was…well, a host of things he wasn't: an equal, a good guy, an acquaintance human, maybe. Things like that didn't happen to him, he was not treated that way. For some reason Peter hadn't gotten the memo.

The question itself had his chin rising slightly while he watched Peter. _What happens if I say yes? What happens then? Is this a 'tell the truth' or 'lie my ass off' moment?_ "No." He intoned first. "Well, the-…um…" he scratched his hair back even though it wasn't falling in his face to the point where he needed to adjust it. His eyes shifted away from Peter's face as he spoke, "It…started when you got here," he blurted. "I'm not him, but…sometimes I…forget?" Sylar's voice tipped lower at the last word, hesitant.

XXX

Peter thought about those words and the uncertainty in Sylar's tone _. When I got here? Do I remind him of Nathan? Of him being Nathan? Does Nathan have some last message for me? No, he said good-bye. He got to say good-bye_. Peter tilted his head slightly and reached up to rub at his eyes. They itched a little at the memory. _And here, sitting across from me, is the guy who dropped him. Well, actually I dropped him. He made me drop him. What made him throw himself over the edge anyway?_

 _I can't think about this. My head hurts._ "When I got here," he repeated unnecessarily, pulling his thoughts away from the troubling memories. "So when you forget, do you think you're Nathan then?" _Or not? Is this like when Sylar was trying to break through on the rooftop at Mercy Heights?_ "Do you feel like you're having to fight to … stay you?" _Is it like Nathan's trying to break through? Or is it Sylar-acting-like-Nathan trying to break through … a personality of Sylar's that he's called Nathan? I think the real Nathan's dead. (He's dead, right? There's no hope there … right?)_

 _Was he Nathan before for all those weeks? When_ _ **I**_ _thought he was Nathan and_ _ **he**_ _thought he was Nathan, pretending to be him? When he came to me for help? He couldn't have been. Nathan died at Stanton. Then who the hell was that on top of Mercy Heights? Why would he pretend_ _ **then**_ _? Why would he pretend_ _ **now**_ _? But I asked him to, then. I asked him,_ _ **told**_ _him to be Nathan, and to throw away everything that was Sylar._ A shadow of the enormity of what Peter had demanded of Sylar crept over his mind, making him tense up and try desperately not to continue his thoughts down that path. Instead, he looked for Sylar's answers to the questions he'd asked.

XXX

This was starting to hurt Sylar. Strangely, it was hurting him because he knew Peter and he knew, he could see that this was upsetting the other man: _Let's talk about your dead brother, shall we?_ He hated that feeling and liked it at the same time. The more Peter talked and the less Sylar pissed him off, maybe he'd get out of more bruises. "I don't know!" Frustration at the unknown that was inside him was sliding out, he blurted it before he could censor or think about it. _I'm probably supposed to know all this, know how it all works and know everything that goes on inside my head._ Forcefully, he toned himself down with great difficulty. _As if I didn't have enough problems with people seeing me for who I am, now I'm stuck here with Peter who thinks I'm his brother. Great._

"I don't know what it is, Peter," he added the man's name as some sort of entreaty. _Please understand this. I can't…_ "Something will happen and I get reminded of him and I remember having him in my head and I can't…." Sylar sighed. _Can't do anything about it, but you won't believe me. Can't move when it happens, I'm helpless, you almost hit me._ It was also hard to accept that the inside of his mind was now a legitimate topic for discussion – his personality was now a commonplace subject; this literally was Peter's business. "I'm not your brother. I'm Sylar." _Nathan's dead. It might be nice to be your brother, though. You'd have to put up with me somewhat. Make sex next to impossible. You're fucked, stop thinking about that. Do any of these questions or answers matter? He'll believe what he wants at the end of the day._

XXX

"Okay," Peter said evenly, his left hand rising a few inches, palm facing Sylar as Peter leaned back in the chair. Giving Sylar space. Distancing himself from the conversation and the pain he could hear in Sylar's voice. Not sure what to do about that pain, but the part inside of him that always wanted to help people fidgeted, wanting to be there for … Sylar of all people. Especially given the topic of conversation (Sylar's possible identity issue as Peter's murdered brother), Peter put the brakes on that part of himself. However, his head hurt from trying to figure this out and Sylar was getting upset. Pushing it wasn't going to get them anywhere good.

XXX

 _What does 'okay' mean?_ Peter still failed to sound or give any other indications that he was upset. Sylar tried to ignore him, but his eyes were drawn even more towards Peter, trying to understand the strange behavior.

XXX

"Okay," he repeated, putting his hand down. _I don't need to know right now_. Slowly and quietly, Peter said, "I don't understand the half of what's happened to m-" He paused, drawing out the 'm' sound before continuing, "us … over these years. We can talk about it later." He made a concessionary dip of his head as he leaned forward again, mostly looking at the puzzle. "We'll have plenty of time." Peter sounded distant. He was disappointed - that the matter was unsettled, that he had so much time and nothing to do but wait. But that was how things were. Something clicked over inside as he accepted that and moved on.

XXX

 _Nice of you to include me in that. That's certainly not a necessary gesture. Why would he do that? Doesn't he think I was always a monster who deserved everything I got and then some?_ Then Peter floored him. Sylar looked up at the man's face. _He cut me a break? When's later? What is this, I'm so confused!_ "You're not-" was out of his mouth, straight from his brain, lacking censor. _Going to push it, force me, beat me into submission until you get the answer you want, whether or not its true?_ He shut his mouth over the question, deciding not to aggravate his keeper.

XXX

Peter shifted the chair closer, making a vague, but inviting gesture towards the other man, trying to draw his attention back to the puzzle pieces. "The other piece of the signature should be around here somewhere. I'm going to keep working on this edge here. Maybe you could tell me why you grouped up the pieces like you did. You said earlier something about groups of six?" Peter glanced up at him, hoping the firm detour of the conversation would take, steering it out of the dangerous waters it had been in.

XXX

But when Peter only kept up the odd responses, completely deviating from anything Sylar knew, he was forced to ask questions. "That's it? We just go back to the puzzle?" Not that he objected, hardly. Anyone else would have strapped him down and tortured him silly until he answered, never mind the pain he incurred during 'questioning' (Nazi-style interrogation). This was unexpected reprieve, niceness.

XXX

Peter glanced up at him and then back down. "Yeah, that's it." He gestured at his head. "My head hurts. I can't think." _You've done this twice now. Three times maybe with that collapse here in the apartment the first day. (That was the first day here, right?) It's going to come up again. We'll deal with it then._ "Right now …" He sighed. "I'd just rather leave it alone and do something easier."

XXX

Sylar shook his head briefly and sighed, grasping the part where he wasn't going to be beaten or even excluded from talking or the puzzle. He still felt horrible, his nausea spiking along with his head. _And all he wants to know about is the puzzle. I said something about groups of six? I don't remember that. Hope it wasn't important. I am pretty sure_ "I told you. Some people color-code them; some people organize them by shape. These," he indicated the table and in doing so, moved closer a bit unintentionally, "are by shape." _Duh_ , he managed to keep that one to himself for self-preservation purposes. "You're so confusing," he couldn't help but mutter.

XXX

Peter grinned suddenly and warmly at that, chuckling. _You, too, man. You, too. I don't understand him; he doesn't understand me. We are such a pair._ He'd caught the condescension, too, but ignored it. "Shapes, huh? I see that now." He looked over them, abruptly seeing the pattern where before there had just been confusion. The smile faded to an expression of simple concentration. _That explains why he left the straight edges together._

XXX

Peter was engrossed in the puzzle and that made it unlikely he'd be leaping up to do violence. Sylar blinked at the puzzle a moment, thinking about it being offered up to him again. _It_ _'_ _s Peter's project_ _,_ _yet he's inviting me back to it even after what I said?_ He slowly eased closer to the table, inching his hands closer to the splayed puzzle pieces, taking his time in picking one up at random, his eyes focused on Peter as he did so. No yelling or otherwise negative reaction. Only then did he examine the piece. The whole painting/puzzle was a fairly muddy pallet so when he drew a muddy-colored piece… _See, this is why I don't do puzzles by color. I doubt Peter can see the differences._

Clearing his throat, Sylar asked, "So…you said nausea was normal for this?" pointing to his temple so Peter understood. _Hopefully he doesn't think I was scared so my stomach went crazy. It_ _'_ _s because of his food, right. Food. It_ _'_ _s not like I know anything about medicine. Maybe he'll tell me another paramedic story._

XXX

"Hm?" Peter looked up, having honestly moved on and zoned out a little. "Nausea? Yeah. So's headache, memory problems, trouble concentrating … bunch of other stuff I'd probably remember better if I hadn't had my ticket punched so firmly." He was matter of fact about that, looking back at what he was doing. He found a piece to hook up and checked to see if he had the bottom of the frame done yet. _Nope, corner won't mesh. Need at least two more pieces then …_ "Hm, sleep problems, too," he added, still looking down. It was something of a luxury, not having to watch his conversational partner constantly - frankly, not caring as much as he did with other people how Sylar took his words. "That was why I got the puzzle, initially. I thought it'd be something for me to do while you dozed, but this is fine." Peter waved between the two of them as he glanced up again. "Great, actually," he said, voice softening a little. He looked at the picture on the puzzle box, but there was no help there. _Back to brute force._ He started trying one piece after another.

XXX

 _Flatterer_ , Sylar thought of Peter while being proud to have 'punched his ticket so firmly'. _I'd rather hit something else of his not his face. Strange, he really seems over my...problem, there. No, its not a problem – its not my fault._ Sylar was eyeing the puzzle box to try and see where his toneless piece went when Peter brought up sleeping problems, faltering and giving the man wary, surprised look. _How does he know that? Has he been drugging me?_ Peter failed to notice, which might have been a good thing. Sylar felt like his energy was dropping off a cliff after being keyed up moments ago, it dulled his paranoia and he hoped he wouldn't need either – energy or paranoia – for later. Unwinding sounded good about then. _I'm supposed to sleep_ , he thought at first about Peter's comments, the feeling of 'I'm even more unwanted here' starting. "Oh." _Its fine? Fine meaning…? Great. I'm– this is great?_ Sylar blinked and his face brightened. _Peter's really into that turn-the-other-cheek stuff. He likes doing puzzles with m- with someone._ He grinned to himself and set the puzzle piece where he thought it would go eventually with more pieces. _He really likes puzzles then. I thought he said something about not doing them much growing up, though._

XXX

He worked quietly for a while, letting his brain go on autopilot while his hands stayed busy. Finally, he came out of it, eyes beginning to drift up in between prospective pieces to look at Sylar's hands and what he was doing with them. Then glances up at his face. It felt weird to be working cooperatively with the man on anything - anything at all, even something as meaningless as a puzzle. Peter pulled in a deeper breath, rolling his shoulders a little as they relaxed. He exhaled slowly and quietly, repeating the process a few times. His head felt better as he reached the last stage of calming himself down after a spike in tension.

 _Nauseous. Normal side effect of tension._ "If you're still feeling nauseated, you might try some breathing exercises. It's one of the things they teach in nursing school - abdominal breathing. It's simple." He looked over Sylar's face for some sign of recognition or lack thereof, something to tell him if talking Sylar through the process would be welcomed or redundant. "I could talk you through it?"

XXX

Gathering up another piece, surprisingly calm and unafraid now, Sylar compared it to the box picture. He seemed to be moving very slowly compared to Peter- his attention was called back to his companion as he spoke. Peter was having that effect; Sylar didn't know if it was annoying or impressive or enviable. _Breathing exercises, huh?_ He decided to take a chance. "Like CPR?" Sylar deadpanned, curious and attentive, putting on the same wide-and-innocent eyes that had worked before on Peter. _Practicing our heavy breathing, why do it alone when you can do it together?_

XXX

Sylar raised his face, eyes wide, vulnerable, and looking so far from a killer that Peter's mind stumbled, possibly straight into the gutter. "Uh … nnn," Peter said unhelpfully, losing track of what he'd been about to say, somewhere between his brain and vocal cords. "Huh?" He tried to recall what Sylar had just said. "CPR? Uh … nnno. No. Huh-uh. It's just … It's just abdominal breathing. It's pretty straight forward."

XXX

Sylar chuckled. _God, he's so easy. That's kinda hot, actually. I can't wait to play with him. (I think we already played with him and are in this predicament because of that)._ "Oh, okay," he replied when he'd gotten over most of his amusement to be able to answer. He had no idea what the distinction was or really, whatever it was Peter had just said.

XXX

Peter pushed back from the desk, giving his head a little shake to rid it of whatever momentary fogginess seemed to have infected it. _Whatever that was_. He wasn't self-aware enough at the moment to figure out that his libido had been awoken. Otherwise, his rational mind would have automatically vetoed what he did next. He began speaking with the semi-instinctive intention to impress. "The trick is, you're hyperoxygenating your blood and that naturally calms a person down. If your chair's comfortable, you can do it there if you lean back, but it works a lot better if you lie down." He gestured widely at the couch. "You need to get comfortable, where you can relax and focus on your breathing for a few minutes." He glanced around the place. "It's like resetting one of your clocks. You've got to get the pendulum swinging right, otherwise you'll always be running a few seconds too fast." He smiled a little, pleased at having managed that analogy. Big words, give directions, say something clever, look proud of yourself. Yep, he'd filled the script. He still felt kind of confused, though.


	42. Heavy Breathing

Day 11, afternoon

Sylar's eyes darkened as he took to the idea Peter was practically laying out the red carpet for him. It hurt his head, but the blood rushing everywhere else was a worthwhile feeling. Getting away with unintentionally spouting off Nathan Petrelli's memories and not being punished for it, being invited back to the puzzle after that and Peter's continued niceness was stirring all sorts of things up inside him. Obviously: instincts to play and tease and…experiment; get a dialogue going and learn things. "Hmm," Sylar hummed as if he understood a word of what Peter said (he didn't; he was lost on 'hyperoxygenated' but he did hear something about clocks and pendulums) but it sounded interesting and it involved a couch.

He flicked his eyes over Peter's smiling face, probably looking a little hungry; he smiled back slowly and began to raise himself up out of the chair. "Alright," was his blanket agreement. A few limps to the couch, he sat, turned and began to settle in, doing his best to look inviting. Whatever this game was, it was fun. "Here I am." As he hadn't been paying attention, he had no idea what the game actually involved, so he stated his readiness in a low voice, his hands at his sides. _This is way better than the puzzle_ , he thought even as the rest of his consciousness fuzzed out, incapable of even planning an escape if things went bad – and they might. Peter might be suckering him in to pull a switch and flip back into 'beat your ass into a pulp' mode for the Nathan thing. _At least I'll be comfortable while he does it. Whatever it is he's doing._

"You'll show me how to do it?" _Whatever it is_. He backed up his request with a similarly tempting look, toned down somewhat from before, reeling Peter in and stretching his body out, miming a position adjustment crudely – his chest puffed out, hips rolled back, spine arched slightly for a moment, spreading his legs a little, lolling his head to face Peter. All the motions were subtle and noticeable enough. Already he was learning some of Peter's buttons and the guy was easy and Sylar did not mind playing stupid(er) to get some mutual friction going. _Here I am, limp and helpless in need of assistance. Save me, hero-boy._

XXX

"Yeah. Um … er _."_ _Words. I know them. Why am I having trouble getting them out of my mouth?_ The only time he was usually at such a loss was during the throes of sex. Part of his brain realized he was acting like a crush-smitten teen, but he wasn't connecting that with the current situation. Because that same part of his brain was absolutely certain that Sylar wasn't a valid target of affection. Unfortunately, the human sexual response was more complicated than just "affection". Sylar's motions when laying himself out were replaying in Peter's head. He wasn't sure why that seemed important, so he ignored it.

Peter stood and wheeled his chair over in front of the couch, smiling happily at Sylar, who was looking really … Peter couldn't find words even in his head to work that one out, but he felt warm and cheered and very perked up by things. Mostly he was watching Sylar's face. "Yeah, okay," Peter said needlessly, positioning the chair at an angle roughly parallel to Sylar. He took a seat, tilting the chair back and turning his head so he had a good line of sight with his right eye. Sylar was paying attention to him; that was great - necessary of course.

"So, um …" _What am I doing here? What am I … oh yeah, deep breathing. Or, abdominal breathing. Yeah. Okay. That's easy. Whew._ "Okay, so here's how you do it: put one hand on your chest - doesn't matter which one, and the other one on your stomach. Like this." He demonstrated. "Now you're going to take a deep breath, breathe in for," _Five? No, four,_ "four seconds, hold it for a second, then breathe out. And the important part is that you have to make the hand on your stomach move, not the hand on your chest. Okay? Oh, and exhale for four seconds, too. So, like this," he concluded, going through one cycle.

 _I'm acting kind of weird_ , he thought as he relaxed and the fog in his brain cleared even more. _What's going on here?_

XXX

 _Sitting down, definitely relaxing, wow._ _Hmm, yes, Peter._ The man drew closer, nearly beaming at him and that was so, so nice, he didn't care why it was happening. It had Sylar smiling back lazily, watching the only other face in the world as it was happy and pleased. _Probably shouldn't be this relaxed for sex. If it happens. Oh well._ Peter strangely still sat in his chair, the usual distance between them. _Why not come over here?_

He followed along, for the most part, as Peter spoke. Sylar glanced down at himself, noting that his shirt was still mostly open from whenever ago. _Oh, oops. He didn't tell me to button up – he must not have minded._ He plucked at his shirt a bit, sliding his left hand onto his bare chest, his right hand on his shirted stomach. Then he checked the position against Peter's demo. And that was where he got confused, genuinely so. "Um…" _Hand on the stomach moves, but not the- how does that work? Peter makes it look easy._ Frowning, he shifted and took a large breath but that just moved everything. That was frustrating.

Oddly enough, he wanted more of Peter-hands-on (not something he ever really said about most people). The trick was how to get Peter to do it in Sylar's limited, fuzzy state. He admitted to himself that this was very unconventional for him, feeling this way, relaxed like this, wanting what he did now. In a roundabout way, the solution came to him. "Are my hands right?" he raised them from his person in question, to show where they'd been resting. Overanalyzing it in thinking that hand-placement (namely his own hands) would throw off the results. "How does…?" he trailed off. _This is not that hard! It_ _'_ _s okay, it_ _'_ _s okay. Peter will show me._ The thought of Peter closer, smiling, possibly with his hands on Sylar's chest after experiencing Peter's gentle nursing from before was more than enough to turn him on and make him feel warm all over.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar, who seemed very happy with things. _Maybe that's the deal. He usually doesn't look happy. He's usually scowling or plotting. He doesn't look like he's plotting anything right now_. Peter saw as Sylar's expression turned confused, raising his hands, questioning, and apparently dissatisfied with the results of trying the exercise. _It's not that difficult,_ Peter thought, his brows pulling together and lips pinching together briefly. _Why can't he figure it out? Wait, there's another way he can do it._

"Here. I have an idea." Peter tilted his chair back upright, waited a beat for his balance to steady, and then stood. He looked down on Sylar for a moment, unable to stop the tiny, charmed smile that crept over his lips. Peter swiped at his hair, making sure his bangs were out of his way. Then he fussed with his hair in general, eyes starting to stray downward from Sylar's face to his bare chest. He pulled his gaze away quickly. _I don't need to be looking at that._ "Okay, um … yeah." He looked straight ahead now and picked the little blue chemistry book off the shelf. "There's this other way I was shown. I'm going to put this on your stomach. Maybe this will help." He braced himself on the shelves behind the couch and leaned a little to put the small book on Sylar's belly.

XXX

So there Peter stood: over him and smiling (still!). Sylar was starting to wonder if he'd missed something. Or maybe this truly was going somewhere. He was used to not receiving those types of signals, instead making them up to get what he wanted. His eyes tracked to Peter's hand, combing through his hair in, yes, seductive motions. _Is he really playing with his hair? Do that on top of me next time._ Sylar saw his companion's eyes start to wander. _Yes! (I think)._ This was all a very…slow scene; he'd never really encountered 'slow' before. _Maybe he drugged me, I- this_ _is_ _fast even for me. Do I mind, though?_ Peter leaned bodily over him and that was suggestive of an act that did not turn him on. He tensed, turning his face a few inches away towards the back of the couch, arousal halted in its tracks by a healthy reaction of self-preservation, but Peter wasn't finished. Face frozen, he inhaled in shock when Peter laid the book on his body. _He's not touching me, he's not touching me._ Now he was nervous and still flushed.

XXX

"Alright." Peter glanced back at his chair, then decided to forego it, sinking to his knees where he was. Looming over Sylar was bad form and one's body language while working with patients was a very basic and oft-repeated lesson. His manner softening, he said, "Now, look down your body at the book. Take a breath, nice and slow, and make the book go up and down as you breathe." Peter gestured helpfully with his right hand. His left was at his side.

XXX

 _Happy now? He's close. He wants it now._ Sylar cut off his instinct to panic, but his brain completely failed him for making any show of defense, whether verbal or physical (which he'd have no hope of winning anyway). He had nothing, no plan, just blank, red, throbbing pain throughout his head. Sylar found himself wishing it was red, throbbing pain from his heart pumping from arousal, but that seemed unlikely. Peter spoke and his ears snapped to attention even though his eyes stayed focused on the ceiling, his face having oriented back to the straight position. He swallowed quick and rough, clearing his throat briefly thereafter and wetting his lips while he remembered how to breathe first of all. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath since Peter leaned over him. _Oh. Let that out._ He did, allowing himself a slow blink to center himself, scrunching his neck to be able to look down – a very uncomfortable position. He then inhaled to the count of four, held the breath for a second and released it on the fourth beat, doing his best to even relax again with Peter hawking right next to him - an odd position. The exhale was kind of shaky, but he'd managed it, hoping Peter hadn't heard it.

XXX

Peter tilted his head a little at all the indications of discomfort Sylar was suddenly giving off - flushed, fidgeting, no eye contact when Sylar had been previously all about that. _Must be having another wave of nausea, but people usually pale for that. Maybe it's from lying down? He's not breathing right either._ "Easy. Try to relax. Breathe in slow over the course of four seconds, hold it for one, then breathe out for four seconds." He glanced away from Sylar's face to look at the book, and decided to skip stressing which diaphragmatic muscles Sylar was using in favor of getting the pattern itself down. He looked back, waiting for the end of Sylar's most recent exhalation. "Breathe in - one, two, three, and four." He held up his left hand briefly, palm towards Sylar as 'stop' for a one second beat, then dropped it. "Breathe out _slow_ \- one, two, three, and four. And again. Let yourself relax."

XXX

"Yeah, okay," he breathed out, no pun intended. _I don't know if you're helping or not, Petrelli, staring at me._ He followed Peter's pattern, tensing again when the man raised a hand but only to gesture. _This feels weird: 'Just relax and breathe for me'._

XXX

After a few iterations, Peter indicated the book again. "Look at the book. When you breathe in, make it rise. When you breathe out, let it fall. You're trying to expand your lungs with your diaphragm, not your short ribs. Breathe deep." Peter counted off again for one cycle and then sat quietly, watching as Sylar did his thing. His eyes were mainly on the gradual motions of the book. The corner of Peter's mouth turned up as he noticed his own breathing had synced with Sylar's, since he was right here next to the guy, paying close attention to it.

XXX

"Diaphragm? Why didn't you say so?" Sylar let out in a sort of nervous chuckle. And he realized he hadn't been paying attention to the book on his tummy, more focused on the breathing and Peter. His nurse's attention left his face for the book (that came with its own set of 'what is he looking at? What is he seeing?' problems) but it was better than being stared at, especially at close range. Adjusting himself once more, Sylar breathed in and worked the correct muscles to move the whole of his lungs as opposed to trying to breathe with his stomach, however the hell that was supposed to work. _Aha!_ The book moved and his chest stayed relatively still, lungs filling up better. The victory boosted him and he grinned slightly, trying again to repeat his success. He wanted to ask Peter what or why, rather, this helped with nausea. Sure, breathing helped him avoid throwing up, but he'd never tried this pattern before obviously. _That feels totally different. And kind of good._ Gabriel had always struggled for air; it resulted in embarrassing mouth-breathing on occasion, but more often panting or heavy-breathing where there was no outside cause. This got him more air without using his mouth.

XXX

Peter settled back fully as Sylar seemed to get the hang of it. He let his right hand drop from the couch where he'd been using it for a little balance, to rest on his thigh. He watched the book go up and down slowly, a bit mesmerizing as his own breathing followed the same course. It made him feel a little fuzzed out and relaxed. In a low voice, he said, "Deep breathing is one of those things we're taught to direct trauma patients to do. People get shot, assaulted, car accident, whatever. They get stressed, blood pressure goes up, hyperventilate a little, blood oxygen drops - all bad things. People can manage pain better if they can relax, but of course that's a tough circle … one of those bad circles, cycles. One thing feeds another - get hurt; can't relax. But if you can break out of that and relax, it won't hurt so much. And it's good for nausea."

Peter snorted softly. "I think I'm starting to ramble. I'm going to go back to the puzzle." He patted the edge of the couch with his left hand before reached back to draw the chair closer. He used it to steady himself as he got to his feet, then wheeled it over behind the work desk again. He settled himself in, expecting Sylar to drop off or to zone out now that he was horizontal and nothing pressing was going on. _I wonder if I should take his pillow and blanket over there? Nah. Might freak him out. If he doesn't want to go to sleep, he'll force himself up at the reminder. I should just let him alone. If he goes to sleep, I can always … yeah, I could cover him up._ Peter weighed the 'my patient' vs. 'Sylar' considerations and decided that spreading a blanket over the guy wasn't problematic. He hoped.

XXX

 _It helps with pain? Cool. But why would he want to give me that information? Isn't his job to cause me pain? He also seems to think it_ _'_ _s his job to clean up after causing damage._ Sylar grasped most of what Peter was saying and he counted that much as a win. Sylar turned as Peter stated his departure. _Why, though? The puzzle is more interesting. That's it?_ He watched mournfully after his companion, hypocritically wishing him back to his former position by Sylar's side. The couch was beginning to swallow him whole now he was here and now Pete was gone so to speak.

An idea slowly materialized. _Oh. He probably suggested the breathing thing so I'd be over here and fall asleep like he said I should. That way he can do his puzzle like he wants and I'm calm and quiet. But I was calm before. Not…quiet. Not quiet enough. Fine, quiet time it is. He wants the puzzle to himself….Well, it is his puzzle. I helped, though. What does that make me? In the way, I guess. But he invited me over to it…several times. Or he just wants quiet time with the puzzle and he can't have that with me in the way, tripping over Nathan. So this is the punishment – time out. I'm here to think about what I've done wrong. God, I'll be here forever._ The couch had the effect of making him feel naked or cold, so he crossed his ankles, elevating his busted toes, and crossed his arms. _Fine_. His body protested thinking with his eyes open so he shut his lids and did his best to annoy Peter by enjoying his punishment: he had a couch after all, it could have been worse.

XXX

Peter bent over the puzzle for long minutes. A lot longer than he expected passed before it sounded like Sylar had dropped off to sleep. That was Peter's signal to relax. He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes, followed a few moments later with a round of stretching. Some of his muscles were starting to pass from that too-sore-to-be-used-without-pain stage to a kind-of-itchy-and-need-to-be-stretched stage. It was a sign of recovery. He was glad to see it; glad to indulge it. But he didn't feel like stretching in front of a wakeful Sylar.

He rubbed at his neck, then turned and looked around Sylar's bed for the ben-gay, assuming that it hadn't gone far. It wasn't hard to find. He reapplied, debated going through some more ice pack treatment for his eye or wrist and decided against it. He zoned out for a bit, roused by upset noises from Sylar's quarter. He was breathing uneasily and making a low, strained noise in the back of his throat. Peter sighed and rose, getting the blanket from the bed. He carried it over, spread it carefully, and settled it over the man. Sylar twitched and jerked, thrashing slightly as the cloth came to rest on him. He didn't wake, though, or if he did, he kept his eyes shut and pretended otherwise.

Peter went back to the desk, feeling pleased with himself for having been helpful. He ate chips quietly and started back to work on the puzzle. He tinkered with it for the remainder of Sylar's nap, finishing the frame (an accomplishment which made Peter beam stupidly around the room, wishing someone would see his feat and appreciate it) and then moving on to the rain-blurred shops along the sides. He resisted, again, the impulse to do the horses and carriage. He eyed the neatly sorted, differently-shaped pieces, but it seemed like a useless distinction. He tried to work them by shape rather than color, but his brain refused to cooperate.

Sylar did not sleep easily and this was Peter's first full exposure to that. The man woke eventually, as the evening wore on. His breathing became disjointed like it had many times before, due to nightmares Peter assumed, then dropped to shallow, quiet and light. Well past the point where Peter decided Sylar had just drifted into a different stage of sleep, Sylar started moving more purposefully.

XXX

After what felt like an age of never-ending bad sleep, Sylar woke quietly like some kind of irony against the noise of his nightmares. Shifting his head a little, his eyes opened as his arms began to move, brushing against something foreign. That had his eyes opening faster to see what it was that pressed all over his body, doing his best to jerk away from it until he saw it. _A blanket. Peter must've…_

XXX

"Hey," Peter said, just loud enough to carry easily and remind Sylar of his presence. He waited while Sylar got oriented. "Wanna come over here and help some more?" It was also his way of hoping Sylar would see he got the border done. That was pretty much all he'd done, aside from a couple pieces at random.

XXX

 _Is he trying to show me up with niceness?_ "What time is it?" he grumbled under his breath, flailing with the blanket, the couch and his own balance to bring his watch into view. _6:14._ He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair to get it back. He was still fuzzy from sleep, his body having stiffened and somewhat relaxed simultaneously.

XXX

"Uh, I dunno." Peter looked around the room at the various clocks, missing the action as Sylar looked at his own watch. "Quarter after six, I guess."

XXX

He nodded his agreement. _This is such a strange pattern we have. He sounds chipper enough. What were we doing before I slept?...Oh, yeah. He was raising my blood pressure in interesting ways._ Sylar rolled himself to his feet and managed the chair at the desk. "Oh," he said in surprise, eyebrows arching slightly. Peter had finished the border. _He's not that concussed, then._ He looked up to the man, "Busy bee." _Now how do I get you busy with other things?_ "Easy puzzle?" he asked, curious how Peter would rate it, picking up a piece to join in. _Does it matter? Anything's going to challenge me right now._ He wondered if Peter had slept or snooped at all. With his limited sense of smell, he detected the ben-gay and saw the tube on the desk.

XXX

Peter smiled inside and shrugged about the puzzle. _Easy to concentrate when there's no distractions._ But that sounded like he minded the distraction Sylar's presence provided and he didn't. "It's okay," he said. "After the edge, it's kind of hard to tell. I've been trying to do these shops, but I can't seem to find anything that matches." _How does Sylar take direction? Can I just tell him what I want him to do here? How did he manage working for people? Like, before abilities?_ "You know, if you could tackle the horses, I could do the carriage." Peter pointed out the areas on the box lid, then watched Sylar for his response. Peter's mind helpfully observed, _His hair's a mess again._ Sylar's disarray made him much easier for Peter to take. The guy wasn't nearly as scary or threatening with a full case of bedhead going on.

XXX

 _Yeah. Dumb question. He's only done the border._ Sylar's eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze slid up to Peter. _Why do I have to do the horses? I can't just do whatever?_ "Alright," he intoned slowly, clearly hesitant. He was wary of whatever Peter was implying or pulling, so it wasn't like Peter was getting one over him. He could, and would, play along.

XXX

Peter started fiddling with the nearest different shape section, rearranging it to put the black pieces together at the bottom of the group. _I got black; he got white. Hm._ "You ever had a roommate?" he asked semi-randomly, wondering how accustomed or not Sylar was to sharing his living space with someone else. Peter had done it often enough, though he'd also had several years of living alone. Roommates and campus residency were mandatory for the first year in college, unless you lived at home and filed for a special dispensation. He'd seen no reason to fight it, as the less he saw his father, the happier he was.

XXX

"Huh?" was his first reaction to the non-sequitur. "No." _Not counting my parents_. A pause in which he felt the silence his almost-non-answer answer created; it prompted him to elaborate, "I've traveled with lots of people, shared hotels and stuff." Sylar shrugged, "That wasn't what you meant." _To think I asked him to move in basically, ha. Sure seems like he wants to, though. I don't know. Why live with me when you can break down my door whenever you want_ _?_ "Why do you ask?"

XXX

Peter shrugged. "Just wondered." He exhaled slowly. "I'm kind of here, in your space. You didn't come looking for me." _This time. I came looking for you._ "You didn't ask me to …" he waved his hand around vaguely, "help you after the fight. I was just wondering if being around people …" _like me, people you can't get away from_ , "was something you'd had to deal with before. It's kind of different, when you have to live with someone, and get along with them, day in and day out." He gave a momentary tilt of his head and short smile. "You get real familiar with them." _And I'm thinking we're going to be stuck together here for a long time. Maybe we ought to set some ground rules or something - like you don't mention my family and I'll refrain from beating up buildings?_

XXX

 _Good things come to those who wait, perhaps? I wish,_ he thought longingly because he knew it didn't work that way. Sylar snorted a breath, once again mumbling grudgingly under his breath, "Tell me about it," on the subject of living with someone day-in, day-out whom you had to find a middle ground with. Of course, he was thinking of the Grays, not Peter. In that respect, dealing with Peter lacked appeal because the man was inescapable however much it played to Sylar's advantage. _I've dealt with it enough, I know the drill. My 'parents' stopped beating me before I reached fatal injury mass_ _;_ _you don't, Peter_. If given time, Sylar knew he himself would become more manageable.

Nathan knew Peter had had roommates, but he hadn't bothered to meet them or get to know them through Peter. "How about you? Roommates."

XXX

"Yeah, I had some. First year of college, I was in the dorm with four of us sharing one bathroom. Then next year I was in an apartment the same way - four of us. One was one of the guys from the first year. Then I had some time alone before Kevin moved in with me mid-semester. He stayed for most of the next year. Never had a permanent roommate after that - you know, a rent-paying, staying-for-more-than-a-few-days roommate." Yeah, that meant pretty much what it sounded like - in his younger years, Peter had people in his bed frequently enough for it to be a condition, even if he was more frequently in their bed. It was, after all, why he had eventually opted for a single apartment, so he could have partners over without negotiating with his roommates. Kevin, the competitive weight lifter, virtually lived in the gym, so he hadn't been much of an issue.

XXX

Sylar listened, forking idly through puzzle pieces (forgetful of what he was looking for but it gave him something to do), his eyebrows going up mid-story. He wasn't that surprised. Petrellis had high libidos, big egos, a lot of delusions of grandeur, hedonism, lofty ideals and plots and a serious narcissism problem that showed itself in their self-importance, entitlement, and self-absorption. Sylar would have guessed Peter got around, independently, but he knew from Nathan that Peter was something of (what Sylar would label) a slut. _Some alone time. And he filled that with either masturbation or one-night-stands. Neat. Or did you fill it with this 'Kevin' individual? Ugh._

He either felt dirty and disgusted at the thought or thrilled at a juicy secret and what it might mean for him. Nathan had turned a blind eye whenever possible. _/Rifling around under Peter's sink to refill the toilet paper dispenser, he'd come across a realistic, rubber dildo. He knew what it was, of course, but why his baby brother would have one in his apartment at all was a half a mystery. He'd brought it out, putting a paper towel between it and his hand, asking, "What's this?" Peter had poked his head out of the kitchen, eyebrows up before they'd fallen somewhat at the sight of his brother with a (his?) sex toy. "It's Laura's, she's keeping it here," was the answer Peter gave with the expectancy that Nathan would drop the subject. He did. If it was Peter's girlfriend's then he wanted no part of it. Nathan didn't completely believe Peter, knowing what a free-love-for-all person he was, college-age, but the explanation (or lie) was solid and also none of his business./_

Sylar mainly felt competitive and possessive on instinct for reasons unknown. Competition and possessiveness weren't new, but he'd never been that way about a man who wasn't even vaguely a father-type figure or someone he despised and/or hated. He blamed the barren world Fate had saddled him with.

Peter was begging the next question anyway, so Sylar obliged, "How many staying-for-more-than-a-few-days, not-paying-rent roommates have you had, then?" He asked this with a tilt of his head and a suggestive eyebrow. _Obviously enough that he feels the need to distinguish. Does he even remember? Nathan sure didn't._ He was delighted Peter had stumbled onto this topic. Sylar could use the information. He came across a white piece and it gave him pause until he remembered and picked it up, referencing the box for where, approximately, it belonged. _I wonder what else he's willing to share. Like playing Truth or Truth?_

XXX

Peter snorted, trying to cut off that line of inquiry. "Enough." _Jeez, I'm not even sure how many I've had. Never kept count. I figure I could count them up if I thought about it_. He had an excellent memory for names, faces and situations, but he wasn't too inclined to share with Sylar and Peter's memory, just in general, had been a bit fuzzy since the fight. He looked over the man's expression, at the 'Oh really? Do tell?' eyebrow. Peter exhaled sharply through his nose. "That was all in college." He looked down, messing with the puzzle pieces. _Does that make it meaningless? Of course not, but it sort of sounds that way - college lark, sowing wild oats and all._

Peter's expression darkened a little _. I'm the one who brought the subject up. Why did I?_ He ruminated on that a bit, getting another chip by method of tipping the tube to the side and shaking it a bit. With the chips clustered up at the end and easily accessible, he offered it to Sylar. "Want some?"

XXX

Sylar smirked and ignored the man's short tone, "Aww, you shy? No need to be shy." _I'll show you mine, if you show me yours._ He chuckled. "No thanks. You know I'm not hungry." _You seem to be, but there's no need to keep offering me food._ After that, he mainly gazed at Peter, hoping to unnerve the man into speaking.

XXX

"Shy?" _You think you have some right to know how many people I've been with?_ "What do you want, a count? Six? Sixteen? Fifty-two maybe - one for each week of the year? No, more like five-hundred-eighty-three," Peter threw out challengingly. _Probably closer to that than fifty-two. Wait, are we talking partners or sleepovers?_ He shook his head, trying to stop his own idiot thought process from tracking down the information. At the moment, he didn't _want_ to know, because if he _knew_ , he might have a tell. "It's-" He cut himself off from 'it's not your business', as Peter had, after all, asked the perhaps-too-personal question about roommates to start with. The reason he was getting riled up was because of Sylar's expressed interest in him, and his agitation about that interest.

"It's enough that I have plenty of experience with a lot of different kinds of roommates."

XXX

 _Well, you sure acted shy. I know you're not. Gentlemen don't kiss and tell, is that it?_ Sylar sneered inside his head. _There's no one here! They can't hear you!_ He thought somewhat angrily. He didn't know what he wanted. The larger the number grew, the less he knew and the more things boiled down to an overload of information. He tried to think back to how old Peter was when he hit puberty and shook that thought away. His face grew increasingly disgusted. Fifty-two would have been modest, five-hundred-eighty-three was just… _I'm already nauseous. That's overkill, greedy. That's…Is this guy even_ clean _? Ugh. God, I'm sorry I asked. I'm sorry he brought it up._

"I get the point. That's disgusting." _That's probably half a college? A couple hospitals? Pre-med. Half the state? Jesus Christ. That's half a fucking town!_ Sylar leaned back, exhaling as if trying to get away from the idea, certainly putting distance between himself and the man in question. Of course, for every question that was answered, a dozen more popped up: were they all clean? Were they on Peter's level of looks? Did he sleep with people for looks? _No, obviously not…_ How the hell did he do that? _Petrelli money, charm, what?_ Should I be impressed? Does he have a sex addiction? _That seems excessive. I don't even wanna know what Arthur was like._ How could one man go through that much pussy? How is his dick not broken? _I'm assuming it's unbroken._ How many of those….people were women? _Gross._ Sylar's interest had either doubled or dropped off a cliff, either way his headache was raging. He massaged at his forehead and temples, feeling the hot skin of his face and scalp.

XXX

"Disgusting?" Peter straightened, because this was getting into territory that drew a strong response from him - to defend, to protect, to stand up for the people he'd been with and to some extent himself. _Disgusting that I've probably made love to more people than you've MURDERED?_ He took a deep breath and decided he could control himself for this. "It's not dis- _gust_ -ing that I've had a good time with a lot of people. I made them _happy_ ," he bit out, pointing at the desk in front of Sylar sharply. "I made _me_ happy." He pointed to himself. His head hurt from speaking too strongly and he winced, unrelated to his words, but he toned down the volume on his next statements. "There's nothing _wrong_ with that. _You_ , of all people, do not get to shame _me_ , or them, for that."

He slouched back in his chair for the moment, rubbing at his jaw with an irritated look on his face, scowling somewhat at Sylar. _Moral judgment from the likes of him? Bah! Asshole. Probably one of those idiots who thinks it's okay to show someone blown apart on TV, but not having sex._

XXX

Sylar didn't even know where to begin processing all of that. _First sign of a problem is denial? He's definitely got a problem – what was he, a serial cheater, like Nathan? Sex addict. How on earth is that not dis-gust-ing? He assumes he made them 'happy' – can he tell a real orgasm from a fake one medically or with his ability? It never reaches the bottom of the barrel with Petrellis, always some new hidden facet. No wonder he turned a blind eye to Nathan's cheating. I'd have told Heidi._ And, yes, Nathan had done his share of covering Peter's ass when it came to their parents and the law. _Yuck. Great. I wind up with some STD sex addicted…what's that word…man-whore. Its not like I didn't know I'd be another notch on his belt – number five-hundred and eighty-four? Give or take. Jesus._

Sylar narrowed his eyes right back at Peter, wondering how this was anywhere near his fault. "You're right. I forgot Peter Petrelli was untouchable to the shame game. It goes both ways. So if I went out and fucked six-hundred women, it would just be making me 'happy'?" This he really wanted to know, how Peter saw murderers getting laid in context of how human (or monstrous) Sylar was. Not that getting laid had ever helped or cured anything for him – it didn't make him happy, but it felt good most of the time.

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed as he stared across the table at Sylar. He turned his head slightly to the side, trying to figure out what Sylar was getting at. "If you fucked six-hundred women … I … hope you'd be happy, yeah? And them, too, I'd hope." _They might not be. Not every one of them. Six-hundred is a lot of people. A few of them might be unhappy, might be angry, whatever_. "Why are you even asking? I don't care how many times you've been laid, how many times you've jerked off, or how many times you've _blinked_ in your life."

"We're the only two people here. All I was asking about the roommate thing for was to try and figure out … how we'd … I don't know, interact. I'd rather not be getting in fights with you all the time." _Like this one! Argument, rather._ Peter leaned back in his chair, being exasperated.

XXX

His companion's reaction was funny, irksome and relieving. Sylar gave a patient blink. _And I thought I was the slow one here. Obviously, you don't care how much I've been laid – it does not seem to be pressing on your concerns, my sex drive._ "Do you have ideas?" _Short of, you know, cutting my tongue out?_ The concussion spoke out with, "Or is this going to turn into Saint Peter's Hospital where you keep me like this and I get stuck under house arrest and you come over during visiting hours?" It made sense at the time. It was, technically, a possibility. Peter would re-injure him, keep him locked up like fucking Rapunzel or something and come talk (argue) and play whenever he grew bored. _Although that's really stupid if he doesn't expect a jailbreak from me._

XXX

 _Ideas?_ He opened his mouth to ask about that, but Sylar was speaking again. He shut it and listened. _Saint Peter's Hospital? What does he mean? Yeah, I'm going to keep coming over until he gets better, but he's hardly under house arrest. It's just safer if … is he implying I'd keep beating him up every time he recovered? Well, we probably will get in more fights once he's on his feet … that's my point, about the roommates - let's not get in more fights._

Sylar was talking again, so Peter ditched his internal contemplations to hear him.

XXX

Sylar paused over that then sighed. "I haven't had to interact with people on a year-round basis like we're dealing with except with my parents. There's a reason they don't let me out to walk and talk much. I don't play well with the other children, you see. I end up…well, like this." _Fucked. That's how I end up – fucked._ "I don't 'do' people and everyone's happier that way," Sylar ended his psycho-babble of a ramble with an inhale just to shut himself up. _Pathetic. Five stars. Oscar-worthy. Please shut up._

XXX

"They're not here - your parents - so you're going to have to 'do' … eh, learn to deal with people. Me, specifically. I have ideas about that, yeah. You've gotta quit bringing up my family. You've gotta quit trying to make me angry. If you don't understand what it is that you're doing, I can tell you, but it won't matter unless you _listen_." Peter grumbled, making an unhappy noise in his throat. He sighed and reached up to rake his hair out of his face. His hand bunched his hair restlessly a few times before letting go. _I just don't want to have fights._ Out of the blue, a thought struck him - he was talking about what he needed and wanted, but hadn't asked the same of Sylar. "What are your ideas?"


	43. Turndown Service

Day 11, Evening

 _Is he always this annoyed? I'm not even doing anything, but let's play the blame game._ "There's a difference between listening and applying, Peter," he said firmly, but quietly. Sylar wanted to blast him with it, call him 'Petrelli' just because, but it wouldn't do any good right now. The implication Peter made was that he wasn't listening and that was far from the truth. _There's also difference between listening and understanding, yeah. Maybe if your logic made sense, maybe if you'd explain, maybe if your goals were somewhat reasonable…He doesn't want to talk much so I bring up the family and make him angry. He makes_ me _angry! He's the- we both have anger problems, I suppose. Or maybe I could listen and understand better if he'd stop hitting me._

XXX

 _Listening and applying? Meaning you hear me, you understand me, you just decide to pick fights anyway, damnit._ Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. _I suppose it's good to have that out in the open, at least._

XXX

Sylar's eyes then tracked between Peter's, relentlessly intent in pursuit of the man's motive. _He's really asking me about my ideas? Generous or stupid? Knowing Peter its naïve…_ "I think…" Sylar found the comb, aiming to have Peter use it to sooth his literally ruffled feathers. Staring the man down, he moved to hand it off, one elbow on the table but he kept a grip on it as Peter made to take it. It forced Peter to look at him in question, at closer range, almost held in place by the comb, so Sylar leaned in. Voice low, full of spikes and curves, "Give me what I want and that'll help you avoid pissing me off," and with that, he let Peter have the comb.

XXX

Peter took the comb, hackles up. Sylar's statement read as blackmail ('fuck me/let me fuck you and _maybe_ I'll deign to quit harassing you') and the aggressive hanging onto the comb, along with the glare, reinforced it. Peter wanted to wrap his fist around the flimsy plastic and smack Sylar right in the nose. He looked at the comb briefly, dismissing it as irrelevant by itself, and a poor choice of objects to brace his hand with in the case of punching. He went to put it in his pocket only for Sylar to say, "Peter, fix your hair."

Enough adrenaline was flooding Peter's system that he had trouble processing the unexpected words. He pulled the comb back out and looked from it to Sylar, most of the lines on Peter's face angry and suspicious. Eyes narrowed, he gave a rebellious, teenager-type hair flip with a jerk of his head (which hurt to do, but he did it anyway), then used the comb as directed. He was highly charged at the moment, very tense and deliberate with his motions, watching Sylar with the constant vigilance of aggression.

XXX

 _Really? Really?_ Sylar watched right back, snorting derisively; his face a work of art at being unimpressed and disbelieving. _It's a comb, Peter! Not a life-or-death moral command!_

XXX

' _Give me what I want'? What the fuck would that be?_ Peter had his ideas, clearly. Sylar seemed to want to cut him down as much as possible and at the same time (a perverse reversal to Peter's way of thinking) want to have sex with him. Usually, Peter was all about asking to firm up someone's motivations, but at the moment too many layers of Petrelli training were keeping his mouth shut. He looked from the comb to Sylar's hair, a barely restrained smile forming slowly on his lips. The idea ran through his head to toss the comb down in front of Sylar and tell him to fix his own damn hair, it was still a mess, but a better idea occurred to him. Meaner, pettier probably. It should have been beneath him. He let his smile become a little more evident as he eyed Sylar's own coiffure before tucking the comb back into his pocket. _I think you missed a little on the right cheek when you were shaving, too._

XXX

Rather bloodshot, dilated dark eyes narrowed in response to that simple, pre-mocking glance between comb and something over the top of Sylar's head. _Oh no you don't…_ Sylar already sensed where this was headed. Peter's smile turned devilish (which was either admirable, awe-inspiring, pride-inducing and kind of sexy or really bad form in mimicry-is-the-sincerest-form-of-flattery). Sylar's tilted his head. He wanted to get up, grab Peter by that freshly-combed head of hair, shake him around, land a few disciplining blows and maybe spank the comb from Peter's back pocket, but retrieve the comb one way or other. He wanted to wrestle and wrest it back, regardless of the cost. _That little prick. You Petrelli prick. Stop using his last name, huh? Well, stop acting like one!_ However, the cost might be his health, mental capacity or his life if Peter won. His head was slowly killing him and he was only sitting – round three was out of the question because Peter would win. His second urge was to decimate the puzzle. Maybe a biting retort but he just couldn't think of one.

 _He took my comb. That's my comb. Its_ mine _._ Even his mental voiced turned childish, whiney and hurt. That was a level of mean Peter had yet to stoop to – true schoolyard style. It was like little Gabriel had never left. This was hitting on deeper childhood issues he'd rather keep buried. True to form, he addressed it much the same as he would have then, "That's mine. Give it back," he held out his hand. His voice wavered between anger, demand and hurt. _(Indian giver) I just gave it to him to fix his hair, not pocket it!_

XXX

 _What? The comb? That's_ _ **my**_ _comb._ It was. Peter knew it was. He always carried a comb in his back pocket. He gave Sylar an incredulous look and the only reason why he even reached to his back pocket was due to the hurt and very genuine tone in Sylar's voice. And the man's body language had totally changed, lagging only a few seconds behind Peter's pocketing of the item. The glare was gone even if he was getting no less eye contact. Peter pulled the object out, entirely intending to demonstrate that no matter how much Sylar thought that him using it once made it his, like some twisted 'Toddler Rules of Ownership', it was still Peter's comb.

It felt funny in his hand. He looked down at it and … Peter saw that it wasn't his comb. Not even remotely. _How the hell did I get this?_ His was black, like this one, but that was where the similarities ended. His was rectangular and simple, one of those cheap, virtually disposable ones you could get in a pack of ten at the drugstore, because Peter kept losing the damn things and didn't see a reason to splurge on something more expensive. This one was thicker along the back, bringing to mind in a weird association Noah Bennet's horn-rimmed glasses. Plus it had a handle. Gripping it around that portion gave him just enough muscle memory association for him to remember picking it up off the counter in Sylar's bathroom. He'd used it because it was handy and he wasn't thinking. It was there; it was a comb. Rude as hell, as was attempting to appropriate it.

But he'd already done that and Sylar was acting strange in response. An idea hatched in Peter's head, proof that he deserved his last name. He smiled and breathed a 'ha' at the comb, still held close to his body in his left, and looked up at Sylar's outstretched hand. With a twitch of his brows and a little motion of the comb, Peter questioned, "This? You want _this_?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar replied warily with a stare, his hand still open for it.

XXX

Without offering to give the comb back (yet), Peter said, "Just a little bit earlier, you said that if I gave you what you wanted, _maybe_ you'd be a little more civil." That wasn't really what Sylar had said, but Peter couldn't recall the exact words. " _Maybe_. I can't hold you to ' _maybe_ '." He extended the comb a few inches, but still outside of reach unless Sylar lunged, and then Peter might have enough time to get it away. Still, he was moving it to that tipping point of range. He glanced between their hands. "And so I won't." With his left hand, Peter extended the comb all the way, quickly enough that perhaps Sylar wouldn't spring for it and might instead let him put it in or at least near Sylar's hand.

XXX

Sylar reached out, slightly quicker than normal to get a grip on the comb as Peter put it in range and kept watching the man in case it was a trick of any sort. He pulled it to himself carefully, somewhat surprised. He hadn't expected to get it back. _But it_ _'_ _s mine._ That much was…nice. After he had it close to himself where Peter couldn't get it and when Peter made no move to get to him, he looked down at it.

XXX

"But a guy can still hope, right?"

XXX

 _What does that mean? He won't…expect, but he'll hope? So I do…what?_ He looked back up at Peter, a little off-guard from getting his comb back. _Why would anyone 'hope' that I'll do anything even remotely decent? But he just wants decency. So does everyone. Is that a trick, though?_ "If I get what I want, I won't have much reason to harass you, now will I?" _In theory, at least. Is that what you're asking? Hell if I know. No one_ _'_ _s ever tried giving me everything or a lot of things I want for a prolonged period of time. It would be a totally new experiment._ "So…yeah, I suppose." As an afterthought of demands he could make while the window was open, "And don't break my door down. Or I'll make you fix it. You can knock like a normal person and I'll let you in. And don't steal my shit." _You can eat whatever you want, clearly. I'll just get more. So long as I don't turn into 'Grandma's House' or something. Or maybe that's a good thing._

XXX

Peter tilted his head a bit and raised a brow at Sylar's question. _I'm not here to give you what you want. Is that the problem? That he thinks my job here is to satisfy him? 'Satisfy'?_ He blanched inside at the unintentionally sexual term, coming out as a small frown. Sylar went on and Peter listened.

"Yeah, I'll leave your door alone," Peter conceded. He stood up casually, glancing past Sylar at the door, then the kitchen. "I seem to remember you telling me that I didn't have anything you wanted. Feeling's mutual," he said, trying to give a liberal hint that he was entirely uninterested in sex, despite whatever attractiveness Sylar possessed. He walked around the desk. "I'm going to go wash the dishes. You think you could help me tape my finger up again afterward?" He headed on to the kitchen, voice and body language as normal as Peter could get it, but there was an undertone of tightly controlled tension. In reality, he was irritated and wanted to be away from Sylar. _So the deal is that he's going to harass and fight with me. That's pretty much what he's saying. I don't give him whatever it is he wants, which seems to include_ _ **me**_ _for some stupid reason, then he's going to pick fights. All the time. Joy._

He got in the kitchen, blew out air and shook his head. _Yeah, washing dishes sounds like more fun than hanging out with him._ He moved over to the sink to get started.

XXX

 _I said what? When did I say that? Is he trying to be smart? If I said that at all, it must have been…well… in the past, before Hell maybe? He wouldn't have slept with me then either, or helped me or treated me much better so…why would I want anything from him?_ _Besides, 'want' is such a….broad…thing._ His face was dubious and heading into put-out and cranky. Peter went to the kitchen, _Yes, do go do the dishes._ After a moment of painful teeth-grinding to get his temper (and most of his tongue) under control, he followed Peter. Arms crossed, he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, watching Peter wash dishes from behind. "So…to be clear. You're confusing 'want' and 'need'? You need my help saving your girlfriend and taping your hand."

XXX

 _Doesn't matter what I want or need. You're gonna save her. I saw it. That had to be what the dream meant. It had to. And anyway, you're going to do what you want to do, whether that's saving her or taping my hand. 'Spose he's right though. I do 'want' him to be polite and stuff. So I have some wants there._ Peter didn't say any of that, though. He plugged the bottom of the sink and filled it with water, moving the dishes into it one at a time.

XXX

He paused to think some more, drum up more points against Peter's denial and rejection. It was his way of…dealing with such a firm and obvious shut-down. "The way I see it, you've crossed out most of the options other than fighting. It's either," the points ticked off on his fingers, "fight, fuck, or talk. I'm all for making love not war here, Peter," Sylar's voice was a borderline chuckle. _Make love – ha!_ "The puzzle's great and all, but it won't last." _Um…what the fuck are you saying? Or…implying, whatever? That's a great pick-up line: 'I'm immortal, fuck me forever?' Or maybe 'I'm immortal, I don't come with a limited-fuck-time warranty?' (You're kind of sick, you know)._

XXX

Peter glanced back at him after his first sentence - one of those wary, 'checking' looks. Something about the sentence triggered Peter to defense. He watched Sylar tick off his points with a blank face, his expression loosening up when Sylar chuckled. Quietly cycling off the momentary alert status, Peter turned back to the sink, squirting some dish soap into the filling sink. He decided to be perfectly blunt. "I'm not going to have sex with you, Sylar." Somehow, Peter managed to get such a preposterous sentence out in an even tone. "And I don't want to fight you." _Not completely true_. "I'd rather talk. But you're leaving out a lot of other options. We could just stay out of each other's way." Peter frowned. He wasn't all that good at foresight and planning, but even he could see that was not a viable long-range plan. But on the other hand, _nothing_ was really a viable long-range plan here. The best he could hope for was to wait subjective months, years or maybe decades with the faith that someone - his mother, Matt, anyone - might pull him out of here.

XXX

Sylar just chuckled again. _That's what they all say._ "Why not?" He deliberately breezed over the rejection because that was all he could do. It hit harder than it should have, jarring him strangely. _He's just not desperate enough. Yet. He'll 'need' me then, too, like always._

XXX

"Why not … what?" There were a bunch of things that could be response to - 'why not stay out of each other's way' sort of fit, but it didn't hurt to ask. Peter eyed Sylar speculatively over his shoulder.

XXX

"Why not sex?" _I want an answer. And don't say Nathan…If he comes back to screw up my sex life…Peter clearly doesn't have anything against promiscuity._ Sylar tried to perk himself up and remember he was being handed a challenge. It was very difficult when all he wanted was a normal interaction, maybe something he could twist into reassurance and comfort.

XXX

Peter looked Sylar over briefly, the guy standing there leaned against the frame of the entry. For a moment, Peter tried, and generally succeeded, in putting aside the past and really looking at Sylar, this man who wanted to know why Peter was passing rather than making a pass. _He's not bad looking. … But he's mean_. And that was the rub.

Peter's face softened, looking off to the side as his eyes slid out of focus for a moment. He gave a small shake of his head. "You're not my type." _Should I tell why? How do I describe that? It's not that you've done bad things in your life, even though that's enough to sink you, it's that … I don't think I'd be safe with you. Or treated well. Or respected. My gut says no. I'm going to listen to it more than to you_. He shook his head again to agree with his mental dialogue, and put the last of the dishes into the soapy water, leaving out a fork for no obvious reason. He looked around for the scrub brush, not saying anything at the moment, acting lost in thought.

XXX

 _Well…obviously. I'm not anyone's 'type'. Why do you need a type to fuck someone? I think he's lying._ Sylar thought on why that answer was ringing false. Peter continued to scrub and he came across it. _There are other reasons – this is just an excuse. 'Type' implies that he has other options and he doesn't._ His jaw ticked once. "I think you're lying," he stated calmly. "You're not my type either." Something of an understatement. _But you probably could be. Its prison rules now, literally last-man-alive business. He'd better not be trying to look down that Petrelli snout and judge me, so help him…_

XXX

Peter looked over his shoulder briefly. "Think what you want." If Sylar was the kind of guy who would listen to a reasonable explanation, then he wouldn't be the kind of guy Peter automatically dismissed as a partner-option. Peter didn't want to argue, so he didn't. He was feeling increasingly trapped in the kitchen by someone who was known to be violent and had promised unpleasant repercussions if he didn't get laid. Peter had rejected him firmly. The more Sylar harangued him over it, the more likely it seemed to Peter that this might get bad, fast.

He wished they'd eaten something that had required knives. He had nothing but a fork. The knife block wasn't far away. He glanced over it and at the cabinets around it. No thought came easily to mind of how he could snag a blade inconspicuously. _The skillet! Yes._ He moved over to retrieve it from the stove. It was heavy enough to use as a weapon, and with the handle, more effective than the fork.

XXX

"How long do you think you could last alone, by yourself, Peter?" Sylar demanded, a sneer creeping over his face. "I'm not talking about sex because clearly you haven't gone a long time without that." It was his turn to shake his head, disgusted and frustrated. "Do you think, in all your-your…empath glory, that you could live without anyone around for four years? Consider learning how to adapt, Peter," Sylar delivered with a frown. _Look at the facts you're facing, kid._ "But we'll play your game. Take your time. You'll come around." _I'm a hunter, I have patience. I will be waiting, impatiently, for your return._

XXX

Slightly hunched over the sink, Peter looked back at him with narrowed eyes. He'd been expecting Sylar's rant to lead up to a 'it's going to happen whether you want it to or not' and then an assault. But this sounded like Sylar was done. _Am I just being paranoid? How can I tell if it's paranoid or realistic, given that he's a multiple murderer who has it out for my family in particular, has told me he's going to pick fights with me until I let him fuck me, and now, is telling me he doesn't believe that I don't want him? Plus he's so concussed that even on top of 'normal' for him, his judgment could be wacked._

What Sylar had actually said, and the meaning of the words, didn't make the impact they might have made had Peter been in a more contemplative frame of mind. His fingers squeezed and worked over the handle of the skillet as he waited to see if Sylar would leave now. Peter made no comment.

XXX

Peter was through washing the dishes but Sylar had no desire to stick around and watch him complete the task in drying. Peter…wasn't washing the breakfast skillet, just….standing there, hunkered down, holding it a little too tightly. _Oh. Oh_. His head drew back in surprise, straightening his posture unintentionally. The situation, rather, Peter's reactionary positioning and lack of response, dawned on him then. If it was possible, his eyes dulled in disappointment. Sylar sighed out, "So that's how it is?" Shaking his head, he was let down and depressed about it. _If you're going to brain me with that, go ahead, but I'm innocent of whatever it is._ Turning, he wandered back to the couch, seeking somewhere comfortable to be as he was clearly unwelcome in his own kitchen. He sat in the corner of the couch.

 _There always has to be something wrong with me to be the excuse. Actually, they don't even need excuses – they have an army of…facts. That…really sucks._ That stupid skillet was a harsh, visible reminder that Peter regarded him as a monster, probably would for a long time if not forever. The headache got in the way of his sad downward spiral, preventing him from emoting internally much further. He just knew he was miserable and in pain and it wasn't going to get any better for a few years. _Good things come to the evil people who wait, I guess. I don't feel well._ Sylar longed to sprawl on the couch, maybe cry if he was able, sleep if he was able, perhaps vomit, but he didn't want Peter to walk out and see him like that, so he stayed upright, twiddling his thumbs.

XXX

Peter waited after Sylar left the entryway. _Did he go back for a weapon of his own, or did he just go back?_ Silence reigned. _Not a weapon, then. Wait, did he just give me space and leave me alone?_ Peter's brows rose in surprise. _He gave me space. He did!_ Finally, Peter straightened up, pulling in a deep breath and relaxing. He leaned against the counter, facing the middle of the kitchen, and rubbed his face carefully. _Okay. Well … good._ After a few minutes, he turned back to continue messing with the dishes, rinsing them off and doing a bit of last stage scrubbing while the skillet soaked. He felt the by-now expected lethargy and confusion that followed getting worked up anymore. _I suppose that's a concussion symptom I can't consciously remember. Maybe I know it subconsciously or something. Or Sylar knows it, or thinks he knows it, and is inflicting it on me._ Peter snorted softly. _Sylar, you and your screwy brain._

He finished with the dishes and waited a bit longer. Peter scratched at the back of his neck and poked around in the pantry. _What I really want is a banana and a pudding cup._ He looked at his sack of snacks procured earlier. There was enough to share. It wasn't much of a dinner, but he doubted Sylar had much appetite.

Peter walked over to the entrance of the kitchen, standing back a little from it and giving it a cursory glance to either side, as if Sylar might be lying in wait to jump him as he walked out. But no, Sylar was just sitting on the couch, looking sad. _I'm sure I'm much for sad-making - the unwilling target of your rejected advances was ready to brain you if you tried for it. Enough to make any serial killer sad._ Peter huffed. He still had a duty here, no matter how unpalatable he found the patient. In a bland tone of voice, he offered, "Hey, Sylar. I'm not very hungry, but it's time for dinner. You need to eat something, then take some painkillers. I'll get out of your hair after that. You want to join me for a pudding cup, or do you want me to make some soup?" _Or something else. Probably best not to give a bunch of choices._

XXX

"No," Sylar answered simply. _He's getting annoyed. And I strangely prefer you in my hair. He uses my name….how weird is that? I'm just…tired but I don't know that I want to sleep. I don't know what to do. Does Peter know what I sh-?_

XXX

Peter put his left hand up on the wall next to him, picking at it a bit, trying to decide whether to take Sylar's decline as an easy-out, grab his bag of food and bail out of the place, or whether to carry on with his task of care-taking on the guy. He sighed, because it was pretty simple - which of those two options he felt obligated to choose. "Come on, man. You need to eat _something_ because you've got to take your pills. You'll be hurting more if you don't. How about some ice cream, or a piece of toast if your stomach's still feeling off?" He sounded tired. He didn't want to fight over this, too - over whether Sylar would eat or take his painkillers. It was trivial compared to 'stop threatening/harassing me' and 'back off; no means no.'

XXX

Sylar fully expected Peter to be force-feeding him regardless, making the food and putting it before him with a predictable 'don't disappoint me' expression and staring at him until he ate. The fact that Peter was practically quoting Virginia wasn't helping anyone. "I'm really not hungry." _Just let me be miserable along with feeling miserable, okay? It's one meal. And I'll probably be throwing it up tonight anyway. Don't see why you care._ How he could feel nauseous and slightly hungry was beyond him. "Just go back to the puzzle," Sylar gave an indicating wave that direction. Despite…whatever had just happened, he wanted Peter to stay, that threat about leaving had not gone unnoticed and would probably become a reality all the same.

XXX

Peter stood there for long moments, watching Sylar. He didn't bother looking over at the puzzle. _Am I safe here? Does he have something planned? Isn't he too fucked up to plan? Does he want me here? Do I need to let him win one, symbolic I guess, after telling him I'm not into him? How will tomorrow be if I leave now? Or the day after or any other time? We need to work something out, somehow, so that he's getting enough of whatever it is he wants that he isn't making my life here a living hell, and so that I'm okay with whatever's going on._ His fingers drummed restlessly on the wall as he thought, fairly quietly because it was just the pads of his fingertips, left hand, patting against the painted wood.

"Okay," he said, decision made.

Peter went back in the kitchen for his bag, pulling out a banana and pudding cup. He took them, and a spoon, over to the work table, taking a seat. He studied the layout for a moment, then opened the cup carefully, licking the foily, plasticky lid absently. He set it aside and began to peel the banana, stopping about halfway and using the spoon to carve little chunks out, dropping them into the pudding. He stopped to try a puzzle piece. It didn't fit, so he went back to preparing his food. He kept his eyes on his food and work, not so much as glancing Sylar's way.

XXX

Exhaling, he oozed down into the couch more. Nowhere to be, nothing to do, his eyes trained on Peter's person, watching with half-interest but mostly being calmed that he was looking at a real human being, here with him. Peter's eating was undisturbed and the preparations and actual consumption were abnormal to say the least, but he knew that was just Peter being Peter – if there were no chunks in the food, Peter would make chunks as he was doing now. _To think, Nathan knows that but doesn't care. Do I care? Huh….I wonder what that means._

It didn't appear that Peter was ignoring him, at least, not in so many words. After Peter settled and got into his snack (or dinner), Sylar thought to ask, seeing the limited motions, "How's the hand?" It occurred to him then that Peter might only be holding his punches due to his primary hand's injuries. _When he heals, will he…backlog punishments?_

XXX

Peter's eyes flicked up to Sylar's briefly, then he held up his left hand, which he'd stripped of the sodden tape during his various dish-washing efforts. "I'd like you to retape this … if you would." His voice was cautious, more from an uncertainty as to how Sylar would take that than any fear of Sylar himself. "I mentioned it earlier," Peter said, almost mumbling in his delivery. _I'm not asking for help. I could do it myself. It's just easier if he does it._ He noticed he was breathing harder, which struck him as stupid. _Shit. Calm the fuck down, Peter._ He frowned at the puzzle like it was the cause of his tension.

XXX

"Hmm," he affirmed, once again slouching down for further comfort. _That wasn't the hand I meant, Peter_ , Sylar thought with something of a mental grin. _I might as well tape it. I know I should refuse – he turned me down. I don't…want him to think I'm okay with that because I'm not, but…I've got nothing else to do. So frustrating. He knows I can refuse him and make him do it himself. I'm just choosing to be nice. And I don't feel well enough to fight._ Still gazing at his companion, Sylar asked, "How's the eye?" _Gonna talk about your right eye this time, too?_

XXX

Peter noticed the distinct lack of offering to help and no indication of agreement. He exhaled heavily, trying another puzzle piece just to do something. It didn't fit. "It's doing okay," he said mildly, trying to mask his irritation. "At this rate, tomorrow I should be able to see out of both of them." He kept his eyes on his food and puzzle, other than a couple very brief glances up to be polite.

XXX

"You should put be icing that more, you know," was Sylar's wisdom to the med-school graduate. _It…kind of bothers me to see you busted up like that. I know I did it. I'm glad I won. But I have to look at you like that. No more face shots maybe? No, gut shots can kill. Besides, he can't give me the full Petrelli glare or smile properly with only one eye. Not as pretty that way._ His thoughts turned wistful, making less and less sense. It kept him upright and alert, though. _That skillet is bothering me, too. He pretends like he trusts me sometimes, but he doesn't really…or at least, not that much. He trusts me to tape his hand and clean his face, not sle- have sex with him. Is that…incon- incon-?…ugh. Point is, you're not his type and he thinks you're filthy. You'd think now would be the time he'd be jumping me, when I can't fight back, but nooo, that would make some sense._

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a slightly longer glance. _He's done that before. Like with the puzzle._ Peter looked down at it. _He gives advice. Is there a way I could ask him to tape my finger that would tap into that? Like, what would I say? Something like, 'I'm not sure how my hand should be taped, can you show me?' Hm. I wonder if that would work? I think I'd rather do it myself, though._ "Yeah," he agreed, adding more banana to his cup, since he'd eaten enough to create space for it. "I should be."

XXX

It was upsetting him, so Sylar went back to watching Peter eat and listened to his clocks. Only two in the room were off – Peter's watch and the clock Peter had jangled. The machinations made him smile softly, his own eyes lidding as those objects made sense. "Peter, would you get in a car with me if I could regenerate and you couldn't, would you let me drive if we really, really had to?"

XXX

Peter's head pulled up sharply, then tilted slightly. _You … you could regenerate and I couldn't? Like I didn't have the ability, right? And you'd drive?_ "I … suppose that depends on what we were getting in the car for." _What if you wrecked it? I'd be dead. Is that what you're asking?_ "I followed you when … when you … you were at my apartment …" _as Nathan, but I knew … you knew … we both knew what was going on. Of course, I didn't sleep that night. You did. Not a good example. Um …_ "I went to Matt's. You had regeneration. I didn't. I was going to get you. You could have … done anything to me. I knew that." _Stupid of me, but I had to._ Peter sighed. "It just depends."

'Why do you ask' didn't come out of Peter's mouth. The reason(s) were obvious. "You've been a lot of different things to me, Sylar. It's just hard for me to figure out what you'll be at any given moment. Care to give me any advice?" _Oo! The advice thing. I didn't even intend that._

XXX

Sylar hummed in acknowledgement, not following the part about Matt's apartment, but it wasn't relevant. _So he trusts me sometimes, in some things. That's good. Stupid of him, little sucker, but good for me. Or maybe it_ _'_ _s smart of him…_

 _I've been lots of things to you that you don't want. Still am._ He blinked slowly, not totally understanding what was being requested. "You want…advice on _me_?" _I already told you! Give me what I want!_ He heaved a mental sigh. _How am I supposed to answer that?_ "You bring up…his memories. Or I remember them," he shrugged. _It's not a choice. You'll think what you want, of course._

XXX

"No, that's …" Peter held up a hand, blinking, his brow furrowing a little. "That's not what I mean." _At least, I don't think it is. It could be an answer - he's Nathan because I remind him of … of Nathan, I guess._ He put his hand down. "We've been enemies. We've been brothers. I don't know what we are right now. Your question about the car - I think you're asking if I'd trust you in a situation where you could kill me and you'd be guaranteed to survive." Peter drew in a deep, long breath. He looked away for a moment, relaxing and little and calming. "If that's what it took to save people, then it's a risk I'd take." _Because I think … I hope … that inside of you somewhere is still a human being who wouldn't …_ Peter fidgeted nervously now, because he didn't believe his own thoughts. He figured Sylar would kill him. But it was still a risk he'd feel required to take, if other lives were on the line. He frowned.

 _I just wanted reassurance_. He looked at the puzzle, drooping a little because his situation here still looked hopeless and stupid.

XXX

 _We've been brothers? You only acknowledge that when you want me to behave. When I misbehave, you want to get away from me._ "Hmm. Yeah." _The trust only extends as far as saving other people's lives – bad. No one here to save. So…no trust? Or…No! 'A guy can hope, right?' he wants to trust._ Sylar's head came up and he spoke softly as if to himself, "Ooh. That makes sense." _Now what?_ He shifted in position while he thought and it was harder than it should have been to get the mental juice running.

"Bear with me on this," he said as forewarning, scratching the back of his neck, "you want my side of things….or you want me to tell you what we are? I can't do that. I don't know and it's sure as hell not my decision." _You're the one with the dead brother – you decide everything. I'm just the psycho. We both know I have no experience in being a normal human being. I don't know any better; that's what you're here for – moral…guidance._ "You…" he waved at the depressed Peter, "resident moral authority, pick something and make it stick. Trust me or don't, it's not something I can control or get much say in." That sounded familiar and it was. _We've already decided that._ _He still hasn't made up his mind._ "Just…think yourself through and make up your mind – you're all over the place, man."


	44. Hand Holding

Day 11, Evening

' _Resident moral authority'?_ _Huh._ He heard Sylar out though, without interrupting. After Sylar stopped speaking, Peter waited to see if that was all the man had to say. He wanted to blurt out, 'Well, then I trust you!', but he didn't. It wasn't true; it wouldn't be true just because he said it. _Sylar won't be trustworthy just because I want him to be_. He turned to face Sylar completely, eyes intent, Peter's mind trying to make sense of this chicken-or-the-egg dilemma. He reached up and touched his bottom lip with the middle finger of his left hand, rubbing it back and forth slightly.

"You … have a lot of influence over whether I trust you or not. The things you say … the things you do." Peter's head cocked a little. _Of course, you'd rather say it's all me, because then you don't have to change_. "I came here … believing that you would save people. Believing that no matter what else you'd done … you could …" _change_ , "you could do that. You could do something good. I didn't know how, or why. And I still don't. Maybe I won't." _Maybe I make you change somehow? Just by trusting you?_ Peter looked down, drawing in a deep breath. His hand moved to touch at his forehead. "I don't know a lot of stuff." _Like whether or not you'll kill me somewhere in this process._

Peter ranted inside angrily. _I'm already trusting you a lot! What good would more trust do? You tell me you're not the savior kind. You tell me you … well, actually, you just say a lot of vague stuff where what you mean is clear but you don't actually say it. And what it means is you're not going to help._ Peter let out an unhappy, exasperated sigh, then looked at his left hand, picking sullenly at the superglue on the injury. He looked around for the tote. _Might as well fix it myself. I'm not going to ask a third time._

He saw what he wanted, rose and walked over to the plastic tote, squatting slowly next to it and refusing to look at Sylar while he did. He had a sulky expression on his face as he dug through it for the surgical tape.

XXX

Peter drew closer as the tote was conveniently on Sylar's side of the couch. Sylar leaned out, reached out and took hold of Peter's nearer, left wrist. "Peter, relax," he demanded firmly, his grip was just as sturdy as he looked Peter dead in the face. "If you don't know something, the logical thing to do is ask questions, not give me this huffy brat routine for the rest of our lives. I _am_ familiar with it. Now give me the tape." Sylar held out his right hand for it. _Don't play coy_ _;_ _treat me like an adult._

XXX

It was a good thing Sylar had a solid grip, because Peter jerked hard at being grabbed. He'd been too lost in his own thoughts to see it coming, but now all he could think was that he shouldn't try to hit Sylar with his right hand. A second later he processed the words along with an expectation that Sylar wouldn't hit him if he was telling him to relax. That didn't rule out various other ill-behaved possibilities. _Where's a skillet when you need one?_

 _The tape? OH!_ Peter's eyes darted down to _which_ hand Sylar had grabbed and things started to make sense. He looked up at Sylar angrily and gave a single, hard jerk of his left hand, teeth slightly bared. He was not released, which was fine - he hadn't expected to be and was mainly figuring out how determined Sylar was with this. Peter shifted his weight slightly, making Sylar hang onto him as a constant pressure, and turned to retrieve the tape. He handed it over, feeling strangely victorious in that he was making Sylar work for it.

XXX

"Now, sit," Sylar pointed beside himself on the couch. When Peter did after gathering up alcohol, gauze and wipes, Sylar took them from him, too. He took back Peter's hand and it was dry and cool. "You trust me enough to save your girlfriend, you trust me enough to eat with me…turn your back on me, clean you and give you a physical. You trust me to…handle taping your hand and putting a brace on the other because if I can handle a brain with care, I can handle a fucking hand or two." This was said in a matter-of-fact tone that inflected 'don't interrupt or try to feed me your bullshit right now'.

XXX

The hubris that Peter would just go where directed, under the circumstances, was pretty astounding. Of course, Peter _did_ go where directed, so maybe it wasn't so out of line after all. Peter had a strong tendency to follow direct orders, something he wasn't sure if he should blame on his father's powers or his own personality, but it took a lot to make him balk altogether. It didn't mean he wouldn't make things difficult, though, and when Sylar took his hand again without asking, Peter tried to jerk it away once more. "Hey!" he objected, but it went ignored as Sylar began lecturing him.

XXX

Sylar's hands were busy unscrewing the alcohol cap and getting it onto the gauze. "I haven't attacked you or started fights. This might sting," he intoned with a quick glance upwards into hazel irises as his hands went about gently, gently rubbing and patting at the glued-up tear. How he knew he was supposed to do this or that the alcohol was for this purpose was pure assumption. Informing Peter of the sting was also to keep the man's trap shut for a moment longer while he spoke some truth. "And I've helped you, _and_ your family, in the past before, now. You do recall where that landed me the first time. Of the two of us, I think I have more reason to be trusted than you and yours." He was through with the alcohol, setting aside the gauze, looking around a moment to see where he could wipe his hands clean. His jeans were the reluctant target before he took up the tape. "You can be a real pain in the ass when you want to be, Petrelli."

XXX

By now, Peter left his hand where it could be worked on. His lips pursed with a desire to argue that he squelched at least at first. Sylar was being more careful with his injury than was necessary and Peter appreciated that. It made him relax, trying to blink away the confusion that wanted to settle in as he eased off the moment of higher tension. When Sylar seemed done haranguing him, Peter sighed, his left hand hanging cooperatively in the air where Sylar had left it as the man went about getting the tape. He sat calmly now, virtually shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee with Sylar, watching what he was doing and occasionally glancing to his face to follow his words.

In a low, patient tone of voice, Peter said, "I don't know your past. Just little pieces, here and there. I know you killed me, twice. I killed you. You thought you were my brother and you came back for me. Broke my fall; left me alive, later. I thought I'd killed you at the Stanton." Peter looked away, fingers and legs moving uncomfortably. "I don't want to talk about the rest. It just _hurts_." He was silent for a moment, then resumed, his voice as low-key and calm as before. "You've killed a lot of people; done things that don't make sense to me because I don't know _why_ you did them. Trust comes from understanding. I probably won't agree, but that doesn't have anything to do with it. One of these days, you're going to have to explain yourself."

XXX

Sylar inhaled and grimaced, stiffened at the mere mention of Stanton. Peter's voice…said what he would have liked to say, about the hurting. It gave him an ignorable twinge to hear that pain from someone who felt like his brother. Storm clouds gathered around him, but he forcefully kept his hands gentle through sheer force of will after he managed the tape sections. _Did you hear that? He doesn't want to hear it. He wouldn't listen if I told him, no one would, no one will. Fine, you son of a bitch. Dig your own grave._

He snorted, feeling anger but it masked itself in his scoffing. "Don't you mean 'pay for what I've done'?" _That's what you're here to do, whether you'll admit it or not. No need to sugar coat it. Yet I see you're enjoying your ignorance and not asking. I notice that today is not that day._ "You want to play hero, I'm the villain and you have to get through me. I see no reason to stick my neck out for your girlfriend, who is dead, by the way. And you assume I want to explain myself at all." Sylar, as casually as possible, went about taping up Peter's hand the same as before, taking his sweet, concussed time in doing so. In truth, he was also enjoying keeping patient, wounded, hopeful Peter here even though Peter expressed interest to get away and stay away. And feeling up the guy's hand was nice, too, comforting. "I like you better when you're playing with your puzzle," he said as he finished the taping, laying his hand against Peter's nearest cheek, patting it several times to motion him off. _Hmm, that felt good, too._

XXX

Peter stiffened and leaned away from Sylar, sensing the anger clearly. _I shouldn't have said that. What did I say? I shouldn't have_ _said_ _it, whatever it was. Doesn't want to explain himself? There's no way to pay for what he's done. It can't be paid. You can't pay for that_. Peter stared at him, a mix of confused and affronted, silent and tense, breathing shallowly. His head jerked aside at the pat and the send off. He rose without a word, looking down at his hand, then the puzzle, then down at Sylar, not moving a step.

"I was … actually feeling friendly there for a moment," Peter confessed, and he hurt inside to admit that. He had no business feeling friendly towards Sylar, as Sylar had just so rudely reminded him. He swallowed and moved over to the work table, scooping up his half-finished banana and cup. He carried them into the kitchen and dropped them in the trash, coming back out and heading for the door. _It's late. I don't want to take this any more. I'm tired. I'm grouchy. I'm not thinking well and neither is he. I need to get out of here._ That was what Peter told himself. It was a helpful diversion of thoughts from the fact that yeah, he had felt kind of friendly there for a moment, and it kept him from thinking very much about anything Sylar had said.

XXX

It was the way Peter phrased it. It stung. Then the helplessness started. There wasn't any apology he could give to Peter, or anyone, that would be worth the breath it took to speak it. He'd put his foot in it somehow (he didn't think it was really his fault…perhaps it wasn't) and now he couldn't take it back. He had no idea what he'd done wrong, didn't know how to ask for the specifics and couldn't apologize. "Wait!" he called out, pulling himself to stand as Peter made for the door, "Wait…"

XXX

 _Another swing. I'm so tired of these mood swings_. Peter waited, an arm's length from the door. His angry glare was sabotaged by a wince as his jaw twinged. With an effort, he relaxed his face and then his hands. He couldn't do anything about his shoulders for the moment. He was too wound up. He held his place, though, waiting for whatever parting comment Sylar wanted to make.

XXX

Sylar's frown bloomed with his problems. Something had to be said and he was at a loss, inhaling and blowing air out from his nose. Flapping his hands out from his sides in a sort of shrug or 'what can you do?' gesture, he tried, "I don't… " A sigh and a slump later, Sylar spoke gently, genuinely while avoiding eye contact. "I'm glad you felt…that way." _I need to talk less. I really piss him off. What else do I say? What can I say? I already told you I'm no good at this._ His hands burrowed into his pockets and he could feel his need to get out a pair of socks. "We'll talk about something with less…. depth." It was almost a question the way his voice raised to inflect it. _Just…be comfortable with me._

XXX

 _Yeah, right. Let's talk about it tomorrow, after I've had a night of sleep and maybe you're more stable. Maybe some of this is due to the concussion,_ Peter thought, a little of the anger seeping away as he found a way to blame Sylar's repeated offenses on his medical condition. He didn't speak.

XXX

"My head hurts." Sylar pointed to a spot in his hair, roughly in line above his right eyebrow but not so far over as the temple. "I don't know if I can sleep. What...what do I do if I can't sleep?" His statement of pain was just that, a statement. Sometimes that section just into his hairline would ache and throb without mercy, more so than the rest of his head and he'd been wondering if something had been damaged – broken or bent or bruised there. Peter hadn't…gotten to check his forehead and certainly hadn't checked his head thoroughly in the physical. It was worrisome.

XXX

"You haven't taken your painkillers," Peter said, remembering that fact and not sure whether to blame it on his failing as a nurse or Sylar's nausea. "You'll sleep easier if you do." _You didn't take them because you wouldn't eat dinner, because you were upset I wasn't going to rent myself out to you or whatever. And now you're desperate that I stay here. Is that because you think you're going to make another play for me?_ "You think you can eat something?"

XXX

"Oh." That made sense, he'd forgotten about them. Now he was stuck there, standing awkwardly with a guy who wanted nothing more than to be gone from his apartment. "Yeah, I guess." _Am I even hungry?_

XXX

"Try to relax. Go in the kitchen. Sit down." Peter's shoulders slumped and he waved in the direction of the kitchen, but instead of going there himself, he turned and leaned the middle of his back against the front door. "I need a moment," he mumbled. He felt staggered. All of these little shock/resets that he kept getting were befuddling him. He wanted to lay down and sleep, or at least have a nice, long, calm period where he didn't feel like Sylar was randomly poking him with a stick. He reached up and rubbed at his forehead, eyes shut, then pushed off and followed Sylar in.

"Tell me something you want to eat." _And please don't pick something elaborate or that I have to cook. I'll just get you something to eat, have you take your meds, and go._

XXX

 _Now he's telling me to relax._ Peter didn't sound or look too good – mostly he looked tired. Sylar hated the feeling of trapping someone with him. That person never wanted to be trapped there with him, but he always tried to make their stay comfortable, hell, he had to, being appealing to ally with them. Sickeningly enough, it was like taking in an animal and fluffing the pillows for its cage – he intended to keep it as long as possible, but the animal would never be happy and it would do its best to sink its teeth into him or poison him over time if he tried to pet it. The whole affair never failed to make him feel pathetic which made him angry. He only wanted someone to want to stay. Sylar did as directed, moving into the kitchen, sitting. Several seconds later Peter…didn't follow. _Worse than I thought. I didn't...What did I do?_ He realized he'd been ordered into the kitchen, like time-out or 'stand in the corner' and he hadn't even seen it coming and he'd fallen for it. The waiting was bothersome because he had no idea who or what was going to come through the door. He sat squirming until Peter made his appearance, still in the same mood.

 _You're not some short-order cook._ He had not expected to be fed, let alone asked his preference. It was a test, too; on what he would decide independently if given the chance and he couldn't botch it and ask for too much. He tried to think back to the last food he'd seen. "Um…ch-chips?" _I'd do it myself, but I don't know if I can. I want him to stay and…he probably needs to feel needed to stay. Just suck it up._

XXX

"Chips?" _Like crackers? No, those Pringles. That's probably what he means_. Peter looked around the kitchen, turning in place as he scanned the counter. _Where did I leave those? I had them out at the puzzle_. "Okay." He walked out to the living room and then returned with the tube. He hesitated when he got to Sylar, not sure if he should open it, pour some out, pull some out of the tube (his hand didn't fit more than a few inches into it anyway), or what. He didn't want to just set it down in front of the man like a self-serve, but Peter ended up doing just that. "Are these okay?"

XXX

"Yeah," was Sylar's simple answer, extending his hand at a pace to take the tube from the table, bringing it back to his lap.

XXX

He thought about the waver in Sylar's voice when he'd asked for them. _Why is he so nervous now? He was a huge asshole just a few minutes ago, on the couch - lecturing me about trust like it's something I can turn on and off, that he's so trustworthy but he's not about to actually help anyone. What's he think I'm going to do to him? If I'd wanted to hit him over it, I would have. He was fine then - not upset. He patted me on the cheek and told me to go work on the puzzle … and instead I went to leave._ Peter blinked a few times as that connected for him. _Yeah. Didn't he get upset last night when I left, too? Does he think I'm not going to come back? Fuck. Three years alone_. Peter sighed, shaking off the probably-rude and unusual amount of time he'd just spent standing there lost in thought, and moved off to get the pills.

He came back and pulled out the other chair, counting out painkillers for himself and Sylar both, then adding decongestants to Sylar's pile. He pushed them over to the other man and said in a medium-soft voice, "I forgot to take my own, earlier. I'll get you some water."

Returning with drinks, Peter took a seat again, leaning back and relaxing a little, staring vacantly at the table. He downed his pills, then took a long pull on his glass to wash them down. _I want a beer_. He considered the medical inadvisability of alcohol, not to mention the risk factor that his companion represented. _Speaking of which …_ Peter raised his eyes to the other man and said, "Sylar, I'm coming back tomorrow. What time do you want me to come by?" He was seeking to reassure - he **was** coming back - and hoping to give Sylar come sense of control by letting him pick the time.

XXX

Peter stood near him for a moment, long enough for Sylar to wonder what was going on. The air didn't seem quite so awkward or tense now, certainly not violent. He didn't start in on the chips until the nurse moved away, getting…ah, the pills. "Thanks," he said in legitimate gratitude when the man returned with water, warming back up to his companion. It was shocking how easy that was to do. _When he's not making me angry or insulting me, he's…well, I think he's almost always a nice guy, but, you know…being nice to me…_

Opening the tube, he worked at tilting it just so, careful not to slide dozens of chips into his lap, crumbs and fragments and all. He wound up using two hands, one to hold the container, the other to get the chips where he wanted and snag them out to consume slowly. His stomach was still in turmoil, but it was easier to eat as his environment lacked stress at the moment - he was able to force the chips down, the salt making that easier, too. Peter spoke again, with more purpose, saying he would return in the morning. Sylar didn't see any reason to disbelieve Peter so he was relieved. Not only that, he got to chose the time? He swallowed the chip that had been melting in his mouth. "Uh…" he stopped to try and consider what time Peter got up. And when he himself would rise as his sleep schedule was a mess. "Nine or ten? Does that work? I-You said you're concussed, I don't know…how you sleep." _He could come over for breakfast again. That's so strange,_ he thought quite joyfully. "You know there's…other apartments here. You don't have to go all the way back." It was a long shot, but it made sense, whether Peter was fucking him or not.

XXX

Peter smiled wanly, choosing to ignore the suggestion of moving closer. "I don't know how I sleep either." _Considering this is your head, I'm not sure what sleeping really constitutes. Probably the same thing it does in real life, though, which is sort of a reset button. Much needed chance to get away from this guy. Ha._ "I'll come over, nine or ten, best I can figure." _Crap. I think I tossed out the clock. Wait, isn't there one built into the oven? Like a timer. I wonder if it goes up to hours and hours? Hell, I'll just go to sleep and see what time it is when I wake up. I'm pretty sure there's a clock on the oven along with the timer thing._ Peter frowned down at his watch, trying to weigh the joy of being free of time constraints versus the politeness of showing up when he was promising to show up. He tapped softly on the face of it. _I don't want it fixed._

Peter quit looking at his watch and instead fiddled with his water for a bit, almost like he wasn't inclined to go. He rose eventually, though, having mentally discarded the idea of ice cream, because it would seem rude to eat if Sylar didn't join him. He put his glass in the sink and came back by Sylar, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder as he had somewhat earlier. "Thanks for taping my hand up," he said quietly. "I'll see you in the morning."

XXX

Day 13, Morning of December 23rd

Sylar had made a goal of being nicer to Peter and it worked – there were no blow-ups. Peter had administered the same mental test and discovered, yes, Sylar was still concussed and in need of assistance. They'd eaten sandwiches and soup and worked on the puzzle more. Sylar actually succeeded in laying in a few pieces, getting some of the horses done as well – both were ridiculous accomplishments in his book because it was stupid that they were accomplishments at all given his medical status. It had been, dare he say it, almost peaceful even if Peter was still kind of annoying.

The day passed, Peter going back to his own bunk once again and at first Sylar slept well enough. The more he slept, the worse it got, incredibly uncomfortable with the headache, his bruising, and of course, the nightmares. It was like his mind wouldn't leave him alone even for his own health, which was not a new concept. He still ached and his head was killing him.

Regardless, Peter came the next day, waking him and going about breakfast. After his initial grogginess and stiffness, happy as he was to see Peter, Sylar visited the bathroom to shave and comb his hair (Sylar shook his head in rueful, annoyed amusement at having his own comb in his possession) before appearing in the kitchen doorway. He was there to see if Peter needed help or had a use for him or…something. Either Peter was a god at mastering Sylar's unvoiced intentions (perhaps that was part of his ability – he'd always been good about reading Nathan except when Nathan lied like a jackass) or Peter was a god at making semi-educated guesses that were often correct. Sylar would appear or look at him and Peter would find a use for him, a project, a part, assistance, something to say or something to give. _Is this what having a friend is like? Someone who knows you? That's…_ He could barely put a word to how amazing that was. He really liked it. He was hooked.

XXX

"Hey. Eggs are almost done. Could you pour up drinks? I'd like juice this morning."

XXX

Sylar snorted. _Yes, Your Majesty_ , he thought lightly, but he was already moving to procure the drinks. Pouring and setting them on the table, he sat.

XXX

Peter busied himself doing some final scraping and turning of the scrambled eggs before turning off the stove and bringing them to the table. As he divided the meal onto plates, he observed, "Hey, have you noticed we've both detoxed off of caffeine?" He chuckled, full of good humor this morning. And why not? Yesterday had gone well, aside from a few death glares that in retrospect were pretty funny all by themselves - that Sylar would give him such an evil eye for touching the wrong puzzle pieces was worth a laugh, though at the time he'd just kept his hands even more to himself. "That was probably a little of why we were so irritable a couple days ago, along with everything else." Peter set the skillet aside, waving vaguely at his head and then Sylar's, referencing the head injuries. His headache had dulled to a low ache, definitely manageable, though he assumed it would get worse under stress and exertion.

"It also means that when we go back to it, we'll get a jolt. That stuff's always sharpest once you've cleaned out."

XXX

Sylar honestly had to think back, knowing that Peter was (for once) mentally sharper than he was. _I assume he means coffee. When did I- we last have coffee? Must have at some point. I'll take his word for it._ Peter sat a moment afterwards and Sylar took up his fork, laying out an amused, "You would know, Peter." _And I think I'm always that irritable, so don't get your hopes up._

XXX

Peter sat down to eat, putting away a few mouthfuls before saying, "I used to do a few drugs back in college: pot, poppers, opiates when I could get them." He scratched his jaw. "I tried cocaine and meth - you know that sort of stuff, stims - but I didn't like them. Made me nervous and sort of itchy. Once I took off to nursing school, though, I got my head on straight and cut it all out. It was messing up my body, maybe my head, too." He took a long drink of juice. "Sure was easier to study clean and sober, but I guess that was kind of my point of doing them before. I hadn't been too wild about going to law school." He shrugged. "But I _wanted_ to be a nurse, so there's that." He wondered if Nathan had realized how important that was to him, or if he'd just gotten tired of seeing Peter ruin his life. On the other hand, Peter considered, it would be tough for him to say whether he'd wanted to be a nurse, or just wanted to live his own life, and chosen nursing as the most realistic and likeable path of rebellion.

XXX

That was…certainly a lot to take in. Peter really had done it all, or the good majority of it. _Well, that explains your brain working funny like it does now…_ Sylar thought sarcastically. Peter just worked funny regardless of schooling, drugs or brain damage. _Who'd have thought quitting drugs would help you study? Hmm…I wonder which is worse for drug-usage, med school or law school…_ Sylar pondered the odds while eating. Again, these were Peter's great eggs.

XXX

"What about you?" Peter looked at Sylar's expression and felt a need to clarify, even though he intended the question just as broadly as it sounded. "Before you got your ability, what did you think you'd do with your life? What _were_ you doing with your life? Did you get out and party? Did you work hard? Were you a homebody or did you travel?" Peter's voice shifted from light and conversational to softer, more serious and intent. "What kind of person were you, Sylar?" Peter's eye contact on the last question was total for several seconds, before looking back to his food, but he was clearly still listening attentively.

XXX

He was positive a sudden Peter-inspired question mark had appeared on his face. Going from intellectual self-thought and focuses on egg breakfasts to a recap of his life (drug life?) was a shift. Peter's eyes were piercing until he looked away, for which Sylar was grateful. _Why do you want to know?_ He blinked several times, orienting himself to the questions. _Which answers is he looking for? Vague and broad, I guess._ "Um…" Sylar skipped over the part about what he thought he'd do with his life. _This is so strange. No one since….Chandra. Wow_. "I was working in my shop….taking care of my mother," he said, fiddling with his eggs as he spoke. It was easier to talk that way. It helped that Peter was busy with his own food and not staring him down. A derisive breath, "Tried high school parties. Didn't fit in. Of course I worked hard." His eyes narrowed slightly at that. _Some would say I didn't work hard enough, but that's why I'm here. Doing hard time and all that._ "Homebody," his answer was really that short. He'd had nowhere else to be besides a movie theatre or library.

The last question was the real hit. "Pathetic, insignificant and boring," he delivered bluntly, pointedly, looking directly at Peter for this one. _Of course, I was Gabriel, then. But that's who he's asking about._

XXX

Peter was watching intermittently as Sylar spoke, listening as he stumbled over a question the man didn't seem familiar with. Peter not only had Petrelli training on how to give an elevator speech summing up his existence in a positive way for a stranger, but he'd gotten lots of practice at it as a nurse and paramedic. Though he had to admit it was refreshing to hear someone give him an honest, unscripted answer. _If anything tells me that Nathan's not in there …_

When Sylar got to the end, Peter's brows rose, meeting and keeping the eye contact Sylar was giving him. Sad images came to Peter's mind, of people he'd seen as a paramedic: an elderly man, abandoned in his bed, forgotten by everyone who knew him; a young man overcome with depression, who had inexpertly slashed his own wrists; a middle-aged woman who called the EMTs frequently to report symptoms of cardiac arrest, but in truth Peter was fairly sure she just wanted some excitement in her otherwise lonely life. They were what people might call pathetic, insignificant or boring, but Peter had found them interesting, whole people who were in bad places in their lives. _This, this place, all alone, no one else here with him, is the worst hell Matt could summon for him and Matt would know. And me leaving just to go home at night makes Sylar anxious, now that he's decided I'm real. I don't think he did at first - otherwise he'd have never let me wander off._

In a gentle, yet determined tone, Peter said, "No one is _pathetic_ , _insignificant_ , or _boring_." He moved his fork around, spearing another bite and looking down at it briefly. " _I_ am interested in your life. I'd like to know more about it." Fearing the intensity might be overkill for Sylar, Peter cranked it down a notch and asked, "What was your favorite subject in high school?"

XXX

"Oh, _okay_ , Peter," Sylar delivered with deadly sarcasm complete with contemptuous expression. _Don't think I'm so stupid that I don't know_ why _you want to know. Probably bored as hell, too_. It just meant he had to watch what information he let slip. As usual. He wasn't letting Peter worm out any manipulative and incriminating footholds. Petrellis were sly that way; you wouldn't necessarily see it coming. A scowl was building in intensity, eggs forgotten for the moment, until Peter backed down. Sylar rolled his eyes, having won but now being faced with a useless question. "Science," he sighed, giving Peter one wary, warning last look before re-engaging his breakfast. "Stupid because before my abilities, that class always made sense." He gave a small shrug.

XXX

Peter gave an amused smile, having difficulty taking Sylar's irascible sarcasm seriously. He noticed Sylar's dodge on talking about his past - not too surprising if he was going to characterize it as pathetic, insignificant, and boring. Peter leaned back, chewing his latest bite slowly, and letting Sylar succeed at dodging the subject. He reached up and rubbed at his jaw, watching Sylar until eyes lifted to notice the observation, then finding something else to look at, generally his own plate. He wasn't thinking about much of anything, sort of blank-headed at the moment, with thoughts flitting through his mind about the residual soreness of his jaw, the color and texture of Sylar's hair, and the degree of hostility the man had about his background.

Peter took a sip and said, "You know, about abilities … they never were something I could figure out. Mohinder …" He shrugged. "He seemed to think it was obvious, the genes worked a certain way, and it was, uh, 'demonstrable'," Peter said, aping a word out of Chandra Suresh's book, "that abilities would result from certain … um, configurations." He knitted his brow, trying to remember the rest of what Activating Evolution had to say. Peter frowned and shook his head. It wasn't too important - not to what he was trying to ask Sylar. "Did they ever make sense to you?"

Sylar was smart; Peter respected that or else he wouldn't be asking. Mohinder had always talked over Peter's head - not that Sylar didn't have a tendency to the same thing, but he wasn't as bad about it. Peter preferred his personal theory that abilities were a gift from God or an expression of the ineffable supernatural, but he wasn't going to discount the possibility that someone else had figured it out. If anyone could, it would be the man he was sharing breakfast with.

XXX

 _Strange question. But its not like he ever talked about it with Nathan. And Nathan never really got it._ "You mean where they came from? Same place as your eye color - DNA. You could have been born the odd man out and had green eyes in a brown-eyed family, but you were born with your ability. Nathan wasn't." Nathan remembered the horror and shock of finding out he'd been tested on by his own parents (or parent, most likely). It shouldn't have been such a surprise, but Nathan had taken his hurt feelings to the extreme and sided with Arthur, not the-bearer-of-bad-news Angela who was probably innocent.

XXX

 _No, that's not what I meant at all_. Peter frowned and tried to think of how to rephrase his question to get at what really mattered, but before he came to any conclusion about what to say, Sylar was speaking again. Peter leaned forward, intent on the words. Maybe Sylar would say something more relevant.

XXX

"Your parents both have abilities and you inherited those markers, yeah, configurations, same as me. Yours is a variant of /Dad's/….Arthur's," a pause after the slip before he correct himself. "Mine is…pretty much the same as my dad's. Claire is….well," he chuckled, "Meredith and Nathan. Simon and Monty didn't show any abilities so Claire probably got her power from Meredith. It wouldn't surprise me since his ability isn't…. inherited, he can't pass it on." Sylar shrugged, "Matt's was the same as his father's, et cetera. Fate's random draw. How they came into being? I don't think anyone knows. Chandra didn't, Mohinder didn't and I….would know if they knew. They talk too much to keep secrets especially when they think you're too stupid to know what they're talking about, which is almost all the time….Sure seems supernatural when something like an eclipse can take away your power, you know, like some kind of…god or…demi-god maybe."

XXX

Peter frowned at the use of 'Dad' for 'Arthur', feeling his blood pressure rise, but when Sylar moved on from it, Peter relaxed. Besides, Sylar's next statement surprised him. _Your dad had your ability?_ For some reason, Peter had trouble imagining that, having heretofore thought of Sylar's murder sprees as a singular event. To think that someone else had done the same for _decades_? It was appalling and sad. _Unless his dad could control himself, like Sylar in that future? Or, well, he didn't say he met him. Maybe his dad died a long time ago?_

The rest of Sylar's spiel, Peter glossed over until the end. _Supernatural, a god?_ _**That**_ was what Peter wanted to know, but he'd wanted it in more detail. He leaned back slowly, considering what he'd been told, an introspective frown on his face as he stared at his nearly empty plate.

XXX

Sylar thought on that and went back to eating for a few bites. Another thought struck him. "The weird part about that was my ability went undetected. Was that the same for you? It was…early before everything started, so he probably didn't know what he was looking for yet and Mohinder wasn't there. He said I didn't have an ability, do you believe that? My DNA comes up on some national list and no power?" He heaved an aggravated, grumbling sigh, remembering his stress and distress at that time in his life, going back to stabbing his eggs. "The Company didn't find anything either, the idiots."

XXX

Peter's eyes rose to Sylar's and he leaned forward again, this time taking up his fork. He held it while Sylar finished speaking. _'Early before everything'? Who? Must be Chandra. He just mentioned him, that they'd talked. And Mohinder said that Sylar had killed his father_. A momentary expression of sadness crossed Peter's features. He studied Sylar's reaction, with the sigh and angry use of the fork. More sedately, Peter scooped up the last of his breakfast and put it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, but with an expression and hand gesture of 'give me a moment'.

There was a lot Peter wanted to ask about Chandra, and Sylar's emotional reaction made the temptation to ask even higher. But wisdom won out and Peter put it aside to ask at some other point. It wasn't what he'd asked Sylar for; it wasn't what Sylar was asking him. To that latter, he gave answer. "My first ability was my mother's, or maybe Charles Deveaux's - telepathy. I wasn't using either of them intentionally. Flight happened about the same time."

He drummed the fingers of his left hand very slowly and softly on the table, the focus on his eyes far away as he made a serious attempt to draw up the information. "The problem is that I don't know when my mother knew. Or Charles." Peter looked down at his plate and fidgeted with it, setting the fork on it, moving his glass a little. He was starting to touch on a subject that was still unprocessed, still upsetting. He tried to skirt it. "In retrospect, I think Charles knew. And," Peter drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Obviously my mother knew. I don't remember being tested. But I told Ma about some of the dreams I'd been having." Peter swept up his dish suddenly and rose, walking it over to the sink.

"Yah, idiots," he spat out without explanation and more of a New York accent than usual. His mother had set him up to blow up the city; she'd done this _thing_ to Sylar, desecrating Nathan's … everything. Peter was angry - so angry at her. For so long, she'd been the parent he'd looked up to, loved, adored, and trusted. But she'd betrayed him the same as his father.

XXX

Sylar paused after that, his appetite was still very low, but he did want a few more bites. He watched Peter, curiously. "Mothers…are like that, Peter," Sylar deduced Peter's emotionality was linked his mommy. "Good news is, they're not here. It's like a sleepover," he said with wry humor in his voice. _Just…without the sleeping over part, obviously. I don't see 'when' being the 'problem' – I showed my mom my power and she didn't…well_. A slow bite, then, "I didn't think about Charles, telepathy…"


	45. Godsends and Girlfriends

Day 13, Breakfast

Peter rinsed his plate off more vigorously than necessary, then walked back over to flop in his chair in a tense, overly dramatic sprawl. The chair protested slightly. "Yeah," Peter huffed in agreement with Sylar. He ran his left hand through his hair once, twice, a third time, then swept his bangs out of his face and gave his pelage one last pass to smooth it. He sighed voluminously. Emotional demonstration complete, he answered Sylar's wry smile with his own. "She didn't want me to come here. Begged me not to."

XXX

Sylar just growled, expressing his displeasure about Angela in general. "No surprise there," he groused with feeling. _Didn't want me to take away her baby. Kill off her last son. She showed me the way to really fuck with people – convert them, don't kill them._

XXX

Peter gave a fitful roll of his eyes about his mother and leaned forward abruptly, not wanting to get into it. In his heart of hearts, he suspected, feared, that she was right about Sylar and that, yes, Sylar might help Emma, but what of after? Peter didn't want to contemplate it, so he didn't. They were safe anyway, in their little 'sleepover'. _Probably asleep in Matt's basement still._ He put his elbows on the table and asked, "But that's not what I was asking, earlier. What I wanted to know is if there's any scientific basis to the way abilities work. Or is it something more in the realm of the … divine?"

XXX

"Oh." He felt slow and a little dumb for having not addressed Peter's questions correctly. "There's…basis for both. Neither can be proven, so pick your poison, really. There's no basis that we have some special gene or gland or hormone and there's no way we've evolved or mutated into what we are this fast. No way our natural bodies can keep up with what we can do. You can't prove there's a God or Allah or Buddha. Even if you could, why would he give someone like me, or someone like Samuel, a power? Why not give only good people a power so they can do good things? It's like asking how the world came to be." Sylar leaned back, his gaze far away again before looking to his companion. "I know the answer you're looking for, even a concrete answer, but it's…" he waved a hand for the word and failing to find it. "You must really be lost if you're coming to me for…information," was his casual remark, digging at why Peter would ask that of _him_. _If I had the answer, I don't know that I'd tell you, Peter. You think you've got all the answers._

XXX

Peter listened carefully, snorting softly when Sylar brought up the lack of logic in someone evil having a power. He didn't shift back when Sylar leaned away, still thinking, watching the hand gesture as carefully as everything else. A smile curled Peter's lips when Sylar tried to fend off his interest. "You don't know," Peter said confidently, not buying Sylar's 'I know the answer' BS. He relaxed in his chair.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed, his mouth opening to correct Peter that, obviously, he didn't know – he'd fucking said as much! (Had he held such a valuable piece of information, such was his point, things would be run a lot differently). But Peter was already off on…something else.

XXX

"The existence of evil doesn't disprove God. Not for me, at least," Peter said quietly. "God's not about … giving us what we want. Or even what we can take." He shook his head, getting wound up a bit. "That old canard about Him not giving a person more than they can bear? Tell that to someone struggling for their last breaths." Peter snorted, looking off to the side because his disgust was not with Sylar. Peter tensed and sat up straighter. "People get broken. Sometimes they lose. God doesn't save people on this Earth. _People_ save people."

XXX

Again, Sylar began to speak, not getting to voice any of it. He'd been about to quote that exact lovely phrase when Peter beat him to it. Church and Puritanical living with his mother had left marks, not nice ones where he would chirp out Bible verses on demand and live by them. If anything, he'd probably mock them, burdened by retaining those holy quotes. If Peter was so 'godly', then it was naturally Sylar's job, as the respective devil or demon, to punch holes in that logic. _How did we get on theology?...Is he saying I can't cut it because I've died so often? I'll 'lose'?...Don't tell me about broken people and 'last breaths'…_ The idea that high-and-mighty Peter Petrelli was lecturing him about God giving him too much to bear that had resulted in…many attempts at suicide was hard to take with any grace.

XXX

He frowned, leaning forward now and trying to engage Sylar. "Every heroic act is discredited by the people who say it was 'God's work' or 'God's will'." Peter jabbed his finger at the table in emphasis. "If that were true, then we wouldn't need heroes. We wouldn't need paramedics or EMTs or even doctors!"

XXX

To his own great surprise, Sylar actually….thought about that one for a moment prior to responding – Peter could accurately label that one a miracle for all its rarity. His lips closed while he turned that over. _So if I do a good deed, I get the credit, is that it? I mean, I made the choice, that's what Christianity is all about – God's still there, supposedly, whether I chose_ _H_ _im or not….And I can do a good deed independently, without Him. Clearly._ "That…makes sense," he said slowly, still thinking. He hit on what was bothering him: "Angels don't save people, either…for the record," he intoned, dully. _They just…._ Sylar heaved a distressed sigh, rubbing his face for a moment. He was remembering Elle. _They're not some almighty being, but names give power_ , he considered his own 'birth' name, Gabriel.

XXX

Peter watched alertly after Sylar quit trying to butt in while he was talking and now appeared to be thinking about what Peter had said. It was so much better than the usual snarking off at him or arguing mindlessly. He calmed and sent his thoughts self-consciously over what he'd just said. _Did I say something stupid? No, he'd be on me right away if I had. I must have said something smart. And even then … he's not jumping on me anyway like he did before. Weird. Are we actually getting along better? I should tone it down regardless. It's not his fault and I don't want him to take it that way._ He relaxed himself purposefully, which wasn't that hard since he wasn't being opposed.

When Sylar began acting upset, Peter leaned forward silently, head turned slightly in concern. He didn't do or say anything, though, feeling that he didn't have that privilege.

XXX

After another pause, going back to the Christianity belief theme at hand, "Does that mean God's not working at all through us, or we get….all the credit?" Sylar stumbled around what he was trying to say, hoping it made sense. It did in his head.

XXX

Peter put his elbows on the table. "Anything we do, we do. I believe in free will. I don't think God pushes people one way or another. That's like …" Peter paused, searching for an analogy. "It's like the guy who designed your car being held accountable for the speeding ticket you got." He hesitated again, trying to fish up an example that had to do with 'credit' rather than 'blame', but nothing came to mind. He shook it off and went on, "I don't pretend to know the mind of God, or why there's evil in the world. I just know there is, and any _good_ God would want us to do something about it." He shrugged. "And even if there isn't a god, we should _still_ do something about it." _Maybe even more important then._

XXX

That took much longer for him to process than he would like, but Peter was stupid enough to engage in conversation (a smart one, for once, complete with good points) while Sylar was concussed. _Actually…that makes sense, too. Dumbing me down so he can talk?_ Mostly Sylar was enjoying having something to wrap his mind around, be it Peter or Peter's motives or the conversation – it wasn't often he was challenged on a topic that lacked…emotion and morals (for the most part) and social understandings. It was ideal, minus the concussion.

XXX

Peter waited several beats, but Sylar was silent, looking contemplative. In a quiet tone, Peter related, "I remember a call Hesam and I had. It was around Christmas. A couple teens had found a homeless woman sleeping in the park, non-responsive, and called it in. She had critical hypothermia. After we took her in, Hesam said that things like that were what made him lose his faith - how many people must have walked right past her, never bothering to see if she was okay." Peter frowned and looked away. "I told him … those kids who called it in had done the right thing." Peter's eyes flicked back to Sylar, then down at the table. "Not everyone does, I know, but faith in people and faith in God are two different things. As long as people are able to make choices … well, then they're making choices. God … He's immutable. He's a constant. You can take Him out of the equation or leave Him in and people are still making their own decisions."

XXX

Sylar would again agree – _if_ there was a God, He clearly followed that principal. Sylar didn't know if that was a good thing or not, didn't know where exactly that left him. _Pastor Peter over there._ As interesting as the conversation was, it was too close to being lectured at embarrassing, awkward, tedious length about anything religious (something he'd had to endure growing up and even after that). The level of sharing Peter was giving was great, the topic was less so – Sylar was looking to depart from it. "You would know, Boy Scout. Give them a gold st-…" He broke off to consider something. He looked quickly to the calendar he'd begun keeping a few months into his stay in Hell, checking off each day-square with a single black, permanently inked, diagonal line. He'd fallen behind what with being injured and distracted, but by his calculations…. "Fuck," he murmured, not enjoying that feeling of lateness. Looking back to the table, his eggs since cooled and he was finished with them anyway, Sylar hemmed around addressing the date appropriately. He turned to Peter and spoke, nearly questioning but sincere nonetheless, "Um…Usually I'm a lot…better with this, but, uh…Happy Birthday."

XXX

"It's my birthday?" Peter said in bewilderment. He followed Sylar's eyes to the calendar. It didn't look like the 23rd yet, but then again, maybe Sylar hadn't been marking off the days recently. He'd know the current date better than Peter did, certainly. _My birthday. Huh._ He had fond memories of the date. The whole holiday season had always made him happy. They saw family; he was off school; there were presents and special food and outings to see Christmas lights. _None of that here._ The beginnings of a smile on his face faded out to blankness.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar informed slowly, intent on watching Peter's face, his reaction. It started out well enough, but…it crashed and burned. _I thought as much._ He knew enough of the Petrelli rituals, specifically the ones for Nathan and Peter - he was the youngest, emotional and needy, and his birthday was in December, so near Christmas. Sylar got the point. Doubtless, it was his fault. His efforts (such as they would be with a concussion) wouldn't hold a birthday candle against Peter's other birthdays. His presence wasn't inspiring joy in Peter, either. "This must suck for you, being here...like this." _With me._ "Uh...have anything special in mind you want to do?"

XXX

 _What is there to celebrate?_ Peter turned dull eyes on Sylar. His first birthday without Nathan loomed. The knowledge that this place was false didn't help, because even after he got out of here and back to the real world, it would still be a few short weeks until the same thing happened. Followed by Christmas. Followed by New Years. Year after year until the end of his life - always someone absent who should have been there. He looked over at the calendar again, face a little paler than it should be, devoid of expression. He thought of the last holiday he'd had with Nathan … his mother bringing over Thanksgiving dinner …

And snatched his thoughts away from that as fast as he could, blinking his suddenly burning eyes and looking down. "No. There's nothing I want to do," he murmured quietly. "Thank you." He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes, making a half-hearted attempt to pass off his pang of grief as tired eyes. "What about you? When's your birthday?" He sighed, making his voice normal. "You have any family customs for it?"

When he'd been a kid, the Petrellis had done the usual cake, candles, ice cream, and singing; inviting over friends; each meal through the day was favorite foods of whoever's birthday it was. Once he was an adult, he could still rely on being taken out to dinner (and probably lunch, too, if he didn't spend the other meal with college friends). Abilities had changed all that. Remembering how it used to be just made the last few years stand out even more. He'd spent one birthday in a prison cell, entirely unmarked. But he'd at least gotten phone calls for the others. There were no voices here but Sylar's and his own. He felt … lonely.

XXX

Oh, but Peter's face told him it was so much worse than he'd thought. It made him tense and feel a foot tall at the same time, not good feelings. _Shit…is he…crying?_ That sniff was pretty indicative, from what Sylar knew of that type of thing _. I made him cry? Or…is it just the situation? Did I do something wrong? I thought I was being nice…_ Sylar blinked and nodded, completely out of his depth. _Why is he thanking me? I don't know what to do for crying, or any of this, really. What do I do now? Get him a gift card for one free beating; that'll make him feel better. Can't pass that up._ He suspected he wasn't supposed to let this drop, but he could come back to it. He'd have time to drum up some kind of gift or food idea for Peter anyway.

Peter threw him a curveball. Sylar suspected he'd have to get used to that – Nathan mostly ignored the curveballs or covered them up and denied them away. This wasn't a fun topic he wanted turned on himself, but it Peter wanted to avoid things and perk himself up with Sylar's misery and discomfort…Sylar rolled his eyes, picking at his eggs, "June second as near as anyone knows. That's what we always used anyway. Cake, books, clothes. Going to church and going over every embarrassing photo album and kid story my mother could remember." It was usually a horrid gathering once he'd developed cognition and independent thought – an event he would almost happily do without. He wanted bring up how, technically, birthdays should be used to celebrate the mother, not the child, a literal 'mother's day'. But this was Peter's birthday and saying it wasn't all about Peter was…well, rude. God knew Sylar didn't want Peter's birthday to be credited to Angela. "Kind of stupid, really. Whatever that saying is, 'anyone can get born.' Of course," he looked at Peter with slight amusement, "some of us are born special."

XXX

Peter gave a wry smile, imagining Sylar being embarrassed by his mother's stories. _His mother. She's out of the picture now, isn't she?_ He remembered Jeremy Greer's parents, dead by his ability; and how Amanda had confessed to burning down her family home. Peter's eyes widened a little as they crept over Sylar's face. _Did his mother have an ability? Oh no. What if she was his first … no wonder he won't talk about it! If it is, was, her. His first victim. Fuck._ Peter drew in a deep breath and looked away. _Okay … my life looks so much better in comparison._ There was no expression of sympathy Peter could think to give for something that was just a suspicion anyway. He wished he'd been in a more observant frame of mind when Sylar had stopped him from killing Peter's mother back on Level 5.

"June second, yeah?" Peter said, making an attempt to be cheerful and focus on the now. "Maybe I'll have learned to bake by then. If not, there's always grocery stores." 'What about Christmas?' he wanted to ask, wondering how Sylar had observed the date when younger, but the topic of Sylar and holidays didn't sit well with him, leading inevitably as it did to the one in November. "June's a good month. Fresh out of school, got the whole summer ahead of you. Hey, both of us have birthdays you never spend in school."

XXX

"Maybe by then I'll be able to bake for your birthday," Sylar snarked playfully about his concussion and Peter's ability to keep his fists to himself for that long. He had to say something before he blurted out that he didn't observe his own birthday – it was so pointless. In re-evaluation, it might have a purpose, if it gave Peter something to do, even if it was slipping laxatives or poison into the cake, otherwise burning it or underbaking it. That would feel awfully weird, but maybe it was worth allowing. Funny that he was born in a hot month while Peter was born in a cold one – Sylar would have thought they'd be opposite.

XXX

Peter stood and wandered over to the stove, moving the skillet over and filling it in the sink to let it soak. The thought of it being his birthday depressed the hell out of him. He grasped around for something else to talk about, recounting Sylar's words. _Born special_. "You wouldn't happen to know why some people get their ability as kids and others as adults, would you? I've always kind of supposed it was the eclipses, but there were people I know got them other times." _Like me, apparently_. "Do you think that's what triggers it for most people?"

XXX

Sylar snorted derisively, aiming it at the Suresh men. "No, I don't. Mohinder was just getting into the whole eclipse thing when the…second…one happened. /Dad/ probably knew." Sylar frowned and pursed his lips in deep thought. "Matt's kid got his powers in that eclipse, not from birth…" he shook that away. Off the top of his head, he didn't know of anyone whose powers manifested at birth or in utero. "I imagine just genetic susceptibility to manifestation triggers – each ability, each person is different...They probably get switched 'on' in the eclipses, yeah. How, I don't know. I know mine started….priming before it…kind of snapped, same as yours, I guess. You had dreams and your foot floated before you could fly… Rather, before you knew you could fly."

 _/'Anything else is just crazy talk.'/_ Sylar was struck with how random and just plain _weird_ that had been for Nathan, finding out that Peter could not only fly and do the same thing he could, but do all these other freaky things. The idiot had only faced it, owned up to it, acknowledged it for his brother's sake and for New York City's sake at the last moment at Kirby. How convenient. Sylar clamped his mouth shut on a biting Nathan comment: 'Your brother was a real asshole about that, wasn't he?' while thinking: _If I was your brother I would have believed you._

"Kind of uncomfortable to be a walking solar panel: one thick cloud and all your powers go 'poof!'" Then again it was uncomfortable that he hadn't rid the world of the Haitian. That man still roaming about, on friendly terms with any Petrelli – as evidenced by Mercy Hospital – was bad news. _He's_ _dead now, I guess._ Sylar took the time as he spoke to watch Peter. "I'm- I'm…Did I say something wrong again?" he had to ask, seeing his companion's short movements and the sudden space between them. It was slowly becoming apparent that Peter didn't want to be here, or more accurately, be here with Sylar – more so than usual.

XXX

Peter turned, drying his left hand on a kitchen towel. "No." He sighed. "Well, I'd rather you quit calling Arthur your father. That's … upsetting. If I thought you were being sarcastic about how Ma said you were my brother, that's one thing. But I don't think that's what's going on." _I think you're confused. Your brain's been scrambled, and I don't mean the concussion._ He tossed the towel on the counter and walked back, glancing at Sylar's plate but seeing no reason to hurry the guy. He took a seat. "But as things go for me to be upset about, that's not a big deal."

XXX

 _Did I do that?_ Sylar thought back. _Crap. I did. I'd rather I quit calling him my dad, too, Peter._ He failed to follow the part about Angela, but picked up that Peter was…cutting him slack? _Hold on, it is but isn't a big deal? So…what's the big deal, then?_

XXX

Peter looked at the table, finding an imaginary irregularity to pick at. He watched his fingers, momentarily debating whether or not to say anything about what was really bothering him. _He actually_ **asked** _. Asked if he said something wrong. Like he's being more aware of that. I think that's … maybe what we need. Be kind of dumb for me to make him run blind_. Peter's eyes flicked up to Sylar's. "Just the mention of my birthday … Nathan'll never be there again," he finished softly. He looked back down, lips pursed.

XXX

"Oh…That." It struck him as remarkably emotional, Peter being this depressed about his birthday in connection with Nathan. Like, the ooey, mushy, love-dovey and otherwise icky amount of emotion. It made Sylar queasy for a number of reasons, guilt being nowhere near the top of the list. Absolutely unfair was Peter getting to pout and sulk and mourn his brother, that Peter could even feel things that deeply or have those happy memories. Sylar had neither the right to complain, mourn his own loss, like his mother, he couldn't connect or feel to that depth (hell, one little mood swing and he got slapped upside the head with 'psychopath'), and he certainly had few happy memories to call on. He was a little nauseated now and definitely finished with the eggs.

XXX

 _Yes, '_ _ **that'**_ _,_ Peter thought, letting the long, awkward silence stretch out. _Every murder you committed tore someone else up inside. Maybe five or ten other people - kids, spouse, parents … not just siblings._ Peter exhaled heavily. There was no point in going over it. There was nothing Sylar could say or do to make it better, so best not to dwell on it. "Let's talk about something else," he said, mentally casting about for a different topic.

XXX

Peter said…nothing. Not a peep of blame, not even a dirty look for Sylar to go off of. _Spoiled little rich boy brat. And so dependent on that jerk. And on Mommy Dearest. Grow a pair, Petrelli. You wanna be your own man, do your own thing all the time, stop looking for approval so much._ Since he was done and he wanted to do something that didn't involve standing or violence or being sick, Sylar pushed his plate away a few inches, working up a scowl.

XXX

Peter snagged the plate, glancing over Sylar's unhappy, perhaps angry expression. _Don't like the idea of consequences, do you? People thinking less of you because you killed someone they loved?_ He stood and took the plate to the sink, letting Sylar's pique pass unremarked. He found something else to discuss as he rinsed the dish. "You mentioned your ability 'priming'. I think I know what you mean. I felt like I had my ability a long time before I started being able to do stuff." Peter gave a harsh, short laugh over his shoulder. "Funny thing - I thought it had to do with me being a nurse, helping people, and doing the right thing. Because they both happened at the same time. Right around graduation, and then the feeling just got stronger as the months went by and I worked more …." He shook his head and turned to lean against the counter. "The joke was on me." _Getting an ability had nothing to do with being a good person. I wish it did. I really, really wish it did._ Peter wore an expression of bitter amusement, which faded a bit into hopelessness.

XXX

Sylar would admit, he'd partly hoped some other special had felt the same – just so he wasn't alone. He didn't have to be special and singular in how his power manifested; he had to be special after it manifested. It was reassuring; one small thing about him was 'okay'. He ignored the spike of envy and anger and hate at the mention of Peter's fancy life – school, graduation, the job after that, feeling like he had a place… _Quit rubbing that in! Christ_. But the following information caught his interest.

"Well, you were the one hounding me that our jobs are formative. You didn't…strip any gears in the process. You were a little- a lot more…" Sylar waved a hand generally to indicate that Peter had been more sane, normal and balanced about the whole manifestation gig. "Besides, what other job are you actually going to do?...Start a daycare? No offense, Peter, but I don't think you have the head for babies. Dying old people is more your thing, apparently. As is saving the cheerleader," Sylar aimed a pointed, somewhat humorous look at Peter. That gave him pause, something genuinely funny forming, "Is your girlfriend a cheerleader, too?" he leered a bit about that.

XXX

Peter cocked his head slightly at first, his expression blanking a bit because he was expecting a barb. Sylar had been angry, then sullen, and now had something he wanted to say - Peter expected it to be insulting. Then he gathered he was wrong and Sylar was instead truly just talking. If the comment about starting a daycare was the verbal attack Peter had been waiting for, then that was wonderfully toothless. Peter smiled, face and shoulders relaxing at that remark. He didn't mind babies and he was told he was good with kids. He didn't feel any burning desire to have either, but running a daycare certainly wouldn't be the world's worst job in his eyes.

The smile faded a bit on the rest, disappearing entirely with Sylar's parting question. Peter didn't look upset, though, just uncertain and a little suspicious, eyes narrowing some. _Caitlyn? Emma? Someone else? And what's he trying to say about me and Claire?_ Voice low but even, Peter said, "I don't have a girlfriend. Haven't for … a while." _Couple years, I guess it's been. Don't know that he'd be able to make sense of that if he thinks he's been here for two or three already._ He stayed where he was, leaning against the counter, and crossed his legs at the ankle with a bit of a slouch, indicating his willingness to stay there and keep talking even if he didn't say anything else. Mostly, he wanted to know what Sylar was angling at.

XXX

"Bullshit. Yes, you do." _How dumb do you think I am? No, don't answer that. I'm concussed and you already think I'm warped._ "This girl you want me to save – your girlfriend." The idea that maybe Peter was single (unlikely) sunk in slowly. Could it be? There was not a snowball's chance in Hell (no puns intended) that Sylar would have a shot for anything bigger than a one-night-stand – that had always been certain - but he didn't need much more than that. Still…it was Sylar's job to cultivate some sort of affection between them (in a decade or so) to make his own life easier.

XXX

Peter raised his brows in disbelief at Sylar calling BS on him. Then he gave a short, easy laugh, deciding to take Sylar's certainty that Peter had a girl as a compliment. He glanced down, distracted by his right wrist itching where the brace chafed it. He scratched at it idly as Sylar went on.

XXX

"Or…maybe you want me to save her from whatever mad plot so you can be the hero and _then_ get the girl. Hard to have a girlfriend when she's 'dead', right?" _(You would know)._ Peter had had his head in the clouds before Mercy, when he'd been….the guy's brother. It was half-distracted and glazed, like Peter had to remind himself to focus on life, not whatever flavor of the week – Nathan knew that look well, suffering sore fingers from snapping them so much in his baby brother's face. _He wants her; I don't need telepathy for that. I'm so, so screwed if he's into her._

XXX

Peter bristled at the end of Sylar's question, immediately dropping both hands to his sides. A moment later, he tried to force himself to relax, putting them on the counter to either side, but he wasn't very successful. The joviality of before was gone. Simone's death had unnerved him; Caitlyn's had hit him harder. He felt responsible for both, and one of the many things he felt uncertain with Sylar was whether Emma (or anyone else) would be safe after the events of the dream played out. He didn't want any more deaths on his hands.

"She's not _dead_ and she's not my girlfriend," he said tensely.

XXX

"Ah," Sylar remarked mildly, somehow sure he wasn't about to get punched. He briefly considered the possibility of a single Peter. _I'm not playing matchmaker. But he wants her. That's a problem. He'll be thinking of her when I need him to be…Oh._ "Right. Because she's alive. Wouldn't want to cheat on her or anything," he said meaningfully. _He thinks he's got something much better waiting in the wings._

XXX

"It's not _like that!_ " Peter snapped, voice rising in volume. He reached up and rubbed at the twinging point of his jaw, pushing off the counter. He moved around restlessly in lieu of pacing, as the room wasn't big enough for full strides of the sort he wanted to take. "The last couple people I was with are dead and it's my f-" He hesitated, looking at Sylar and considering the wisdom of what he was confessing to the guy. _I've already said nearly all of it_. "It was my fault," he finished softly. "I'm not _with_ anyone; I'm not going to be."

XXX

Sylar was struck dumb, eyes a little wide, fixated wholly on Peter _. Him, too? How…?_ Sylar knew that feeling all too well, unlike Peter, it was all he'd ever known. Jokes of lethally-violent sex were absent from his mind as was Peter's overly-loud protests about the cheating. Sad eyes looked to the floor a moment, trying to think of anything to say to help or otherwise manipulate. He desperately needed an angle to get Peter on board with his plans, but his brain wasn't cooperating. "No one blames you, Peter," was his attempt to console; it was lame and the best he could provide. "That's…It happens all the time, trust me. And you're _with_ _me_ , like it or not," he added with heat, insulted. "They'd give you a medal, not blame, if I turned up missing, so there's your green light." _I think 'they' would like nothing more, actually. Of the two of us, who's more worried about…Hang on, is he_ worried _he'll_ kill _me?_

XXX

Peter snorted sharply about it happening all the time. _What? Getting your partner killed? Stranding someone in space-time? Or do you mean like domestic violence?_ He exhaled forcefully a second time after the rest of what Sylar had to say. "Fine. I'm 'with you'. We're here together. You know what I _meant_ , though." _A 'green light'_. Peter eyed Sylar, gaze appraising his frame a couple times before the empath turned away. All this talk about being with someone was making him anxious. Peter ran a hand through his hair nervously.

XXX

"Oh, do I?" That was insulting through and through, being written off like that, to his face no less. _And that fucking tone… 'I'm with you, but not, you know, with you. I'm only doing it because I have no other choice.' Please, just rub it in._ Peter topped it off by giving him a look and the furnace of rage ignited in his chest. _Don't you even…Don't you even. Son of a bitch. That- you son of a bitch._

XXX

"Sylar," he said, turning back and this time his eyes went nowhere else but the other man's face. "There are so many issues, between you and I …" _I can't exactly suggest he go find someone else. There is no one else. Not here, and not back in reality. I suppose he'd find someone like-minded eventually, but it'd be a service to humanity to prevent that, out of fear of what two of them would do. And telling him not to want to be with someone is just dumb. It doesn't work that way, any more than I ..._ Peter looked away from Sylar abruptly, hand restlessly mauling at his hair again while he looked around the kitchen for something useful to do. Nothing came to mind, unless he wanted to wash dishes. He wanted something else to think about than his own inability to quench his desire for companionship. Even here it plagued him; especially here, with the constant pressure of loneliness and nothing else to distract him.

He walked back over and sat down, shutting his eyes briefly. "It doesn't matter that people wouldn't blame me, or that they'd give me a medal, or whatever. Hell, they don't even _know_." He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying not to think of how much of a fuck-up he was. That he was sitting across the table from a guy who put him to shame on that front was the only reason why Peter was even willing to talk about this. " _I_ know, and that's what matters."

XXX

The increasing headache and anger was fast dulling his processing. _It's about the issues? Is that what you think?_ Once again, he was downplayed – Peter suddenly didn't care about getting even or the accolades for bringing Sylar down or bringing him in. The last time he'd seen Petrelli, he'd been getting nailed to a table like a prized butterfly, having the shit beaten out of him for the sake of one lousy brother/senator who could fly. _Suddenly that doesn't matter? It must matter enough. Issues my ass._ "Maybe to you," Sylar spat venomously, making to rise too quickly, getting tunnel, black, hazy vision from it as well as a stumble of balance. He reached out for the back of the chair, catching it in time, but it shoved the whole seat back causing it to make a loud scraping noise against the floor. He grunted an exhale of all around frustration and anger, blinking and rubbing his eyes until they cleared a few seconds later. By that time, he was moving into the living room, limping furiously for the couch. _Fucking rich boy. Spoiled and pampered. Thinks he gets to pick and choose. What makes him so much better?_

XXX

It took Peter a moment to realize how unsteady Sylar was, and a moment more to get himself up out of his chair and a step over to help, both hands out. He was swatted away with a violent, decisive, and energetic motion that came way too close to hitting his broken right hand for his comfort. One of the first rules of being an EMT was to keep yourself safe. Also, Sylar had a hold of the chair with his other hand. He hadn't fallen yet; maybe he wouldn't. Peter faded back and let him be, watching as Sylar fumed out of the room a few moments later.

The first thing that came to mind was to get the pills and rush them out, forcing them on Sylar. Peter understood the urge - social maneuvering, wanting to re-establish the dominance he'd felt in rejecting the guy, and insecurity resulting from Sylar stomping out. He sighed, turning his head, and eyed the floor as he considered what had been said _. '…with me, like it or not' … 'I'm not_ with _anyone' … 'you know what I_ meant _' … 'oh, do I?' … 'that's what matters' … 'maybe to you.' Three years alone. It keeps coming back to that. Or wait, does it? It's not the three years alone, it's that being alone is the worst. The three years is just the result. This attitude thing, problem, situation would have been there without the three years. It_ was _there. That's why Matt made this place._

Peter frowned in thought. _Sylar killed people because he was lonely? That's kind of fucked up. All kinds of fucked up. Friends - none. Played board games just with his mom_. Peter took a deep breath, rubbed at his forehead, and let it out. His memories wandered over the bottomless, light-headed, dissociated feeling he'd had before he'd stepped off that rooftop, feeling at one with everything and non-existent at the same time. In that moment, his life didn't matter if he was wrong about being special. _I felt strongly enough about it to kill myself. Maybe he felt strongly enough about the same thing to kill someone else? Willing to throw away his life just like I was, just to have that … moment … when I could be someone. My chance to be someone. Come on, Sylar,_ Peter thought with a definite empathetic pang. _Don't let that be it._

But he suspected it was. The puzzle piece fit too neatly not to be the right one. Peter took his pills, still mulling it over, and shook out Sylar's dose. He took it and the man's glass into the living room, setting them down on the end table closest to Sylar, with no reminder or nagging other than making them available and convenient.

XXX

Sylar glared full force at Peter's hands when he dumped off the pills and glass. _I hope those are poisoned…for his sake. That little fuck. It's all about him._ His anger (a downgrade from 'rage') was still boiling, ignoring Peter for the most part in the silence, once the man was stationary, still glaring at anything, everything else.

XXX

In a soft tone, he said, "Sylar, I know I'm not … what you'd like me to be." He stood a few feet away, his back to the work table, and looked down. He reached over with his left hand to scratch at his right, messing with whatever it was about his brace that wasn't sitting properly. Peter was trying to apologize without actually apologizing. "I came for you because … I thought there was a chance. You …" He shrugged. "You know, maybe you could turn things around." Peter huffed, looking around helplessly and wishing like hell he could read people as easily as he used to. Was Sylar still angry? Was this the right thing to say? It felt close to right, but the words used to come so much more easily when he wasn't as guarded or disillusioned as he was now.

XXX

By then, Sylar was sullen, grumpy and put out, his headache burning along. His eyes slowly slid up to Peter's face, holding there. _You're not erect and horny, you mean? Who said I want that; did I say that? What the fuck does it matter what I want? Just, out of the blue, 'what do you want?' But he didn't say that did he; smartass._ Sylar waswaiting for the man to stick his foot in his mouth or the trap, which, sure enough, he did. It was such bald-faced manipulation, even Sylar saw through it – while concussed! "Because you were so much help the last two times, Petrelli!...Don't even pretend this is about me!" he barked roughly, eyes blazing as much as they could, sitting forward and tensing up. _The God-damn_ nerve _! I am going to rip him apart, just get him close…Son of a bitch would off me before he'd look at me. How stupid does he think I am? Taking notes from Mommy. Bastard._


	46. Come to Jesus

Day 13, Morning

 _Well, that answers the question of whether or not he's angry_ , Peter thought sourly. He also noted that he'd managed to put Sylar roughly between himself and the only exit, not that Peter was feeling too disposed to take it. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Sylar attacked him. Hitting him in the head had the potential to be fatal or at least incur serious brain damage on a scale beyond the problems the man was currently suffering. Peter was not keen on letting himself get beat up. He'd just gotten over the worst of the stiffness and soreness from the last round of battering. It occurred to him that both of the previous fights had been started by Peter. He hoped like hell that trend continued, because it meant if he could just keep himself from rising to the bait, they were safe.

But all that aside, Peter wasn't going to cower in the corner because Sylar was angry. No, he engaged verbally, just as strongly. "It's not about you! It's about stopping a couple thousand people from getting killed in Central Park, sacrificed by a madman! If I'd seen any other option, I would have taken it, but the dream showed _**you**_. So I came to find _**you**_." He pointed at the floor for emphasis. "After _everything_ you've done," Peter snarled, his jaw aching, "I still thought there was a chance. 'Savior kind' or not," Peter spat out, "you're still a human being!"

XXX

Sylar tried for a glare, but it wasn't catching. He knew Peter's words were useless, he did. It was no comfort, though. He settled for a penetrating stare, the definite gaze of a predator, not wanting to miss so much as a hair's motion. He was struggling with the anger winding down, medical condition, resulting headache and the usual fuzzy Petrelli logic. After a moment, he slid into a blank expression, unimpressed and immobile, certainly unemotional. _/'Oh, but you are special, Gabriel. You're special just the way you are.' 'Show them why you are my favorite. Make Mommy proud.'/_ "That's been tried before, Peter," he stated solemnly, slightly bitter, his voice a bit lower now than his normal conversational tone. _He thinks there's a chance because Mommy gave him a dream. Mommy gave me a dream and I get my neck snapped and thrown in a cell again by this…this would-be brother. He thinks there's a chance because he wants something. Well._ _Fool me twice._

XXX

Peter kept up the eye contact initially, but when Sylar's face slid to blank, he widened his gaze, scanning for other body language. He watched as Sylar eased down a bit from the 'I'm about to lunge across the room to throttle you' Peter thought he'd seen before. Peter let out a deep breath, frowning at Sylar's words. "Yeah? You said you wanted to be a hero at Kirby Plaza. You said 'brothers come back for each other' when you saved me from that lab at Pinehearst and you broke my fall later on. You said you knew the killings were wrong. _You. Are. Selective_." He paused, because really he had little idea as to what provoked Sylar to kill some people and ignore others. Certainly the ones who pissed him off, or got in his way, or had a particularly appealing power, seemed least likely to survive, but what about the rest?

XXX

After the word 'selective' passed Peter's lips, Sylar leaned back, nearly sprawling on the couch. He was amused by this, once again someone trying to dissect him and make him fit in a box or a label. _He might have a clue, which would be why he hasn't asked yet…No! He said I'd have to explain one day. He doesn't know. Educated guessing._ His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, on the fence about the cautious look he'd been given earlier.

XXX

Peter crossed his arms, putting his head back a little in a challenging posture. "If you had your ability right now, would you kill me?" _Or try to?_

XXX

"I'd sure feel the temptation," Sylar answered, canting his aching head, thinking of _other_ temptations his power would afford. Then again, he'd never taken his time inflicting tiny, razor cuts with a physical tool for any purpose, let alone arousal. "And isn't that dumb of you to assume I need powers to kill someone?" Sylar shrugged a relaxed shoulder. He'd done so before, plenty of times. However, none of what he'd said proclaimed intent to kill Peter. He was also swiftly moving Peter away from his deluge of truthful and emotionally manipulative compromising historical reruns: _Look how well those turned out for me, Peter. You were no help._

XXX

Peter snorted a little at Sylar's first comment. _I'm sure you would. That's hardly conclusive. Or reassuring._ Glancing back to find the work desk, he settled against it to match Sylar's more relaxed posture. "Have you ever killed someone without powers?" He shook his head immediately, waving one hand in negation of the ambiguous question. "No, wait. Have you ever killed someone when _you_ didn't have powers?" _**And**_ _have you ever killed anyone who didn't have abilities?_

He recalled the bullets sent back into Matt at Kirby, Mohinder pinned to the ceiling, and the police in the SWAT van that was transporting Ted Sprague. None of those people had been killed, but it indicated a careless disregard for the lives of anyone between Sylar and what he wanted. Even if by some coincidence Sylar _hadn't_ killed anyone who didn't have an ability, Peter judged the difference morally void. The man had done as bad, repeatedly; he just didn't care. It was damning. Peter leaned back, arms crossed again in a pose somewhere between judgmental, curious, and receptive. There were important things about Sylar he wanted to know, needed to know, to understand what and who he was dealing with.

XXX

Initially Sylar's expression remained static. It was as if he were a celebrity of the special community and the question was a common one, or at least an unimaginative one seeing as he'd never been asked that. Then he gave a lazy, toothy grin, very much taken with watching Peter learn the ropes – (finally) asking the right questions. "Yes to both. Unlike you, when I lose my powers, people come after me." _People hate me when I'm powerless, too._ "And powerless people come after me with knives and guns." His mind went to the people he'd killed in Mexico, the med techs on Level Five, the people in what-was-her-name, Landers' office building. He ignored the most important one, his mother. Not about to take this lying down, being interrogated and singled out, Sylar shot back, "Have you?"

XXX

Peter snorted like it was hardly worth answering. Then he looked away and frowned. It deepened. He shifted his weight and loosened his arms. He wasn't going to fault Sylar enormously for self-defense. Things were complicated and yeah, he could imagine the sort of crap that Sylar had to deal with if he didn't have his abilities to defend himself. That he'd brought it on himself by being a mass murderer first stripped any sympathy Peter might have felt, but the circumstances just as surely muddied the waters. And then there was the matter of turning the question around on him.

"Have I killed someone who didn't have powers … or when I didn't have powers," Peter murmured to himself, enough of the words understandable enough to Sylar that the other man could probably work out what he was saying. "Me?" he said louder, at a normal tone, glancing back at Sylar and shifting his weight again uncomfortably. "Personally? Doing something that ended someone's life?"

He found a different corner of the room to look at and tried to ignore the parts of his brain that were insisting that Sylar had no right to ask such a question; that anything Peter had done was lesser in scope (which was ridiculously wrong and morally indefensible anyway). He gave a short, bitter smile at that corner, and a huff. _Sucks to be on the hot seat, doesn't it? It's the same question I asked him. Fair is fair. Plus I'm not going to get answers from him if I don't give some myself_. He scratched at the hairline over his forehead and looked back to Sylar. "I've made bad calls as a medic and people have died who wouldn't have if I'd made the right decision." That was the easiest to admit. The next, Sylar knew about and so wasn't revealing anything.

In a quieter voice, he said, "I shot my father. You … participated, but I pulled the trigger." He glanced down. Then there was the one that haunted him the most, even if his culpability for something that hadn't happened was questionable. "In a … future timeline … I killed ninety-some-odd percent of the world with some disease that I got duped into releasing. But … that wasn't really _**me**_. Not this me, me-me." He muttered, "That sounds stupid," and moved his thoughts along before they could settle too firmly on the issue of Caitlin.

He swallowed as Nathan's face flashed in front of his eyes, blood streaming down from the horizontal cut Peter had put across his brother's forehead. _Doesn't count. We both had powers_. It was a convenient cop-out, but Peter took what he could get on that one. "I shot at some guys in Haiti. Pretty sure I, or a ricochet, hit one of them in the leg. I don't know if they survived or not. I've banged people around with telekinesis, given them head injuries, didn't make sure they were okay." In a small voice he said, "Caused an airplane to crash." _How many people were killed in that crash? I don't even know._

His eyes flashed up to Sylar's for a moment before he said in a low voice, "One other that I'm not going to talk about."

XXX

Sylar made several hums to keep the information flowing. Everything Peter spoke about seemed so…lightweight. 'Shooting at some guys'? 'Bad medical calls'? Sylar had flipped trucks with ease and of course it would be an easy thing to crash a plane once on board. The virus… given what he knew from Nathan, it was possible for Sylar to do the same, had he known about the virus at all. "So you'll kill pretty much anyone the same as me, Peter." _Girlfriends, family, almost family, people pretending to be family…ninety-some-odd percent of strangers…_ Sylar was confident that the 'one other' that would not be named was equally unimportant as the rest of Peter's tally (rather, what Peter liked to think was his tally – it was kind of lame facsimile). _We all have dirty secrets, secret shame._

XXX

Peter exhaled sharply. There was so much he wanted to argue about right there, but Sylar's assertion was so patently ridiculous he didn't know where to start. He had to admit his surprise that Sylar was willing to let something be classified as 'not Sylar's business' and respect it. That relaxed Peter a lot inside.

XXX

Whatinterested Sylar instead: "Funny…you're taking the 'blame' for /Dad/. Also – I mean, uh, your dad." He corrected himself belatedly, sheepishly, then tried to breeze past the lapse, "But you cried when you thought he died of a heart attack, not when you shot him. Why's that?" Both Nathan and Sylar assumed that under the heat of battle and the lies and betrayal involved had severed a few ties. Peter certainly could not be faulted for feeling vindication at the killing, considering Arthur's treatment of his youngest.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar an odd look. He had a flash of sourness at the 'Dad' comment, but was too distracted by what followed it to fixate on it. Did Sylar really not see the difference in those two situations? Also, this was probably the most disturbingly personal question Sylar had put to him. Once again, the question of whether or not Sylar had a right to ask this of him came up. Peter looked away slowly, brows drawing together as he decided if he wanted to answer. _Is he really that emotionally stunted that he wouldn't know the difference? Is he just asking rhetorically, to get me to say something out loud so he can prove a point about killing people in general? What would I tell a child who asked that?_

"When I thought he'd died of a heart attack, I'd lost a father. I'd lost a part of our family." _Our?_ He looked away from Sylar for a moment, then back, deciding to pretend he meant the Petrellis as a whole. "I mourned that. When I shot him, he wasn't my father. He'd tried to kill Nathan; I think he tried to kill Mom; he took my abilities and I'm pretty sure he was trying to kill _me_." Peter chewed on the inside of his lower lip, thinking about that scene. "And then there was what he was trying to do to the whole world, but he wouldn't talk to me enough, like an equal, to …" Another head shake. "He was Arthur Petrelli. He _used_ to be my father." He shook his head. "But he lost the right for me to treat him like that when he stopped acting like my father."

XXX

That pulled Sylar's chin up and to the side, tilting his head as a new concept came to light: killing parents when they stopped acting like parents was okay in Peter's book. _Huh…I could have killed mine…ages ago then. More's the pity, I think…_

XXX

Taking a mild tone, Peter posed, "What about your father?" He wasn't all that happy about the expression on Sylar's face, like something had just clicked for the man. That feeling that maybe Sylar was trying to set him up for something remained, but what seemed more 'right' was that Sylar really hadn't understood the distinction until Peter explained it. Peter's head tilted slightly. _'It's what brothers do for each other'. He has some ideas about family roles. I think that's it. But why that expression? What's he thinking?_

XXX

Sylar's head returned to its axis point, eyes focusing on Peter. "What about him?" was the curt rejoinder.

XXX

"Tell me about him," Peter said in the same tone, noting that Sylar was getting short and tense, his motions becoming stiff and weird. _Defensive. Doesn't share well. I'm not asking big secrets here._

XXX

Bitterly and with some sarcasm, he snipped, "Which one?" _I've only got three._

XXX

 _He'd better not be talking about Arthur. Either when he thought he was my brother or as Nathan._ "The one you knew," Peter said, enunciating the simple words carefully, tipping his head down a little.

XXX

Sylar bit back a sigh. _What to say about him?_ The better question was: _what does Peter want to hear about?_ "When last I checked he was still alive," his withering glare was directed elsewhere after a glance at Peter, making it fairly obvious he wasn't happy about that. _Both of them were, actually,_ he concluded on further thought, wondering what that meant. _No way was I Martin's son – he doesn't have abilities._ His mind refused to go into the deeper, emotional scars so he continued with, "Had his own shop in Baltimore a handful of years back." _Jackass tried to hold me up with a shot-gun…called me a thief. Still converting verges inefficiently. Idiot._

XXX

"How old were you when he left?" Peter asked cautiously, hoping he wasn't wording it wrong. It was entirely possible that Sylar and his mother had left the father, rather than the other way around, but he could only ask it one way. 'How old were you when your family split' sounded awkward. He'd rather guess and get corrected if wrong. Speaking of guesses, Peter pondered 'his own shop'. "Was he a watchmaker?"

XXX

Sylar's widened eyes snapped back to Peter's face in surprise. "How-?" he began before he shut himself up. _How did he know that? I don't think I said anything. Maybe I did and forgot? I thought….he said he hadn't read my file. Lucky guess? Or is it…that obvious?_ The last idea made him squirm inside. If that much was obvious, what else was? He quickly tried to right his expression – from stunned to what he actually felt: annoyance. "I don't know," he initially lied, crankily. "Twelve?" _I had long enough with him to 'learn how to be a man' if that's what Peter's asking._ At the last question, he glared at Peter. "What gave that away?" A hysterical giggle popped into his brain. _The other one's a taxidermist murderer._

XXX

Peter shrugged and pushed straight, walking around the desk. As he went, he shot Sylar's painkillers a pointed look like they were to blame for something. And they were. Sylar was getting grouchy and Peter faulted his lack of medication. Peter went on without mentioning it, though, and took the seat behind the desk, looking at the partly-worked puzzle. "Sometimes I wonder what I know about my parents. There's the image I had of them - Dad an attorney, businessman; Mom a home-maker, socialite. Then there's the reality." _A couple of super-powered villains trying to run the world_. He looked over at Sylar with a resigned look and shrugged again. It concealed the rage he felt - not keenly, not right now - just in general, to know that the people who had professed to love him had lied to him his whole life. "The people I thought I knew … I didn't know." He shook his head. "Still don't know if I know them. They keep doing these … _things_." And by 'they', he meant 'Mom' even if he couldn't bring himself to think it.

XXX

Sylar glanced at whatever Peter looked at so pointedly, remembering as he caught sight of the pills. A growled huff and a pained shift to head, hip and back later, he downed them, giving an equally pointed look back at Peter as if to say 'so there' or maybe 'happy now?' As he settled back in, Peter was speaking about his parents – not really something Sylar was interested in. Sylar felt sure that the Petrelli paternals had intended for the boys to lead what was known as a 'normal' life. Given his own childhood and growing up, he was positive Peter and Nathan had gotten one; a good one, too. Childhood and adult relationships weren't the same thing. Maybe Angela and Arthur had had plans to bring their children into their plots and world-scheming once they reached a certain maturity. Or a certain manifestation rather... Oh, who was he kidding? They were rotten to the core.

XXX

Peter sighed and frowned, looking down at the pieces and shifting a few of them around. "Your dad owned his own business. What did your mom do?" Peter glanced up, his face showing polite interest. It wasn't as intent as it had been earlier, but he didn't want Sylar to feel any more interrogated than he probably did.

XXX

 _I don't see what it matters to you!_ Sylar sighed, looking away. He'd been lulled into listening and the question wasn't a happy one, at least for him. It was something of a jolt to reality. "She raised me," he said with all the ice of a North Pole blizzard. _That much is obvious. I don't want to hear about how she shouldn't have, how you send your…sympathy to her, how horrible her life must have been…how she didn't deserve what she got…how she did a bad job and how I'm a….bad egg and all that crap. I've heard it all before. /'What's the federal government care about some dead ol' broad from Queens?'/ Fuck, I don't want you talking about Mom._ He loosened slightly, grumbling, "She was a secretary."

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter said, frowning at the layout. He got back to his feet. He'd heard Sylar; he'd also heard the man's tone of voice - angry, bitter, unhappy. Gone was the loose lounging back and Sylar's 'I'll answer whatever you throw at me' attitude of a few minutes ago. Now Sylar sounded like he was expecting an attack. He was defensive as hell about his family and his past. Getting any information out of him at all was difficult. Peter hadn't missed that on the killings, Sylar had told him 'yes' and implied they were self-defense; while Peter had given a detailed breakdown. Even in Peter's sole concealment about Caitlyn, he'd admitted to the existence of it.

He walked across to the kitchen, returning dragging a chair. "Come on over here and help me with this puzzle, would you? Maybe we can get it finished today." That seemed optimistic, but possible. Peter was feeling much better than a few days before, and Sylar was showing definite signs of improvement. They were still, even combined, pretty far behind what a single, clear-headed person could accomplish, but it kept him busy and gave them both something minor to do with their hands. It allowed periods of silence and accommodated chatting just as well.

XXX

Sylar's face was a confused frown. _He doesn't need my help; I'm concussed. Maybe he's…lonely? Is that it?_ His mind spun out over thinking of anything else productive, a few blinks later he stood and walked the few steps over to the appropriated chair without saying anything. _I'm just…helping him not be lonely._

XXX

Peter was intentionally dropping the subject before Sylar got wound up about it. Instead, he asked, "Is there anything in particular you'd like to talk about, or do you want me to tell you another paramedic story? I can tell you about the time Jesus Christ talked to one of my patients while I was treating her."

XXX

The first section of Peter's question sent annoyance dashing through him. _What would I have to talk about? He doesn't like it when I talk but he asks all these fucking questions!_ Sylar had been about to lean in and poke at the puzzle, but that stopped him short for now, hands to himself, back mostly against the back of the chair. Peter made it sound like an accusation, parental, 'What have you done wrong today? Confess!'. His hearing perked up at 'paramedic story' and his eyes jerked to Peter on hearing 'Jesus Christ' because he totally expected that to be a joke. It probably was one, much like the…animal…road kill…skunk! (that was it) story. Curious and with dubious expression, he made his slow demand – because it wasn't a request - "Tell me that one."

XXX

Peter chuckled, tickled at the insistence he heard in Sylar's voice. "Oh, it doesn't have a good punch line like some of the others. You _would_ call me on it, too." He grinned and launched into it immediately - glad of the audience and even more that Sylar was letting himself be eased off from the tension. "So. We get called to this lady's house by one of her daughters. She's in bed … the elderly lady. She's ninety-seven and the daughter thinks something is wrong with her because she's acting erratically. I go in the bedroom and the woman snaps at me, _'Are you the FBI?'_ " Peter said, roughly approximating an older black woman's voice. " _'I told her to call the FBI!'_ I told her no and introduced myself, then asked why she wanted the FBI. She told me, _'They have ghost busters, and you need to do something about those people over there behind the television.'_ I looked over - it was just a TV set on a stand - and told her I didn't see anyone. She said, _'That's because they hiding! Jesus here has an important message for me, but I want you to get rid of them others. I don't like the looks of them.'_ "

XXX

Sylar exhaled a snort of amusement to hear Peter Petrelli miming an old black woman. He had to get his kicks in somehow. Peter Petrelli, socialite do-gooder rich boy that he was impersonating, well…a patient, was just the thing. _Aah, God…ha. It's like being back with Mom all over again…_

XXX

Peter smirked in memory. "By then Hesam was in the room, too, and he opened up the pulse oximeter. It started beeping, and he waved it around the room … I told her he was scanning for paranormal activity. He says it's all clear. I took her vitals and managed to get her to answer about her condition - how she felt, if she'd fallen, that sort of thing. I checked her head, hands, hips - no signs of trauma. She explained that she'd woke up earlier when a couple men in suits and a woman with long blonde hair had come out of a picture of Jesus she had on the wall, and then Jesus Himself had come out to tell her that her kids weren't going to church often enough.

XXX

 _Eh-heh,_ was Sylar's internal nod of horrified, been-there-as-a-miserable-victim understanding. Being nagged all week until it reached its Revelations-esque battlefield conclusion Sunday morning. Every Sunday morning. Until, of course, he saw the error of his ways and returned to the (brainwashed, blind-leading-the-blind) fold because God was watching him and only if he went to church and worked hard (and otherwise hobbled, lamed and inhibited himself) would he have a shot at redemption and forgiveness. Gabriel, at the time, had been under the impression that God would cut him some slack or none at all for his sinful existence – and for his failure to appear in His house on the holy day. Oh, well. Mystery solved.

XXX

"I talked to her daughter, but there wasn't much we could do for her. Healthwise, she seemed fine. She wasn't in danger and they might as well take her to her regular doctor in the morning. She was refusing to leave her room while _'Jesus'_ was there. The whole family was coming over, which was just what she wanted. She was going to pass on the Word of God to them." Peter gave a wry smile and reached up to scratch at his temple. "We left. She started yelling at us to call the FBI to get after those other guys, but as far as Jesus - He could stay."

XXX

Sylar made a wince of empathy. _Can't cure people's minds. Trust me, I know._ Thoughts of Nathan and Virginia, Angela and Arthur, Elle and Bennet, Parkman and being mind-wiped and insane himself. He cut himself off from thoughts along the lines of 'opening brain cases was letting air into otherwise stagnant, moldy, corrupt and warped minds.'

XXX

Peter looked down, a little embarrassed. "I'll admit … before we left … I went over and touched the picture, and then her. I tried to see if I could sense anything. I usually can, if there's something there." Peter shook his head. "Nothing." He shrugged and his voice got a little softer. "I've never told anyone I worked with, anyone I knew who didn't have abilities or already knew about them, about powers. They'd treat me like that old woman - 'crazy talk'." Peter snorted. "After everything I've seen, who am I to say Jesus wasn't there in the room with her?"

XXX

Sylar did his best to hide his interest, watching Peter speak. If anyone would feel anything it would be Peter. He didn't completely follow what Peter meant by 'I usually can' in context of sensing things – _must be an empathy thing_ – so he disregarded it. That Peter felt…nothing was…a slight letdown. Wasn't Peter the best of the best and if not through him, what lens could be used to ascertain hope? _Well, none for me, obviously. That's a bust._

A literal jerk went through his body at the derogatory tone, 'crazy talk'. Nathan had been frustrated, busy, and angry. Sylar mentally sneered something about 'election year' but everyone knew that was bullshit, Petrelli bullshit – Nathan bullshit. Peter jumping, ending up in the hospital, being erratic at such an important time, not taking anything seriously or considering anyone other than himself. Peter had even left Charles to practically die alone then gotten Simone killed or some such. Of course he'd told the brat to grow up and forget the fairy tales! Nathan had always had to (conveniently his own self-image and goals coincided with Arthur's); it was the least Peter could do. A dose, no, a speck of realism wouldn't kill the kid. _/_ _'You need to snap out of it, Peter. See a doctor. Get some drugs…It's not cute anymore. The dreamy kid sitting in the back of the classroom, starin' out the window? It's time for you to grow up'_ _/_ And that, they all knew, was just the tip of the iceberg. _I, uh…hope he doesn't blame me for that one. I'd have believed him._ Rather, he wouldn't have handled it the way Nathan did, that was for damn sure.

Back to the current conversation…Sylar had no advice in dealing with normal people, like coworkers, in a normal life. He had only the barest concept of it. Truthfully, it didn't seem like a real big deal to him, either, the whole 'secret identity' thing. Both men wanted the 'specialness', Sylar paid the price, yet Peter wanted the ideal situation and couldn't accept reality. Big surprise, there.

"You're going to sit in a room with _me_ and talk to me about Jesus?"

XXX

Peter looked up steadily at Sylar, eyes going over the man's face. _That's not what I was saying at all. Why would he think that? 'I'm not a religious man, but there's one thing I believe in: blood.'_ Peter's expression blanked. After a long moment of internal static and too many emotions to unsnarl, the thought surfaced that Sylar hadn't followed the story. _I must have lost him somewhere in there._ Peter relaxed a little and glanced down, picking up a puzzle piece and holding it near the worked section, even though his brain wasn't doing any processing of whether or not it would fit.

"No. No. I was just …" He leaned his head forward and to the side, looking up at Sylar. "Just telling a story." He looked down at the puzzle piece and tried it a few places without luck. Quietly, he resumed with, "But I told Ma a … while ago, that with everything I've seen, it seems like anything is possible. Time travel, flight, telekinesis." He made a cursory wave at Sylar at the mention of TK. "It's like the abilities are unlimited, but what never changes are the people."

XXX

Sylar was fine with letting the story go, he felt better that Peter explained it the way he did. _This is the part where I say 'Jesus Christ! You just said you're here for me to change, but now you say people can't change –make up your mind!'_ He sighed and ignored Peter's hugely flawed contradictions because the man was just full of them. Or full of it.

XXX

Peter's brow knit as he thought about that. It was an angle he hadn't considered before and his face reflected his pondering. In a distant voice, he said, "I remember arguing with that future version of me that it was about the people, not the abilities. He was saying we needed to stop people from getting abilities. I told him it wasn't about the abilities." Peter was staring fixedly at the table, trying and failing to remember the exact exchange of words. He remembered the scarred mirror image showing him a newspaper and talking about wrongs people had done, magnified by their new powers. _Having more power doesn't always make things worse. The invention of guns and bombs haven't led to us killing more people in war – not on a percentage basis, at least._

Peter realized he'd tuned out Sylar almost entirely, having retreated inside his own thoughts for a moment there. He lifted his head, looking to the other man and mentally replaying the last things Peter had said. He wasn't sure how to continue the discussion, such as it was, from that point, so he punted. "What do you think?"

XXX

Sylar was staring back, confused. His mind had arrested at 'stop people from getting abilities', which made sense, but no one had, as yet, figured that out (thank God). His own specialness depended on having abilities, sadly. He couldn't place the context of the question, though. "I, uh…" he hedged to hint at his lack of understanding. "You mean people like me?" _We know the answer to this._ "Kill them before they manifest, that's the only way. You know that." _Or let them kill themselves…because some monsters have the foresight to off themselves to prevent more…problems – just let it happen, right? There are some abortion cases everyone would agree on, like Hitler, Stalin, Samson, Arthur, maybe Angela, me…Oh, if only the parents would have thought to wear a condom or not do it at all! We'd have been spared. Survival of the fittest. I know, I know, 'feel shame for existing'._ Sylar shrugged and went back to focusing as much as he was able on the puzzle, hunching over it a little.

XXX

"No, that's …" Peter paused, considering what he'd said, what Sylar had said, and what that implied about Sylar's feelings about the man's situation. _'People like me … kill them … that's the only way.' That's … kind of dark, Sylar._ "That's not what I meant. And anyway, there's a way to get rid of people's abilities after they manifest. I lost mine, after all." He frowned about that event. "With all the abilities my father had, I obviously wasn't the first." He put down his useless puzzle piece and cocked his head, leaning forward with his brows pulled together intently. "Killing someone might be the only way to make sure, absolutely, that they never hurt anyone ever again, but that's not the answer to how we can best live together."

Peter's left hand found the puzzle piece again without him looking. His fingers blindly explored the edges of it as he watched Sylar. _I sure hope you don't honestly think that killing anyone who could be a threat is a good policy, because if you do, and I ever piss you off too much, then I'm dead._ Of course, part of why Peter was jumpy and cautious around Sylar was just that expectation – a bit muted by Sylar's current condition, but no less present. Sylar had killed plenty of other people and it wasn't that hard to fabricate offing Peter as 'self-defense', given Peter's own track history and that of his family. _It's not like I don't have motive, which would make it easy for him to justify acting first._

"I didn't come here to kill you," Peter said softly. _'I wanted to crucify you in Times Square.'_ Peter tried to banish his own hateful desires for revenge, but that was easier intended than done. Seeing Sylar day after day, confused and literally off-balance due to Peter's last idiotic attempt to inflict pain on him (wanting to gouge Sylar's eyes out came embarrassingly to mind) was doing a lot to mitigate Peter's simmering vengefulness.

XXX

And suddenly something clicked. Sylar leaned away, straightening casually, casting a half-subtle glance over the left side of the desk, spying the screwdriver he'd have to reach for whilst pretending to look out the window. "I'm sure. Provided I give you your brother back, right?" Chin tilted up, he observed Peter with black, blank, eyes, his voice direct and expectant. _How did I not see that earlier? Son of a bitch…He even admitted up-front he has telepathy! And that crap just now about losing his powers – I bet he got them all back. And I…have none. Concussion's just the preview for laughs. Of course this would be about Nathan!_ A pang of the usual, nameless, painful, negative emotions shot through him: _(It's never about me…)_ _What were you thinking – that he was actually here for_ you _?_ Sylar had the feeling he was about to be tossed around like lunchmeat in a lion's den – and come out about as shredded and defiled by the end of it.

XXX

 _You can do that?_ Part of Peter's mind jumped at the possibility even as the rest noticed that something very wrong was radiating from Sylar, like a switch had been flipped. _Oh no, what the hell is that reaction all about?_ He raised his hands a half inch from the table and looked up at the man cautiously. "No, that's … I came here to get you to save Emma. If you _would_. If you won't, then I'm just stuck here until I can figure a way out."

Relaxing a little because violence hadn't immediately followed Sylar's shift, Peter sat up straighter. "I was under the impression that anything left was just recorded memories and mental commands." A voice nagged in Peter's head that he shouldn't admit that and certainly shouldn't tell Sylar he believed it. It was the voice of insane hope that wanted Nathan back at any cost. He steadfastly ignored it. "Nathan's dead, isn't he?" Peter asked with a steady voice and a tone that was asking for confirmation, like this was a fact known between them - Nathan's dead, right? Right?

XXX

Sylar's teeth tried to chip enamel at that one; it electrocuted his emotions to life so thoroughly. _And he really expects an answer? Does he think I won't notice how…_ (Here his mental voice impersonated Peter) _'No, Sylar, no one cares about your mind and the pain being Nathan must have caused.' Just a fucking…casualty. I know if I die, no one cares, but I die so Nathan can 'live' and when that doesn't work out I'm right back on the street…no harm, no foul, while that bastard is mourned and missed?! He's got people defending his fucking name after death!_ "I'm fine, Peter. Thanks for asking!" he snapped, snarling and angry, though for the next part he slammed his fist down on the desk. "Yes, he's dead! That's all that's left!" _You're stuck with me now! Sorry!_

XXX

Peter leaned back in the chair, not reacting much to Sylar's explosion (but he was watching him). "That's what I thought," he said calmly. "And I'm here anyway, for you." Peter's mind sorted through what he could do to help the situation without conceding anything. De-escalating the tension wasn't Peter's knee-jerk response. Sometimes strong emotion needed to be expressed and at the moment, Peter wasn't feeling in danger, so letting Sylar feel however he was feeling wasn't off the table.

XXX

 _Oh, for me. Gimme a break…_ Sylar scoffed that one away. _The only reason anyone would be 'here for me' is because they want something. He's not going to let it go, I just know it…_

XXX

Peter spoke plainly and calmly, continuing to watch the other man. "People aren't obligated to be your friend, Sylar. And they're not going to be as long as their only way of knowing you is when you kill people they care about. You've got to bring other things to the table. You've _got_ other things - you've got a quick wit, you're smart, you're capable, perceptive." _You need to find something else to contribute, like saving Emma. Or hell, going back to being a watchmaker._ The bit about Emma seemed too blatantly self-serving, so Peter left it off. "I think you made a hell of a watchmaker. Have you thought about being an engineer, or an architect?"

XXX

 _I didn't ask for friends!...Other things?_ "Those aren't-" he began to head off Peter's ill-fated argument. He remembered his best efforts being dismissed; he couldn't think of a good quality in himself; the ones Peter listed, the ones he did have, hadn't gotten him anything. Pathetic. Boring. Insignificant. And harmless, which Peter knew or guessed and encouraged him to go back to – normality, that sub-average life without power, respect or future. Stunned silence reigned after that, the part about 'I think you made a hell of a watchmaker' coming from a good guy, from Peter. _He thinks…He doesn't even know me! He doesn't have any…any…regard for me. (He's way too late to tell me that…)_ To hear it from Peter made him feel warmer, more like a likable, nice person…or a person at all – so rarely did he hear that and so much did he want to. _That means nothing now! It's useless!_

"You don't know anything about me! You sound like my-" Sylar really hadn't meant to say that last part, but it was true: mother. _Keep the shop open for when Dad got back, but do something useful with yourself; wasn't that always it? Mom wanted a fucking banker or a lawyer…She would've been happy with a Petrelli for a son._ A pause to get another line of thought (and dialogue) going, "I can't go back to that. You may remember I have problems…you know, with _abilities_?" _And it's…complicated._ His insides shrunk. _Really complicated._ "And you know you have to have….degrees for that stuff," he dismissed the rest, haughty and snippy at the same time.


	47. Not Alone

_Day 13, Morning_

"Have you noticed, Sylar, that I _want_ to know things about you? Yeah, I'm kind of shooting in the dark here because you don't share much. I know you have a lot of focus, and I would guess a lot of ambition." Peter shifted to lean forward, putting both forearms on the table as he disclosed, "Abilities ate me alive. Tore me up, turned my life inside out. I didn't want to lose them, but I didn't get a say in that. I got them back, one at a time, and that was enough of a breather for me to start thinking about what I wanted to do with my life, day to day. I wanted to prove my b- … the government wrong. I wasn't a _threat_. People with abilities weren't necessarily a threat. I know a lot of people who have abilities, or at least _an_ ability, who aren't hurting anyone." He pulled back a little. "If we were such a huge, world-ending terrorist threat, then how come there've been people with abilities running around for _decades_ , maybe longer, and it was never a big deal?"

XXX

Hatred at the side effects of his concussion arose again. Peter was clearly much sharper at the moment and taking advantage of that. _You're bored. You want something to play with. Why not fuck with my life, right? (Why does everyone think they can do that?)_ Despite his worry (alleviated slightly hearing he kept his mouth shut and didn't share much), his ego was salved a bit at being called focused and ambitious. Sylar felt he knew he should know what Peter was doing with all the sharing, but he couldn't think of what it was called. _Something with therapists and empathy or…Stockholmes Syndrome…?_ He followed the words fine, individually, missing a lot of Peter's point, tuning in for the end, which made perfect sense – it was something he'd wondered about Samson and Arthur.

XXX

There were disorders and diseases more rare and subtle than the sort of powers Peter knew, and those were plastered across specialty medical textbooks for anyone curious to peruse. If abilities were the problem the government asserted, then they couldn't have stayed secret. But that was general and he was dealing with Sylar here. He turned his comments back to the individual, Peter's words coming crisp and decisive.

"What are the problems you have? Are there any ways to manage it?" _You're not happy with the life you lead - you've said as much_. "You know so much more about this than I do. You said you went to Matt for help … what did you think he could do for you?" Peter thought about what he'd seen in Matt's mind, in that few seconds of scanning. Matt was gloating with malicious joy at having trapped Sylar in an eternal torment the man would never escape from. Peter hadn't focused on the details (and oh how he wished he had!) but he knew the emotion. Matt's feelings would have been very different if Sylar had shown up to kill him.

XXX

Sylar had another one of those long, single blink moments where he tried to figure if that really just happened, if Peter had truly asked him those questions. "This is all…uh…uh…hypothetical," he struck on the word. "No people to kill, no jobs to rush to." Avoidance? Hell yes. It was way to weird to have this conversation with almighty Peter, made even worse that Peter was probably looking for ammunition and the conversation was a fraud. _I can't tell you that, Peter._ His mind felt deeply depressed, a slow-burning anger, but mostly sadness and misery, self-loathing, embarrassment, frustration and confusion, though he couldn't separate the feelings. _Asking for help is admitting you have a problem. I can't afford to have problems. I don't have time to fix things, I need them gone now! I…don't think I have much time left…_ Realizing where he was, alone, with Peter, his thoughts reoriented, _I have no time. I still…have problems, no help, no future, no abilities…Just 'die alone.'_ Sylar wondered, as he often did, how he'd screwed it all up so badly, even his efforts at change, at getting assistance. He couldn't grasp how the good guys told him to get help, yet when he asked, they denied him, laughed him offstage and abused him further. _Practical jokes? Never was good at picking those up. 'Die alone' and go out in a blaze of glory, enjoy my life while I have one._

XXX

"Yeah," Peter said with a general wave of his left hand. "It's hypothetical. You're not trying to cut my head open and, uh, I hope you don't." He could see the emotions on Sylar's face. Peter knew this was a heavy subject, right up there with Sylar's childhood on the 'list of things Sylar doesn't want to talk about'. Sylar's motivations and reasons for what he'd done - Peter really, really wanted to know those. But this wasn't about what he wanted. It was about what Sylar was willing to share and so yes, Peter accepted that they weren't _really_ talking about Sylar here, if that was what made Sylar more comfortable.

Peter looked at the puzzle, putting aside the piece he held and getting a better candidate as he thought. _It's your ability that causes … maybe not the killing, but at least warped perceptions. You said you met your dad and he had your ability. How did he manage it? Should I ask that? He's real touchy about his parents. Maybe I shouldn't ask. Matt couldn't … get rid of your ability, could he? Well … Nath- er,_ you _didn't have your abilities for like a month or so. Except shape-shifting, I guess. And probably flight. Until they just started breaking free. Was there something that happened to cause that? That carnival thing. Did they do something to him?_

Peter's eyes rose to Sylar briefly, then dropped down and to the side, looking at his own forearm, the one the tattoo had stained. _Did he … oh my God, what if he went to Matt to be turned_ back _into Nathan?!_ Peter shifted uncomfortably, the question of what, exactly, Sylar had intended for Matt to do itching at the tip of his tongue, but it was one of those questions Sylar wouldn't, couldn't answer if it was what Peter suspected. After all, how could Sylar admit to that in front of Nathan's brother? _Maybe it wasn't Nathan. Maybe someone else. Give up his life; start new; change. Change … oh shit. Is that suicide?_ Peter reached up and scratched at his scalp uneasily, his mind shying away from contemplating how he'd interact with a Nathan who was the product of Sylar knowingly and intentionally giving up his identity.

Peter knew he had to say something, but he had a strong feeling that pressing Sylar directly wasn't going to help. Yet Peter also didn't want to show disinterest in the subject and abandon it. "So, uh, other than your dad, and for a little while me, did you ever run into anyone else who had an ability like yours? How did they live with it?"

XXX

Sylar sighed. "No, no one else." He shrugged, toying with a puzzle piece now, idly looking over the puzzle with little intent. "My father was into taxidermy when I found him so my future's hopeful." He planted his fist against his temple, elbow on the desk for support. _Only living thing here is Peter and I'm not skinning him. I like his skin where it is…Oh, how the mighty have fallen. My future's suicidal or homicidal or…being the homicide. I wonder if that's what Hiro meant. Not living long enough to die a natural death, especially here…_

"Do you think anyone will mourn you, Peter? When you die?"

XXX

For a couple seconds, Peter didn't take that as anything other than the questions the words indicated. Nothing about Sylar's manner implied anything more. A second later, though, it occurred to him that Sylar's words were pretty damn threatening. _Wait, what's he saying?_ Peter stiffened a little, giving the man a quick sweep to double-check his initial impression of safety. "What?"

XXX

At Peter's sudden look, Sylar backpedaled swiftly, lifting his head away from his fist a little, blurting, "Whenever that is; I don't have plans." _I'm betting people will mourn you. People like your girlfriend._ Because he wasn't at all convinced there was 'nothing going on' between them. 'Die alone' had tickled the tip of his tongue several times now and this was his roundabout way of…getting Peter's opinion on that. _But I've tried that before, killing myself. Why would this time be any different? Less…people around for the 'alone' part?_

XXX

"Kay," Peter said in a low tone, loosening back up and trying not to stare at Sylar warily. He directed his eyes to the puzzle with difficulty and let a few moments pass. _I … think my mother will get me out of here eventually. Claire would ask questions if she didn't. Emma would miss me, Hesam, maybe a few others_. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, they would." He found himself looking up at Sylar, Peter's eyes sorrowful as he realized how likely it was that had he not interfered, Matt would have ended Sylar. While Peter himself had wanted that many times between Thanksgiving and going to Matt's, he was seeing it from Sylar's point of view at the moment. It seemed like such a pointless death, especially with the idea that it might have been a technical suicide, something Sylar had asked for and sought out because he knew how fucked up his life had become.

XXX

"Huh," Sylar remarked absently, unfocused on Peter, deep in his own thoughts. Of course he'd been right about that – people would miss Peter. Mostly he wondered what that felt like.

XXX

Very quietly and with as much respect as he could muster, Peter asked, "Did you go to Matt to have him change who you were? So that," Peter tilted his head a little and made a small, empty gesture with his left hand, "you weren't Sylar anymore?"

XXX

Slowly, Sylar came back from his mental fog. "What?" he said in a quiet, shocked voice that quavered on borderline hurt, before Peter finished. The tornado of irony, pride, anger and pain began to spiral up in him again but he couldn't feel much more than that. It was like tunnel vision. He pointed an angry finger at Peter, glaring as best he could, his throat vibrating from attempting to growl and express hurt simultaneously, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?! Easier to handle. And you wouldn't be stuck here with me!" Sylar snatched up a small handful of puzzle pieces (they were difficult to get a hold of on a flat surface) and threw them at Peter's face and chest, bouncing off harmlessly. "Best of all, I'm out of the picture and you can live happily ever after, right? Brilliant idea: solves everyone's problems. I wish I'd have thought of it!" Because, yes, that idea worked better than the one he'd really gone to Matt for. He did his best to make that last part sound sarcastic, but he was pretty sure that failed.

XXX

Peter pulled back when Sylar pointed at him, eyes flicking briefly to the finger. He registered an internal jolt at the gesture, reminding him of being on the receiving end of that. Sylar's tone of voice kept Peter well distracted from focusing on the past, though, and his eyes returned to Sylar's. He'd hit deep, not that he'd intended to, but given the subject he'd expected a reaction. There was an accusation in there and a feeling of betrayal. _Sylar, betrayed. Aware that everything he's done has been wrong. Keeps acting entitled to friendship, help, and freedom from manipulation. … He expected to be saved. That's why Matt was gloating. Sylar went there for help, just like he came to me when he was Nathan. But why Matt? Matt wouldn't … Hell, Sylar doesn't even know Matt. Maybe he was just desperate and made a mistake! It's not like he'd admit to it._

Peter flinched from the puzzle pieces, raising his hands a little. Peter was trying to signal in his own way that he was purely defensive here. His expression was neither angry nor afraid, but open and listening aside from dodging things thrown at him. _Saved … from being Sylar? From … going back to that life?_

XXX

Sylar lurched to his feet, grabbing at the seat back and wobbled his way (mostly blind) to the kitchen with the idea of getting a drink of water…and space. That was so jarringly painful – the mere suggestion of swapping bodies or minds with someone…like it happened everyday. Like it was a normal thing. That felt so callous and calculated; Sylar immediately felt his worth. Peter didn't like him, wanted him dead or gone. He knew it was no more than he deserved, being told he deserved that even in conversation, but if given the preference, he'd rather not hear about it at all, ever. That he heard it from his near-sort-of brother, the man whose respect he wanted, whose approval he sought made it that much worse. It was hard to say it hurt when he'd known it was coming, though.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar left, opening his mouth briefly only to shut it again. He waited a beat, then began to pick the puzzle pieces out of the folds of his shirt and his lap, dumping them back on the table. He wanted to get up and go to the doorway of the kitchen, but that would trap Sylar same as Peter had felt confined the other day. Sylar had left the table because he wanted away. Best to let him have that 'away'.

He let a number of breaths pass, watching the entry to the kitchen and thinking about the psychic wounds that Sylar's word choice had illuminated. Someone was in pain; Peter had the capacity to help, but it would require him to offer something of himself. "Sylar?" he called out tentatively, voice much firmer as he went on, "I am not leaving without you. I came here to get you out. I'm not going to leave you here. Not alone."

Peter blinked and looked aside. He was committing himself to something important here, walling off a path of exploration and one that Peter had already favored. Looking for a way out was all he had left - that and waiting. It might not seem like he was promising much because he'd already tried and failed, but he was promising not to even look anymore.

XXX

"Not alone," Sylar muttered to himself, feeling the fringe of crazy invading his vision and perception. He leaned both palms against the counter; supporting himself, head hanging where it would. That concept was a difficult one. _Why wouldn't I be alone? Doesn't he know there's no other way to be? Why would he be serious?_ Petrelli's word choice sunk in against his will, speaking against Hiro's prophecy. It made him feel hope he hadn't accepted yet. He didn't want to get his hopes up because this looked way too good to be true. _He'll stay? I don't…know where else he'd be going, but…_ Sylar was relieved and disappointed that Peter kept his distance, though it made it easier to…listen and (try to) accept Peter's promise of sorts. He knew he needed the comfort regardless if it was true or not.

XXX

"I'm not trying to change you into Nathan." He drew in a deep breath and let it out. "I accept that he's … gone." Peter's voice tightened on that last word. He cleared his throat and went on with a much easier admission. "He's not you. You're not him. I don't get to choose who you are." Peter reached up and rubbed at the corner of his jaw. Much more quietly he said, "That's up to you."

XXX

_Why don't I believe you? Why?!_ Being pinned like a damn butterfly, crucified like the Christ in a dusty hospital construction basement came to mind. Life was one big test; after all, seeing how many different flavors of violation he could withstand and walk away from. Really, demanding more sanity from him wasn't possible. _I'm not ever going to be safe so long as you have the will and ability to change me…whether I like it or not. I suppose it's in my best interest to just…let him do it. He usually wins crap like this. Good versus evil and all that. I mean, he pointed out the better plan – letting Parkman turn me into someone else entirely. Petrellis have decided who I am and who I'm not for years now…Why would this be any different? Everyone thinks they're my better so that makes it okay to change me._ "We'll see about that, Peter," Sylar called back though it hurt his head. He could feel his voice wanting to shake, but he pushed through it to inject control, rationality.

He turned, got out a glass and filled it at the sink, choosing to be mesmerized by the water flow. It was easier than considering his life and his problems. He took a few sedate sips, thinking anyway about Peter's meaning. _Everything I've ever chosen has been wrong. Why would he offer that? Must be a test._ That decided, Sylar turned and made his way back into the room, still hurt and edgy, but less angry. _Do I really believe he's accepted Nathan's gone?_ Walking back, he looked Peter over a little sadly, a little warily as he sat opposite the man again.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar return with an attentive, receptive expression, which stayed when the other man sat down. He'd rarely seen someone who radiated 'I need a hug' quite so strongly, but getting up and providing one was the wrong note for things. Sylar would probably freak. Initially, there was a lot of force to Sylar's gaze as he wordlessly regarded Peter, probably fearing and waiting for Peter to poke at him. A weak spot had been shown, after all. When Peter didn't rise to the bait, Sylar's expression faded to a more relaxed curiosity. Peter returned it, the hint of a smile turning his lips.

_This is the guy I'm going to be stuck here with. Walled up in Matt's basement. Like that idea that your whole life flashes before your eyes at the end, but this is the opposite. Our whole future. Mine. His. Years. Maybe longer than I've been alive. Or at least it will seem that way. Here with Sylar._ Peter looked down at where Sylar's hands cupped the glass of water he'd brought with him from the kitchen, thinking about how much apparent time had already passed. _I've known him longer here than I ever did outside. Outside, I was with him what? an hour or two? Here it's been morning to night for days now._

Peter reached up and touched over his left eye. Most of the swelling was gone although the discoloration and soreness would persist for days more. His other injuries were also getting better steadily. In another few days, barring them getting into another fight, the only serious thing would be his broken hand. Peter tucked his hair back behind his ear, letting his eyes fall to the handful of puzzle pieces on the table near him. He looked down at his own lap, then around the chair. He scooted it back and slipped off without comment, going to his knees to retrieve the two stray pieces on the floor. He saw no others, pulling himself back to his feet and dropping the two with the rest.

Standing, he said, "I think I'll get a drink, too," and walked around the desk. Instead of going on by, he paused next to Sylar, turning to put his left hand on Sylar's shoulder, getting that physical contact Peter had been thinking he needed since Sylar came back in the room. He let it rest there for a couple seconds before saying, "We're going to be okay, man. Both of us." He gave a squeeze and a pat.

XXX

Sylar half expected Peter to come around and 'make him pay' for bringing about the situation they were both in, for playing a part in whatever grand scheme Fate created; for forcing Peter's cooperation to some extent. His head shifted away no more than a few inches on seeing the incoming hand. It was the squeeze that got him. _He's never done that before._ It left him in an empty room of surprised blinking. That felt horribly…comforting and he struggled desperately not to want that normality and the warm-fuzzy feelings he so rarely felt. It wasn't a technical need, after all, contact - just a 'want'. _'We're' going to be okay? 'We'? I think he means 'he will be okay'. Everyone knows I'm not okay._

XXX

Peter walked on to the kitchen, getting a drink and momentarily reflecting on how glad he was the tap water tasted fine here. It had been kind of nasty in his apartment. He felt cheered. Sylar was being friendly (pointing, yelling, and thrown puzzle pieces aside), he was opening up, and he was engaging, and all that warmed Peter immensely. Plus, Peter could be useful just by being here. It wasn't very active, but neither was being a hospice nurse and this wasn't a patient who was going to die on him. No, Sylar was very full of life.

Feeling perked up about things, Peter returned to his seat at the worktable and began sorting out the pieces. "Hey, do you think you'd be up to getting out for lunch later? We could go slow; go somewhere close by?" Peter was getting stir crazy cooped up in Sylar's apartment and he wanted a change of scene. His renewed feeling of energy underscored that. "Or … wait, I have an idea. We could take some sandwiches and go tune that piano." Or more likely Sylar would listen and gripe while Peter tuned it, but that was fine.

XXX

Sylar looked to him, a little wide eyed, trying to do his own piecing-together of the leaps in logic or design Peter had obviously made. _He's…bored now?_ He felt some disappointment, having barely worked on the puzzle or relaxed much. He just couldn't hold onto a balance with this guy. _Or…does he think I'm going to get fat or sleep too much? Does…_ Sylar tried to extend his thought process to fit what he knew of Peter (with limited results) _. Does he think_ I'm _bored?_ Peter clearly wanted to be doing something. Perhaps Peter just wanted to point and laugh while watching Sylar attempt walking. The important thing was that he would be with Peter (or so Sylar assumed). The reason for the outing was unimportant, the company wasn't. "Um…okay," he hedged, tilting his chin down and to the left in a sort of nod, still watching the nurse. _I have no idea how I'll manage that._

If he stopped and thought about it: piano (noise, loud) and headache (concussion, painful) with the addition of the off-key sound were not a pleasant mix. Already his blood pressure was on the rise, cranium throbbing. For the dozenth time he wondered, _Why isn't he leaving me to starve?_ "I…don't think I'll be much help," he used a quiet mumble in hopes that Peter might almost-not hear him. Still, the friendliness seemed loud and clear even to the socially-dense killer – Peter made it seem like his presence was being sought. Sylar shifted in his seat, preparing to get up and move now. _I'm not really hungry, though. Oh, was that maybe the point? Huh… I dunno…I give up._ He didn't stand, but kept his body somewhat primed and upright to leave, his attention keyed as he tried to focus it through his fog of medical conditions.

XXX

Peter lifted his left hand about halfway up, palm facing down, and moved it down towards the table in a 'stand down' gesture. "Not right now. _Later_ , around lunch time. That's a couple hours from now."

_Now he's so eager to please. Weird._ It was hard to adjust to: a callous, practiced killer so alone, vulnerable, and raw that he jumped at the chance to do what Peter wanted … but only sometimes. Sometimes Sylar was obstinate, angry, and insulting, like he was trying to drive Peter off any way he could. Other times Peter saw these flashes of desperation for attention and companionship, or even just acceptance as a person, like the simple acknowledgement of his name. It was two sides of the same coin, Peter knew now. When he'd first come here, he hadn't realized that and instead taken Sylar's turns of viciousness at face value.

It was a minefield to navigate blindly without knowing the guy better. A temptation to delve into Sylar's memories tickled at the back of Peter's mind, but he ignored it. He could learn the normal way – and he _was_ learning. He felt like Sylar was starting to open up, at least a little. If he went the memory route, then Peter might know Sylar's secrets, but Sylar would still be a stranger to him.

"You don't have to do much," Peter said, tackling the small pile of puzzle pieces in front of him. He sorted them to color-side up and put them back on Sylar's side where they'd come from. "Just have to be there and keep me company. Like with the guitar - tell me when I hit the right note. If that doesn't work," Peter pointed at his own head, at his ear or temple, "like your ear is off or something, then that's fine. We'll just eat and talk and then come back."

Peter eyed the puzzle. They had two large, unfinished blocks – the sky on Sylar's side and the road on Peter's. Both were basically grey with blue, white, and yellow patches. The road tended to be darker than the sky, but it was a flimsy enough differentiation that Peter wasn't sure if they'd been sorted right. "There's got to be a piece around here with part of this guy's foot on it," he muttered as he looked through his options.

XXX

Sylar slowly backed away from being at attention; still eyeing Peter to be sure it wasn't a test or a joke. Peter's reassurances sounded like another kind of test – for when they got there and all: 'just be there and keep me company'. _That's…what I'm doing now…Well, no, that's not true. I'm…sick, injured, whatever and he's…guilty (God knows why) and…bored. Yeah, he's bored. I'm the only person he can…do things to, do things with. Trapped, that's the word._ His happier feelings about being sought after withered in that light and his face fell. _I knew that._ Sylar ducked his head, studying his glass through the hair that slid into his vision.

He listened more and looked up. _My ear…?_ Confused and not understanding, Sylar reached up to touch his own ear, the analogous one that Peter had indicated on himself. _No, it's still there…It feels fine. Maybe it looks…funny. I don't know; he's the medic here. Did he hit my ear during the fight?_ After struggling (and failing) to remember, he gave up.

Blissfully, Peter became busy – quietly busy – with the puzzle, finally allowing Sylar to mentally fuzz out. He sipped while Peter fiddled with the pieces; then he tried to think how he'd gotten to this state, emotionally, because whatever had happened before was important. That brought him down some more so he rubbed at his eyes wearily with the back of his hand. "'S a good idea," he mumbled softly, honestly, once again propping his elbow on the desk, his fist to his temple, the glass of water resting on the chair between his legs as he poked a finger around the maze of pieces. Sniffing an inhale, he asked what randomly came to mind, "Did you know Matt uses his ability at work, too? He got to be a real cop," Sylar intoned with bitter, facetious mockery, not devoid of jealousy. _He's so out of his league and yet he's probably one of the most…'normally' successful specials I know…I bet it's his ability – cheating as usual._ "Not always the reading minds bit, either…"

XXX

_Nothing wrong with that. I used abilities every chance I got at work. Telepathy's really powerful, especially for a cop. I wonder if he could know about crimes before they were even committed? Does Sylar know about that painting-the-future thing Matt developed? Just how much does Sylar know about Matt anyway, and how does he know it?_ Peter looked up at Sylar's casual but sneering delivery. He clearly meant something more worthy of disdain than a little eavesdropping to determine the guilty party. "You mean pushing thoughts?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar hummed a clear affirmative, raising his brows to indicate a bull's-eye. Yeah, because reading people's minds is so fucking invasive, even on Peter's scale.

XXX

Peter grunted - a distinct, unhappy sound. He considered some of the ways that a person could abuse that ability. _Reading people's thoughts is mostly harmless, but what about making them do things? What about commanding them not to commit crimes ever again? Is that right? Wait - Sylar!_ Peter's eyes fixed briefly on the other man and his lips started to move before he stifled himself, looking down and pretending to examine the puzzle piece in his hand. It was a transparent dodge, but it bought him a moment to think and self-censor. _Is that what Sylar wanted Matt to do? Keep him from ever killing again?_ Distorted snippets of conversation flashed through Peter's mind - Peter saying, _'you should have done something … you should have stopped it … what you did was wrong'_ , and Sylar agreeing, _'I've always known'_.

Sadness, understanding, and sympathy flashed through Peter all at once. _You went to Matt to have him stop you. You did know. You did try to stop it. A little late, but …_ He looked up at Sylar with compassion. _That would explain Matt gloating. You asked him for help and this is what he did to you instead. Why did you kill so many first? Why did you wait so long to come to this point? What happened to you, Sylar, to make you the sort of person you ended up being?_

"Do you think it's right to use an ability to stop someone from doing something wrong?" Peter tapped on the desk a couple times in excitement as he thought of a good example. "There was a guy holding some people hostage in a building. I tried to talk him down. It didn't work and he shot me. Now if I'd had Matt's ability, I could have made him put the gun down. Would that have been right? Or wrong?" Peter tilted his head, honestly interested in Sylar's answer. He hoped it was distant enough that Sylar wouldn't see the parallel to himself and think they were just discussing the morality of Matt's ability. He also, aside from Sylar, wondered about it himself. "Is it all that different to use super-speed to yank the gun out of his hand? Don't all abilities make things unfair, if you use them against people?"

XXX

Sylar looked up, taking his time doing it as the man spoke. " _You_ are asking _me_ that?" He blinked. _What would I have to say about it? He already thinks I think it's okay to…do stuff like that._ Come to think of it, Sylar had thoroughly avoided pinning his conscience down on this subject so he didn't actually have much of a prepared answer. He didn't know quite what to think of it, but he knew what he felt about it and that was the problem. Sylar hated so much being morally, socially, verbally hog-tied into silence: no one knew his pain or his struggles and he couldn't tell anyone for fear of exploitation or judgment or punishment. Besides, no one would believe a word he said, such was the sinner suddenly claiming innocence or that he'd been wronged. _It's fine to do it to me, any way you can and then some. But I do it and everyone grabs their pitchfork…and torches._ The 'good guys' were always right, so… "It's had some success for you so far, so yeah." He couldn't help his body tensing, his lips tightening and his eyes flashing before blanking out in reaction to the vast host of memories. _If it's…okay when they do it, that makes it okay when I do it, too. Because they can't have it both ways._

XXX

Peter gave a very soft snort at Sylar's obvious disbelief at being polled for his opinion. Sylar's eyes widened slowly as a host of emotions flickered over his face. It was the emotions that sold it as authentic, at least as far as Peter was concerned, and damped down the irritated response he might have made otherwise. Instead, Peter was silent and let the quiet speak for him. Sylar's typical avoidance of giving him a real answer was disappointing. Peter frowned at the man's anger and looked down at the puzzle, picking up a likely piece and trying it as he refused to respond to the threat in Sylar's shifting body language.

XXX

Sylar blinked again, adjusting to the concept. _Wait, when did that happen to him? Or… did he mention something about that before? Huh…_ Eventually he hedged, "Suppose it depends on how invested you are in free will or doing…uh…" his face scrunched briefly as he thought mid-sentence, "doing what's best for the other person. Which isn't…" Sylar's eyes darted aside and shook his head, "It doesn't matter much. Going by what you and your family and…friends do, it must be okay." _Yes, I did just say that to you, Petrelli._

XXX

Peter tilted his head, looking up at him. There were at least two levels to the conversation here and very distinct ones. He didn't like that. There was the overt - Sylar answering Peter's question; and the covert - Sylar angry about the morals, or lack thereof, shown by Peter's family (and Peter himself - he didn't miss the 'you' in there). He shifted his position in the chair a little, not sure what he wanted to do about that - confront it, ignore it, respond on both levels? That last was tricky and Peter didn't like that style of conversation. It reminded him of his parents talking over dinner when he was a kid, always having at least two conversations with one set of words.

XXX

Straightening his shoulders and his spine, Sylar shrugged it off, "Self-defense is not an airtight excuse," he plastered on a pained grimace of a grin, grim as could be, thinking to add a pointed, "Right?" Curving an eyebrow at Peter for a moment, he paused and elaborated, "Use abilities or die, really. It's kind of that simple."

XXX

"Sometimes it is, yeah," Peter answered, fully realizing that Sylar couldn't pin his words down as anything - not that he was answering about self-defense or the comment about using abilities, or both, or neither. _See? I can talk like an asshole, too. I took lessons for this, jerk-face. Stupid lessons - waste of time_. Knowing that, Peter elaborated to be clear what he meant. "You're right that self-defense isn't an airtight excuse." He glanced away and then back. "I dunno about you, but I give a lot more leeway for 'in the heat of the moment' things than stuff that's premeditated."

XXX

Sylar watched Peter's face intently, the beginnings of…some kind of expression was being prepared on his face, whether a pout or a sneer or a snarl, another sarcastic smile perhaps. He was poised and Peter's reaction was so non-specific at first, it failed to trigger much of anything except a host of questions. He gave a sort of nod and looked away, sickeningly validated in hearing that particular agreement – he wasn't proud of what it said, but he was proud that he'd…well, gotten Peter to say it. _Of course he would agree – he has to. He's the resident judge so any thought I have on morality has to be passed by this…this…_ Petrelli. _The right to defend yourself is hereby stripped away. Take your punishment_ _like_ _a man. Is that what he's telling me? Like I don't know that already?_

The next part had Sylar's eyes right back on Peter, where before, he'd been about to let the subject drop now his universe had received the Petrelli Stamp of Disapproval. All was, had been, right with the world. _He does…what?_ That Peter would even think Sylar was capable of 'heat of the moment' or anything to the effect of trying to prove that he was somehow human and flawed and not every move he made or action he took was a sign of soul-deep corruption…? Sylar immediately tried to kick start his brain into reviewing all the sins Peter might have seen, desperate and curious to see if there had ever been the slightest hope that he'd not premeditated…everything. Sylar collided with Nathan and everything overlapped, like seeing something different with each eye, his personality a jarring, agonized, unfamiliar, fluid mess.

XXX

Peter tried his puzzle piece in a couple likely spots, finding a fit on the third try. "My family," he said in a low, slow, and careful tone, hoping like hell Sylar wouldn't decide this was an opening to discuss them at length, "is not a pillar of moral virtue." He looked up at Sylar without raising his head; unintentionally giving Sylar the same glower that Sylar gave to so many. "You know that. And you have to have an idea that I don't always agree with what they've done." After a long look, Peter glanced back down, deliberately selecting a new piece. He was leaving himself wide open here and he knew it. He left it to Sylar to set the tone for what came next.

XXX

When Sylar could drag his headspace from the tsunami-like depths of his own brain, recovering or uncovering very little to advocate his own fucking case because he couldn't remember the incidents (or even which person he was, which side he was on), he thought; _What does it matter? He won't listen, I can't think or talk and I'm a monster – it was all premeditated._ Something about his face fell then, considering how hopeless he was. _But I really didn't plan…I didn't mean for…_ Even his mental voice sounded strange to him; it sounded young and pained, like a kid. It was probably his mind playing more tricks on him – it did that with disturbing frequency now. He swallowed a bit hard and went back to the puzzle with slow resignation. It didn't help any when Peter laid in a piece and Sylar couldn't even remember how many or even if he'd gotten any pieces himself. He seriously wanted to cry. Or pout. It just wasn't fair. _I can't even keep up!_

Peter glared at him next and Sylar adjusted his face (from the weepy pout he was working on) to a confused/menacing frown right back. _Predatory body language_ , his mind supplied, so he matched it yet didn't escalate it because doing so would be suicide and stupid. The words 'you know that' was sticking with him, annoyingly so. _Did he just admit that…they did something wrong?_ But Peter's tone was _so_ dismissive, or at least threatening him into silence (trying to). Sylar opened his mouth in an exhale of disbelief and rude display, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, completely juvenile. "I know that, huh?" He snipped.

XXX

Peter studied Sylar's expressions, not seeing what he wanted. _Was I too subtle? Crap._ Sylar had declined to take the bait, not pouncing on the half-taunt of 'It was all my family's fault, not mine; _I've_ never done anything wrong.' Peter had expected to get a face-full of reasons why he was to blame, specifically, which would give him something to work with. Now, Sylar probably thought Peter really believed the BS he'd just said. He face-palmed, concealing it somewhat by rubbing over his forehead. He was still sore near the hairline where he'd cracked his head into Sylar's and of course his left brow and eye were still tender. He probed at it anyway, wincing as he took his hand away.

His choices now boiled down to trying again and being more explicit about it ('Oh yeah. You _know_ it wasn't me. What did I ever do?') or just dropping it. He blew out air, not able to stomach any more. It was too close to a lie and it wasn't something Peter wanted coming out of his mouth even if it wasn't. _I'm probably going to have to pay for what I've already implied anyway._ He spent a moment loathing manipulation before taking the latter option and dropping it.


	48. Channeling

Day 13, Morning

"Okay, so here's the problem with power." Peter spoke slowly, fiddling with the puzzle as he did. "Let's say you got Matt's power, with all the bells and whistles. You go to this crime scene, because you're trying to do right by people. There's a guy who's been shot - I'll call him Chris. And there's a guy who's been beaten up and stabbed in the neck - we'll call him Bill. EMTs are working the scene and there's cop cars arriving, but they're going to let you handle it because you're the hero, see?" Peter waited a beat to make sure Sylar was following his mostly hypothetical situation.

XXX

Sylar's brows drew together as he listened, trying to picture…himself on the 'other' side of morality. He just didn't belong there and it made imagining it difficult. _What…does this matter, Peter?_ he wondered. Also, _Is this a paramedic story masking a test?_ It sounded like a hidden test.

XXX

"You use your power to find out what happened. A while back, Chris borrowed money from Bill. Today, Bill showed up to get his money back. They got into an argument because Chris didn't have the money. Bill called Chris names and Chris pulled a knife, threatening to slice Bill up. Bill went back to his car, got his gun, and shot Chris. Chris' friend, inside the house, heard the shot, came out, and got in a fight with Bill. He got the gun away and beat Bill up. Chris gave his friend his knife, and the friend stabbed Bill in the neck. Thinking Bill was going to die, they just left him there and called 911 for Chris' gunshot wound, while the friend ran off and hid so he wouldn't get in trouble for murder. Chris tries telling you that he'd stabbed Bill in self-defense, but you know he's lying. Both Bill and Chris are going to survive and there's no evidence to implicate Chris' friend unless you say something."

Peter eyed his companion to make sure the other was still with him, then added, "Okay. You have this power. You're the hero. What do you do?"

XXX

A moment to wrap his head around the actual scenario…well, that took longer than his answer. "If I'm the 'hero', I'd make them tell the truth." _It sucks to be Bill_ , Sylar thought emphatically – outnumbered and looking for repayment…granted getting the gun wasn't called for. It was simple enough to Sylar. "All of them," he said to include Chris' friend. "They're all guilty of something, so punish them all." _Wait…is that the point he's…We're all guilty?_ He frowned, obviously thinking that through. "Then…why do you call me names and treat me like shit and lie to me about everything if we're all guilty? What makes you so…" Sylar's voice wavered and broke. He recovered after a few seconds of anguished mental static, regret, really, that he was as horrible as he was. "So special. No one died and made you God. You don't have any authority either."

XXX

Peter's mouth gaped open for a moment at the rapid transition, but he didn't interrupt and by the time Sylar's statement paused, Peter was shutting his mouth. _'You' doesn't mean me. He means … everyone else. No. No, he means everyone other than him,_ _ **me**_ _included._ Sylar's pain was so palpable that Peter felt some of it himself. _'Call me names', 'treat me like shit', 'lie to me' - well, I wanted a list._ Desperately as he wanted not to be at fault for any of it, there had been many times in the previous week where Peter had vividly imagined and a couple where he even violently tried to hurt Sylar. And succeeded.

XXX

 _Oh._ It struck him then. The Petrellis, the heroes, they weren't natural-born monsters. Their specialness and power came to them innately, intuitively, organically. That was the difference between them, the distinction, reason, logic, whatever. It was a damn good reason, too. He inhaled a rough breath, letting it out in his words, "Right. That." _I just have it coming. They're right and I'm still wrong._ "Never mind."

XXX

Peter waited for a long pause, before saying sadly, "No, we don't have any authority. We're not God, no matter how many powers we get." Peter used the plural 'we' intentionally, meaning everyone and knowing that Sylar would probably hear it as 'everyone other than Sylar'. It didn't matter - it worked either way. _'Lie to me about everything' … \\\_ _'You jumped ... Peter. Twenty-five feet to a fire escape. I climbed up and carried you down. That's what happened. The rest is just crazy talk. You understand?'_ _\\\ Nathan, of all people, should have told me the truth._ "Does it help any of us, in the end, to punish us all? Has it helped you to be treated badly, or would things have turned out differently if someone had … given you help, or the truth, when you needed it?" Peter's brows were drawn together, his voice low.

XXX

Sylar could only watch Peter, partly listening and partly trying to determine if the man spoke the honest truth. So much of this was unfathomable, always had been, to him anyway. _I wish someone could just…tell me my…purpose. Why I exist. At least I'd have an answer._ "There are consequences to prevent chaos. That's….universal. It has to apply to everyone, not just the black sheep or the weakest links or the outsiders." _That way I know where I stand…I know what the rules are and I can…pick and choose my…mistakes. I just…don't think it's…really fair to punish me because I didn't get a fair start. It wasn't for lack of trying and…lack of options for people to help me when they knew, they_ knew _! I had a problem. That's their fucking job!_ "My calling is keeping you in check." _And I don't think it had to be that way…_ He desperately wanted to think it was possible for him to have been a hero before things went wrong. Most times when he started thinking that way the word _monster_ would ring in his ears as the scars and bones and memories tried to heal while he ran again.

Sylar's lips worked miserably after that for a moment. "Has it helped you to treat me badly?" he posed back, throat gravely and stuck. The idea of getting help and truth, thus changing the outcome, wasn't a new consideration to him. At all. The probability of it happening? That was impossible as well he knew now. He couldn't bring himself to answer that part of it. _I didn't deserve it, Peter, is that what you want to hear?_ Almost as an afterthought, he realized something important had been hinted at, "And why would you even say you've treated me badly? You don't believe that."

XXX

Peter snorted. "Sylar, you're beat to hell. Unless you wanted that somehow, then of course you've been treated badly." Peter's brows jumped in emphasis as he leaned forward. "I _believe_ that's wrong – it's wrong to hurt other people. There have been times when I have thought I needed to stop you from hurting people or …" _to get Nathan back_. Peter gave a brief shake of his head, grimacing as he leaned back. "But there was probably a better way than violence. If I couldn't find that way, then that's my fault for not finding it."

He growled, pushing his hair back aggressively. _I'm not doing a good job of explaining._ He spoke more slowly, intentionally trying to relax. "It's complicated. But the simple stuff is that I say I've treated you badly because I _have_. It hasn't helped me, except that sometimes it seemed like the only way to stop you." _Or to shut you up, like the other day. You might have started that, but I'm the one who started swinging. I've got to do something about that._ "There were probably better ways of accomplishing what I was trying to do. I didn't know those ways, but that's not a moral excuse. I did the best I could. That's … hardly ever good enough and it doesn't make anything right, but it _is_ what I did."

Peter exhaled and looked away for a long moment, mulling over the rest of what Sylar had said. He didn't want to talk about his endless fuck-ups in pursuit of trying to do the right thing. The only good thing about those were that they were more palatable to Peter than if he'd screwed up (or succeeded) while chasing after more selfish goals. But the times when he'd succeeded in heroism were outnumbered by the times he'd fucked up. He tried to change the subject. "What do you mean by 'my calling is keeping you in check'? Keeping _me_ in check? Or someone else? And what do you mean by 'calling'?" _What are you trying to do? You have some greater goal? Like right now, keeping me from … leaving this place or something?_

XXX

Sylar did his best to take that in, but the concussion added insulation from strange and foreign ideas. Peter's words just didn't sound like much, strung together. The words 'my fault' coming from Peter just seemed…odd; it didn't seem right. It certainly couldn't be directed at Sylar; that would be like some kind of apology. _How…was it his fault? Why…I don't get that. Treating me badly because there isn't another way….because treating me any other way is a waste of time. If Peter doesn't know another way, then…This really is all there is, then. I already knew that._

 _By Peter's own definitions there…he did the right thing, though. There's no other way and he's doing the right thing. I'm evil, so he beats me up. It's simple._ "Nature, Peter. You don't punish your own. So someone has to punish you and…the good guys." Sylar looked down to the puzzle piece he was playing with, exhaling a light snort or ironic derision, "You struck first; I'm just finishing it." _I'm always finishing it, always behind._ Or so it felt. Sad, too, that the cycle of punishment never ended. It was a never-ending game of tit-for-tat catch-up. _I wish it didn't matter anymore, but it does. It will always apply to me._

XXX

Peter tilted his head. _'You don't punish your own.'_ The image of his father sighted down the barrel of a gun came to mind as an example of a time when Peter had certainly tried to punish his own, but it was chased away by his focus on the next things Sylar said. _'You and the good guys' - we need to be punished? We_ need _it? That's kind of like saying a dog needs to be kicked - it's just stupid. But … wait, there are people who think that kids need to be spanked, like it's morally good for them_. His father came to mind again, but this time in a different context. Slowly, he said, "You know, my father used to say that what a young man like myself - this was back when I was a teenager - needed was a good beating. He seemed to think that would teach me to respect him. He said as much." He glanced away with a sullen expression, not liking the memory of getting casually backhanded or the sentiment expressed. He looked back. "Since then, I've been beat up a lot. I've had bad things happen to me. I've even been killed a few times." Peter shook his head slowly and spoke with condemnation in his tone as he said, "None of that's ever made me more respectful of anyone. It just pissed me off and made me _hurt_." Hurt in a way that transcended the mere physical.

XXX

 _Well, you were kind of a pain in the ass as a teen, Peter…_ That didn't negate the fact that Sylar thought (and knew from Nathan) that that course of action wouldn't help or produce results, not from Peter. It would just make him dig his heels in. _I need to remember that._ Sylar could understand Arthur's perspective a bit; even Martin's. But beating a hero, the good guy, Peter…that was pretty brutal. _Some teens have it coming, though_ , he thought with a depressed, painful pang in his core as he tried not to remember being beaten himself, at any age, wondering why it was happening to him. He knew now, of course, but that was little comfort _. I deserve it; Peter doesn't; it's that simple._

But then Peter brought up the Achilles' heel of that rationalization: pain. Sylar floundered with that concept or consequence, whatever it was. _Pain just….is. I can't avoid it, I can't change to not deserve it. Isn't it only fair that he suffer some, too, hero or not?_ His sense of fair, right and wrong internally roared: _He can't be that perfect!_

XXX

Peter drew in a deep breath. "You beat the crap out of me a couple days ago," he paused for a long beat before continuing, "but what made the biggest impact on me was that you _stopped_ , right in the middle of it, and you let me get my bearings. I'm still trying to figure that out. You didn't have to do that. What were you doing there, Sylar? Why didn't you just keep beating on me?" _You had me. The only reason you're concussed is because of that breather you let me have._

XXX

Sylar's brain arrested at the word 'impact'. Damn, his cognition! That meant something and he couldn't figure it out, being too stuck on the irony of 'beat the crap out of' in connection with 'impact' even though he knew that wasn't the point Peter was trying to make. "I did?" _Yeah, I guess I did. Why did I do that?_ "Uh…You….You were down," he delivered lamely. _I was enjoying my win? I liked…sitting on y- no. Being on t- no._ "Maybe it was because you brought up your b-…" Sylar drew out the consonant 'b' making a sort of 'bbbbbrmmhmm' sound as he shut his mouth. That was a dangerous tool Peter might try and use (never mind that Sylar thought it was probably nothing of use, a one-time lapse): mentioning Nathan to get Sylar to instinctively quit beating the kid. Peter had suddenly looked like _his,_ Sylar's, brother. Or maybe his one and only, somewhat close friend. Potential fuck-buddy or something along those lines. Suddenly hitting Peter when he was down, bleeding and injured didn't appeal to him. It was as startling to him as it must have been to Peter.

XXX

 _My brother_. Peter had a moment of weighing if Sylar had cut himself off because he remembered Peter forbidding the subject, or if he was doing it for some other reason. Given the lack of guilt or any quick glance on Sylar's part to see that he wasn't in trouble, the indication was for the latter. But then why? There seemed no other likely way of finishing the sentence and certainly not a way that would lead Sylar to fail to finish it.

 _What was it Sylar said? 'Something will happen and I get reminded of him and I remember having him in my head and I can't ...'_ Peter cocked his head a bit more. _Maybe he didn't stop because him-Sylar wanted to stop, but something happened to distract him into him-Nathan? Is there even a 'him-Nathan' to consider here? … Well, he more or less said there was. I suppose if you're forced to play a role for a while, like Matt making him think he was Nathan, then … maybe it's not so easy to shake off? And in the middle of the fight that's why he stopped?_ Peter's brows drew together and lips tightened as his head moved back to vertical. He would have rather thought that Sylar offered him a moment of mercy and found at least a shadow of goodness in his heart. _Does it count if it was him-thinking-he's-Nathan?_

XXX

"There isn't much pleasure in beating the unconscious, Peter. They're not awake to know they're beaten." Sylar gave Peter a briefly pointed glance before shrugging, "Besides…I know I have to keep you alive here. I have enough _self-control_ ," he stressed on the subject of anger management, "To stop because I'm not a nurse and I can only patch you up so much, assuming I wanted to do that at all." _Which I do. Oh, yeah. Let me give you a physical. It'll be fun, I promise._

XXX

Disbelief. Peter didn't believe what Sylar had just said _. I'm being lied to. That's a dodge. Sylar's had plenty of opportunity to be a sadistic bastard before and he didn't that I know of. Gloating - yes. Sadism - no. But there's something there that turns him on, for sure._ Peter could read a hint of lust in Sylar's demeanor now and he remembered getting slapped by the guy in the middle of the fight, accompanied by some snarky glorying in being on top. He wasn't sure what to make of it, being left with the feeling that the answer was right in front of him if he'd could only see it. All he could make out was: _Winning - important._

 _Keep pushing? Or leave it alone?_ Peter glanced over at one of the clocks. The morning was wearing on. He sent a glance back at Sylar, wondering how the man felt and what Sylar's stamina was. _Best way to find out …_ "Speaking of nursing, how do you feel? Do you mind talking like this, or does it wear you out? I'd like to go out a little later and I want to make sure you're up for it, if you're still interested in going."

XXX

Leaned on an elbow, he was trying to shove his hair back while he studied the muted puzzle pieces when Peter's questions struck him. Sylar looked up, paused, then straightened up and away from the table, removing his elbow. In his limited capacity, he tried to make it look purposeful and relaxed enough to imply that he was, in fact, healthy, capable and in control. "I'm fine…I'm fine…Sure." _Of course it wears me out, you idiot. Of course, circulation will help my raging headache. Of course, let's go for a walk. I can't talk, so walking will help! This has got to be some kind of test. I thought I was supposed to sleep and drink lots or something, not go on fieldtrips to god-knows where._ This was still Peter's idea. _Who said I was interested?_

"When?" he asked, surprised by his own politeness, intentionally not phrasing it as 'when are we going?' This was all rather new and strange to Sylar – medical treatment, company, a sort of invitation/demand to go somewhere with someone (he didn't confuse that with Peter desiring his presence in any way). _Where were we even going again?_ His imagination supplied a few ugly scenes, but nothing that happened in them wasn't impossible to perform here, in his apartment, so they made little sense. Point was, he didn't have a clue what his role was in this beyond being…available.

XXX

 _That_ was irritating. Peter's lips thinned _. For a guy who doesn't like lying, he's sure doing a lot of it today._ Peter didn't buy the 'I'm fine' routine any more than he did the 'I stopped beating you because I wanted you to feel me beating you' line. _How would I treat a normal patient who was snowing me?_ "That's great." Peter's voice came out a little tense. He immediately softened and modulated it to the usual tone he used with recalcitrant patients. "We'll go just as soon as you've had a chance to lie down and get some rest. There's no hurry." And then Peter looked at Sylar levelly and directly for a few seconds, trying to draw inspiration from Nurse Hammer, who was famed at Mercy Heights for bossing patients around. He made a pointed glance at the couch just in case Sylar wasn't getting the message.

XXX

Sylar blinked in surprise before his eyebrows furrowed as Peter's seriousness slowly dawned on him. _What?_ His head tilted a few inches, eyeing Peter right back. _Did he really just…? Wh- take a nap? Seriously?_ He followed the glance at the couch with confusion. _He's gonna make me? Why? He's making this…conditional? I'm not a kid! Fuck…what do I do?_ "Uh…wh- but I don't need rest," Sylar hedged, torn between asking a question and sticking to his story. _You're the one who's bored, Peter! Why do you want to wait and watch me sleep? (Actually, I don't wanna know)._

XXX

"Yes, you do," Peter said firmly. "You're not telling me the truth and I'm not going to play games with you to figure it out. If you feel fine, go ahead and lie down, get comfortable, and we'll keep talking." Peter glanced at the couch, then turned his chair so he could get a pillow and blanket from Sylar's bed. _It'd be better if I just left, but I promised him earlier I wouldn't. Sort of. What I meant was not leaving this place, this universe, this mental construct-thing we're in, but it would look bad for me to say that to him and then take off a few hours later._ In a quiet voice, Peter said, "Tell me the truth or not, I'll still keep you company," as he rose and brought the pillow and blanket over to the couch. "Not like being lied to is a big change of pace."

XXX

 _But how did he know that? There's no way he knows that. He's just guessing._ The offer of talking even if Sylar got comfortable, horizontal was novel. It seemed too good to be true, probably was. Mentally, he wanted to stick to his guns and deny his condition and limitations. Physically, he wanted to lie down, relax and enjoy. Hell, Peter was making him a nest over there. His next internal sound was a whine of frustration – this had to be a test. _He said even if I feel fine. I'm not losing face if I lay down. Or is that just a joke? He said he won't leave…_ A squirm and shift, hesitantly, towards the edge of his chair, he froze when Peter turned back, began to approach him. His instinct was that he was going to be beaten and/or dragged into place, like it or not. It made him cringe inside, but he did his best to puff up to look bigger on the outside. Peter said that last piece. "What?" he blurted, purely incredulous, bordering on how-dare-you? _How does he know that?!_ Then it hit him. Peter wasn't talking about Sylar, but about the Petrellis. "O-oh."

Peter reached out for him when Sylar didn't make a move for the couch. Sylar stiffened and canted his head to eye the incoming appendage and that stopped Peter short, long enough for Sylar to take a much-needed breath and begin positioning himself to stand, unassisted. Dizziness from sitting too long, nausea and a miniscule wobble of balance – _hey, I'm getting better!_ – came when he stood, but he limp-marched over to the couch with purpose. "…'M telling the truth," he mumbled, adjusting the blanket over himself as he settled his head into the pillow as directed. He thought back to all the times he'd been allowed or encouraged to sleep, waking up unharmed and undisturbed in Peter's presence. This seemed safe, historically.

XXX

Buoyed by the cooperation, Peter smiled as Sylar settled in. In a good-humoredly sarcastic tone, he said, "Yeah, of course. You have a concussion and I'm sure your head is killing you, but you're fine!" With his right hand, he ran his fingers in a quick stroke over Sylar's left deltoid, tapping them against him a couple times in a finger version of a pat. "You're a tough guy, Sylar. I know that. Lemme look at your toes. I'm sure they're fine, too, but I want to see them."

XXX

Sylar's glanced at the hand touching him. _Touching. He's always touching. He hates me and he still touches me. Does- Is his problem that bad? I could get so used to this…_ His eyes twitched towards narrowing – _Is he mocking me?_ \- but he allowed his ego to be stroked. Some respect was due for physical durability and endurance after all and he was long overdue for having that noticed. _So long as he knows that. I kicked his ass twice._ The blanket was pulled up to reveal his foot and he watched with interest. _And he's gentle, too._ Perhaps that was the majority of his surprise: there was a difference between doing something for Sylar like he was worth it and doing the same thing bereft of that gentle touch, begrudging him the treatment the whole way.

XXX

Peter's examination was brief; resting the fingers of his right hand on the bridge of Sylar's foot while his left cupped the ball. He moved it in a slight flex, not moving or touching the injured toes themselves, but watching the faint change in coloration that told him about circulation and degree of inflammation. "Doesn't look like ice would help you much at this point. Looks okay." He tugged the blanket over Sylar's feet, tucked it in carefully, and went on.

Seating himself again, Peter looked at Sylar's face for a few moments in case the other man had something to say. Seeing no immediate indication, Peter picked a topic. "Tell me about Matt using his ability at work. I've used different ones of mine at work, but I had the impression there was something wrong with what Matt was doing." Normally, Peter didn't like thinking about Matt's ability. It gave his stomach a queasy turn. But given who he was spending time with, and where, and how, it seemed like the sort of thing he needed to confront.

He could remember commanding people to let them through security (did they lose their jobs?); ordering them to draw guns on their coworkers while he and Parkman infiltrated the government's databases (were they or their coworkers traumatized by that? How would Peter feel if Hesam one day pulled a gun on him under some supernatural influence, or if he lost control of himself and was forced to threaten an innocent without knowing if he'd be made to pull the trigger or not?); Matt whammying a bartender to allow them to dope Noah's drink and then drag him off later (did that make her more likely to look the other way for similar misconduct in future? Did she think less of herself for 'allowing' that?); and then … there were the serious things. Like the way Noah had jerked and twisted and fought against Matt's mental invasion as Peter had stood by, tacitly endorsing the interrogation and what looked like torture. Noah didn't seem to take it personally, but then again, they were talking about Mr. Bag and Tag who left confused kids with lethal powers all alone in a situation that led to the kid killing his own parents. Noah's moral compass spun as much as Samuel's in his hand.

Peter looked at Sylar, remembering Sylar's words from earlier when the subject of Matt's effects on him had come up: ' _I'm fine, Peter. Thanks for asking!_ ' was what Sylar had said, angry and sarcastic. Defensive. ' _I'm fine_ ,' Peter repeated Sylar's line to himself. _Huh._ Sylar did not seem as hardened to it as Noah. Not as internally scarred, cicatrized, and calloused as the man who was twenty years their senior and had been dealing with specials for four or five times as long. And perhaps Noah had come to the situation more prepared, less mentally vulnerable because he understood what was going to happen to him. Peter remembered how much of his own terror and desperation had made things worse for him when he'd just discovered his abilities. He doubted Sylar had had any warning the first time he was blotted out. Peter had given him only a few seconds the next time. He remembered Sylar jerking his head back during the exam and freaking out for a moment when Peter had reached for his forehead. _Ah!_ Peter's eyes widened slightly at the realization. _It wasn't a mirror image fear that I was going to cut into his brain. It was fear that I was going to do that to him all over again. Especially if his head hurt and his memory was fucked up and we'd just had a fight and … yeah. Yeah._

XXX

Sylar licked his lips, turning his head to the side a moment to cope with a rush of memories – his own, Nathan's and Matt's – all of using powers at work. Telekinesis in his watch shop to murder Brian Davis; telekinesis to call the coffee cup to himself, electricity, shape-shifting and flight; pushing thoughts and readings minds of friend and foe and stranger and victim alike. He swallowed, forcing that uncontrolled panick-y feeling away, having to ground himself in his identity. It helped him to wonder what powers Peter had used; how and why.

"That's the only way he got to be a real cop, I'm pretty sure. Reading minds. He can't read, you know," Sylar snorted. _Cop with a GED. Mastermind with a high school diploma. Peter….with a medical degree and some law school._ "He used it to save his job, push thoughts on his boss." A chuckle was next, "He made the water boy get a new route because Matt was feeling threatened," he leered, comfortable from his throne now, smirking and waggling his eyebrows briefly to make his lewd point, "His wife has needs he's not fulfilling, but other men can, apparently. _Filled_ her needs just fine," he heavily implied with the tone of 'I filled'. "Oh, he beat up a suspect in his custody and threw a chair at a guy he was…interrogating." _/'I'm going to use this room for…interrogation again. I'm gonna get a confession out of you about how you murdered your mother'/_ He twitched sharply at that, blinking, feeling the fright chase through him still, dulled somewhat now, but that time, when he'd been a mindless body wandering around, had been terrifying and amazing at the same time, very clear even now. _Lubbock's dead. Serves him right._ "He used it all the time on me," Sylar sniffed an inhale, shrugging back his shoulders in dismissive defiance as he crossed his arms, "Of course, that's all fair and above board."

XXX

Peter listened, an expression of slight befuddlement growing on his features. "How do you know all this?" Not that Peter doubted him - he didn't - but those weren't things Matt would have shared willingly and since Sylar didn't have telepathy … _What had happened after the Stanton Hotel? What was going on that Matt Parkman wanted Nat- Sylar? to touch his hand in the hospital?_ _Should I ask that?_ Peter weighed the situation. Sylar was lying down, relaxed, and non-threatening, even if a bit twitchy and defensive.

XXX

Sylar frowned at Peter because it seemed so obvious. "I was…stuck in his head. You were with me- Nath- um…my body. He said he pushed me out, stuck Nathan in and…we found out that I hung onto Matt's pea-sized brain for what that was worth," he snorted disgusted and dismissive. _Bastard wouldn't take me to my body!_

XXX

 _Really? That's … weird. Like Matt made a copy of Sylar somehow when he tried to erase him?_ Peter's brow furrowed, but he put it aside for pondering later. Back to topic he thought, _Better_ _question is_ **me** \- _can I handle whatever he says? Whatever he admits to? Matt was angry enough at him to do_ this _\- this place - to him. 'That's all fair and above board,' huh? He wants me to tell him that what Matt did was wrong, like it justifies the stuff Sylar's done. Don't know, but maybe he'll tell me more if I lean it that way._ "I don't know what's fair or not without knowing the whole situation. Will you tell me?" Peter tilted his head slightly, watching Sylar for a long moment before looking back at the puzzle pieces, giving the man an opportunity to gather his thoughts.

XXX

Sylar huffed slightly, annoyed that the conversation was focusing on Matt (yet he'd offered Parkman up as the topic all the same). He felt like he was getting pumped for information – he probably was – _There's more entertaining ways to do that, you know, Peter_ … "He was in substance abuse counseling, trying to quit his ability, the idiot." He shifted, his intensity rising as he leaned forward a bit, gesturing passionately, "You can't do that, it's part of you," a drop in the intensity as he realized what he was doing, at least physically, settling back, "I told him he was crazy for trying. He did all those things while trying to 'quit,'" he sneered the word. It was repugnant to him. Everyone had told Sylar to quit; he'd tried and failed because there was a need in him that could not otherwise be met without abilities. _/'The powers are me now.'/ Why can't anyone see that?_

XXX

Peter gave another quizzical look. _How do you quit an ability?_ But then Sylar answered Peter's unspoken question, getting genuinely emotionally engaged in the subject, which made Peter smile faintly to see. That tiny blip of positive or at least non-negative emoting made Peter realize how little of it Sylar had done. He didn't count much of the long walk they'd taken, discussing favorites and such. He'd had such an impression that Sylar had been _acting_ then. This seemed genuine.

XXX

Pondering that as deeply as he could, Sylar wanted to ask Peter something important. "Why does everyone think they need to get rid of their ability like it's a disease?" _It's the one thing that makes you special. /'You've been handed so much. And yet you want to destroy the one part of yourself that makes you truly special. Your power,' he remembered analyzing Nathan the same way./_

XXX

"Not everyone," Peter said mildly, looking down at the puzzle to fiddle with a piece. "I happened to like mine. Both of them." _Scary as hell at times, though._

XXX

"That's a relief," Sylar murmured. Peter thinking otherwise about his ability would probably earn the man a beating all its own somewhere down the line.

XXX

He breathed out and put the puzzle piece down, pushing the chair back a little and swiveling it towards Sylar as he leaned back. He rubbed his right forearm with his left hand before saying, "I think a lot of people are scared of changing, of becoming something different than they were." He was thinking about Nathan and not only his brother's initial pretense that he couldn't fly, but his later assault on everyone who was special. "I think the difference scares them. They want to control it, maybe starting with themselves." He shook his head. "People don't work that way."

He leaned forward, brows drawing together as a thought struck him. "You say Matt did all that stuff while he was trying to quit. Did you get the impression he'd done worse before? Was there anything in-"

XXX

"Worse?!" was Sylar's instantaneous, mortally offended demand. _Obliterating me wasn't worse?! Of course not!_

XXX

"… um," Peter suddenly put two and two together and didn't like the answer. _Did Matt try to quit his ability because of what he did to Sylar? Was that just too much for him?_ He took a deep breath and let it out, thinking of a different angle that seemed more likely. _Or was it the whole Homeland Security/Daphne thing?_ "I don't know about his wife, but he lost someone really important to him not long before that. Maybe he thought that if he quit his ability, he could quit," Peter gestured around vaguely, "all the dangers that come with our life. I was just wondering if, in his process to do that, he was under so much stress trying to live a lie that he was being worse than he had been before."

XXX

Peter clearly realized his blunder and auto-corrected enough that, with a glare, Sylar grudgingly let it pass at that and continued to listen to Peter's semi-interesting points that made little applicable sense. Change was part of life, humans were made to evolve – barring that, they were made to _adapt_. "Since when is that an excuse?" he reasoned disdainfully about Matt being under stress and wanting to get away from the dangerous life. Because, really, that 'excuse' would never pass for Sylar; why should it for Matt?

But something in the way Peter phrased it, 'I don't know about his wife' and 'lost someone really important to him' caught up with his brain. Parkman wasn't in contact with his father, his mother was still alive, Sylar knew that for a fact; the man had no siblings and no one dreadfully close besides maybe (sickeningly) Mohinder that Matt would miss…When he tried to think of Matt's past, Nathan supplied some of Parkman's history during the whole Building 26 phase that Sylar couldn't otherwise account for. A name and a face appeared (albeit dimly) as well as an ability: "The Millbrook woman." Sylar laughed until it hurt his head, halting him with a grimace, "Oh, that's rich." Another pause to think that through, connecting some guilty dots of Matt's life, chuckling, "And that explains a few things." _That's why Matt acted strange when I fucked Janice, all that fake anger was just for show. He cheated on her. Ha!_

XXX

Peter made a long, disapproving frown at Sylar's laughter, ended by a judgmental grunt and looking down at the puzzle. He chose to otherwise pretend the outburst hadn't happened and responded to Sylar's prior comment. "I'm not excusing him. But there's always something that happens to set things in motion. I'm trying to understand what happened." _Like I'm trying to understand_ _ **you**_ _._ "I want to know what motivated him to do those things."

A puzzle piece slotted into position unexpectedly. Peter picked up a new one. _Sylar doesn't give a flip about Matt's motivations. We're talking past each other - I'm not connecting. He doesn't want to hear the difference between an excuse, an explanation, and a justification. What_ _ **does**_ _he want to hear?_ He glanced up briefly, casting his mind back over the most recent bits of conversation, thinking of Sylar's moment of engagement. He focused on his companion, gesturing loosely with his words. "You said a person can't quit their ability. Can they at least channel it? Choose when to use it?"

The answer seemed obvious, but he wanted to hear it from Sylar's lips, because there was a hint in what Sylar had said that maybe the man felt his own ability wasn't something he could direct. If Sylar's control of his ability, early on at least, was no better than Peter's had been, then what if it activated every time he encountered a special, the same way Peter's ability hadn't consulted him about adding a new power to the arsenal? Peter's had done its 'thing' even to the point of putting him in a coma. But was Sylar saying that people couldn't stop using their ability? That Matt had been _forced_ to use it? If Sylar were equally 'forced' to use his ability when he was new to it and couldn't control it … what would that mean? Peter's absorption was painless and unnoticeable when it activated, so uncontrolled use didn't hurt anyone else. Sylar's ability was … not the same, not at all.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed a centimeter or two in confused curiosity. "Evidence shows they can be channeled, yes." After all Matt channeled his; Peter channeled his; Claire…sort of did. Sylar was much more in the grey whether he did any channeling – if that was even possible. He always felt _channeled_ instead, like there was far too much power contained in his body and brain and he was just the weak conduit, steps behind and lacking the strength to fight his own power. His options at that stage had not been pretty, healthy or desired. It was a "choice" between sanity and insanity at best. So it wasn't much of a choice.

He gave a slow blink at Peter, "You can probably choose. You're not going to want to, though. People with powers come with the urge to use them. That's why everyone gets into the messes they do – they want to use their power…Most of the time it's a choice between letting the bullet hit you, kill you, or…stopping the bullet. I don't have to use my powers; I could use a scalpel and drill and get the same effect – that's why the police couldn't figure out how I did it. I don't have to worry about a murder weapon with prints," he stated proudly, feeling clever and ahead of the game.

"Doing that," in reference to the drill/scalpel bit, he turned disparaging, "it's…it's…normal…it's cheap, it's average. It's too easy, anyone can do it – it takes _skill_ to do what I do. I'm the _only_ _one_ who can do what I do, except…for when you take my power," he hedged somewhat unhappily about that, ignoring thoughts of Samson, too. _Why did you tell him that?_ "I _like_ my abilities and they aren't something that can be separated." Sylar switched to warning and threatening, backing it up with an intense stare, "I won't let you take them." _I'm not a walking….Rolodex or power bank for you, either!_


	49. Morals of a Monster

_Day 13, mid-morning_

Peter's brows rose. He smiled slightly and looked away with a very soft snort _. I didn't get any choice in losing my abilities, buddy. If someone decides to neuter you, I don't think they'll ask permission first. I'm sure my dad wasn't the only one with that power._ He shook his head, deciding not to comment on any of that. "Didn't come to take your powers. And anyway, the way mine works these days doesn't 'take' anything. It just copies." He looked back at Sylar, reminded of a thought he'd entertained before about what would happen if he tried to use his ability here, on Sylar. It seemed like a bad idea, though, no matter how strange he'd felt a few times when he'd touched the man.

XXX

Sylar grunted, relenting. _That's right. But the ability he claims to have is Matt's, not Claire's. I just hope he isn't lying and he really has the Haitian's…_

XXX

Peter leaned back in his chair again, saying, "Story time again. This one's about abilities." _So you'll like it._ "I needed healing for a friend. I went to Noah. Asked him if he could help me find someone who had it. Claire's blood wouldn't work. He knew this kid, named Jeremy, who he'd last seen …" Peter pursed his lips and shook his head, "years ago. Kid was 15 or 16 now. So we went to his house …" Peter stared off into the distance, his eyes directed towards the shelves over where Sylar lay. "Plants outside were dead. Inside, his parents were dead. Had been for a week or so. Hard to tell, given that there weren't even any _bugs_ alive in the place." His nose wrinkled, but Peter looked distressed from more than a remembered stench.

"Jeremy was still living there. He couldn't … figure out how to do anything but kill." Peter swallowed, blinking himself out of it and glancing down uncomfortably at Sylar. He shifted in the chair restlessly. "He shot me, with a shotgun, right through the chest. Point blank." He chewed his lip. "Noah … heh. I guess he talked him through how to switch. How to 'channel' the other direction." Peter scratched at his upper lip with his thumb. "Obviously, I survived."

XXX

A scowl-type frown of intent interest (aka 'listening') crossed his face when Peter got to the parts about dead parents and pure killing. _Is he trying to insult me or…say something here? How much could he really have to say on the subject? He had my power for, what, a day?_ Something in him, something that probably wasn't actually him, twinged when Peter told about getting shot. His protective urges, however misguided and rotten, were useless now. Then his eyebrows went up a little. " _Noah_ talked him through the switch?"

XXX

Peter gave an 'I guess so' shrug about Noah talking Jeremy through it. He remembered Noah and Jeremy yelling, voices raised in tension, while he was very certain he was about to die. He had that moment of clarity just as he'd had twice before: when thrown off the roof by Claude and when falling off with Sylar. Peter had died a lot of other times, but the others had been too fast for him to think about it; he'd expected to revive, or he'd been too distracted by other things. This time, too, death had lost its grip on him, he'd woke up laughing.

XXX

 _What does Noah know about-…Oh. Yeah._ Sylar closed his eyes for a moment, too angry and sad to do much else. _Of course Peter's worth saving._ "I suppose you would get the benefit of everything…Knew that bullshit about him retiring was a lie, too. He never could keep his nose clean." A tilt of his head and a blink as he hit on what Peter probably meant by all that: "A healer who killed?"

XXX

"Yeah." Peter gave Sylar a very intent look for a second or two before breaking it, deciding that Sylar's interest was on the level. "A healer who killed," Peter mused, picking out a different puzzle piece to toy with while he talked. He looked back to Sylar, more conversational in his eye contact now. "Noah called it a 'dual ability', that he could either drain life or give it. Story doesn't end well." Peter's eyes slid out of focus as he pondered a few things. _I told Sylar he should have killed himself when he saw he couldn't stop himself. That's … that's what Jeremy did. Was it right?_ He sighed heavily. _Jeremy was just a kid, but did Sylar's age make a difference? Jeremy had had his power for years before losing control of it. And Sylar?_ Peter chewed the inside of his lower lip, uneasy at the hypocrisy he knew he was enacting. _How would I feel if Jeremy had killed someone I loved? But Sylar's different, right? He was trying to kill or at least impersonate the president and he didn't kill Nathan for his power. He did it because he_ _ **could.**_ He gave Sylar a half-second glare before turning his eyes to the puzzle to keep from escalating the tension. _Just leave it alone._

XXX

Not for the first time, Sylar wished for his full mental capacity – dual abilities was something of deep interest. _What does that mean for my ability?_ He'd tried fixing people, helping them, saving them a few times so he had a little experience, but it hadn't resulted in much experimentation. _Is there another side to it?_ He wondered, since that was all he could do for now. He beat down the flutterings of hope (ridiculous now that he didn't even have the problematic aspect of ability); he didn't want it crushed. _Of course it doesn't end well._

XXX

"He died. Jeremy, that is. Noah was fine." Peter turned back to Sylar. "But my point was that I've seen a lot of cases where channeling an ability … wasn't easy. You said people couldn't quit them, but they could be channeled. What does it take to do that? When I had my first ability, I never did figure out how _not_ to absorb an ability. And I tried. Tried every way I could figure out – not to meet Ted, not to get his ability, not to activate it. Didn't matter."

XXX

 _Of course he died. Saw that coming. They killed a kid._ _Does that mean they have something against people who have '_ _dual_ _abilities'?_ A mental snort and eyeroll accompanied Peter's admission that Noah was fine – _This is me real worried about Noah, Pete_. Sylar nodded at first, mostly sarcastic if that was possible. It made him feel a little better that control-less, powerful, perfect Peter couldn't control his ability much either. Then again, that meant that Peter was a hypocrite just like the rest – persecuting and damning Sylar for the same fault that every special suffered. Really, the only abilities he'd ever lost control of were his original, shapeshifting, and the memory-touch and only one of those was actually dangerous. He considered that pretty good control, given the number of powers he possessed. Peter was like a gun waiting to go off at all times. Sylar's temper was similar, but not the same.

Head down for a few seconds, he plucked at the blanket over his thighs before curiously looking up at Peter after he asked, "So you killed him?" _I'm not surprised. Noah would insist. Or do it behind Peter's back._

XXX

Peter stared at him blankly. _Ted? I didn't kill Ted._ _ **You**_ _killed Ted! Is his concussion and memory stuff that bad? Wait, no. He's talking about Jeremy. But … why would he think I …?_

XXX

Sylar thought on Peter's question then, again, wondering why Peter would ask about something Sylar clearly hadn't mastered himself. "I don't know anything about channeling. Every time I try I get my neck broken," he gave a dark, pointed glare, "or drugged or something like that. I'm lucky to wake up alive and in one piece as _myself_ , not stuck in a cell or related to a bunch of crazies. There's only so many times you can find out you're adopted or not related to people before it loses its thrill, Peter."

XXX

Peter frowned and his brows drew together. A number of nasty comebacks floated to the surface of his mind, but he pushed them back under. Sylar's tone, with his last words, shifted from being deliberately offensive to something else, something more like … wistful. It sent Peter's thoughts to how Sylar had reacted to the idea of being related. _'Brothers come back for each other.' He was a hell of a lot better brother at that point than Nathan was. At least, he understood loyalty. No, he didn't really. He had a fantasy of what family was like._ Peter snorted slightly and glanced away. _'Pie in the sky', 'dreamer', 'head in the clouds' – that's what Nathan and Dad would tell me, sometimes even Ma. Like it was a bad thing. And here I am about to accuse Sylar of the same thing, of being too idealistic, of wishing things were good and better?_

_He wouldn't have made that bad a brother._

Peter had no idea where that last thought came from. It made him instantly uncomfortable, sending his mind scrambling for a new topic, anything to distract and think of something else. "No, I didn't kill Jeremy," he blurted. "I left Noah to … Noah said he had it. My friend was dying. I had to get back. I thought," Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head. _I thought Noah could handle it._ "I thought wrong. The police took Jeremy in for questioning. Apparently, there was more background to things than just his parents dying. Noah got him out, but Jeremy accidentally killed someone else outside the police station and then turned himself back in. He was dead that night." He sighed heavily, looking away and trying not to think about the manner of death. He'd seen enough motorcycle accidents that he had a good idea of how gruesome it likely was. "Someone tore down the police station right after, crushed a bunch of people. Whole thing made the news." Peter chewed his lower lip briefly, looking back to Sylar thoughtfully. "I'm thinking it was the same guy who made that sinkhole in New York. Killed a bunch of people there, too."

XXX

Okay, so it wasn't Peter and Noah. Or so Peter said – supposed truths coming from a Petrelli about a Company man? Peter's story did sound a bit…far out to be a lie, though… _It made the news? Where was-? Hmm._ Sylar watched Peter's lip a moment as the empath played with it before returning his gaze innocently to the man's eyes. The concussion slowed him down, he felt more sluggish the longer he sat propped with pillow and blanket and company. It also made him a bit fussy – the fear of sleeping and waking up alone was still very much present.

Sylar scrunched up his face in thought. _Sinkhole…sinkhole…I assume he means a power, so who has the power to…?_ His face lit up and smoothed out, "'S probably Samuel. Sullivan. Uh…you know about the Carnival, /I told you I was there for a week/? Er…" he shook his head and refocused, "Longer…than that, I think…Anyway, Samuel's…not the guy he says he is. Those pebbles of his are pretty deadly. Think sandstorm." He backed that up with a 'yeah, I've been there' expression, not necessarily a proud one, crossing his arms. "I think I have myself a copy-cat fan," by which he meant Samuel.

XXX

"Samuel, huh?" _A copy-cat fan?_ Peter's brows pulled together and he looked down at the floor for a moment. _Samuel tried to recruit me. Does he kill the_ _people_ _he recruits? Is that what Sylar means? Or does he just keep them around him? What if he traps them somehow? That would explain a lot. Emma … she can summon people. Did Samuel create that sinkhole because he was pissed I turned him down?_ "What do you mean by copy-cat fan?" he asked as he looked at Sylar again. "What's Samuel up to?" _Because he was definitely up to something._

Peter was wondering if Samuel's 'plot' involved using Emma to draw specials to him. Perhaps he gained powers through proximity? Maybe Samuel had a form of empathic mimicry like Peter himself used to have, except instead of needing to think about the power-donor and remember what they meant to him, he needed to have them on hand? Someone like Emma would keep people from being able to say no to their captivity (at least initially - Peter wasn't sure how her power worked), but Peter didn't see how that fed into Emma being forced to summon thousands of people to their doom. What purpose did that serve?

XXX

Peter seemed contemplative. _He knows Samuel? Has…No, he hasn't been to the Carnival. He said the guy was in New York and that's where Pete works._ Sylar shrugged. He knew things at the Carnival had been heating up (in more ways than one) from desires he'd stolen from Lydia's kisses. Samuel was relying on a witless lackey, Eli, for mysterious tasks and Lydia was worried about the run-away Edgar and her daughter, and wanting Samuel out of the picture little did Samuel know. "Every time I show up there, he's talking about _family_ ," Sylar snitted out the last word, "And there's always new…family members. I mean, he can't be collecting them just for me," Sylar chuckled a little, his meaning obvious. The thrum of being amongst that many powers was an aphrodisiac, a narcotic. He was half-high the last time he'd visited and the haze had cost him a bit. It had been a while since he'd felt that. Failing to kill the slimy bastard still rankled, getting killed by him even more so, but it flew in the face of being hugged and welcomed, freaking baptized (what had he been thinking? That was just it – he hadn't been thinking). Samuel had gone out of his way to make Sylar ingratiated and comfortable during his stay(s); that hadn't gone unnoticed.

However, the Irishman had been too pushy in his delivery, his desperation was unmistakable – that whole bullshit about Velma? Valerie? That was a rip-off. The tattoo had been bunk as well. More was the pity. "He killed a cop that was after me. Or rather…Edgar did. Samuel seemed to want me back, my powers, my memories. _My_ memories. Because they weren't…in the body at the time." He glanced at Peter then, a little questioning. "He made me part of the family," he intoned with some light, hesitant pride and challenge. _Then he killed me and tried to be my best friend after giving me back my memories and baptizing me into the cult. What an idiot._

XXX

"Hmp," Peter grunted in displeasure. _Guess the thrill of thinking you're related to people hasn't worn off completely._ "Yeah, he had a lot to say about his family when I met him, too. I didn't have a good impression of him. His opening move was to sue me for negligence." Peter pursed his lips, looking away and concentrating. "You know … I told him I was wrong, that I'd made a mistake … but I still don't remember him being at the accident." Peter exhaled, realizing this didn't make much sense for Sylar without background.

XXX

Sylar blinked. _What? Sue him fo-…They met in New York, yeah. Peter got sued? For something he…thinks he didn't do? Doesn't remember? Did Parkman or the Haitian do something to him? Maybe that explains him being nice…_

XXX

"First thing I knew about him was a process server giving me papers that he was suing me. Samuel was going under the name of William Hooper. I found him in the hospital." Peter chewed his lip again. "What I noticed right away was that he was lying and used to doing it. He was trying to manipulate me. Hardly a word about his injuries and a lot of talk about how what I'd done was going to cause his family to starve." Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head, a more honest reaction than he probably would have had elsewhere. Being trapped with Sylar had its perks. "I just couldn't tell what he was aiming at. But I thought Hesam remembered him and then I found a picture of Samuel at the accident scene, so I decided he was right and my memory was wrong. I found him again. He accepted my apology and shook my hand. There was definitely something there – an ability, and something _else_. I felt it.

"That night, the tattoo of that compass that's on his carnival showed up on my arm." Peter rubbed at the spot on the inside of his right forearm. "Took me a while to find out what it meant. Wasn't until Samuel sent E- ..." Peter smiled sourly like he'd just been suckered into something. Being trapped with Sylar also had its downsides, as it seemed far too short a distance between Samuel giving Emma a cello and Sylar figuring out she had a power. Peter stood up, making no attempt whatsoever to conceal his sudden change of topic. "Hey, you want something to drink?"

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows arched when Peter mentioned the tattoo, then dropped into a frown when Peter grimaced in mental discomfort, cutting himself off. He just couldn't figure it and the segue to drinks wasn't subtle. He exhaled a grumpy sound lightly in answer, unhappy at not getting the full picture.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said, walking off into the kitchen. _Nearly slipped there. I dunno what to think about that. We're just talking. If we're talking, then I'm going to talk. How the hell am I going to censor myself for the next however long?_ He sighed and drew Sylar a drink anyway, leaving his own on the counter, partly drank. _Just like with Hesam and all the rest – just different subjects._

Peter dropped off the drink with a low but distinct, "You should be drinking as much as you can." He moved on without waiting for a response and sat down. "What do you know about that compass, anyway? Does it mean something?"

XXX

Sylar glanced back and saw the man return, with a glass. _Oh, stop mothering me. On second thought…never mind that. Keep nursing me._ While Sylar had done nothing to deserve this, he felt entitled to it. The Petrelli family certainly owed him dues aplenty. Besides, who didn't like getting pampered when they were sick or injured? "The compass?" Sylar snorted. _Why does he assume I know anything about them at all? What should I tell him: 'Nathan got a tattoo of a compass on his left nut while he was there'?_ "Yeah. Samuel gave one to me before /I came to see you/. It's…something to do with his power and…specials – it's how they find their way back to the carnival." His eyes scanned over Peter's frame, what he could see of it. "It's not there anymore…the tattoo?" _Might be kinda hot…Matching ability tattoos? Oh, God_ , he groaned to himself, wishing as he always did for more people in the world – for his full power (strange as that sounded) and for abilities to consume. His reaction was one of lust. _He could lead me right to them; fuck!_

XXX

Peter pulled up his sleeve, hesitating at Sylar's obvious examination of him. The expression on Sylar's face looked … odd. Sort of 'sizing him up' odd, or maybe being a bit too appreciative of how Peter looked. But nothing else came of it and Peter's forearm was not a part he was bothered to reveal, even if Sylar wanted to ogle it. He raised his right hand to display the area – smooth, normal, and currently un-inked skin. "It comes and goes. Or at least it did – showed up, disappeared, showed up again, then gone." He tugged his sleeve back into place. "Been gone for a while now." A few weeks, which Sylar would probably characterize as three years, so Peter didn't go there.

Instead, he reached up around his neck and tugged out the necklace he'd been given several years ago. "Do you think the compass is anything like this?" _If the compass is all about family and this symbol is about the Company, then is this some sort of weird work/life balance statement?_ Peter knew symbols held great power. He looked down at the squiggly bit of metal he often wore and rubbed it between his fingers restlessly. "Is this some sort of … rallying cry to call everyone together?" Peter's brows drew together in concern. All these forced adoptions seemed off. Family was important – perhaps the most important thing there was, but it wasn't something that could be bestowed with a few words and empty promises. Anyone who claimed it could was selling something. He looked up at Sylar. "I don't think I'm on board with that."

XXX

"Samuel gave me one, too," Sylar frowned a little. _But he had to use a stick in his mouth, not a handshake…_ He gestured with his own right arm. "It's gone now." _I don't know why. I used to miss it, back when there were no…faces here._ For very obvious reasons he didn't mention the nature of the tattoo or why he'd insisted on getting it.

"Like a plot to wipe us out? I doubt it, from Samuel." Sylar eyed the necklace, a little surprised that Peter still wore it given the connotations of the medallion – of course, it related back to the Petrellis, which should have been a sore subject. "He seems to want to run some kind of…hidden home for stray specials." Maybe Peter could understand that? Then again, maybe not… The Carnival had been pretty successful except for allowing Sylar himself in, and Captain Lubbock. "The Company was trying to keep us a secret by whatever means necessary; Pinehearst was trying to hand out abilities and destroy the world that way." Clearly, he was not a big advocator of either party, but he especially didn't want to become obsolete.

He shrugged. "You don't have to be. They're all gone. This is all just speculation." Planting his hands, he adjusted his half-upright position on the couch, making use of his bed pillow behind him to recline a bit more, still eyeing his companion. He could feel physical comfort (such as he was able to feel with a concussion) creeping up and he allowed it, feeling safe as Peter was only talking. In a way, he supposed, 'speculation' was an invitation to Peter, intentionally or not.

XXX

Peter frowned, but he didn't disagree about everyone being gone. "I suppose it only makes sense that each group would have a goal that's bigger than they are – a mission. It's just that so many of these missions don't seem to be in the best interest of … well, anyone." Peter's frown intensified and he turned to look at the puzzle, picking up a piece and trying it against another that didn't match it. "Like with my d-dad," Peter said, stumbling over the word and furtively glancing Sylar's way. This wasn't a subject Peter wanted to talk about with Sylar, but who else was there? It wasn't like he could talk to Nathan about it. He huffed.

"He's … He **was** really smart. He'd been," Peter grimaced and waved his right hand, the one with the puzzle piece, "at this 'special ability' thing for forty years maybe. So ..." He sighed, emoting all over the place. "He should have known what he was doing. He should have known … right, you know? But what he was doing just seemed so _wrong_."

XXX

"I don't…think the time spent doing something… _wrong_ matters. It's…abilities, Peter. It's pretty instantaneous," Sylar intoned seriously, speaking for himself. He knew it was the same for Nathan in some ways, but the senator had done some very strange things that lacked mental reasoning. The whole Building 26 fiasco for example. It made sense to Nathan, but there was no follow-through plan. Hell, the facility didn't even have proper holding cells or any medical treatment plans (not surprising, given how the Company used to work as well Sylar knew).

XXX

Peter did not follow that at all and as a result, he got quiet and focused his full attention on Sylar. Whatever internal dialogue Peter might have had in the course of trying to make sense of Sylar's statement had the volume turned way down on it. It was nothing but a murmur in the back of his mind as he listened to what else Sylar might have to say.

XXX

Sylar knew Samson had been on the hunt for at least as long as little Gabriel had been around, so thirty some years? If not more. Samuel had probably been working some angle with Joseph over the years, too. Mostly, he didn't want to be judged by the years he'd spent murdering – he'd been condemned the moment the temptation crossed his mind and that had nothing to do with time spent or evil deeds accumulated. "You can't understand why… _bad_ people do the things they do. You just _can't_ ," and suddenly it felt like everything Peter was saying was aimed at him personally and it caused his voice to attempt breaking and wavering. He felt his face twisting up – it probably looked scary and pathetic, certainly no silver-screen pre-cry moment – the tiredness was getting to him. How could the good guys ever understand? They could only ever see….black and white.

XXX

Peter blinked, feeling the jangle of Sylar's emotions a lot more strongly than he'd felt anyone's for a long time. He _did_ happen to be paying careful attention. _Can I understand why do people do bad things? It's because they want to, right?_ Thoughts of telling Nathan off about his ill-fated decision to set Homeland Security against people came to Peter's mind. _Why did Nathan do that? Desperate? Thought it was the right thing to do? Was he that afraid of people? Hell, you'd think I'd be the one flipping out about abilities after seeing that future where everyone was dead – not Nathan._

Sylar was taking this personally – no guesses needed for why. With Sylar there was that odd confession from future-Gabriel about the hunger he kept in check for the sake of his son – but that still meant it could be kept in check. _You think I can't understand why you've done what you've done? Is there no way you can explain it? Is it that you don't think I'd agree with you? Does it matter that I agree? Can I understand something if I don't agree with it?_ Peter honestly didn't know. He'd like to think he could. "I can't?" he said with doubt lacing his few words. He leaned forward, letting out a deep breath and issuing a challenge: "Try me."

XXX

His brain honestly fuzzed out for a few seconds, running in place and going nowhere on that…invitation, was it? Sylar stared at him for a few additional seconds, allowing who he was trying to talk to sink in. Yeah right this was some kind of unbiased, equal courtroom. Peter was just digging for leverage, no more no less. And, what was almost worse, Sylar knew Peter would think what he would think regardless of actual fact or reality.

"You can't. There's no talking about this with a Petrelli. Especially not the one who tried to Haitian my mind away so your worthwhile brother could live in my body and the Petrelli who routinely beat me into unconsciousness for trying to help. Please…tell me all about your 'understanding', empath Peter. I'm all ears," Sylar sneered with angry contempt the whole way through. _You're a hero; you're a Petrelli; you want your brother back; you want me to do a trick for you; you want my mind erased - you want me dead and gone; and you won't fuck me. Why the hell are you even talking to me? Treating me like…a patient? Don't think I'm so stupid or sick that I'll talk to you because you're talking to me like I'm a real person for a few days – that's been done before. I do not talk about my life with good reasons._

He was tired, running on fumes as his mouth was running on flames, but still it wasn't finished. "Do you really think you could lower your stainlessly pure self down into the mud and blood and set aside your morals to try to understand an evil monster? Think you could live as they do? Think you'd survive? The life of any evil monster would eat you alive and spit you back out as a toothpick because you're a spoiled, naïve, good-guy, hypocritical prick." Sylar had to inhale after that one, a slight ping going through his head that, perhaps, he'd said too much. _What's the worst he'll do? Beat me again?_

XXX

Peter leaned back in his chair, digesting that and giving a moment in case Sylar had something more to add. He wasn't angry, despite the venom Sylar was lobbing his way. Sylar was venting and being honest. It was a nice change from how emotionally constipated the man normally was. _Funny – it was a Petrelli whose motives I was asking about. But this isn't about Arthur anymore._ "Yeah, I did that." He shifted back forward, speaking seriously and calmly, staying completely focused. "And I've done more than that, some of which you know. What I don't get is how you know some of the things I've done, yet still think I couldn't understand someone who's made bad choices.

"I'm not comfortable calling anyone a monster." He glanced off to the side for a moment, thinking of his two encounters with the malformed Mohinder. "Physical transformations aside." He looked back to Sylar. "As for evil … I don't think you're as lost as you think you are." _At least I hope you aren't. I thought the dream meant you'd save her._ "For one thing, you've got some strong opinions about what I've done that's good and bad. Those are coming from somewhere, from some sense of morality and fairness."

XXX

At first Sylar shifted, busy trying to work his mind into rationalizing the inconsistency of perfect Peter doing bad things. His eyes and head snapped up at Peter's out and open refusal to call 'anyone' a monster. He was insulted, yet his soul thrilled a little because he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't at least felt like a monster. He sat up and forward for this. _I look like a monster?_ That confused him greatly. The natural camouflage his body offered had served him very well in hiding his true nature, although everyone, aware or not, still reacted to the raw power he exuded…when he allowed it to show. Never mind what he'd always felt like growing up. He frowned – first at being called an ugly troll (feeling fear, horror and sadness that he couldn't hide that part of himself even in his looks anymore), his frown deepening at the rest.

 _How the hell am I not lost? My act is…that I'm not lost…that's right. But I really am. And he can't ever know that._ Peter had worked him into a scowl by the end of it; he had a point and he was right on the money. He sniffed and haughtily scooted his way around to lie on his side, back to Peter, hissing out a yelp as his right hip pulled under him, "Aah!" His only response as he got situated so was a bitter, bitchy mutter of, "Morals of a monster. They're nothing compared to your saintly ones, I'm sure."

XXX

As usual, when Peter won an argument, it wasn't nearly as satisfying as he wanted it to be. He wasn't sure anyone's mind had been changed or anything useful had been accomplished. But maybe Sylar was going to sleep. That was a good thing, as Peter realized the conversation had likely only been agitating and bothering an already tired and hurting man.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair and ruffling his hair – once, twice, then bunching it up a third time and finishing up by swiping it out of his eyes. For good measure, he shifted and got out his comb, despite that calling into question why he'd tousled it to start with. Peter finished with his comb, returned it to his pocket, and watched Sylar for a while. He could see the man's face in profile. He was handsome. Nearly all the swelling had gone down and most of the discoloration from their fight had faded.

 _Monster._ Peter's mind drifted to when he'd told Mohinder that in the future, the man had changed into one. He'd disliked the term even then, but it was the only shorthand that had come to Peter's rattled mind at the time. He'd been drained of powers, abandoned by his father (which was something of a surprise, actually – the man hated him, Peter knew, but the last time he'd seen his dad for any length of time, he'd thought they were just normal father and son battles), strapped down, and about to be given a probably lethal injection. Seconds later, Sylar had burst dramatically into the room and saved him, for no reason Peter could divine other than the supposition of blood relation – ironic given that the 'real' blood relations had been the ones to put Peter there.

 _Morals of a monster. No talking about it with a Petrelli. Yeah, I can see the point. I can't trust them either._ Peter's face pulled a frown and he turned away, looking at the puzzle. He buried his mind in the minutia of quietly placing pieces for the next few hours, rising a few times to stretch and watching with concern as Sylar occasionally twitched or whimpered in his sleep. Peter frowned at that, too. _If I wake him every time he has a bad dream, then he'll never any sleep at all. He looks miserable._ Shaking his head, he left it alone and eventually started on making some simple salmon sandwiches to take with them for lunch. The grinding of the can opener sounded loud in the confines of the kitchen.

XXX

Sylar came to with a grunted groan. _What? Who…?_ He couldn't decide if he was irked or pleased to be woken. He'd been dreaming childhood nightmares of legitimate monsters – the under-the-bed and in-the-closet kinds. The shadows still got to him sometimes, if he wasn't paying attention, if he didn't swiftly convince himself it was his imagination. Tilting his head around, he searched the room for the source of the sound, imminently fearing that he hadn't really woken up and that the sound was just a medical device transformed for torturous purposes. Something that could grind tin (he knew it was tin) would have no difficulty with the soft flesh of a human body, namely his own.

Sylar worriedly cleared his throat, loudly, "Uhmm-hmm. Hey?" he called out, unsure of who would walk through the door or answer. With that, he pulled himself up by his elbows, trying to keep his head's motions to a minimum as he shifted to his left to face the kitchen. "What-what are you doing?" The sound was familiar, but it had been so long since he'd heard it, and after his disturbed sleep (which he might still be lost in), and being unsure of who he was at the moment (a glance at his hands confirmed he was in his own body at least), and whoever might make an appearance…Sylar hesitated to nail this down as his reality. He hoped for a response – silence might kill him because it would mean he'd truly lost his mind (again, if he wanted to get technical) – and a pleasant one from a pleasant source. That was probably asking too much.

XXX

Can openers, like most of the world, were designed for right handed people. It wasn't something Peter usually thought about, but then again he didn't usually have a bum right hand. He could hold the handles with his left, but he couldn't get the torque he needed with his right without a lot of misery. Irregular grinding was interspersed with grunts, curses, hisses of pain, and the occasional clatter as Peter dropped the damn thing. It hadn't occurred to him to save the task for Sylar.

He missed Sylar's first noises, but clued to the second, longer question. _Crap. I was being noisy. Did he hear me cursing? Well … he needed to get up anyway._ "Ah … I was just trying to get this can open," Peter said, setting can and opener aside and wiping some stray fish juice off his brace. He left the kitchen, saying, "I could really use some help in here. I was going to make salmon sandwiches for lunch. Need to know what you want on yours – butter, mayo, nothing at all?" Peter stopped next to the couch, looking at Sylar's confused, just-a-little fearful expression. He looked so open … It was weird given how frightening he could be at other times. Peter smiled softly, in a manner that could have passed as fond, though his feelings were more for the way Sylar looked than Sylar himself.

XXX

 _Peter_. For no good reason (really, the reason was probably Nathan, or so Sylar chose to blame) why his reaction consisted of his heart going _thub-lub!_ upon hearing Peter's voice. It was equal parts relief and affection (yeah…affection) and the rest fear and tension. _It's just Peter._ Telling himself that didn't help. He couldn't figure why Peter was here at all so he was a mess of confusion. _Can? Can of…what?_ _Oh. What?_ Then Peter said the magic word as he entered the living room – help. But Sylar was still stuck between deciding if the situation was dream or reality because, c'mon…this scene had to be a dream.

Peter was…smiling. Something foreign twisted in him because it wasn't often someone showed him a happy or pleased face and when they did it was usually a joke (at his expense) or they wanted something. And Peter just said he wanted 'help'. Sylar always hated when a person appeared to smile at him when they were really smiling at someone else standing behind or beside Sylar. He just wasn't pleasing. So seeing that expression made it that much more likely this was a dream.

"Am I awake?" he thought to ask. Getting lunch and a smile from Peter freaking Petrelli was a very big stretch, one his mind was amply capable of supplying and sick enough to provide.

XXX

Peter's smile broadened, taking that as a compliment – 'Am I dreaming? There's someone in my house making me lunch and taking care of me? I must be dreaming!' "Ha. Yeah, buddy, you're awake. Come on. Let's get you up." He put his right hand behind Sylar's shoulder and nudged to guide/encourage him upright. "If you're okay with it, I'd like to go out with-" Peter stumbled on the wording, nearly saying he wanted to go out with Sylar. "Go outside together. Um, go down the street to where we found that piano and see if I can't tune it a little or something. I think it might be good for us to get some air, see something outside of the apartment." _And get away from this constant ticking!_

He stepped back a little, giving Sylar some space while the man finished getting oriented. The salmon wasn't going anywhere; they weren't in a hurry. Peter had to tell himself that, though. The prospect of leaving on an expedition other than 'going shopping' or 'going back to my apartment' was exciting.

XXX

The smaller man's smile turned up the wattage and Sylar's stomach nearly lost it from nerves right then. He wanted to look behind him to see if someone else was standing in the bathroom; that might explain who or why Peter was smiling at all, but he was too paranoid to look away from the potential threat. _What is he smiling about?_ Peter reached out and Sylar had to control his cringe: 'Let's get you up', that wasn't a good sign. Oh, he picked up on the impatience alright. Either he would be made to get up or he could do it on his own in a damn hurry.

Sylar bit his tongue to hold back his noises of pain on sitting up as fast as he did, head swimming, hip spasming, nauseated, spine a little stiff. He wound up gasping, breathing harder and blinking to see straight. Peter didn't do anything more than touch him. Sylar couldn't figure out his part in this as he didn't even know what the impatience was about, besides maybe sleeping for too long (but Peter didn't seem angry – it just threw him off all the more). "What do you want?" he managed emphasis on 'want', his question surprisingly un-sassy as he was asking seriously. More information might tell if this was a head-trip or real-time. He turned so Peter was firmly on his left, his feet on the ground, albeit supporting himself on either side with a hand to the couch cushions.

XXX

Peter eyed Sylar. The man was acting hurt. Well, probably not 'acting'. _Did I get him up too quick? Maybe he's just stiff? Or maybe he slept wrong._ "Just thought maybe you could turn the can opener easier than I can. I was having a lot of trouble with it." Peter fidgeted. Help? Don't help? Go back to the kitchen? Say something useful? _Relax. He's just … getting his bearings._ "Just … catch your breath. Come on in when you're ready."


	50. Butterfingers

_Day 13, Noon_

Peter took off into the kitchen, setting out a couple sandwich bags and then getting out the cloth reusable bag he'd been using for groceries. He couldn't think of anything else they'd need. The place probably had a vending machine somewhere they could raid for drinks. Failing that, there were always apartments. He turned and leaned against the counter, trying to stifle his enthusiasm, frustrated already that Sylar couldn't keep up and that Peter would need to go slow.

Peter gave a small cock to his head as he stared at the faded, slightly uneven linoleum. _I'm thinking about … me. Not him. Not what he needs. I'm not … caring that I'm going too fast or he needs me to slow down._ His head tilted the other way now. _Of course, why_ _ **should**_ _I care about him? Given who he is?_ Peter had lived his life doing for others. He sensed what they needed or wanted and he provided. There was no thought about it, no consideration of whether or not he wanted to do that with his time. It just was. Barring his disastrous interactions with authority figures, his life was a constant flow of finding out how he could be what other people wanted him to be – the hero. His understanding was so intuitive that he rarely paused to think about what people would really benefit from, or about nuances of needs. He certainly had never caught himself, before now, thinking about what **he** wanted with no regard for the desires of another.

Peter was caught in the dilemma that not only was he being selfish, but he didn't want to be anything other. For the first time, he didn't think this other person deserved, or had a right to, Peter's selflessness. His eyes came up to the doorway, a small line in place between his eyes to mark the serious thought he was giving this.

XXX

Somehow Sylar did not get the feeling that he'd actually be allowed the time it would take for him to 'catch his breath'. Sylar took a few anyway, desperate to calm his nerves before throwing himself into what was sure to be the middle of the storm. _Why are "_ we" _tuning a piano again? Although a piano makes music…maybe he wants to play…and I could listen?_ That was very good motivation for going at all (or trying to go at all, rather). He'd lacked sound or company for too long. Grunting, he pulled himself to his feet (still dressed in pajama pants and a T-shirt from the day before, but he was groomed for the day) and wobbled into the kitchen blearily, rubbing his face before he was in view of Peter. _Something about a can opener?_ When he did round the corner to see Peter, the guy had a deep, thinking face on and that stopped him short in the doorway. He felt, as usual, that he was out of place and interrupting. Sylar tilted his head, curious as to what was causing that expression (of mixed feelings about it even if Peter was finally contemplating poisoning him) and wondering what he should be doing. _Really, that face can't be good for me. Peter's thinking…not a good sign?_ He didn't speak, in case that, in addition to his presence, was out of line; instead he tried to school his own face into a somewhat-interested blank canvas, ready and available for anything.

XXX

Peter straightened and focused on Sylar, waving at the can where it sat on the counter. "If you could finish opening that for me, I'd really appreciate it." He shelved his too-deep introspection. He wanted to go and he wanted to bring sandwiches, so that clarified what he needed to do at the moment. He glanced around the kitchen, again trying to think of what was next. Bread and a fork were already sitting out, so … spread? "What do you want on yours?"

XXX

Sylar followed the directions, glad to be given any at all, glad Peter's…mood had passed (leaving him unharmed). The can was easy with two hands; he shuffled over and threw away the 'lid' of the can, returning to the counter. "Mayo and mustard…Please."

XXX

Peter got out the condiments along with bringing over the butter and dinner knife. He stood there for a few seconds, trying to figure out how to juggle this, with who doing what, that would work out best. He only needed to butter one piece of his bread for his customary treatment, which meant he could use the salmon right now. And he didn't know how much of what Sylar wanted on his sandwich. "Uh … here. You hand me the salmon and the fork. I'll give you the bread and toppings. You set up yours like you want it and I'll get some fish on mine." Peter pulled out two slices for himself first, then pushed the stuff over in front of Sylar.

Peter smiled a little in quiet amusement that he and Sylar were cooperating on a project, however trivial. Sylar had proven to be a lot of help around the kitchen, which Peter appreciated a lot. The combativeness and uncertainty of the first few days had faded. Now they were standing practically shoulder to shoulder doing something together. It was cheering, given the prospect of being stuck in this place for the long haul.

XXX

Sylar took bread, condiments and knife, opening the jar of mayo with ease. He applied it with far less coordination than a watchmaker or brain-man should, or so he felt, and that upset him because his hands wouldn't obey (even though he knew the cause was his brain – it was always at fault). Something with the balance involved with knife and delicate bread with both hands was taking too long, and he did try to hurry and be thorough because…Peter was in a hurry. He didn't question that or his own rushing. Mayo went on one half of the bread, mustard on the other.

XXX

Peter handed over the can of salmon and the fork after he was done, waiting for Sylar to hand him the knife. "Knife, please," he prompted when Sylar didn't seem to clue to that right away. Peter licked off the mayo and mustard without a second thought, followed by using the knife to cut into the stick of softened butter for his own spread.

XXX

After that Sylar was stumped, left holding the knife, literally. _Ha? Murder weapon_. He gave a slight start, mostly at hearing Peter's voice again (and so close to him), looking at the utensil before passing it over. Peter then licked the knife…and stuck it in the butter. Sylar gaped. When he recovered, his voice was part whine, part rebuke, "Peter! What the hell?" He shelved his thoughts of, _Well, I don't mind watching him lick things, but the rest of that…_ "That's gross!" Now his tone was definitely wheedling, but he couldn't help it.

XXX

"What?" Peter's voice sounded more startled and confused than outraged or argumentative. He shot a quick glance down at his partly-buttered bread. _You aren't one of those guys who object to meat with dairy, are you? I always thought that was just beef and pork anyway._ "It's … it's just butter," Peter stammered uncertainly, thrown on the defensive and having no idea what Sylar was objecting to.

XXX

"You licked the knife and stuck it in the butter." Sylar with dripping condescension, not buying Peter's little innocence act. _I'm not Nathan and that won't work on me._ Peter's fuck up, intentional or otherwise, was obvious.

XXX

"Well, uh ..." _Yeah, that's gross._ He looked dumbly at the butter again, trying to weigh if he should defend himself aggressively, maybe by asserting there wasn't anything wrong with what he did? After all, Peter helped with food prep all the time and … yeah, indefensible. And he didn't want to pursue that angle and perhaps make it so Sylar refused to eat anything Peter made. He wondered how many times Sylar had not noticed Peter tasting things while they were cooking. Given the number of times he'd 'gotten away with' it (generally without considering any potential wrongness to what he was doing), he didn't feel like apologizing, either. "So what?" Peter threw that out there with mild belligerence, committing himself to little and hoping that Sylar would back down. "It's _my_ sandwich," he added, trying to distract from the part about putting the knife into the communal butter. _I'm not doing anything wrong … right?_

XXX

Blinking and honestly stunned by the insinuation that proper food etiquette was above his ilk and that he should just roll over and take that disrespect, Sylar decided that rolling over once would only encourage more of the same from Peter. With some heat, he shot back, "So that's unsanitary and gross. That's my butter you just licked. Why would you do that? Do you know how many germs exist in the mouth? Do you think I want that all over my fucking food?" _Really, Peter! Just because it's my fucking butter, it's okay to spit in, is that it? I'm not a monster, but you'll slobber on my food and that's okay? That doesn't even make sense!_

XXX

"I didn't lick the butter!" But Peter was retreating, physically at the very least, as he went to the sink and tossed the knife beside it with more force than necessary. It clattered noisily on the counter. _And it's not YOUR butter as long as we're eating here together all the time!_ "There's nothing gross about it. Germs don't live on butter. That's why people leave it out all the time." Peter had no idea if that was true or not. He had the feeling he was going to get himself into trouble that direction. Butter was a dairy product and dairy products went bad, so why did people leave butter out? "It's like … olive oil. It doesn't go bad." That seemed like a safer analogy. People left that stuff in the pantry forever and it was just fine. Biblical folks did, too. Of course, they probably didn't contaminate it first, but they couldn't have been _that_ cleanly two thousand years ago, could they?

XXX

Sylar twitched and winced at the noise (and noise level) of the knife being thrown into the sink. Peter was still speaking, so he listened, feeling strangely that he was the one doing something wrong, not Peter.

XXX

"There's nothing gross about it. Germs don't live on butter. That's why people leave it out all the time." Peter had no idea if that was true or not. He had the feeling he was going to get himself into trouble that direction. Butter was a dairy product and dairy products went bad, so why did people leave butter out? "It's like … olive oil. It doesn't go bad." That seemed like a safer analogy. People left that stuff in the pantry forever and it was just fine. Biblical folks did, too. Of course, they probably didn't contaminate it first, but they couldn't have been _that_ cleanly two thousand years ago, could they?

XXX

"I…" was Sylar's brilliant defense, his head thundering and it felt like it was blinding him of reason and expression. Peter's explanation made sense, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember if it was factual or not. He had no idea how to find out – obviously asking Peter, his erstwhile caretaker, wasn't going to work. _Olive oil?_ Sure, that stuff lasted for a while, but that had nothing to do with butter or germs near as Sylar could determine (which wasn't accurate in and of itself either). Assuming the topic truly was germs or butter. _I'm confused…_

XXX

Peter got out another knife from the drawer and came back, making an elaborate show of using the new knife to carve off the next chunk of butter, along with an exasperated but somewhat playful look at Sylar. "See? All _my_ germs are going on _my_ sandwich which will go in _my_ mouth. The butter is purified again." He tried to put a good face on it, hoping Sylar would drop the matter. He'd fixed it and he'd make sure to be more careful next time if Sylar was in line of sight.

XXX

Feeling put on the hot seat for doing something wrong, he didn't know what it was, and properly put in his place, Sylar experienced hurt. Peter acted like whatever it was Sylar had done was far beyond what Sylar thought it was, though that wasn't a new occurrence in his life _. I-I didn't think it was that bad…I don't even know what I did…_ But somehow, it was his fault, not Peter's. _I was just upset about the b-…Oh. I can't…be upset now? Not even about my food? What will he do next time I complain and he has a sharp object?_ Sylar considered the force behind throwing the knife and the elaborate posturing and sarcasm Peter made when getting a new knife. The threat sunk in and Peter made his point. Sylar's face shifted from hurt and confused to understanding and blank with a healthy hint of 'I don't like this; I still think you're wrong.' "Okay," he said quietly, still unhappy, ducking his head back down to tend to his sandwich (at least, he _thought_ that's what he'd been doing before, given the ingredients that lay before him), applying his probably-contaminated salmon to the bread. _That's still really gross. I don't…see why I have to put up with this._

XXX

 _'Okay?'_ Peter thought, watching Sylar as much as he could out of the corner of his eye as he assembled his own sandwich. _That's it?_ He replaced the cover on the butter dish and pushed it to the rear of the counter. Peter carried his knife over to the sink, resisting the urge to defiantly lick this one, too. He set it down with less flourish. Sylar was acting weird – a bit drawn up, fidgeting with his sandwich, head down. _I wonder if I intimidated him somehow?_ Peter couldn't think of what he'd done that might be taken that way, so he gave a slight roll of his eyes and went to collect up a baggie for his sandwich. As he passed by Sylar, the man stopped all movements until Peter took his former position next to him. Peter wasn't sure what to say about that. He bagged his sandwich. Finished, Peter turned and scrutinized Sylar more obviously as he mulled over what it meant that Sylar had conceded so quickly.

XXX

Sylar felt the other man's eyes on him. He'd been spotted. Surely that was a silent social demand for an explanation or submission of some sort. Sylar angled himself away as much as possible as he hastened to conclude making his sandwich. When Peter didn't quit, Sylar glanced towards him, murmuring a half-honest, half-confused, "I'm sorry…?" to see if that would lift the watchfulness or alleviate whatever Peter's problem was (Peter seemed to think it was Sylar's fault to begin with).

XXX

"You … you don't need to be sorry," Peter said slowly, looking away. _I was the one who did something wrong, not you. Is he afraid I'll leave if he argues with me? Is that what he'd do if our positions were reversed? What kind of care would he take of me?_ Peter's eyes unfocused a little as he thought about Sylar taping his hand a few days before, holding the brace for him a few days before that. He wasn't sure what kind of a caretaker Sylar would be. _Seems likely Sylar doesn't know either._

XXX

That said, with nothing else to do, Sylar looked around until Peter told him, "Bag your sandwich."

 _What? Where are…?_ He glanced for the bags, spotting them, procuring one and getting his meal in with little trouble. He wanted to move away, but didn't, even after his tasks were done. Sylar was not comfortable or appreciative of Peter's orders (even if he supposed they were rational – _Sylar_ was the irrational one here, of course) and once they were completed, he had nothing to do but stand there in the man's continued presence – something that might prove dangerous in long periods.

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar. "Get that bag over there and lets put the sandwiches in them. Is there anything else you want to take with us?"

XXX

Sylar turned to his left and saw the canvas bag Peter had been using of late; he brought it within their combined reach and assisted in loading it, once again, without question or comment. _I'd like a Taser to keep you away from me if things get bad. I really can't keep up…This isn't good._

XXX

Peter glanced down Sylar's form, giving a tiny jerk as he noticed something amiss. "Um, you need to change into jeans. Get some socks and shoes on. And you'll need your jacket. It's been gloomy and overcast out there for most of the week." Pretty much since they'd had the fight. Peter had wondered if there was a connection, but speculating about it seemed as pointless as trying to pretend he didn't need sleep or food here in this crazy world. The world was as it was, regardless of what was causing it. "I'm pretty sure it rained or drizzled overnight once," he added conversationally, wondering if that was a new thing for Sylar here or if it was just something that happened now and then. "The pavement was wet when I went out."

XXX

"Huh?" Sylar looked down at himself more slowly because of his head. It took him longer to reach Peter's conclusion, but he got there, taking that as a dismissal, he shuffled out into the living room to look for the items. He wasn't in any particular hurry, aside from Peter's jittery mood. They weren't anywhere apparent, in plain view. He thought to check where Peter was before he began and saw Peter watching him from the entryway; he straightened and did his best to walk like he wasn't hurt; Peter was searching for weaknesses. When he'd fooled his nurse into disinterest - Peter having returned to the kitchen - he moved slow once again, his steps less sure, his expression lost. A few long moments later, he'd gathered socks and jeans, taking them into the bathroom on habit, instinct – there was company in the apartment after all. He tripped on the leg of the jeans on the way, grunting and huffing, but Peter wasn't there to see and his neck remained unbroken. He sat on the covered toilet seat – door shut - and changed pants, then suffered through the splitting pounding of the headache by leaning over to apply the socks. _Uhh. That hurts. It hurts. Everything hurts. Why are we going out? Why do I have to go?_ He did stop to check his hair, sweeping it back again anyway, just in case.

Sylar returned to the kitchen, jean- and sock-clad, clearly forgetting the other two garments. He waited once more for direction, trying to take up as little space and annoy as little as possible.

XXX

Peter puttered around the kitchen while Sylar did his thing. He put away the mayonnaise and mustard, then sealed the bread and put it away. Lacking anything else to do, he went the extra mile and wiped up the crumbs from the counter and rinsed the knives. There really wasn't much else to do while Sylar was in the bathroom, so he washed the knives, thinking still-slightly-outraged thoughts about Sylar calling his habits 'gross'.

Then Sylar returned, still missing shoes. That made Peter think about what else he'd directed and realize that wasn't the only thing missing. "Shoes, Sylar," he said with an exasperated tone. "You're gonna need your shoes. Do you know where they are?" Peter gave a quick sweep of the kitchen, having no idea where the guy kept most of his things. _Next to the door?_ Peter herded Sylar out of the kitchen, looking next to the door. _No shoes._

XXX

 _Uh-oh. No, I don't know where they are, obviously_. Peter advanced on him and Sylar backed up, not liking the empath's tone. His hands were jerked from his pockets as he back-pedaled into the living room. He was ready to defend because he couldn't tell what Peter was going to do – or do to him – about the lack of shoes. "Uh…um…" he threw out as a stalling tactic (really, it was all he thought to say), his voice a bit strained. Sylar didn't feel like incurring more bodily harm than strictly necessary. _Think…try to think. Where were they last?_ On thinking that, he heard his mother's voice harping that at him, and not just about shoes. It was a good lesson – one he would have figured out eventually, but this one had her voice ingrained into it like a broken record. It probably helped freak him out more in his…impressionable state.

XXX

"Sit … just … sit down, Sylar." Peter considered reaching out and steering the guy to the couch, but thought better of that. Touching him seemed like a bad idea with Sylar acting apprehensive like this. Instead he just gestured and waited for Sylar to comply. "I'll find them." And just like that, he spotted the toe of one shoe sticking out from next to the couch, between the tote and the furniture. He maneuvered around his companion, picking up the shoes and handing them to him.

XXX

Sylar sat as directed, not wanting to find out what frustrated Peter would do if he didn't. Peter was clearly frustrated with him and he didn't like that feeling at all. He couldn't figure out how he'd gotten so bad all of a sudden. _(It's just shoes…) You can't keep track of your own goddamn shoes? No wonder he's upset! (I don't…want to make trouble…) Than keep track of your shit._ Luckily Peter first offered to look for them – he'd certainly do a better, faster job at it than Sylar would – then found them almost immediately after. "Thank you," he murmured gratefully and bent down to slip them on, tightening and tying off the laces as best he could, but the pressure to his head upon leaning over was incredible.

XXX

Peter turned away immediately, scanning around the place. "Now where's your jacket?" He gave Sylar a quick glance and then went to the closet, looking around through it without so much as asking permission. _Am I being a dick or am I being helpful, trying to find his jacket and get us both moving? Probably being a dick._ He sighed, not having found what he wanted anyway. There was no jacket, although there were a couple shirts heavier than what Sylar was currently wearing that would be better than nothing. _It's got to be around here somewhere._

XXX

 _Fuck. The jacket, too? Ye-ah, we're going out, remember? Can't remember anything today._ "I don't know," he said in the same tone as before, minus the gratitude. He looked up at the sounds of Peter…opening his closet. While Peter had already seen the contents, the action seemed a little…rude. Peter thought he owned the place, which, again, wasn't anything new to Sylar. _Act like a kid, get treated like one,_ he thought with resignation. He tried to think back if he'd ever tried to get the guy to respect his belongings. _Aside from…butter, I guess._

XXX

"Maybe it's in the bathroom," Peter muttered, closing the closet door and passing by Sylar on his way there. A quick search was fruitless. _His bed? Didn't he get undressed over here?_ Peter went to Sylar's bedside, trying to remember. _I brought Sylar in. He sat on the couch. I cleaned him up. He … he took his jacket off and used it like a pillow._ Peter turned and looked at the couch. Sure enough, there under the blanket, an easy arm's reach from Sylar, was the jacket, wedged into the seam of the couch.

Peter walked over slowly, hands a little out to either side, palms forward. "Hey." He tried to soften his voice some because he had the feeling he was being a bit rough. "Your jacket's right here." He pulled it out and offered it. Peter gave a brief mental debate about taking a breather or taking off right away. His stomach growling settled the matter. They could rest and hang out wherever they were going rather than impatiently cooling his heels here, waiting for whatever. "Put it on and we'll take off."

XXX

Sylar breathed something of a sigh of relief. His companion found the- his wayward jacket. Both shoes and jacket had been within reach the entire time, too, but Peter made no additional comment about that, didn't rub it in. Best of all, Peter appeared to take his intensity level down a notch, which Sylar appreciated almost as much. Sylar took the jacket, flashing a brief twitch of his lips towards a grin in thanks, both for the assistance and the muted behavior. He threw the jacket around himself with hands that decreased their previous shaking and poked his left fist at the armhole a few times before succeeding. He looked up at Peter on hearing the hunger pangs. That was…kind of amusing. He bit back his facial expression in reaction to it, though his face probably shifted before smoothing out again: situation normal. Standing, after a few seconds to balance, he moved past Peter and towards the door with the feeling that he really was forgetting something now. Sylar hesitated at the hallway, betwixt kitchen, living room and entry door.

XXX

Peter grabbed his own jacket off the chair, swinging into it with only a few pangs from lingeringly sore muscles and joints. Head down as he followed, he was wondering if he should look out the window before they went or what, when Sylar stopped suddenly. Peter noticed out of the corner of his eye and nearly ran into the guy before putting on the brakes. His left hand flew up and touched Sylar's hip or waist. "Oh! Sorry. Almost ..." Yeah. Peter sidestepped away to the right, looking at Sylar expectantly for the cause of the delay.

XXX

"Um…" Sylar gulped. Even that casual touch was distracting. Whatever he'd been trying to remember or think on was blasted into a million pieces on that contact. He looked once, quickly, at Peter, noting that he wasn't going to be slugged or dragged around or berated or even sighed at for having stopped the show. That helped. He turned in something of a half circle, taking his time, looking over his apartment, hoping whatever he'd forgotten would jump out at him with obviousness. When his eyes reached the kitchen, he spotted it. Sylar pointed to the cloth bag with the sandwiches inside, saying to the closer, more mobile man, "Peter," with something of a nod. His body language said something to the effect of 'would you?'

XXX

Peter's brows rose slightly and he pulled his head back in surprise at the familiarity, although it certainly wasn't out of place since he'd been virtually helping the guy dress. He turned and looked where Sylar was gesturing. "Ha. Yeah, almost forgot. Got distracted with the clothes and stuff." _We're a weird pair, aren't we?_ Peter thought with a moment of warmth. He reached for the bag and slipped it up his right arm to the elbow, turning back and hesitating himself now. He made a couple formless gestures as he mocked out how he might support or catch Sylar if the man lost his balance. He mentally ran through different positions – leading, guiding, or even the more involved Sylar's-arm-over-Peter's-shoulder that they'd used to get Sylar from the fight to his apartment. In any of them, having the bag on his right arm seemed best, even if it was a bit purse-like at the moment. The appearance of masculinity was not very important.

Peter settled on leaving the bag where it was and waved decisively at the door. "Let's go." And out they went.

XXX

He stifled a sigh. _Back to it, I see. He's really going to frog-march and drag me to the piano whether I'm up for it or not._ Once he realized the severity of it, Sylar did his best to settle into 'alert energy conservation' mode. He knew he couldn't go at his own speed, either, for Peter would be on him, hovering or huffing at him. Keeping up was his only option. He didn't like that much, but none of this (barring the sandwich) was for him. _I could have sworn he said bed rest and sleep…This just doesn't seem like a good idea to me._ Hell, just being in the hall was a little chilling, so, yes, Sylar was biased in wanting to slide back under his blanket on the couch. If he did that, though, Peter would just leave him there for God-alone-knew how long and go without him.

Hands at his sides, he proceeded down the hall, leaving Peter to shut the door which he did, Sylar heard. He walked at a medium-slow pace, still limping on toes and hip though he tried to cover that up; his back and neck were protesting the motion. When he rounded the corner to get to the elevator, taking it because he really didn't want to take his chances with Peter in a stairwell, he noticed the nurse was catching up to him, like he'd been lingering behind for some reason. That was baffling. _He's not admiring the view, not with this limp; even if he is practically riding me to get me going on this adventure._ He slowed to accommodate, until he was waiting with Peter at the elevator, having pushed the button already for the doors to open.

XXX

Peter hung back. He was still impatient, yes, but he'd nearly rear-ended Sylar once already and he also needed to see how well Sylar was moving. He didn't know if he needed to give a lot of support or just walk slowly. For now, Sylar had a lot of surfaces to hang onto as they made their way to the elevator. Peter glanced into the cart of books and at the piles of stuff scattered around. Peter wasn't a neat freak or compulsive about organizing things, but the stuff still nagged at him. He didn't even really want to put it up or throw it out so much as understand what it was doing here, in Sylar's head. _Cluttered? Sylar's head is cluttered? What's it mean that I emptied my apartment? That I'm brainless or something?_ He didn't feel brainless or unthinking, so that couldn't be it. _Maybe he has a lot of baggage to unpack and that's what all this stuff is? Though if that's the case, then why's my apartment empty? I'm not exactly baggage-free myself._

He watched Sylar contemplatively. _You and I both have a lot of … stuff to process before we can be …_ Peter's mind blanked, not able to find the right word. 'Normal', 'sane', 'decent' … none seemed right. _Functional, maybe._ "Hey, I'm glad you're coming with me." Peter made a tip of his head. "Getting out. Today. Thanks." He hoped it wasn't more effort that Sylar was up to.

XXX

XXX

They moved inside the car and Peter pressed the button for the lobby as Sylar settled into the railing, making it look casual even though it was more of a slump. At the man's dialogue, Sylar made a quizzical, somewhat wary face. _So now I'm likeable? We go on a trip and now you like me?_ Up til now Sylar was pretty damn sure he'd been the ball-and-chain holding Peter back. Still the nurse had some moments of appearing calm, relaxed and peaceful, even happy – he'd given a smile just earlier. 'Drag your patients around much, Petrelli?' he thought to quip, but didn't. _He's glad?_ The door dinged and he moved to exit the car, making a half nod back, "Yeah, sure." _He's thanking me for this? Why does he act like I have a choice? He must be planning something. That's the only explanation. I bet he's gonna make me clean up the glass he broke._ Sylar walked through the lobby and out onto the street, catching the full effect of the overcast clouds and slightly rainy weather in his face. He was relieved that Peter was carrying the bag because looking over the wide streets, which offered him no support; he knew he'd need all the balance he could get. His mind was filled with the fear of stumbling or growing tired, left to crawl after Peter as he walked away and left him there on the sidewalk and that was going to have to be enough motivation to keep himself upright and moving.

Again he waited, bracing himself for the journey, for Peter to indicate their direction. _I don't even know where he's going to find him_ , he thought with more paranoia disguising his fear.

XXX

Peter came outside, looking up at the crappy weather. It wasn't nasty by any means and certainly wasn't something to send him back inside, but it wasn't good. "I should have brought an umbrella. Well, it's not far." He popped his collar against the chilly air and gestured to the right. For the first block (the same one that Sylar's apartment building was on), they could walk under the overhang of the buildings, with a firm (though glass) wall on the right if Sylar wanted support. Peter fell into step on the man's left, moving slowly and taking small steps.

XXX

Somehow that gesture made him feel better – just a little bit. Peter popping his collar was familiar to him.

XXX

Once they were past this block, they would cross a street and have a half block of nothing useful as support (well, aside from trees and a flimsy fence on this side of the street, and intermittent planters on the other side). Then, if they went to the other side of the street, they'd be back under an awning for the other half of the block. The building Peter wanted to go to was on that side, the next block over. So from where they were, they had a half block of protected distance, a street to cross diagonally, a half block of open space, another half block of protection, cross another street, and they were at their destination. Seemed simple, right?

Peter sized Sylar up discreetly as they walked. He seemed stable enough. But he was also very stiff, very careful, pale, and shooting Peter irregular, jerky looks. The looks were like Peter was a predator who might at any point detect weakness and pounce. Sylar looked stressed and scared, but reading this guy's emotions was like deciphering code. Peter thought about what had worked before. Even though he was itching to ask Sylar if he needed or wanted help, he was virtually certain that wouldn't get him an honest answer – just an 'I'm fine' like earlier.

Peter swapped the bag of food to his left, taking the straps in his hand. He stepped closer to Sylar and offered his right arm, sticking out his elbow like he was offering to guide a blind person. "Take hold of my elbow," he said, direct and plain, very intentionally not asking, but telling. He had to say the words distinctly and with effort to avoid asking, 'do you want to take hold …'. The obvious answer to that was 'no', because no, Sylar didn't want help. Or rather, he did want it, but he couldn't get his ego out of the way enough to ask for it. So Peter didn't make it a question.

XXX

 _Uh…what?_ At first confused, he caught on when he saw the elbow. Sylar immediately felt like a girl being asked to dance or maybe a granny being asked about assistance to, yes, cross the fucking road, with Peter's elbow proffered like that. He frowned. Another glance at Peter's face made it clear this wasn't optional. He set his mouth, trying not to sneer at the offer, really. _He's making me dependent on him now. Great._ He didn't bother to hide his reluctance in taking Peter's arm – _Thank God there's no one here to see this, thank God there's no one here to see this, thank God…_

XXX

After fifty feet or so of walking, Peter tried to make small talk – the contact, even so slight, changed the tenor between them from semi-comfortable silence to Peter wanting to engage. He didn't know what to say, so he tossed something out at random. In a low, neutral voice he asked, "Did you grow up here, in this neighborhood?" This neighborhood that was all in Sylar's head, but it was a representation and served well enough for the conversation.

XXX

The silence and steps dragged on until Sylar was quite uncomfortable. His hand was fisted in Peter's sleeve jacket to hold Peter to him in case the nurse made a dash for it or perhaps tried to trip him or…something, he didn't much know. Peter was too short for this to really work, but he was solid and something as they neared the next block where there would be no otherwise support. "Ha!" The question was an odd and unexpected one, so he laughed, sort of. "No, no. No," he shook his head, amused and a little envious of the idea. _He thinks I came from somewhere like this? I must…be doing a good job, then._

"I was raised by wolves," Sylar elaborated.

XXX

Peter laughed at that and looked back to flash Sylar a grin. "Oh, really? Ha." He shook his head slightly. "I was just wondering. So how old were you when you moved here?" He ambled diagonally across the street, jay-walking for the hell of it. He noticed Sylar really had a grip on his sleeve. The fabric was tight around Peter's arm. The weird part was that Sylar didn't seem to be using it for stability. It was more like he was just hanging onto him. _Huh._

XXX

Another strange question, not one he was unwilling to answer, though, so he did. "Um…four or five, I think….?" _I wasn't- I don't think I was born here. Don't know where I was born, actually. There was that…diner. Big Jim's. I think I was about that age._ "My mom would tell you I was born at Queens Hospital, but…" he exhaled and shook his head again dismissively. It didn't quite register what exactly he'd let slip (or nearly so) for a moment. It sunk in and he panicked some more, needing a hasty, believable, cover-up. "Uh…I mean…She was….easily…confused." _She's not the only one…_

XXX

Peter glanced back again. "Yeah? Moms," he said, looking away with an eloquent expression of disapproval towards certain maternal figures. Almost entirely, Peter meant his own, but it was … interesting to know that Sylar's mother hadn't been a stable, trustworthy element in his life, either. He recalled Sylar saying something about not knowing if he had any siblings. That could mean a lot of different things.

"I had a call once – EMT work - for a teenage boy who'd overdosed on drugs. The kid's mother had called us, but as soon as we got there, she started insisting he was fine and that she didn't know why we were there. We had the right address. We asked to see him anyway and he definitely was in trouble. So we started getting him out of there and all the time his mother is telling us that he hadn't taken anything, he was just sick from eating too much candy. There was a grandmother in the home. Far as I could tell from seeing her around, she had some form of senile dementia. There was no one else in the house. Poor kid. We were loading him into the ambulance and his mom was yelling at us that he'd never done anything wrong and didn't deserve to be taken away from her again. The kid was real quiet through everything. Of course he was hurting, but he was _real_ quiet." Peter hesitated, Sylar's adamant 'I'm fine' and persistent efforts to conceal his injuries coming to mind, along with the odd way he was hanging onto Peter's sleeve. "Once the doors were shut, the boy started talking. He said his mother knew he was doing pills and stuff, but … I remember he told me, 'She doesn't talk to people. I mean, she says things, yeah, but she doesn't talk to them. Like Gramma.' It stuck with me."

XXX

Sylar swallowed. _See I'm not the only one._ He felt something shift in his chest at this story. He couldn't help but feel a little bit bad for the other kid because he knew just how horrible that could be. He couldn't help but wonder why the kid talked and admitted to the drugs. Clearly, the boy hadn't learned that every scrap of information circled back to the mother and telling medical officials anything was definitely a bad move. "Did he make it? The kid?" Sylar couldn't believe he was asking after the well-being of a drug-user, one too stupid to keep his mouth shut at that, but he was, apparently. _If Peter keeps making these not-subtle metaphors, maybe there's something to this ending._ The answer or conclusion seemed quite important, enough to ask after it.

XXX

"Yeah. Yeah, he did. They pumped his stomach and kept him overnight for observation. He was okay, as far as the drugs went. I don't think it was a suicide attempt." There was something to Sylar's tone that implied he was deeply interested, so Peter hesitated for a moment, thinking back and trying to pull up anything else he remembered about the case. "I heard they had to call social services to have someone pick him up, though. His mother didn't show. I hope they looked into his family life."


	51. A Little Off-Key

Day 13, Afternoon

"That, um…sounds…rough. You really can't talk to those people. They don't…see or hear you." Sylar attempted to keep his voice on 'commentary' mode - neutral by-stander with no experience - even though his eyes lost focus and he slowed his walking pace slightly, his head ducking down briefly before he stood straight as if nothing of interest had been said or felt. _I'd considered Alzheimer's but it doesn't work like dementia._ It was uncomfortable, bordering on painful, for him to try to diagnose his own mother. He didn't want there to be anything wrong with her (or himself) at all, but he dealt with the evidence that the wrongness, the brokenness, existed every day. As a child, he remembered being afraid of being like her when he grew older – losing touch with the world and getting weird looks like he was crazy and needed to be on pills or locked away or lobotomized (an odd worry for a child, but now he knew why and it made sense in a sick kind of way), needing to be taken care of and not having his own life, his ability to function stripped from him.

XXX

Peter glanced back at Sylar, gathering that there was an emotional reaction going on back there other than just 'hey, that's an interesting story, what else happened?' He was silent for a few paces as they walked along, thinking back over the topic and Sylar's comment about his mother, his past comments about his father not being present in the house as he grew up, then about Sylar's interest in Jeremy's situation, and Peter's other suspicions of Sylar's past along with the talk of channeling or not his ability. There was definitely a picture coming together here. _It might explain things, but that's it. An explanation is not a justification. It's just not. No matter how bad his life was, that doesn't make it right for Sylar to kill and … do everything he did._ He ran through possible things to say – asking Sylar about childhood friends who might have been a support against an unstable parent, asking more pointedly about Sylar's mother, and so on. But it wasn't Peter's place to ask. Sylar had not extended that level of trust yet. And anyway, Sylar … well, he was telling his story, Peter realized. In bits and pieces, but he was telling it.

He exhaled heavily. "I hear you," he said, realizing a beat after saying it that it linked up with what Sylar had last said. He tensed a little, then let it go. It didn't say anything Peter hadn't meant.

XXX

Sylar thought, _No you don't. You just think you understand. You hear what you want to hear no matter what I say._ He shifted and didn't comment. There was too much behind it. That and he didn't know how to articulate a general feeling of frustration and not-being-understood.

XXX

After waiting a few beats, Peter cleared his throat and changed the subject, asking, "How far away was school from here? Did you walk or ride the bus or what?" They were approaching the next area with a building and overhang, which was to his left. Sylar was on his right. Peter wondered if the man would change sides for the support of the building, or keep hold of Peter, or switch and take up Peter's other arm. Since Sylar hadn't stumbled yet, Peter didn't make any suggestions and waited to see what Sylar would do.

XXX

Sylar frowned briefly, feeling the damp air beginning to invade the bottom of his lungs as they walked. Up the opposite sidewalk they went, continuing down it the same direction as before. But back to the question, which was somewhat confused or confusing. "What? I didn't live here. New York, yeah, but not this area. I think it was…maybe fifteen blocks? I rode and walked sometimes. School…" he panted as walking and talking and staying upright got to him, his head spinning a bit, pounding harder…Sylar tried to keep it all under control, "School….uh….new policy in junior…high. Got to ride." It was fun on occasion, getting in a vehicle and getting driven around to see things (almost always the same sights, the same route). If he let himself he could pretend it was an adventure or a road trip. Sometimes he didn't want to ride the bus with his peers, out of the elements though it was, his peers being too...everything – rude, crude, loud, mean, smelly, close, scary. Sometimes walking cleared his head; he rarely told Mom about those times. It was exercise and being outdoors, but she would say it was dangerous to walk alone even if the bus was a germ farm according to her.

XXX

_Ah, 'here' isn't here-here. He moved to New York from somewhere else, which is why the comment about his mother and the Queens hospital … which makes sense now. So if this isn't where he grew up, then why is he here? That's his apartment. Must be where he lived as an adult? Huh._ Peter was a little thrown because his own past labeled his parent's house as the only 'home' he had. Everywhere else had just been where he'd been staying at a particular time, sometimes changed semester to semester. They were crash-pads, some more disposable than others, and the Company and Homeland Security had made sure to drive that fact home, as it were.

_Is that why my apartment's empty and his isn't? That's his_ _ **home**_. Peter gave a head-tilt that probably meant nothing to Sylar, if it was even noticed. A new level of respect for Sylar's things was called for.

Going back to the conversation, Peter asked, "Public school or private?"

XXX

Something toggled and things jumbled, overlapping in Sylar's mind's eye as he couldn't distinguish which life he'd lived; so many memories, so vastly different. Sylar was quiet for a moment, just trying to recover from that and refocus, hell, remember the question while he was at it. "Uh," he began softly, still attempting to hide his limp and keep pace with Peter but it would soon grow taxing. His head throbbed and he tried to match his thoughts to the beat. "Public. Nothing…special." Sylar had the feeling that he'd have been eaten alive (more so than in public school, if that was even possible) had he attended a private school like the Petrelli brothers had. No social skills would have made him a target and an outcast even more in that setting. It bothered him to think on it, comparing himself to the Petrellis. It was just as well. He'd learned survival of the fittest on his own in public school. That was something Peter never learned – that Sylar or Nathan knew of, anyway. It just seemed…unlikely. _I have something he doesn't._

XXX

They were approaching the intersection. Peter nodded absently, wondering why Sylar felt like his grade school experience should have been 'special' or different from anyone else's. Something else he noticed as he thought it over was that the way Sylar was holding his sleeve had changed. Not the grip itself – but there was weight being put on it now, pulling down. It wasn't a lot, but it was noticeable. He glanced back. Sylar hadn't changed sides and so was still to Peter's right, his eyes seemingly fixed on the goal of moving forward, to the point that he seemed slow to notice he was being looked at. Peter considered the gaps and pauses. Sylar shouldn't be laboring for breath, but he was.

Pain, stress, and tension leaped to Peter's mind. It certainly didn't seem likely that the conversational topic was too much to bear. "We're almost there. It's that building right across the street that we're going to." He gestured forward with his right hand, stopping in place abruptly. He reached across himself with his left, trying to take Sylar's left wrist.

"Here, come on," he said in a low voice. "Let's switch position. It's okay."

Peter didn't wait for response. He slipped his right behind Sylar's back while dipping his head and pulling Sylar's left arm over his shoulders. He waited several seconds after getting the guy into the position he wanted, having tried to make the transition as smooth as possible, yet not asking permission or even telegraphing what he was going to do. If he was lucky, Sylar might be startled, but would settle into it. If not, the guy might freak out.

XXX

_Oh, thank God_ , Sylar though fervently. The end was in sight. Peter hadn't lied – it really was close. The building even looked familiar (well, that he'd been inside of recently) and it ought to, it was so close. "Oh, good," he replied, perking up a little. The headache made him feel heavy and clumsy, along with lingering stiffness all over his body made walking more challenging than it should be. While he was looking to the building, Peter was moving, though Sylar wasn't paying attention. In fact, he didn't notice until he'd taken a few steps and by then Peter had ducked, slung Sylar's arm and practically hugged him. Sylar inhaled, eyes widening, back straightening, but the re-positioning was helpful, not harmful and it was already over. _He's touching me and it's okay. It's okay. Why am I trusting him?_ He wondered at that, ignoring for a moment, the fact that he had no other option. This was Peter Petrelli who was holding him up and helping him walk.

"Um…Okay," was the belated answer to a completely unvoiced statement. Peter's hand felt fantastic against his side and back, almost enough feel-good to pump him with more energy. It was definitely intoxicating. After a brief struggle to focus, he recalled the topic. "I'd…ask you about your school years, but I…" he trailed off, hoping that would indicate that he already knew about it and didn't need to ask without saying it outright. Getting hit was not on his agenda today. He bit down a story about Valentine's Day that he wished he could remind Peter of – it was Peter's life after all, Nathan's memories, too. "Don't know why we're talking about it in the first place," he muttered, expressing his confusion at the topic, especially since it mostly centered around Gabriel's life. Meanwhile the lunch bag tapped against his ass and thigh as they walked, amusing and annoying him with its presence and location. He almost wished to swat it aside or point out that Peter's bag was molesting him.

XXX

"Because I'm trying to get to know you, Sylar," Peter said as barely more than a murmur while they navigated the curb into the final street they needed to cross. "We're here together. You made a point of that this morning and you were right. We're going to _be_ here together for … long enough that I'm … I'm not going to go through this without trying to get to know you. Be … friendly. Or something." He ended muttering and grumbling, the starts and stops because he wasn't sure how to say what he was trying to express. _You know, what I can manage. Polite at least._ It was a grudging acceptance of Sylar, but it was an acceptance.

XXX

_Friendly with me? Are we sure I didn't hit him on the head too hard? Poor Peter…one good knock and he's completely upside down….Suppose the same could be said of me._ Truth be told, Sylar didn't even remember what he'd said this morning that was of such importance, but he was glad something he'd said made an impact for Peter. Then his thoughts arrested on 'I'm not going to go through this without trying to get to know you.' At least he stated it outright. A battle for information then. It was confirmed. Sylar wasn't going to give an inch. "Trying to get to know me? Are you that bored already?" _That's ridiculous!_

XXX

Peter made a noise in his throat, something between a snort and a grunt. Otherwise, he didn't grace the question with a response. He adjusted his grip on Sylar's left arm, moving his hand up from the wrist to the forearm, recalling that Sylar had had the wrist wrapped the last time he'd done this. _Should I have been wrapping his wrist since the fight? Does it still hurt him? It's not like he's focused enough to take care of it himself, really. Or like he's the sort of person who would point out to me that it hurts._ Peter insinuated his right arm a bit further around Sylar's back and snugged up close to him, unconsciously a little protective. More consciously, he thought it made it easier to walk together, falling into stride as they crossed the street.

Still mostly muttering as if talking to himself, Peter said, "I just wanted to talk. When it's quiet, I get to thinking. Don't always like what I have to think about. Don't know you. Might as well." He shut up though as they came to the opposite curb, feeling a little shut down for Sylar not wanting to talk about school, and wondering if he was pushing Sylar too hard to manage keeping up conversation while walking.

XXX

Sylar bit back the noise he wanted to make at being held closer – unsure himself if it was one of protest or pleasure. It felt nice, but it was awfully close. _He has no understanding of personal space, none at all_ , Sylar realized and remembered. Being connected almost always to Nathan had much to do with that he was sure.

"Your thoughts upset you? Wow. Rough life, Petrelli," Sylar said with sharp sarcasm. He'd been alone for years more than Peter, alone with his own highly unpleasant thoughts and nightmares and memories (two sets of them!) And before that, aside from his mother, he considered himself alone for more years before that. What did Peter have to whine about? Sylar made a grumble of his own, thinking about spoiled, rich younger brothers. But it made him wonder as they walked, approaching the door of the building. Peter offered no further conversation, seemingly a little put-out about that, too; Sylar thought to ask, "Do you…have nightmares? Not /Ma's/ kind- your mother's kind, but just…without abilities? Do you have those?" _Or is it just me?_

XXX

Peter gave him a displeased look as they parted at the door. He also gave Sylar a quick up-and-down, making sure the guy wasn't teetering. It didn't seem likely – Sylar had recovered at least his mental equilibrium surprisingly quickly once he wasn't having to focus on both walking and talking at the same time. Peter opened the door and waited, not bothering to suppress an annoyed sigh at Sylar's slip of 'Ma'. _You get off light because I'm still in a decent mood about getting out to do something fun._

Yet the question itself belied Sylar's dismissiveness about Peter's thoughts bothering him. Sylar had heard him, understood, and was making an observant and perhaps empathetic question. _Does Sylar consider his sarcasm friendly, I wonder? Or maybe it's a prelude to him making fun of me? Nah. He's too messed up to be planning ahead that far. And anyway, he has nightmares all the time._ Peter let go of the door after Sylar was through and moved on to the next one. "Don't like to sleep. I've been working out a lot. That helps." Mostly the exercise got him so tired that he couldn't remember his dreams and the persistent shortage of sleep left him unimaginative. Between the two, he could keep his focus on what he absolutely needed to do and avoid thinking about what-ifs.

XXX

Sylar read Peter's avoidance for the confirmation that it was and inquired further, "What do you see in them?" _Interesting…exercising helps him? That makes sense, though. He's certainly been…working out._ Because he knew just how long it had taken Peter to not only grow into his frame, but fill it the way he wanted, or rather, Nathan had known. Sylar got to appreciate the results.

XXX

This time Peter did grunt, looking around the foyer of the building as if seeking something else to talk about. He walked out in the middle of it, leaving Sylar to pick between moving along the wall or taking the somewhat more risky route of walking unsupported. The door they were headed towards wasn't far away, to the left. Peter stopped about ten feet from it.

XXX

Sylar looked around himself as Peter moved away from him, clearly intending for Sylar to fend for himself. The way he saw it was follow Peter or follow the support of the wall. Maybe that's what Peter was doing – scoping out the support…No. Unlikely. But his pause worked in his favor because it got Peter talking again on something the nurse had otherwise been looking to avoid.

XXX

"Different things," he finally said, brushing his hands back and forth uneasily along his jeans. "My dad, a lot. F-" Peter shook his head. "Falling," he said quietly, shaking his head against the images of himself … Nathan … even Sylar … falling … and usually hitting. Mere impact didn't wake him. He'd usually continue to lie there, in the dream, feeling himself die slowly or have to suffer through trying to put himself back together with or without regeneration. It often morphed into some of the worst things he'd seen as a paramedic. He counted himself lucky for the nightmares where he was the dying patient, because if he was the medic, then he would be presiding over the death of someone he cared for.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said quickly, drawing in a breath and making a handful of motions – a shrug, reaching up to scratch his cheek, rubbing his other hand along his jeans, that all served to camouflage what would have otherwise been a shudder. "I don't dream very often anymore. Let's go look at the piano." He tried to get back the equanimity he'd had just a few minutes earlier, able to dismiss Sylar's faux pas without offense, but bringing to mind the things that haunted him when he couldn't escape was hard to deal with.

XXX

Sylar walked slowly alongside the wall as he listened, trying to make it look casual, knowing he failed at that and was showing vulnerability but it wasn't like Peter hadn't picked up on it by now, hadn't had chances to act on it before now. He just nodded as he brushed the fingertips of his left hand along the pale golden-tan, vaguely sparkly stone of the wall, there only in case a surge of to his equilibrium. Sylar understood not wanting to talk about things; nightmares; their contents, so he let Peter dodge (even though it brought up several more questions). "Okay," was all he said to the dodge and their destination, aware of what he was doing and concerned at himself for offering mercy like this. Maybe because Peter held all the cards and Sylar had no way to force answers from him. He made it to the door – Peter held it open – and he passed through looking to the right to spot the piano. It was a basic brown-wood wall-piano, only lightly edged in gold. The bench didn't match, being made of a different wood or maybe that was just the finish. It lacked a cushion but it wasn't like he was going to be sitting on it. There were collapsible tables; foosball, ping-pong and billiard tables and a dead TV mounted to the wall in the left corner. The chairs lining the opposite wall, left of the piano, had cushions to his relief. They wouldn't be comfortable forever, but they were much better than other options or the floor.

XXX

"What happens in yours?"

XXX

"Hmn- What?" Sylar turned to assess and address that, stupidly surprised by it. "Oh…I see…" he frowned, trying to even summarize what he experienced in sleep. "I see my life." Reflected or screened through another's eyes – Nathan, Taub, Virginia, someone he'd _been_ – at times, but mostly it was his own life, the nightmare that it already was. "Lots of…people, lots of events and…things." Blood, brains, the rush and the horror, the everyday triviality, being unseen, unspecial; being stuck, being hurt, being left, being sold, tortured, watching himself powerless…Feeling that this was inviting way too much of an opening for righteousness from Peter, he tried to uplift the conversation, "I like the wet dreams, though." _Always liked those even if they were hell to…clean up and…deal with_. With any luck, they could talk about wet dreams with less tension and evasion.

XXX

Peter chuckled, accepting Sylar's vague answer about nightmares. It wasn't like Peter's answer had been all that specific, or even comprehensive. There were a couple other categories on the 'recurring theme' scale, but he didn't like thinking of them any more than telling about them. Sylar offered a good distraction. "Yeah, I like those, too. Thank God they don't get mixed up in my nightmares – the sex, that is." He'd had a few where Caitlin had faded into nothingness in the middle of making out (or more) with her, but they were infrequent. He gave Sylar another brief up-and-down, this time thinking about the subject matter at hand and deciding that he didn't want to talk about sex with the guy, regardless of how distracting it was.

XXX

Sylar frowned at him over that. _Lucky you._

XXX

Peter made a general wave at the chairs to indicate where he expected Sylar to go and walked over to them himself, dropping off the bag of sandwiches. "I guess just have a seat and I'll try to figure this out," he said, cutting back over to the instrument. Peter looked at it with a general once-over. It had seen better days, but looked sound. He glanced up at Sylar, who was ambling over towards himself rather than the chairs. Peter was unbothered by that; he liked the attention, if he were honest with himself. He folded up the fall and stroked the keys, the ends of them a bit jagged and unevenly chipped. Peter pulled out the bench and slid onto it, wondering whose memories the device had been plucked from, or maybe it had been fabricated from their joint imaginations. He didn't know. It was enough that he didn't recognize it. He made another glance at his companion before turning back.

He depressed a key, which twanged horribly off-key. He smiled. "This is going to take a lot of work." He arranged both hands over the right octaves, smile fading. "I'm three fingers down." It would obviously be a while before he was able to play worth a damn. He pressed a few more keys at semi-random, finally finding one he wanted with his right thumb. After a pause, he gave a very poorly tuned, one finger version of the main verse of 'The Old Grey Mare.' He chuckled ruefully, "Yeah, a lot of work."

XXX

Sylar moved to stand beside the piano – that way he could see both keys and player - only slightly wary since Peter was distracted and appeared to be cheerful. His gaze switched between Peter's face and his fingers as they both were in motion. He agreed, how could he not, that the piano needed serious help – it was old and hadn't been touched in at least three years. What did Peter expect? "Do you know how to tune a piano?" he asked simply after allowing Peter to chat amicably at him; the dialogue was general and didn't require response anyway (besides, he had no idea what to say about Peter being short fingers besides 'then don't hit people next time'). Peter seemed happy enough just to talk _at_ him, which was fine by Sylar.

The piano was badly off and was old enough to have that ringing bell-type sound Sylar would find pleasant in-key. Once tuned or once Peter began to play or otherwise bang on the keys, it had the potential to seriously hurt his ears. He wasn't looking forward to that. As it stood, only the tone was abrasive. He didn't think Peter knew how to tune the instrument, but Peter had hidden talents. Nathan hadn't always been around him, their age difference made sure of that. The nurse sure seemed to think he knew how. Sylar wished he himself knew so he could either teach his companion or lord it over him and point out mistakes. While he didn't know specifics, he knew it required training and tools and that last part worried him. Peter would eventually have to go out and look for them. _What if he goes to my apartment and…does something? Did he bring me out here to ditch me? What if he doesn't come back? He probably won't like it if I come with because I'm slow and annoying. 'I'm just going for tools, I'll be back' he'll say, yeah right._ He tried to hold back the worry, the same one he'd had earlier, as it returned.

XXX

Peter explored a few more keys up and down the range, pressing them and listening to the tones they produced. Some sounded fine; some were definitely off. "It can't be all that different from a guitar, can it? It's a stringed instrument, after all."

XXX

_Erm, yeah. It can,_ Sylar was pretty sure. Leave it to Peter to have no craftsman's frame of reference for how something was built. It worked or it didn't work for him. Apparently Peter had a Mr. Fix-It urge and Sylar didn't know what to make of it.

XXX

Peter stood, pushing the bench away with the back of his knees and making to lift the top of the piano. He moved it a little, looking over to make sure Sylar wasn't leaning on it or blocking it, but the man had his weight on his feet, not the piano, so it wasn't an issue. Peter lifted the top and looked in. "There should be a peg with a screw in it attached to the wire, and then you turn that just like the tuning pegs on a guitar."

Peter peered inside. It was dim, but he could see what looked like hundreds of wires arranged one way and the other, possibly overlapping – hard to tell in the bad lighting and angle. "Looks kind of … complicated." He looked around at the insufficient overhead lights, then back inside. "I'm not even sure how I'd get to that stuff." Peter reached inside, over the wooden top and into the bowels of the instrument. He could feel around, but not see what he was doing. Plus, he wasn't tall enough to get his arm in there comfortably. This wasn't going to work at all. He frowned, not with a pouty expression, but more just momentarily stymied and forced to actually think about how to proceed.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes. _Ya think?_ _He didn't even bring a flashlight. This is going to drive me nuts, watching him screw this up. No…I'll let him entertain me with it. I'm not up for helping him or getting tools. He's a big boy and this is his problem. He'll figure out that much and I can rub it in after._ He looked between Peter's hands and face.

XXX

"The guy at our house," Peter said, left arm still all the way in the instrument and his face pointed the same way, "he was working on a grand piano and everything was a lot easier to get to." He felt along the strings and hammers, plucking one of the strings experimentally. It made generally-pleasing sounding twang. "No, this thing's got to come apart somehow. There's no way a person can work on it like this."

XXX

Sylar gave him a narrow look. _I know you had a grand growing up, /I was there/. Does he think I need reminding? Of course it was fucking easier on a grand._ "Maybe not a short person," he pointed out, noting Peter being on tip-toes, straining to reach inside, buried in the piano up to his shoulder. With Peter talking, it was an amusing picture – his voice didn't carry so well and Sylar pictured what it would sound like if Peter got his head in there and spoke. _He_ was the one with experience here – a former watchmaker with the height advantage, concussion and all.

XXX

Peter huffed slightly, looking Sylar up and down. _Joking. Joking is good._ He smiled a little and pulled his arm out to wave briefly at Sylar, just to indicate him. "Look around over there and let's see if there's some way to take it apart." Peter looked to the end opposite from Sylar, but it was dark and he didn't know what he was looking for.

XXX

The medic then flapped a hand at him, wanting participation; he shifted his weight to look invested but didn't move just yet. "Um…doesn't the back come off?" he said like it was obvious. It made sense to him. Something had to come off or lift up, right? Sylar moved around to the side of the instrument as Peter had indicated, frowning slightly. He still thought he was right and Peter wrong – the backing was removable, but he looked anyway. _Why does he even want my help?_ The answer was as baffling as it had been thus far. He debated not helping but he had no reason to.

Sylar felt around lightly along the backing inside the boxed insides first – making it look far easier than Peter had – but found nothing to his disappointment. He continued running his hands along the inside walls away from the actual mechanics of the piano. As he came around the front panel his finger stubbed on something metal and he peered inside. He couldn't see what it was easily and didn't want to lean over, but he felt a movable part and, with little forethought and a lot of curiosity, he fiddled with what turned out to be a pin, tugging it. He looked up at Peter in surprise and to communicate his find but Peter already heard the releasing sound. "The…there's a latch…"

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter said eagerly, finding the matching fastener on his side. A moment later he actuated it in tandem with Sylar and the light, thin wooden partition lifted out smoothly. "Oh yeah!" he said with a pleased grin at how accessible that made everything. He didn't know what to do with it, then. Letting go and letting Sylar handle it seemed rude. Hanging onto it and hogging it himself seemed rude as well. "Let's put it down on the other side of the bench," he suggested as a compromise.

Peter looked back at the piano after putting aside the panel. He was pleased, left fist against his hip and a distracted smile on his face as his eyes roamed over all the strings. "Yeah, it's complicated, all right." He moved closer, getting a good look now that the top was up and the front panel off. He was faced with a criss-crossing set of wires, more than he'd expected. He depressed a key, looking at the wires, then did it again as he leaned in to see the hammer move. He did it a couple more times, tracing along to the tuning pegs.

"Huh. These don't look easy to turn." They didn't have the little flanges for tightening by hand that a guitar featured. Nor did they even have a slot for a screwdriver. He felt around the peg, noticing that it had a distinctive shape that didn't match an allen wrench or anything else he was familiar with. "I … think this is going to take specialized tools." He looked up swiftly at Sylar. "Hey, do you have tools that could turn these?" Peter stepped back, indicating the pegs with a gesture and giving Sylar room to look if he wanted.

XXX

_What was he expecting - a walk in the park?_ Sylar eyed his companion curiously, noting the facial expression plastered there. Peter looked pleased that it wasn't easy. _He likes a challenge then?_ Sylar felt buoyed, feeling pleasure in knowing the nurse had something in common with him and a strange jealousy that he wasn't the only one. He was pulled from his reverie when Peter turned on him, starting him a bit. "Huh? No. I think that's why you would hire a tuning person." _Specialized tools. Does that mean he thinks I have special tools?_ He shifted his shoulders, mainly by straightening his arms and back when his hands were in his pockets, taking the compliment.

XXX

"Hm. Maybe we should eat and think about it." Peter headed over to the sack of sandwiches. "You think it might be like a clock where the winding key is kept in the case?" At least, he assumed that was where most people kept the winding key. That was where his mother kept it for the grandfather clock in the hall. The key for the mantel clock in his dad's study was kept under it – the point being to keep it easy to find and handy. "Do you think maybe each piano has a little tool to adjust it and maybe it's clipped to the side?" He got out the sandwiches, distracted by which was which and reluctant to pull one out and open it to find out. He set them down on the chair.

XXX

' _We.' Such a strange word. He throws it around so easily. He's used to it. I know all it means and is me and him coexisting as odd as that is, but its still weird to hear._ Tagging behind Peter, he was zapped with that strange logic. His instant answer was 'no', but his own reasoning took longer to realize. "You could look," Sylar hedged, standing behind and to the side of Peter. "Usually you need a device to tell if what string you're tuning is in key. Or…a really good ear." _Me_ , he thought with pride. _Maybe that's why he brought me!_ He noticed Peter was getting that pre-jump-off-the-roof jittery energy that didn't bode well.

XXX

"I'm going to go scavenge for some drinks." Peter paused, thinking about how Sylar had hung onto him and the 'I won't leave you' thing from breakfast. _I didn't promise to stay within arms reach all the time. He handles me going back to my apartment every night, so it's not like he'll freak over this._ "I'll be right back," he said with emphasis.

XXX

_Ah, shit. There it is. I knew it!_ Sylar felt his face droop as his eyes widened. It was an expression of horror and dawning betrayal. He slowly sat, barely missing the sandwiches as he wasn't paying attention to the landing zone. His mouth opened in a fish-like gape, closing wordlessly seconds later. _Why can't I come?_ Yet he knew why. Emotion and desire warred with intellect.

_He leaves me with food but not drinks? I'll die from thirst before I die from starvation, that's the rule of thumb. Course I told him I didn't need him, a week without food won't kill me but.._."Okay," he croaked, disbelieving.

XXX

Peter had been watching for Sylar's reaction and there it was, a lot less guarded than he'd expected. "Hey," he said softly, reaching out to touch the seated man on the shoulder with his right hand. "I'm just going upstairs. It'll be five minutes, tops." Peter straightened. In a normal tone of voice, he indicated the food. "If you could sort out which one of those is yours and which is mine, that'd help." He turned and walked off, saying over his shoulder one last time, "I'll be right back."

_Three years all alone. What does that do to a person? Well, he's got a concussion working on him, too._ Peter sighed as he pushed open the door to the stairwell, remembering the longest period of his life that he'd spent alone – a couple weeks in a cargo container in transit to Ireland. He'd had no memories, no understanding of where he was, and no knowledge of when his confinement might end. He didn't know if it would have been worse or better if he'd understood what was going on. As it was, it was utter boredom and sensory deprivation against a constant backdrop of terrifying ignorance and impending death from privation. He usually did his best not to think about that time or the implications of it (who had put him there, on whose orders, and how that meant they _knew_ what he was going to be subjected to...). Realizing he'd slipped into thinking about it now, he shook his head and focused on his more immediate mission.

The first apartment he went to had a six-pack of Seven-Up. It wasn't Peter's favorite by any stretch, but he wasn't going to keep looking if Sylar was downstairs being anxious. He mused on that as he walked back. _Huh. I guess I care about Sylar being upset. Kind of hard not to, when we're alone here. I don't think I care about a lot of his other feelings, but … yeah. I don't want him in misery all the time. Just when I want to beat the crap out of him._ Peter smiled a little and was wearing that blandly pleased expression when he walked back in the rec room. "Hey. I'm back. Seven-Up good?" He hoisted the six-pack of cans in his left hand. "Got those sandwiches sorted out?"

XXX

Sylar heard him in the hall, looking up in anticipation. _I wonder if my mind is capable of making up an illusion like him? It's…so detailed, though. Aren't you supposed to know, deep down, if your mind is playing tricks on you?_ Peter returned and Sylar felt as like he could breathe again – maybe he wasn't crazy. He definitely wasn't alone. "Hey," he said as his shoulders eased. "Yeah, it's great." Sylar didn't really care what Peter brought back so long as he came back, which he had, almost happily, too. "Mmm-hmm!" He'd dutifully peeked inside the sandwich bags to identify them.

XXX

Peter took a seat to Sylar's left, leaving the seat the sack was on between them. He put the sodas on it, removing one and offering it to Sylar, then getting his own and opening it, watching the other man deal with the sandwiches. "This is like a picnic." He flashed a sudden, amused smile. "Urban picnicking. That's kind of cool."

XXX

Sylar thanked Peter for the drink, handing over the respective butter sandwich. Sylar eyed his meal for a moment, feeling like he'd just eaten breakfast, before taking a small bite. He chuckled, "It kind of is. Like a picnic." _Just with chairs and a piano_. He thought back to his most recent picnic with less-than-fond feelings. He'd been with Maya and wine while her brother was busy internet searching his name. Funny, the Mexican had managed the English language just fine to do that. His scenery had somewhat improved since then, concussion and barren streets aside.

XXX

"Uh-huh," Peter said agreeably. "Better birthday than some I've had." He gathered his sandwich and took a bite, looking over at the piano, chewing slowly.

XXX

_Birthday? Shit! Best behavior then, not like I wasn't on it before._

XXX

Peter went on, "I think the lousiest was when I was locked up in Level Five. I didn't even know it had passed until Elle brought me dinner on Christmas Day. It was ham." He frowned, looking over at Sylar. "Dietary preferences didn't rank very high there." Softening his voice a little because he knew it might be a sensitive subject, Peter asked, "How long were you in there?"

XXX

_Dietary…Oh!_ Sylar lowered his sandwich and stared with some confusion at the one in Peter's hand containing salmon. _Should he be eating that? He won't get sick, will he? What did he say about that? Fish have…spines?_ He was lost in thought when Peter asked his question; it took him a moment to realize he was being addressed and only figured it out when he noticed the man looking at him. His eyebrows went up as his eyes met Peter's. "What?" he gulped, surprised in more ways than one.

XXX

"I asked," Peter repeated gently, "how long were you in Level Five?"

XXX

Sylar made an unhappy face, lips firming, expression shuttering. _Long enough_ , he thought and almost said as much, but what the hell. "Um…I think I lost three weeks the first time," he snorted a bitter breath. "First time's always the worst. You were there for the rest of the second; maybe a week? It…" Sylar looked across the room, sandwich held in his lap, forgotten. "It always seems like longer. But being related to your jail wardens helps," he gave Peter an apathetic look, then, "Why do you ask?"

XXX

_First time?_ Peter shrugged ambivalently. "I don't know. It's something we have in common. I suppose … a lot of specials do." He frowned. "I'm not sure that being related to the Petrellis is a help to _anyone_. Not that Elle's father was a good guy, but Bob's interest in me seemed to start and end with keeping me in my cell and out of touch. I got food, wasn't killing anyone, knew who I was, had a bed, even had Adam to talk to if I wanted." He took a bite out of his sandwich and shot Sylar a sidelong glance as he swallowed. "That's a hell of a lot better than I was treated when my mom, dad, or brother had me as a prisoner. Every one of _them_ tried to kill me or worse." He snorted, bristling in anger, making some sharp motions in folding back the baggie that was still surrounding the bottom half of his sandwich. He was exaggerating a tiny bit – whether or not Nathan had _intended_ to kill him was suspect, but certainly he'd intentionally put Peter into situations where he was literally in a sniper's crosshairs or disappearing into a secret gulag.


	52. Lullaby

Day 13, Afternoon

Sylar gathered from the way Peter spoke about it that he'd had two stints in juvie as well. _What a hell of a thing to have in common. It's like…manifester's initiation. Trial by fire_. "So…how'd they get you?" he asked, curious but uncaring. It was by minor miracle (and Peter's niceness, one and the same thing) that kept the sarcasm from his delivery, because, really…a Petrelli in prison? The idea was laughable. Not that one shouldn't be in prison; but that it had happened at all. The difference in treatment they'd each received was as different as mud from water – his own being the mud, of course. He was not expecting any true horror story here.

XXX

Peter looked off into the room, talking without looking directly at his companion. "They pitched it to me as a rehabilitation program at first – that 'help' I said- I thought you should- Well, anyway, I nearly blew up New York, so I probably would have gone in even if they told me exactly what it was, which was just a prison. I had a cell. They drugged me up enough that I didn't mind most of the time. Adam was in the cell next to me. We'd talk sometimes. I'd see Elle a couple times a day most days, the guards the other days. That was pretty much it. Couple months of absolutely nothing, aside from the electroshock and the occasional screams down the hallway."

XXX

It was a good thing Peter wasn't looking at him because Sylar glared. _Don't even start with me._ The sad thing is, if the Company had soft-balled (or hard-balled) it to him when he'd manifested and killed Brian Davis, he'd have probably went eagerly; in handcuffs, too. Sylar shifted at the mention of that long-lost angel. _That's right. C'mon, you were stupid to ever think she was…innocent. The only thing about her that was was her face._ He snorted on hearing about Peter's electro-therapy, feeling somewhat vindicated that Peter had suffered even a little bit or at least been unhappy.

XXX

He turned to face Sylar. "How about you? Can you tell me about that 'first time'? I don't think I know anything about that." He was calmer now. His time in Level Five wasn't nearly as upsetting to him as the persistent and senseless betrayals by his cursed family. Listening to Sylar was a nice break, although he hoped whatever had happened to the man wasn't yet another sin to be laid at the feet of House Petrelli (which meant it all fell to Peter, since everyone else guilty was dead except Angela … and mad as Peter was, he wouldn't make her answer for what she'd done. She was his mother; she was exempt).

XXX

 _I don't see why you care_. But it didn't hurt to tell Peter. His sandwich forgotten, Sylar answered, a little surprised at himself for doing so, "I was the 'screams down the hall'. Right after your swan dive off the stadium…Homecoming, imagine Bennet getting his hands on the man chasing after his precious indestructible daughter and that's how it went. You know how much they _love_ their research." He cast Peter a you-know-how-it-is glance every sentence or so before amending, "Or…you wouldn't, but…They tried to put me through my paces. I wouldn't give them anything and they couldn't find anything but telekinesis in all of my genetic code." _That_ , he stated with arrogant pride. That his power was something undetectable (read: safe) by modern science was a pretty fucking cool. It was like Intuitive Aptitude came with a fail-safe.

His native ability, once thought impossible, un-special and non-existent, came from behind like an underdog to hide his stolen ones he knew not where. His was the only one capable of transferring, stealing – not replicating – abilities with a mere touch and the raw intelligence of his mind. From what he knew of Peter's own loss of abilities, Arthur had used a power to do it; therefor he was completely unique! With less joy-filled recollection, he continued, "OD'd me a few times; said they gave me enough drugs to kill an elephant."

XXX

"No. I think got a taste of how much they 'love their research' at Pinehearst. Thanks for that, by the way – getting me out of there." Mostly he meant saving him from Mohinder's syringe, but Peter supposed getting thrown out the window counted, too. He started to take another bite, then glanced over at Sylar's sandwich resting on his knee. "Eat up, Sylar. I can't have you starving to death on me here," he joked gently.

XXX

Sylar looked over at Peter, getting a mix of unfamiliar and familiar feelings. Easily he could have blamed it on his near-constant déjà vu à la Nathan Petrelli and it was to blame in part, but Peter was interacting with _him_. _Another thank you. Is he the only one who values_ _having his life saved? I've never been thanked so much in my life._ He frowned slightly and nodded, accepting the gratitude but not knowing what to do with it or the conversation. He didn't have do much in the end – Peter piped up, still chatting away mostly. Sylar was happy he didn't have to answer why he'd saved Peter in the first place. Talk of starvation earned Peter an amused/confused expression. _I'm not hungry. I had breakfast – he was there. He's…always been there since the fight, at least that I can_ _remember. Huh. He cares if I starve._ Dutifully, Sylar hefted his sandwich and took a bite, making a bit of a show of it. _He hasn't tried to force me to eat, either. I guess he does know about the nausea._

XXX

"You know, something I've been meaning to say … I'm a nurse and a paramedic. I'm not a doctor, definitely not a neurosurgeon. I didn't pay any special attention to how to deal with head injuries in any of my classes and I've already told you I never had any bad ones myself. If I'm pushing you too much … tell me. Same if I'm not." A little softer, he added, "Don't 'I'm fine' me. I'm trying to help."

XXX

At first he couldn't figure what Peter was trying to get at. Then Sylar's gaze slid over him, some of the wariness returning. _Do you think I'm that_ _stupid? What do you think you're going to do if I do say it's too much? Or if_ _it's_ _not too much, hmm?_ Annoyance spiked but not to dangerous or even verbal levels. _So tuning a piano across the street is you helping me? You're just here to help me, not get_ _me to save your girlfriend, right? Oh, please._

Sylar plastered on something of a pleasant face, "You know what they say; if you can't trust your doctor…" _who can you trust? That would be no one._

XXX

Peter gave a half-hearted nod in response. After finishing his sandwich, he went over to the piano and began a careful exploration of it, looking for anything useful – a tuning key, a label, directions, anything. He found a label and read it aloud to Sylar, but it wasn't particularly helpful. "I'll bet that music store we went to would have stuff for how to tune this. Might even have a book. Or the library would have a book, I'm sure." _Fake book, because this whole place is fake. But a metaphorical fix is still a fix._ He glanced over at Sylar. Seeing the man's expression, he hastened to add, "We can go check there some other time – not today. Let me try playing some stuff and we'll see how out of tune this thing really is."

XXX

Fed and comfortable, as much as he could be and he hadn't finished his sandwich, he felt tired so Sylar was sure his face showed everything he was thinking on it – please no; don't demand that; I can't make that; I don't want to. And Peter saw it, but he didn't insist on the trek of pointless doom. "Yeah, okay," he agreed eagerly (at least about going to the music store another day). _How did Nathan keep up with him? Twelve years older…I'm only a few years older than Peter (I think). This feels…almost like having a little brother. Now if only I didn't want to strangle him every_ _time he opened his mouth but that's not just me – everyone wants to do that._ Peter certainly had a holier-than-thou complex that he paired subtly with that endearing, boy-next-door attitude and charm. It was quite winning.

XXX

Peter arranged himself in front of the instrument, without sheet music and with the front panel still off. With one hand, one finger, and one thumb, he stumbled through 'When the Saints Go Marching In', doing a recognizable job of it. He glanced over at Sylar for approval or at least reaction, then turned back to repeat it – same song, several times, showing the patience that had served him well in school, drawing, and medicine, but was at odds with how he approached crisis situations. By the end, even given his limitations, he was playing appreciably better.

XXX

 _What a ham_ , Sylar thought, completely entertained by the idea of a personal concert, even if the instrument in question was going to burst his eardrums. The music was broken, off-key, but Peter didn't hit a whole lot of wrong notes. It was impressive. _When was the last time he played? And he still remembers the notes and…how to play._ It seemed like a lot of memorization over a long period of time, from what little he knew or could guess at. His impression of the maestro was confirmed when Peter checked back after finishing the song – a fitting choice about saints. "Sounds good," he grinned a little, delighted at hearing human sound filling a room.

XXX

Peter stood to fish around under the lid of the piano seat, pulling out some music and then replacing the front panel. "So what do you want to hear – popular folk tunes or hymns?"

XXX

Sylar had settled in now that Peter had a toy to play with, allowing his lids to droop as he stared at nothing, focused on listening, taking it in. It almost ached in his chest, the feeling of being in the same room with someone, of music and lack of immediate threat or requirement. He could just…sit and be and listen. Peter seemed very taken with the piano, playing the same song several times – Sylar assumed he was trying to get it right. Motion lazily caught his eye and he looked to his companion. "Folk tunes, please." _Please! Not hymns. I'd puncture my own eardrums if I had to put up with that. Or I'd crawl back to my apartment._ It interested him that he'd been asked his opinion, not the first time Peter had done so.

XXX

Peter played, trying to get the hang of not having enough fingers to hit the right notes. For some songs, he could bridge it and manage, although there were awkward pauses as he moved his hands. For others, he simply couldn't play them recognizably. He noticed very soon that Sylar was dozing. _We need to get a couch down here, or an easy chair or something. Maybe we could get one down the elevator._ He let his thoughts wander, thinking about Emma and the tiara, about patients and their situations, like that of a little boy with a broken leg who didn't want the ambulance to leave until someone went inside for his boo-bear-lion. Hesam had done the honors, escorting the stuffed animal from house to ambulance before they left. _Comfort articles,_ Peter mused. _They're important._ He thought about his empty room and how driven he'd felt to strip out everything not absolutely necessary. He wasn't sure what it meant.

Hours whiled by with longer pauses between songs as he rested his hands. He'd had a bathroom break and stood up to stretch a few times as well. His stomach rumbled at his last and latest break as he sat turned towards Sylar, regarding him fixedly. Sylar's sandwich caught Peter's eye. It was less than half-eaten. In the apartment, Sylar usually managed an entire sandwich. If he'd even so much opened his soda here, Peter couldn't tell. _I pushed him too hard. He over-exerted and lost his appetite._ He sighed. _And no_ _w we've got the walk back, after which he probably won't want to eat either._

Peter frowned, disappointed at himself. It was easy to be angry – at the moment he was also in pain. He sat cradling his right hand, which ached continually and throbbed slightly from the afternoon of using it and the frequent small impacts it had to endure. He'd managed to give himself a nasty blister on the side of his middle finger where it rubbed against the brace. Sylar wasn't the only one who'd over-exerted himself, not that Peter would admit to that even as he sat there silently, a little hunkered to the side from the hurt. He'd enjoyed playing and a little pain was something he was willing to pay for it. But he was definitely looking forward to some painkillers. That, and the repeated growl from his stomach decided it. He was done playing piano for the day.

XXX

Day 13, Evening

It was that still kind of quiet that woke him – it never failed to. The lack of faint, normal noise for the first time, probably since he'd lain down served as a signal. Surprisingly he'd had something of a decent rest, the undisturbed kind. Sylar's eyes cracked open and he surveyed an unfamiliar room. _Why did I fall asleep here? And where is here?_ he thought before he noticed he had a watcher. _Oh_. Sylar froze, just staring back as Peter watched him, unsure of what was going on. Peter looked rough, but he tried to hide it when he straightened up. _Told you this piano adventure was a bad idea._ The other man was hardly a threat, that relaxed him enough to start pushing himself up. "Sorry." He supposed that was rude of him to sleep, but as usual done was done. "I heard the whole thing, just resting my eyes," he said lightly, admitting he'd failed as an audience.

Sylar hoped it didn't offend Peter or get him thinking he'd fall asleep every time the man played. It had no bearing on how good Peter's playing actually was, either. He rubbed at his brow as the altitude went to his head, immediately aggravating the dull aching of his cranium. "Ugh," he remarked, belatedly trying to make that sound sleepy. Oriented and uncomfortable now, he looked over his partner. "You look like crap." _You should sleep and play more and work less. All work and no play turn you into…well…me. I suppose he did 'play', though._ "Maybe you're the one who needs a rest."

XXX

 _I keep getting caught looking at him while he's asleep. That's … I need to quit that. Either doing it, or getting caught. Or both. But … what? Should I be staring at the wall instead? I wouldn't have this problem if we weren't nearly living together._ Peter snorted at Sylar's 'I was just resting my eyes' thing and stood up, stretching and trying to loosen his back as his thoughts faded into the background, unheeded by the main part of his consciousness. That portion was more concerned with how his shoulders hurt. He might be in good shape, but hours of repetitive muscle strain wasn't good for anyone.

He laughed at being told he looked like crap. "Sylar … you and me ..." He exhaled and shook his head, bemused. "I feel like crap, too. We need to get a couch down here, or maybe a couple easy chairs and a coffee table. I'll bet they'd fit in the elevators. I could rest then. That something else we can do some other day, though."

XXX

 _You and me what, Peter?_ he speculated. Sylar grinned a little that Peter found any of that amusing. Couches sounded like a great idea – when they were both fit enough for that kind of heavy lifting.

XXX

Peter stretched backwards a bit, arching enough that his shirt rode up his stomach slightly, and then straightened to try (and fail) to pop his neck. He frowned and rubbed at it with his left hand. "I'm not going to play anymore and I'm getting kind of hungry. Are you okay with going back now or do you want to stay here? I'm sure I could find some food upstairs. For both of us." He shot a glance at the sandwich. _Would it be better to have him eat before we went? Exertion isn't good on a full stomach, but … I don't know. I'll see what he wants to do._

XXX

 _I wonder how much time he spends in the gym (or at work) to avoid_ _sleeping to get that…in-shape._ "Yeah, I'm okay to go back now." Sylar nodded, briefly rubbing his palms together.

XXX

"Let's bag our stuff up." Peter came closer for the bag, stuffing his empty sandwich bag inside. He'd long since finished his drink and disposed of it. "Might as well leave the other sodas here for next time." Plus, he didn't want them weighting the bag and dangling. He started to take a step away, then shifted his balance back, switching the bag to his right and offering a steadying, unasked-for hand to help Sylar stand. The first few moments on his feet would probably be the dizziest.

XXX

Once packed, Peter offered him a hand. Sylar looked at it, then at Peter, tilted his head like some sort of shrug and clasped his hand to Peter's. It wasn't like the nurse didn't know he could use the help - the vulnerability wasn't new – more importantly, that Sylar hasn't asked for it. The world swung drunkenly but with persistent blinking, he got it sorted. On standing it felt like a weight settled into his cranium and there was little to be done about it. His bruised hip pulled, his wrist tweaked itself, his toes throbbed dully and his back felt like a twisted, stiff mess especially after laying on a bunch of chairs. He didn't want to expend the energy necessary to get home but he wanted his own bed all the same. _Maybe I can ask him to stick close again. I know he doesn't want to but it would make me feel better._

XXX

"Okay?" Peter asked hopefully. He left Sylar to his own balance and walked to the piano, peering in like he was looking for something briefly (he was – the label – but it was too dark to see and he gave it up immediately, making a mental note to bring a flashlight next time, whenever 'next time' was). He pushed in the bench and headed for the door, opening it and waiting for the slower Sylar to join him, holding it for Sylar to pass through. Peter wore no particular expression, giving no thought to who was holding the door or relative status or anything like that. He was thinking of the blister on his finger and how he needed to get a bandage on it to minimize irritating it further.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar thought but didn't voice the 'I'm fine', though it made his lips twitch with humor. He took the opportunity to yawn, doing some light, post-sleep stretches himself. Peter looked at the piano again, searching for something, then he made for the door and Sylar followed. The door was held for him and he grunted thanks in passing, returning the favor so Peter could exit.

XXX

It was at that point Peter realized just how late it was and what that meant in late December at whatever latitude they were simulating here. The view out the glass doors was black, save for the lit foyer of Peter's own apartment building across the street. For whatever reason, street lights didn't come on automatically in this world (perhaps light detection didn't work, just like most electronics here), but other lights didn't turn themselves off, either. There was no blinking neon to disturb the night, though he assumed such signs would work if turned on.

Peter gave Sylar a worried glance and walked faster to the nearest set of doors, peering outside because it wasn't just normal darkness going on. It was raining – pavement wet, stuff still falling heavily. "Shit," he said quietly. _Even if I find an umbrella, even if Sylar holds it while I steady him … He overexerted getting here, in the day, when it was dry, when he wasn't having to hold anything, when he hadn't basically skipped a meal and had to sleep curled_ _up on chairs._ Peter exhaled and looked over at Sylar to see his reaction to the development.

XXX

Sylar's head tilted immediately at that expression. The medic stopped at the inner doors, looking out like a kid seeing his play-time had been ruined by the weather, nose pressed to the glass so to speak. _Rain, huh?_ His head righted itself when Peter looked back at him with the most complexly worried expression of upset. Sylar's eyebrows lofted as if to say 'what?' _Oh, don't blame this on me._ The problem was inescapable, though: Sylar couldn't make it home. Now he would find out if Peter would leave him to find a suitable bed (the chairs he'd napped on if all else failed) or stay and make camp with him. "Uh…so…Do you want to go back to your place?" _It's clos_ _er. I'll get to see your apartment then. That might be fun._ He was pretty sure he'd get turned down. No port in this storm but the one they were already in. _It's just water. Maybe he doesn't want to have to deal with undressing me from wet clothes and…stuf_ _f. He's tired, too._

XXX

"No," Peter answered, looking back out at the rain. The apartment building he considered 'his' was just right across the road and even if he'd stripped out his own, there were others Sylar could stay in. But he didn't want him in there. The whole world was Sylar's. Peter didn't want him in his apartment, occupying his space. Or even in the same building if he could help it. "I only have one bed," Peter muttered as if that had something to do with it. _And no food. Or at least, not_ _very much food._

XXX

Sylar frowned. _Who said we'd sleep in the same bed? And you've slept at my place where neither of us used the bed. Whatever, his place is not an option._ "Okay," he shrugged and turned around in the lobby, facing the elevator and stairs now. The only other solution was obvious – staying here. _Which floor did I leave my book on again?_ Casually he suggested while partially limping towards the elevators, "I think the second floor has beds." _Yes, I said bed_ s. _You and your delicate sens_ _ibilities. Big talk coming from Mr. Not-Paying-Roommates._ Once there, button pressed, he teased over his shoulder as Peter approached, "We'll save your hair and sleep here." Despite his tiredness and desire to be in his own bed, he couldn't help but be excited at the prospect of someone sleeping even near him.

XXX

"Yeah, there's beds up there," Peter said, trailing along behind and ignoring the crack about his hair. _There's a gun up there somewhere, too. And a baseball bat._ He wasn't afraid or even really concerned – just aware. "I got the sodas out of the first apartment. I didn't check the fridge, but there was a lot of other stuff in the pantry. Let's check there for food. Are you even hungry?"

XXX

"I think I could…eat something, yeah." Sylar blamed the nap for making him hungry. He watched Peter carefully, trying to gauge how his health was doing since he was giving Sylar a run for his money for being close-mouthed about his medical state. Mostly he didn't know what he'd do if Peter passed out or needed help. Silence was king until the elevator dinged for the second floor.

XXX

The doors opened; Peter stepped out. He looked up and down the hallway, memory trickling back. The gun had been in a messy, one-bedroom bachelor apartment at the end of the hall. These two closer to the elevator had made less of an impression on him, although he recalled one had a record player that wouldn't play. The other was the one he'd gotten the sodas from and was where he went now, his stomach dictating his choices. Just like when he'd come here earlier in the afternoon, he didn't notice the book and apple sitting next to the wall beside the elevator.

Inside the apartment, he went to the fridge – apples, bagels, cream cheese spread, milk, juice, condiments, cheese (and good cheese, too – several kinds with their high-end labels neatly slipped inside the ziplock for the ones that had already been opened). "Oh, wow. Good cheese." Peter yanked a couple of those out and tossed them on the counter. He could make a meal of cheese and crackers all by themselves. "There's some bagels in here and spread. I don't want to aggravate my jaw with something that chewy, but if you wanted them …?" He looked back at the other man.

XXX

 _Aha!_ Sylar was glad he'd remembered correctly; he scooped up his book and apple, far more interested in the book as they would be looking for food. He smiled to himself as Peter buzzed to the apartment in question, then wandered after him. Sylar considered waiting at the door or the entry of the kitchen, but found himself in the kitchen on instinct. What's more, he was helping bag the…cheese. _Did he loose his marbles or is cheese somehow a meal? He likes crackers and chips so maybe…You would know, Peter, about good cheese,_ _not me._ He rolled his eyes a little, taking zip-locked cheese and placing it in Peter's canvas bag. "No thanks. But bring the spread." _That will go good on crackers, assuming that's what we're doing._

XXX

Peter could see that Sylar was taking the cheese he intended to eat and stuffing it into the bag with their lunch trash. That was … weird. But maybe Sylar thought they'd go to different apartments to gather more stuff? With a mostly internal shrug, he said, "Just the spread, huh?" and reached for it. _Wh_ _at's he going to put that on?_

XXX

"Is that still bothering you?" Sylar asked, reaching out to touch that side of Peter's face, aiming for his jaw when Peter turned back with the spread. His touch would be gentle, just cupping the curve of face to bring it and the man closer for inspection…and a bit of perving. Maybe the idea of bed and Peter had gone to his head. "How many days has it been?"

XXX

Peter's offer of the spread was ignored as Sylar was reaching for his face, not the food. _What?_ Peter blinked several times and straightened, the plastic tub in his hand forgotten as he thought over what to do about this. 'Nothing' seemed like a good response – this wasn't violent or dangerous, and Sylar's expression was neutral. Finding his words was a little harder, especially as Sylar's fingers skimmed over the skin in front of his right ear so softly as to be erotic. "Wr, yeah, uh, I mean, just a few days. What, three or four?"

XXX

Sylar chuckled, very much pleased with himself. The power of touch was intense for both of them unless he missed his guess – because he'd been looking for a reaction, namely a negative one, and had received, well, this. _And I thought I was the one with a concussion who can't keep track of the days. Birthday. Why do I keep forgetting_ _that? He's distracting_. He affirmed the count, three or four days, "Hmm." Ever-so lightly, he probed at the hinge of the man's jaw after stepping closer.

XXX

Peter put his left hand to the side blindly to slip the cream cheese onto the counter, not moving his head much and thereby letting Sylar continue whatever examination he was doing. His mind flashed to that pause in their last fight where Sylar had crouched over him, abruptly and bizarrely interested in helping Peter get his jaw back into joint. _Appar_ _ently this is a deal to him – jaws or maybe dislocated joints?_ "Yeah, it still bothers me. It might take a week or two to quit hurting." His left hand touched his jaw more normally on the other side, moving it a little and testing the range of motion.

XXX

"I guess you would know," Sylar said of the medic. He'd been a little zoned out, focused on something that was fixable and akin to a socket. It seemed like quite a mechanical body-part, the hinge of the jaw. Apparently it appealed to his inner-watchmaker (or worse, his ability, what was left of it here). Broken fingers he couldn't fix, nor a concussion or bruise. Lacerations could be tended, which he'd done before for Peter. He broke his concentration of that area with effort, looking over the rest of Peter's face. It was still mottled; the bruises around his eyes were fading, changing colors, too. "Maybe you should get some more ice for your face while we're here." A final lingering look at him before Sylar turned away from the obvious vulnerabilities presented in soft, human flesh. "And look around for something sweet."

XXX

"Sweet?" Peter asked, perplexed.

XXX

Sylar answered without turning, "For the birthday boy."

XXX

"Ah. I wouldn't turn down some ice cream." Peter chuckled slightly in turn and went to get the apple juice out of the fridge. "I think it's a little late for my face, though. But you know what else I'd like? Some painkillers. And a bandage. I gave myself a blister on the piano. If you could grab whatever crackers are in the pantry and see if there's a cheese slicer, I'm going to go check the bathroom for Tylenol and bandaids."

XXX

Sylar did turn at the word 'bandage', his eyes immediately searching for the injury. _I was only sleeping a couple hours, tops. What kind of trouble can you_ _get into, Petrelli?_ He saw nothing worth a bandage and thus stood there confused until Peter got to the part about a fricking bandaid. He closed his eyes in exasperated relief. _At least he mentioned his cracker plot. He's a real college snack kind of guy._ _How do you do a paramedic's job on…college food I wonder._ "Yeah, sure," was his reply, going back to peering into cabinets and drawers. _What does a cheese slicer even look like? I'll be the one cutting it anyway; he's only got one hand._

XXX

Peter found a band-aid in the bathroom, but no painkillers of any kind. Disappointed, he returned to the kitchen to doctor his finger out of simple human desire to be with his companion. He peeled off the wrapping and backing, observing as he did, "I see you're bagging stuff up. Do you want to go hit another apartment to eat there? Maybe they've got better food? I didn't find any painkillers, so if you see any here, let me know." He wondered if Sylar's stomach was feeling finicky or if they just genuinely hadn't found anything he wanted to eat yet, other than the spread. Maybe he wasn't as much of a cheese person as Peter was. Peter's focus was mostly on his finger, so his questions were asked mainly while he was looking down, but he was listening and could see Sylar peripherally.

XXX

Sylar located the crackers and chips next to the fridge (one of the last places he looked). Saltines and Lays Classics were present and added to their bagged items. Of course, the cheese slicer remained at large – he had always used a knife so a knife would do fine now. Peter's entry drew his attention. "I…thought we'd eat wherever we're going to sleep. I don't care where." He didn't know what to say about 'better food' – he hadn't complained, nor did cheese and crackers bother him. "I didn't see any pills in here. You already…checked the bathroom," Sylar mused aloud, "I'm sure there's more around. There always is. Didn't find a cheese slicer, either. I don't know what one looks like," he admitted sliding his hands into his pockets, idly watching Peter work. "Do you…need a hand with that?"

XXX

Without hesitating, Peter answered, "Yeah. Come over and put your finger right here." When Sylar approached, Peter elaborated, pointing with his left index finger at a flap of the bandaid that was on the top of Peter's right middle finger. "Right there. Just hold it." He maneuvered the other wing of the adhesive bandage through the gap between his fingers, over his blister, and wrapped it where he wanted it. "There. That should do it. Thanks." He was casual and comfortable, glancing up at Sylar for a moment as that realization passed through his mind. _Yeah. I think I'm okay here … with him. For now, at least. He's okay._

It wasn't a huge concession. It didn't change anything Sylar had done in the past. It just meant Peter was admitting to himself that Sylar was okay to be with right now. Since Sylar seemed to think they'd be bedding down together – probably in the same apartment unit rather than in two separate ones – that was kind of important. It was the sort of thing Peter needed to work out to decide if he wanted to argue over where they slept. At the moment, the answer was 'no need to argue'.

XXX

"Mmm," Sylar made an answering noise to the thanks. He peeked up from the hand to check on the guy's face, accidentally catching his eye in a returned look. He was already glancing away but he did a brief double-take, apparently thinking Peter had something to communicate. Or he just wanted to be aware of what and how Peter was looking at him. Nothing came of it and he stayed where he was – close to Peter.

XXX

Peter looked away, uncomfortable to have been caught staring. Instead, he brushed his bandaid trash together and dropped them in the kitchen trashcan. "You don't know what a cheese slicer looks like?" he said with a teasing smile, changing the subject. "I seem to remember you getting onto me about not knowing what a dish scraper looked like. What goes around, comes around, man." _Ha. Got you back!_ He grabbed the apple juice with his left hand and gestured at the sack with his right. "Grab that and let's go check out the next place. That's pretty funny, though." He looked back at Sylar to check the other man's reaction to his good-natured ribbing.

XXX

He gave Peter a steady stare that implied more thought should have been applied before speaking; the look said 'duh' as if that much was obvious. _How many people even have cheese slicers? It's probably some fancy, top-of-the-line thing rich people have_. Sylar pursed his lips. If he'd had more energy, he'd have made his irritation verbally clear. Perhaps it was that Peter Petrelli knew something he didn't – and that something was a household kitchen item, albeit far more costly than he would have ever seen as a watchmaker. As it was, he just heaved a sigh, "A cheese slicer is totally different from a dish scraper, Peter." That much was obvious, he was sure.

Sylar took up the bag as ordered, book in hand, trailing after his companion. "What?" he demanded at the purposeful glance back Peter made.

XXX

"What?" Peter said back playfully, hoping he wasn't about to get chased through the apartment and beaned with a bag full of packaged cheese and a box of crackers. But that was a risk he was willing to take. He chuckled, grinning broadly as he opened the door across the hall. "You can let me win one, big guy. You'll still be way in the lead, you know."

XXX

Eyes narrowed in unarticulated response. ' _Big guy'?_ Sylar didn't know what to do with that one. It was friendly (and nicer than other options); he kind of liked it – it sounded like a compliment - so he let it lie without much question. _I suppose. But 'letting' you win anything isn't in my nature, Pete._ He almost protested that but…the cause lacked importance.

XXX

Feeling happy and showing it with an ebullient demeanor, Peter headed for the kitchen here, too, passing the shelves of knick-knacks and tchotchkes, including the bell collection memorializing various tourist destinations. Peter didn't give it a second look, having seen it before. He plonked down the juice bottle and started looking in cabinets for either food or medicine. He didn't recall having explored this one all that much – just that he'd rang one of the bells and been distracted by the turntable. "Look in the fridge, will you? I've pretty much got my dinner. Let me know if you see something in there that works for you."

XXX

Sylar entered more sedately, looking around. He was instantly reminded of his fa- uncle's shop in Baltimore on seeing the turntable and the figurines smacked of Tom Miller's and Virginia's apartments – a very unhealthy cross between them. He didn't like it. Uncomfortable, defensive and on-edge, he avoided contact with anything in the place. And that was before he spotted the bell collection. He stopped dead, bag in hand, wanting out-of-here-now. "Oh, Jesus…" he said quietly on seeing it, half expecting to see corny kid pictures from grade-school as well. Peter was already in the kitchen and Sylar wanted to drag him out with him.

This place was clingy and musty and dirty, maybe not physically, but his mind had no trouble layering on the filth and disgust from his memories and their associations. It was practically haunted. Nausea made itself known. "N-no. I'm..." _good_ , he nearly finished, responding automatically without processing what Peter had actually said, but that would have been a lie. _Like hell I am! No way in hell am I sleeping here._ "I'll-I'll be in the hall," he blurted and didn't wait for an answer. Sylar zipped into the hallway and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing down the nausea and memories. He was grateful that he hadn't had one of his lapses in recollecting things from the past though his imagination eagerly planted a bloody mural of an exploding city on the floor and his signature – SYLAR - swiped in blood on the wall.

XXX

 _What?_ Peter had heard the 'no' and assumed there was some other dialogue coming after it to explain. A moment later it arrived, but it only gave him more questions. He stuck his head out of the kitchen to see the door still open and Sylar, as he'd said, gone. Given that last, choked up tone of voice, Peter surged forward and out into the hall, almost missing that Sylar was right there – having not continued down the hall as Peter had expected. He looked Sylar up and down as the other man opened his eyes and straightened. Sylar looked shaken and trying to quickly put his guards up. _Upset. Physically fine, I think._ Peter's expression softened from alarmed to intent, maybe concerned, but he didn't stick around or say anything before going back in the apartment they'd just left, looking around with a protective fervor. _It wasn't something I said. It had to be something in here._ Peter scanned the room quickly for the source of the threat. It looked perfectly banal to him.

Peter poked his head back out for a moment – Sylar was still there. Then Peter turned in the doorway and surveyed the room again. _Was there a weapon maybe? No … and that doesn't explain him being upset instead of angry._ With a shake of his head, he walked out to ask the only one who really knew. "What's going on?"

XXX

Sylar felt Peter's presence as well as hearing it. The speed of it was gratifying – it warmed him and helped calm him down. He was grateful for it. "Just needed some air," Sylar replied, not yet looking at him. "Let's look somewhere else." He pushed off the wall and headed off down the hall.

XXX

Peter didn't budge. "I don't want to go down that way. Let's go to the top floor. Somewhere we haven't been before. Maybe this isn't a good floor." Mostly, he knew what was in the direction Sylar was going – two smallish apartments, neither of which seemed likely to have much in the way of food and one of which had a gun. Also, he wasn't sure what had spooked Sylar (for all Peter knew, Sylar might have just seen an odd shadow cast by Peter in the kitchen and freaked over it), but Peter had seen his face. And Peter had nothing at all invested in this floor of the building versus any other.

XXX

Sylar halted and turned. "Fine by me." It was. He remembered there was a gun around here somewhere. As he passed Peter on his way to the elevator, he managed humor and a smirk, "Admit it; you just wanna jump on some rich guy's bed with your shoes on," he said of the suites that were probably on the top floor. He assumed Peter was following him – he was. They got in and rode the elevator to the top and exited to a much different hallway, significantly wider and more posh. He looked back at Peter as he exited the elevator car, then selected a room at random, walking into a more open space with streamlined dark wood and neon accent décor that looked modern and expensive. The rugs and carpet looked soft and the couch untouched. There was a foldout…door or collapsible wall to separate the bedroom from the living room. It felt like a fuck-pad from Vegas of which Nathan was familiar.


	53. King of the World

Day 13, Evening

"Hm." Peter made an approving hum as they walked into one of the penthouse apartments. It was a lot nicer than the lower floor places, which was part of why he'd wanted to come here. Why dink around in a bunch of played out flats they'd already checked when there were better options available? He went straight to the big windows, looking around outside and struggling for the view through the weather and night. He craned his neck around, but between the pitch blackness and the pouring rain, he saw nothing. There wasn't even any lightning to illuminate things briefly. He could hear the erratic pinging of sleet or ice pellets, which affirmed they'd done right to camp out instead of straggling home.

XXX

Sylar immediately noted the couch – and the pair of bedrooms. They were separated by a bathroom; one was clearly the master, the other a guest room with a more traditional, hinge door. Peter was already scoping out the place so it looked like he approved and that they would be staying here for the night (or at least, one of them would be). "Where will you be sleeping?" was his casual question. It wasn't really the one he wanted answered. Sylar wanted to know where Peter thought Sylar would be bedding. He didn't think he'd get much leeway to argue, either, if it wasn't a response he liked.

XXX

Peter looked at the bed that was visible. It was a double or a queen and looked comfortable. It was a little exposed, but apparently it could be closed off. The nagging desire to be in a separate apartment with a locked door between them ran through his mind, but he'd fallen asleep around Sylar before without mishap. His fear seemed stupid. He waved at the bed he could see. "I'll take that one," he said as he turned from the window and headed to the kitchen, putting aside his worries for the more immediate subject of eating.

XXX

 _Interesting he thinks I'm offering him a choice. I guess it sounded that way. Doesn't matter, though_ , Sylar thought, pleased with that. The implication behind Peter's answer was that Sylar would be rooming in the guest bed.

XXX

Peter realized he'd left the apple juice behind. He opened the fridge to see what there was. First thing his eyes lighted on was a bottle of champagne. He pulled it out and looked at it, then glanced over at Sylar as Peter tried to make a complicated mental judgment.

 _One bottle split between us … I'd been wanting something to drink … This isn't hard stuff, we aren't going to get wasted on it … Is he a teetotaler? If he's not, how does he hold his liquor?_ Peter recalled the long night Sylar, shape shifted as Nathan and clutching an empty bottle, had spent in Peter's bed just a month before. _Might help to relax him. It's just the one bottle, right?_ A quick survey of the refrigerator confirmed that yes, there was only the one bottle of anything alcoholic. Their other choices were milk, a few cans of Dr. Pepper, and some energy drinks – none of which sounded appetizing, although there was also some bottled water. There were a variety of other things in there – carrots, celery, some herbs in a glass of water, a package of red meat Peter didn't bother to explore, cottage cheese, eggs, and the usual assortment of fridge dwelling condiments. "Well … uh … do you want some cottage cheese? I'm not sure what else you'd want in here unless you want another omelet."

XXX

Sylar noticed Peter going to the fridge so he thought to set up the food at the small dining table. He unloaded the cheese and crackers and paused over the lunch remains. _Didn't we throw those away? I should have…remembered. Done that earlier._ But he hadn't and here it was. The problem was he didn't know what to do with it – toss it or save it if Peter wanted it for whatever reason. So he stared at it in the bag until Peter addressed him. "No, cheese and crackers are fine." It was sinking in – with amusement – just how much of a heavy snacker Peter was. _He really doesn't make meals much for himself does he?_ Nathan remembered that, dimly, but Sylar was reminded of it. _That means he's been cooking for me._ That caught him flat-footed, not that he knew how to process it.

XXX

 _Not much of a dinner,_ Peter groused internally, but he was hungry _**now**_ and nothing was really coming to mind other than what they already had in hand. "Sure. Let's eat." He lifted the wine bottle. "You okay with champagne, or do you want water?"

XXX

Sylar blinked and looked up. _Did he say-? O-kay…_ He struggled with the implications of alcohol at this point as well as Peter's motives in offering it. _Won't that…hurt my head? He's a nurse – he would know. He wouldn't offer it if it would hurt a patient, right? Yeah, I also don't trust him._ It's safety understood (assumed), he moved on to the effects it might have. Nathan had drunk countless glasses and bottles of the stuff so he was aware of how low the alcohol content was and how much was needed to have the desired effect. But Nathan was something of an alcoholic in his opinion so… _He wants me…buzzed? He'd be buzzed, too, though. What are we celebrating?_ He wondered before it hit him. The date was what decided him. _His birthday. He wants- Okay. Let him have it. I thought candy or dessert might be more his sweet-tooth but whatever works._

Sylar thought he was supposed to be drinking water for fluid intake. "Sure." He didn't particularly want it but he also didn't have to drink it. Most people would fail to notice after the initial agreement if he did or did not drink what was offered. Perception was a fascinatimg toy – it followed one's expectations and after that, one would stop looking for or at things.

XXX

Peter handed over the bottle and said, "Look around for a corkscrew. I'm going to look for a cheese slicer." He started on one side of the kitchen, leaving the other to Sylar. He didn't find either before Sylar happened on a corkscrew and stepped aside. Peter continued his quest, finding a cheese grater, but no slicer. _Figures. It's Sylar's head. If he doesn't know what a cheese slicer is, it probably doesn't even exist,_ he thought in exasperation. _Why don't my thoughts count?_

XXX

Sylar didn't want to extend the effort required to feel insult or relief about being given the familiar task of corkscrew location. He found it in a drawer with other utensils. Bottle in hand, he opened it over the sink anyway (in case Peter had been shaking the damn thing), hoping the cork wasn't so crappy that it broke or went down into the bottle and liquid itself, though that was pretty rare from what he understood. He didn't know much about brands to know if this one was good or not. _I do all the heavy lifting; he just looks pretty and plays detective for missing kitchen tools_. Screw inserted, he held the bottle firmly and hauled on the handle until the cork inched its way out with an eventual pop, and no mess to his satisfaction. _Ha!_

Peter hadn't gotten glasses out – surely they weren't going to share the bottle? That involved…well, germs. Peter's germs to be exact. _Might be kinda hot to see him wrap his lips around something_ …Sylar assessed with evil intent.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said. "Can you slice up the cheddar and swiss? I'm going to look for some different crackers." He left Sylar to the knife work and went through cabinets this time instead of drawers, finding some upper-end brand stoned wheat thins. _Cool. Okay, maybe my thoughts count after all._ He took the box, got out some plates and glasses, putting a plate next to Sylar to set the cheese on as he finished slicing it, and put the rest of the stuff on the table. Peter looked up from his extended, fruitless fiddling with the cracker sleeve. With a sigh, he offered it to Sylar-of-Two-Working-Hands to open.

XXX

Sylar was validated when Peter failed to come up with any mysterious cheese slicer. Did they even exist or was Peter being his regular deluded self or just pulling Sylar's leg? He snorted and brought the bottle over after swiping a knife to do the cutting. He looked back to see the other man was looking for other crackers. _Saltines aren't…good enough? Or he just doesn't like them?_ Sylar knew for a fact how well the sodium and bland flavor helped upset stomachs, but the bias didn't occur to him. He rolled his eyes when he saw the fancy wheat-thin knock-offs. _Of course._

The cheddar was difficult to slice thin and the swiss was only a little better. There was another package of cheese that didn't need cutting – the wrapper said 'brie.' The force necessary kept noisily clanking the knife into the plate he was using to slice the cheese as it slipped through or slipped over which was frustrating. Eventually he got it into chunks at least that could be torn apart with fingers even if it looked anything but gourmet. Sylar held back his snicker when Peter had to hand over the stupid sleeve of crackers. _That's what you get. Getting your way here really isn't working out for you, is it, Pete? Wonder if that will continue_. But he dutifully opened the plastic for Peter and passed it back.

XXX

Peter pulled out a stack of crackers for his plate and at least got the sleeve out of the saltines box for Sylar's. "Saltine's guy, huh? Or is it just because that was what we found first?"

XXX

"Yeah. Well…I thought they'd be better for my stomach…" Sylar hedged.

XXX

Peter put a wheat cracker on Sylar's plate and pushed the open sleeve over next to the saltines so Sylar could pick. "Try one of these. They're good. I like Ritz and club crackers in soup, but not so much with cheese." Since watching the cheese operation would make him tense (the clattering was bad enough, constantly worrying him that Sylar was going to cut himself), Peter poured their drinks, giving each a full glass.

XXX

Sylar eyed the lone wheat cracker on his plate. That was overstepping multiple social boundaries. That was something friends and family did. Sharing and trying new food was a relatively new phenomenon for him, but clearly not new for Peter, given the casualness of the gesture. "Okay," he said faintly, still hung up – in a pleasant way – about that silly cracker. Recovering himself enough, he voiced his opinion, "Ritz get soggy, but club crackers are good in just about anything." _And that is a lot of champagne._

XXX

He headed back to the kitchen briefly for a dinner knife for the brie, pulling it over and unwrapping it as Sylar was finishing up. "I had a friend in college who'd take Ritz and put little squares of cheese on them and heat them in the microwave. They were pretty good. Never liked that canned cheese stuff though – the kind with a nozzle?" Peter raised his right hand and waved it around in a really poor imitation of using a can of Easy-Cheese. He gave it up and spread some brie on a couple crackers, watching while Sylar set up his own stuff.

XXX

Sylar chuckled about the canned cheese. It tasted like plastic and had similar consistencies. The idea was a little nauseating, not helped by the recollection of eating it with the sound of pressurized air with cheese. The idea was great – the product? Not so much. It belonged in a nuclear fall-out bunker for emergencies or apocalypse only situations. As they sat, he tried not to think how their current predicament might actually qualify.

XXX

"You're not getting enough calories, man," Peter put in. "It's starting to worry me. If we find some ice cream after this, you'd better eat it," he mock-threatened, waving the cheese-knife in Sylar's general direction. Peter set the knife down, handle facing Sylar, and pulled over the plate with the cheese pieces on it. He was a little surprised at how sloppy a job had been done, given Sylar's general fastidiousness, but then again, he didn't have proper tools for it. He glanced over at the sharper implement Sylar had been using, having an odd flash to 'Nathan' putting his hand over Angela's (and the knife for cutting the pie) in Peter's apartment, on Thanksgiving. Peter blinked it off, quickly trying to shove that memory away, although it did, for the moment, shut him up. He took a sip of the champagne, struggling not to remember how his mother had brought a merlot that day – blood red and complicated. Tonight's drink was pale gold and bubbly. He took a bigger drink and held it in his mouth for a long moment, tasting the lighter, simpler flavor and trying to focus on that to the exclusion of all the other swirling thoughts.

It didn't help much. Sensory overload was helpful, but what worked most reliably for directing Peter's thoughts was interacting with people. He swallowed and looked across the table, asking, "So, did you ever drink much? Beer, wine, mixed drinks, or none of it?"

XXX

Sylar laughed, watching the knife with slight wariness. "Cheese is a protein. I'll be fine. I wouldn't turn down ice cream, though." He tiredly noted the knife was placed to his advantage, ignoring it thereafter. Sylar put a cheddar…chunk, he supposed it was, on the wheat cracker to try it out. He shrugged. "Triscuits go great with cheese, too." He went back to digging out a handful of Saltines, laying them out rather neatly before alternating the toppings – brie, cheddar, swiss – in a clockwise direction. A second to admire it before he started it at the six o'clock cracker, sliding it whole into his mouth. _Cheese is going to make me thirsty_ , he realized after a few chews.

Sylar glanced up to see Peter looking at him, asking about alcohol. Another realization struck: Peter was had a system, a reason to his rhythm. All Peter had to do was put things in the environment and ask Sylar about it, the champagne for instance, or a cracker type. It was ingenious and so subtle he'd missed it. It was a unique process of elimination. _Clever, clever._ Of course, that just raised more questions about why Peter wanted to know about his alcohol intake specifically. What would (or could) Peter do to him drunk that he couldn't do when Sylar was sober?

He shook his head, "No. I wasn't...Alcohol was really frowned on. I never got into it. Before…my abilities," he phrased gently instead of saying 'before I murdered people, including you,' "I was more of a wine person, barely drank at all, ever." Something about drinking alone and the idea that it was a sin anyway. That and it had a bad tendency of making him completely horny (perhaps it was the taboo of it) coupled with the 'alone' part meant he had nowhere to go but his hand. It was a recipe for guilt and more trouble than it was worth. He felt out of control, too. "After that…I got regeneration." He shrugged that off, poking at his crackers before looking up to speak, "No point drinking if you can't get drunk, you know?"

Already he began to feel Nathan's more alcoholic urges, the feeling that being drunk and numb and out of it was pleasurable. /He'd needed it to cope at times. Deaths in the family, utter betrayals, life doing down the tubes. Mexico came to mind – his failure and guilt, cowardly running and involving the daughter he'd wanted to impress…His last binge had been…the night before Thanksgiving./ He'd slept in his brother's familiarly-scented bed, safe for the moment from the outside world while his mind tore him apart in his dreams. He'd woken to Angela, lies, and pumpkin pie. "It's kinda nice here, though." _I can get drunk now, if I want_. He didn't want to advertise that in case Peter got ideas. A concussion and more randy horniness than he knew how to handle, with Peter here, would not be a good combination.

XXX

Peter nodded agreeably, listening.

XXX

Sylar felt that he'd been talking so long, he'd missed the question so he tried to review it. "I don't…um. Most drinks are fine. I don't know that I really have a preference." He shoved another cracker in his mouth just to shut up and look occupied.

XXX

"Can't say I have the best relationship with it, myself. I think alcoholism runs in my family." Peter hesitated, not sure what he wanted to say to Sylar about that. More quietly he said, "People say a lot of hurtful things while they're drunk." He toyed with his glass, interest in drinking it abruptly over. Peter set the glass down and stood up, a carefully polite expression on his face to hide his anger at himself – for spoiling the moment, for not being able to shut away the past, for even thinking that drinking might be a nice way to ease that pain in his back and hand. "I'm going to get one of those bottles of water. Do you want one?"

XXX

That was something that Nathan had never understood – but Sylar had grasped instantly – Angela's wine habit. It was because of her ability. Nathan didn't know about that until his forties, though he knew Angela came from a less-influential family than Arthur, a lawyer, businessman and a war veteran who also drank. If anything Arthur showed Nathan the ropes of alcohol – it was almost expected of him. He'd taken the brunt of imbibed Arthur to shield Peter; therefor Nathan knew just what kinds of things Arthur talked about when he'd been in his drink. And that decisive, so-called honesty turning cutting, looking for any vulnerable spot or perceived flaw under the influence when it stripped away any censor. Nathan himself had called Peter a few names after a few beers – the kid's idealism, rebellion, and pacifism making him nauseous at the time.

There were things Sylar could say to that but he wanted to relax, at least a little, enough to rest later and not worry about an attack in the night – which he would worry about if he snarked off about the familial addiction. He was just being pragmatic. He didn't want to get involved or endanger himself. Although his curiosity stood at attention, wondering what exactly Peter had heard (or said!). Gabriel's own upbringing hadn't required alcohol to allow poisonous words or phrases, even Bible versus to embed in his brain to be remembered forever. It was almost an every day occurrence for the over-sensitive and that had been torture. It wasn't like Gabriel had ever figured out the source or purpose behind any of it, eventually he gave up trying to reason it out and just accepted what was. He could definitely relate to that feeling and maybe that helped keep his mouth shut. "Yes, please."

_At least…Peter and I turned out better than our fathers. Not by much in my case, but…I think that still matters._

XXX

Peter walked to the fridge, pausing to roll his shoulders and try to center himself before he opened the door. He got what he came for and returned. Small talk about cheese came to mind and was dismissed. Instead, after settling himself back in his chair, Peter said, "My back hurts. My hand hurts. I'm not feeling good." _I'm sure you aren't, either_. The real reason why he was suddenly cranky wasn't because of his hand or back – it was thinking about his family. He didn't want to talk about that, though, so he picked up a cracker with brie on it, relying on the soft cheese to hold the cracker together after he bit off half of it. A swallow and a drink of water later, he said, "But you're right – it is nice here in a lot of ways. It's quiet. That's good and bad, but I really noticed it when I was playing the piano. Inside of your apartment has the clocks, but outside it's always so silent. You can definitely hear yourself think." _Maybe kind of literally._

XXX

 _And what do you want me to do about it?_ Sylar pondered Peter's pointing out his symptoms, taking the second water bottle and a drink from it. _Maybe you need to be eating the Saltines._

XXX

"There's a lot of time here. I kind of like that. It's … new." He gave Sylar a frail smile, going back to eating.

XXX

Sylar had opened his mouth to say why he had the clocks (and the noise) in the first place, but that sweet, fleeting little smile stopped him. "So you spend it beating things up and tuning pianos." A commonality struck him, "Hey, you tunes pianos and I fix clocks." _I wonder if there's pianos at hotels he can tune? Is it a hobby or…Obviously it isn't – he doesn't know how to tune a piano. Why do something you don't know how to do?_ "It's probably good for you. You work too much anyway. No one here to save now." _Not even me._ "You can do anything you want." Sylar thought about that, then shrugged. It was….too much world, even for him. It was too big, too much room, empty space. He couldn't fill it or be in it all at the same time. Hence his small apartment, stuffed to the ceiling with entertaining, special items. It was a comfortable, familiar, safe nest he barely fit in. That was also what he was used to.

Any conspirator who claimed he was out for world domination was dead wrong – literally, dead and wrong now. Making a change for him was both more difficult and more profound; for Peter change was easy and accessible, possible and somewhat approved of. Maybe it came down to inborn skill sets. Saving an individual life was more a personal thing whereas being president…would affect thousands if not millions of lives. "I was here first, though, so I make the rules," Sylar sniffed, throwing that out casually and surely, munching on another cracker. He didn't think that one through because while he would have liked to establish dominance, he couldn't back it up at the moment or maybe ever.

XXX

Peter had been introspectively musing over Sylar's words until the man got to the last ones. For a moment, Peter's eyes danced over Sylar's serious face, trying to judge if he really meant that. Because it was still embedded in Peter's mind that this was _Sylar_ he was dealing with and _Sylar_ was an unpredictably violent, homicidal man with baggage Peter couldn't even begin to unpack. He was also an unpredictably violent, homicidal man who had just fed Peter a straight joke. In a twisted sort of way, he was not only acknowledging his past, but also making a joke of it. After three seconds of looking at him intently, Peter burst out in a very amused laugh.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed at the laughter. It mocked him. It wasn't funny. Okay, maybe he'd meant it a little light-hearted but he was serious. Peter didn't like it here; he was new; from out of town (or wherever – Peter still thought he was in California for fuck's sake); he was younger and he was only here because Sylar had something he wanted. Besides, who had won the last two fight-fights? He wound up glowering.

XXX

Peter continued chuckling as he put some smoked cheddar on a couple more wheat crackers and leaned back, cracker in hand. "Okay, let's play that game. If you were king of the world here, what's the first law you'd pass?"

XXX

"I _am_ king of the world here," Sylar corrected with half his attention.

XXX

That spawned another bout of chuckles from Peter, who struggled to tamp it down. Sylar seemed serious, which was funny either way – if he'd intended it as a joke, then being serious was just Sylar playing along and it was definitely humorous; but if he hadn't intended it as a joke, then it was so preposterous that Peter couldn't help but laugh. He cleared his throat and forced an expression of soberness onto his face, difficult though that was.

XXX

Sylar ignored the peanut gallery this time. Already he was contemplating the question – a good one, too. The parameters were obvious – he was king and whatever law he made would be followed. Or else. It wasn't…'make a wish; what wish would you make?' The problem was he didn't know the answer to either – wish or law 'game.' _Peter can't rape me. Peter has to sleep with me? Peter can't laugh at me. Peter can't leave. Peter can't touch my stuff. Peter has to believe me? Peter has to play with me? Peter has to like me? Peter…does what I say? Or maybe…'Sylar will be safe from all physical, mental and emotional harm'? Maybe 'I'm special, not a monster'?_

Sylar had zoned out completely, staring sightless at the tabletop at Peter's right. As he came back to more conscious and social awareness, he could feel he'd been frowning. He licked his lips. "Uh…I'd make a constitution to begin with. Put…lots of things on it."

XXX

"Write it all down? That's a good idea," Peter said as he genuinely sobered. "I hadn't thought of that."

XXX

Sylar thought some more, slowly formulating because he knew he had to have an answer. Not having one was…well, it would look weird. Saying something that didn't match Peter's concept of Sylar the monster, Sylar the murderer would set off alarm bells and raise more personal questions he didn't want to answer. But damnit, he didn't have just one and the ones he had he couldn't or didn't want to divulge. So he prioritized as best he could. "I guess…my first law would be that…you couldn't leave. You have to stay living in whatever building you choose." _That's not weird or conspicuous at all. But I can work down the list from there; what's possible on it, anyway._

XXX

Peter lifted a brow. _He already has that. Damn, that really is important to him. I guess we have an exemption for tonight?_

XXX

Sylar bit off a corner of Swiss Saltine, entertaining his mind with multiple fantasies. After a moment, his curiosity peaked again. "How about you? Assuming you were king of the world, of course," Sylar smirked without much energy, downplaying the likelihood.

XXX

"Ha," Peter said, taking a liberal drink of champagne because it went better with the taste of smoked cheddar than water did. (He would have said it had nothing at all to do with any latent alcoholism that ran in his family – or tendencies towards denial.) "If I were king of the world … _this_ world … and I don't want to over-think it, but I think we shouldn't beat each other up." He took a moderate sip. "So this situation is one where whatever I order would really happen? Not just be something everyone agreed was a good idea?"

Peter knew that this proposed rule of his would impact him as much as Sylar, but he'd be somewhat gentler with Sylar if he wasn't feeling he needed to go over-the-top with violence to deter the homicidal maniac Sylar has proven himself to be in the past - the recent past, too. Again, though, this was what Peter would tell himself, because the admission that he really wanted to hurt people of his own desire rather than as a defense wasn't something he was prepared to make.

"I'd want to write it up in that constitution of yours, so we both knew what it meant."

XXX

 _When do you over-think anything, Petrelli?_ Sylar queried to himself. He nodded agreement, though, when Peter seemed to look for one. He gave Peter nearly the capacity of his attention, the rest of it spared for his cracker. _Although…I'm king of the world so the only 'game' is_ letting _you pretend to put things in_ my _constitution. If we're both putting things in, then, yeah, it's on a_ _democratic_ _basis._

XXX

It occurred to Peter that he might have stumbled upon a sideways method to working out some ground rules for interacting, if they could agree what was kosher and what wasn't between them. Sylar's 'rule' of Peter not leaving wasn't abusive or even megalomaniacal. Peter could live with it. He wondered what else he could live with from the other man. "So I can't leave, and neither of us can beat up on the other. What else should we have in the constitution?"

XXX

Sylar's face was droll and unimpressed. ' _We' can't beat on each other. Think_ you _can handle not beating me up, Petrelli? You seemed to like it even though_ I _won_. Peter's last question was different than the 'game.' It sounded familiar, too, so he wasn't unaware of the angle of Peter's motives. Whatever. Let the kid think what he wanted to. Sylar was king and this wasn't a democracy. Even if it was, both of them were far too different to reach agreement. The empath didn't balk at the enforced living condition; that was hopeful.

"Guests have to be respectful of the owner's apartment, including rare collectables and _food_." Sylar gave an unmistakably pointed look at Peter. "Don't make a mess. Don't break things, like doors or people's faces. Don't take their things, like combs. Don't move their things without permission – clocks and watches are delicate and probably have loose parts and the books are where I want them to be. Always wash your hands and don't leave the toilet seat up." Sylar finished his speech and took a drink from his champagne, suspecting that those terms wouldn't go over as well as the first one had. Most of that was repetitious – Peter had heard it before – but some of it was new and advertising what he wanted as just as likely to wind up happening because…well, he wanted it. Peter now knew how to drive him up a wall and might do it on a whim. "The infraction of which may result in breach in contract of rule number two," he muttered to himself.

XXX

Peter stifled a laugh at the emphasis on 'food'. He reached up and rubbed at his upper lip, his mouth, and then scratched at his chin, all the while failing to get an amused smile off his face. "I don't know, man. I might want to move things around just to upset you. That's worth seeing," he teased.

XXX

"Ha ha." Sylar deadpanned with so much seriousness it was nearly a threat. _I don't think it will be worth seeing. I won't make it worth your while._

XXX

More seriously, Peter said, "But I'll try not to break things." Thankfully, he wasn't a klutz. He took another sip of champagne and set about building another couple of crackers. As he finished, he said, "Guess it's my turn. Don't chase me. If I get upset and I want my space, let me have it. I've got to feel like I can get away from you when I need to or else we'll have some of those 'infractions' you're talking about." Peter knew he got emotional and more demonstrative than a lot of other people. Which was fine most of the time, but there were a lot of feelings he harbored towards Sylar which probably wouldn't be healthy for either of them for Peter to let out. Putting pressure on him or getting in his face seemed like a sure way to break Peter's tenuous control on his more violent impulses.

XXX

Sylar was quiet, lips pursed. He didn't like that one so much. It robbed him of an opportunity to get under Peter's skin, should he ever feel the need. _When I want your attention and your presence, I'm going to try to get it. There's no guarantee you'll come back. You're asking me to just…let you go? Trust you'll come back? (What if I want some infractions?_ They were just another way to get attention and the fighting rule was Peter's, not his). Sylar was aware that he had, perhaps, something of paranoid phobia about being abandoned and/or neglected. That saying about 'its not paranoia if they're all out to get you' came truthfully to mind even if he felt like some tacky alien conspiracy theorist about it. Having to remember that Peter needed him, too, just as badly – hell, Sylar was his mission here – seemed like small fry compared to being abandoned. It was difficult rationale to ask him to justify. Apparently his silence was read as acquiescence and Peter continued.

XXX

"Some of your rules from before that I'm okay with: don't lie, don't manipulate. At least not in a bad way. Influencing is different. So's persuading. Maybe what I'm saying is that being above-board is all right, but nothing underhanded. None of that 'I got away with it so it's okay' stuff." Peter paused for a bite, swallowed quickly and added, "Not that I've seen you do that, but a lot of people do – Nathan always did – and it's not something I like. No one does and it's only the two of us here, so ..." He let that trail off with an expressive shrug as he finished his current cracker.

XXX

"Nuh-uh, Petrelli. One rule at a time. Wait your turn," Sylar brandished a cracker at him warningly. The idea of being bound to tell the truth was…well, both very serious in applied reality and laughable as a concept. He didn't have to agree to that one; he didn't have to follow it - Peter didn't have to know. Peter had already caught him lying about his medical status, how he'd done it, Sylar wasn't sure. He'd been picturing the morally upright hero (Peter) would be held accountable for lying and manipulating since his last name was Petrelli back when he made that condition. The other one being that Peter not treat him like a sanitarium inmate had, for the most part, been upheld, to his surprise.

Sylar didn't talk to people; it was just too dangerous. Already Peter figured how to use his preferences against him with that book rearranging comment. The last semi-truthful conversation Sylar had…he couldn't recall. Madeline? Luke? Claire even? Or farther back to Danko or Chandra? The idea of honesty was a frightening one. It implied…safety and trust. He could always agree to the rule but distract and avoid answering, which wasn't lying…"Besides," he mused, "you'll assume I'm lying anyway." _So let I'll let you think what you want, believe what you want to believe. I don't think my truth is going to make a difference here, now, with you, where it hasn't done any good before. What's so important that he needs to know the truth? All he asks are…weird get-to-know-you questions about my childhood. Like any of that matters. He's not writing a book or planning a hit and he didn't read my file. It's just weird._

Sylar was a bit surprised Peter had so openly named his brother. He assumed the mere mention was a salted wound too deep to touch. Nathan's bipolar conscience was certainly a pain in everyone's ass; Sylar ought to know and clearly Peter did, too. _Does he mention him now because…he thinks I'll do something Nathan would do?_ That was an unpleasant thought.

"In my constitution I'd make it a law that you have to treat me at least like a coworker. None of that Company, hero under-the-rug stuff." Peter felt like a brother and a friend to him, like a little shadow almost. It was jarring when Peter held him at arm's length all the time with none of the familiarities he expected to receive, the ones he was used to. Sylar knew that was just Nathan's ghost, but he wanted a foothold towards making that a reality because being the monster-next-door was going to make him crazy.

XXX

"A coworker?" Peter pulled his head back, brows down and lips pouted slightly. _Like a partner? Like Hesam?_ He gave Sylar a quizzical look over another piece of cracker. Hesam knew his cell number, they talked about school and saving people's lives and what it meant to be a medic together. They were in each other's business enough that it really bothered Peter that he couldn't tell Hesam the truth about his family or anything about abilities. Despite that, there was a lot more of a bond there than he had yet with Sylar. _He doesn't rate that!_

XXX

Sylar frowned deeply at that. _Yeah. So?_ _I've worked with heroes before._ His back was up over the mere suggestion that he wasn't good enough for that. _You need me enough to come get me; is this so much to ask?_

XXX

Peter blinked a few times and took another drink, washing down his food and finally moving his thoughts along to the rest of what Sylar had said. "What do you mean by that? Not just the coworker stuff, but the hero-under-the-rug thing? Because … the people I work with, we're kind of teamed up. We have each other's back." He dipped his head a little to the side, leaning forward inquisitively now. "Are you saying you're on the same team with me? That we're working together towards something?" _Like getting out? Or saving Emma?_ That seemed too good to be true, not to mention Peter wasn't entirely sure he wanted Sylar on the same 'team' as him.

XXX

Just like that, Sylar's expression loosened as Peter made sense of his earlier tone and hesitation. He understood the problem because that would be asking for quite a bit, a partnership like that. "I wasn't thinking about your job. Nursing- paramedic, whatever. That's…" _Does he even have a frame of reference for what I'm asking? How do I explain it? It's not like I've ever had it either._ "Different," he tried to clarify. "I meant like an office coworker or something." He shrugged off the whole idea because it wasn't working. Peter had all but stated he was asking for too much. Sylar noticed how interested Peter was; he'd definitely stumbled onto something of value. He didn't bother to address the 'hero-under-the-rug' part.

"I don't know how well a team would work when we don't trust each other and we have no common goals. Except maybe keeping sane here. That I can work toward." _I've been trying to work towards it. I want to get laid, maybe have a friend; you wanna save your not-so-girlfriend girlfriend and probably kill me after. Of the two, mine seems more likely (except the 'killing me' part) but apparently its all a matter of perspective, warped or otherwise._ "Besides, you don't really do 'teams', do you, Peter?"

XXX

Peter frowned at him briefly, lips pursed and affecting a sullen expression for a moment to get his feelings across about what Sylar had said. He was just emoting; it wasn't a lasting mood. He sucked down the remainder of his champagne – the last third of the glass – and set it back down. "I suppose my teamwork skills could use some work," he allowed. At least, he knew, Hesam would say his teamwork skills needed work. And maybe Noah or Matt or anyone else whom he'd tried to work with on anything of importance. _Me and Noah seemed to be working together okay, once he started taking me seriously …_ He wasn't sure how Sylar felt about Noah, though, so he left that thought unspoken.

XXX

Sylar was a little surprised to get an admission at all, let alone one so direct. He didn't know what to do with it, even though he supposed it was what he wanted, so he nodded his approval.

XXX

"We have more common goals than that," Peter chided lightly, getting to his feet. "Keeping you alive. Keeping me alive." He made some loose, wide gestures with his words. "Staying sane's a good one." Peter ambled into the kitchen, calling back, "Maybe … finding some ice cream?" as he opened the freezer and checked their options. "Hm." He dug around and emerged with a cardboard box, the outside illustrating the contents as ice cream bars – vanilla with a chocolate coating. "This is good enough," Peter declared, pulling out two and putting the box back in the freezer before returning to the table. He offered one to Sylar.

XXX

 _People who want to keep others alive usually don't beat them to concussions, plural,_ Sylar noted, but let it slide. It was strange to think that he took the idea of life more seriously than Peter did – Peter who was here, supposedly, to save his girlfriend. The idea of partnering up for the grand scheme of ice cream was funny – Sylar caught himself chuckling despite himself. He could definitely get on board a master plan for frozen dairy treats. The 'good enough' comment was equally amusing – it wasn't strawberry and it didn't have fun kiddie-chunks in it. It was vanilla, probably a cheap kind with equally cheap chocolate coating, but it was vanilla all the same, thus it was Sylar's type of ice cream, not Peter's. He took slightly sadistic pleasure in that as he took the ice cream bar, "Thanks." _I picked a good apartment then – convenient ice cream._

XXX

"I trust you some," Peter said, settling back into his seat and picking at the wrapper for his dessert. "Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have been sitting down to eat with you, getting you ice cream, dragging you out to make you listen to my horrible piano playing." He smiled charmingly at Sylar – a staged smile more familiar to Nathan's face than Peter's, but it was the same sort of emoting he'd done earlier, just this time it was a positive emotion he was trying to project. "There's hope for us yet."


	54. Night Terrors

Day 13, December 23, Evening

Sylar narrowed his eyes at first, then relaxed, tilting his head in curiosity or maybe latent defensiveness. _He makes it sound like he's doing me favors._ Sylar supposed he was, but that meant, socially speaking, that Peter wanted acknowledgement or gratitude. The same could be said of Sylar's favors – but those weren't really favors, of course, they were…something, anything, else. Sylar tracked over Peter's smiling visage. He then removed the ice cream's wrapper and took a very cold bite as the frozen dessert attacked the nerves of his teeth. _Hope for what, though? Better play-time? Bigger goals?_ "Ice cream and hope. Just what the doctor ordered," he said, just a little sarcastic, lifting his ice cream in a toast.

Something tugged at his consciousness, "Um…Ah. What would be your next rule?" He noticed the whole 'don't mention my family' bit hadn't cropped up yet. So far Peter hadn't asked for anything degrading or painful – a shock – but maybe he was just being polite at the dinner-table.

XXX

Peter nibbled gently and carefully at the top of the chocolate, flaking off a little section of it and licking that into his mouth to suck into melted goodness. He was engrossed in experiencing the flavor, paying not-that-much attention to Sylar, when the other man asked his question. "Hm? Yeah, um … guess I should have one. I don't know," he shrugged, "maybe make you answer my questions for once?" Peter gave a sudden big grin at how little Sylar would appreciate being forced to answer anything that struck Peter's fancy. He laughed a little, looking over to gage Sylar's reaction. "No, I don't think that one would work. I think it'd get voted down."

XXX

An eyebrow quirked at that. That sadistic smile was somehow innocent and very winning but the man's last name was Petrelli and something about more flies with honey than vinegar came to mind. That rule would certainly not be fun, if anything, it would be downright humiliating and traumatizing given that Peter seemed to be investigating Gabriel's past. That level of vulnerability was staggering – Sylar couldn't truly wrap his mind around it even as a fake concept. "Assuming you were king, you wouldn't get voted down. That's the whole point; if you could get away with anything. In a democracy, you'd absolutely get voted down," he asserted. _I'd have to be stupid to vote for that._

XXX

"Too bad I can't seem to break the rules of the world. This one at least," Peter said as his teeth tickled off another flat segment of chocolate to enjoy. Abilities let him break the rules of the real world well enough. "I'd have my hand fixed, be able to watch movies ..." _But would I want people around?_ The answer to that seemed like an obvious affirmative, but the words didn't want to leave Peter's mouth, for reasons he refused to examine. Instead, he set his tongue to licking a furrow in the now-exposed strip of vanilla ice cream at the top of the bar.

XXX

Sylar immediately noted Peter's shift in attention: from Sylar to the ice cream and whatever mental 'I wants' Peter could conjure up. Peter had clearly acclimated faster than he'd thought possible, or probable maybe, but then again, he had been telling the guy the facts of life as they wer now. He'd been encouraging the de-sensitization in a way and losing Peter's constant attention was just an unfortunate side-effect. Sylar glanced at Peter's very empty champagne glass and posited the theory that Peter was relaxed and tired and probably more pain-free than he'd been all day. He was even tempted to follow in the consumption of booze for pain relief, but he was paranoid of further headache that may result from a hangover. He didn't think it particularly safe with a concussion, no matter what Nurse Petrelli thought.

Idly, he watched his unaware companion as Peter fantasized and… _licked_ his ice cream. Sylar's interest sharpened and he found himself staring at the obscene display, licking his lips unconsciously of any residual ice cream, forgetting the stick in his hand. His eyebrows lofted. Never mind that under normal circumstances Sylar would not find a man licking _anything_ arousing but this wasn't a normal circumstance at all. It had been a long time since he'd seen anything besides porn magazines (which didn't really do it for him) and this here was live-action. There was no reason for that type of behavior and he wouldn't care if there was; his eyelids had already lowered and he felt warmer; perhaps he felt…harder as well.

XXX

"I'd make the weather warmer, so we could sit outside in the sun and eat all the ice cream we wanted." He looked across the table at Sylar levelly for a second or two, trying to make sense of what he meant by the 'we' that was in there. Then he brushed it off, raising his ice cream bar to suck at the bottom of it, where it inevitably melted first due to the constant warmth of his hand. "Not much point in getting out of here until I can take you with me," he mused in between rude, short, sucking sounds. He knew he was being very immature and impolite about his food, but if Sylar was offended, he could go fuck himself. Peter was having fun eating.

XXX

Sylar blinked a few times to try to right his expression, allowing his brow to drop; he must have managed it okay _. Something about taking me?_ But then Peter was right back at the ice cream – that goddamn sexual metaphor – with intensity. Sylar bit his lip at the _noises_ Peter made. Live action plus the far more memorable sound effects. God, he'd been so long without action – he was eating this up like Peter was going at the ice cream. If it kept up, he'd be squirming in his seat, if not adjusting or outright touching himself. _Jesus Christ. Peter, you tease._ This was not the first time Peter had…creatively played with his food. Sylar felt sick, though, despite the flood of long-absent hormones. This was his enemy (sort of his brother) he was drooling over. It was a new low he'd achieved. His breath came shorter while he bit into the ice cream bar to rid himself of his urge to bite or growl about the teasing. He chewed voraciously even as the cold went to his head and his teeth. It was so bad but it was pretty good, too, this typical masochistic lust of his. With each lewd slurp, Sylar felt his dick harden that much more. He had other substitutes for Peter's mouth than that ice cream bar, or so his imagination prescribed. He ran through the reasons of why, again, he wasn't taking Peter by bodily force because it sounded like a really good idea right now.

XXX

"I guess I need to come up with a real rule. Everything I-" He stopped himself in the middle of saying he couldn't think of anything he'd want that Sylar would be willing to give (like cooperation or promising not to act like an asshole). He stopped because he'd thought of something he _did_ want, that maybe he could get. "I'd make it a rule that you had to be truthful about your medical state to anyone who was providing health care services to you."

Peter looked for Sylar's reaction, sucking at the top of the ice cream bar to leave behind the top inch or so as a hollowed out shell. His next move would be to bite sections of that shell off bit by bit. Then he'd start on the sides.

XXX

_Erect. That's my medical state right now. Hopelessly erect. Teased to potentially violent action? Sexually frustrated? Insane? Check, check, check_. Sylar met Peter's eyes, certain his own gaze was ravenous. It snapped him out of it with a blink and a snarling grimace at having to tear his attention away from Peter's icy pink mouth around an ice cream bar that would never, ever be innocent in his eyes again. He slumped back, forcing his sex-starved mind to focus on whatever rule Peter had decided on.

_Who says I haven't been truthful?_ "Wouldn't that just rob you of the fun of figuring it out? Like choose your own adventure or something," he swallowed and cleared his throat but it had nothing to do with the conversation. "That's assuming the health care provider isn't in a position and has no inclination to fuck you up. I'm not going to present you with opportunities like that." _(Even though he's been fine so far)…It just bothers me because I can't figure out why my health and comfort suddenly matters._

XXX

Peter sighed and frowned, directing his attention back to the shell of chocolate. He wanted to defend and argue, but if his conduct to date hadn't been a good illustration of his ethics, then no number of words was going to help. It was depressing, though. _I thought I was doing a good job. I haven't killed you, or stabbed your eyes out or slit your throat or … yeah. 'Inclination' – concussion or not, I guess he can tell that._

XXX

On a literally pressing subject, Sylar rasped, "I'd like to get laid. I'd make a rule about that." _And I'd like to enact it_ now. To hell with ruining tonight's slumber party – if Peter could say what he wanted, then so could Sylar. To hell with Peter's little 'not my type/I won't sleep with you' statement, too, when testosterone and blood was pumping to his organ.

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed at that, glancing up from having munched down the thin layer of chocolate and effectively shortened the ice cream bar to about two-thirds its previous size. "You know, for someone who's afraid I'm going to smother them in their sleep, you're awfully pushy about getting in bed with me." He leaned back, half-regretting his words, half-pleased that he'd said it anyway.

XXX

A couple of blinks, then a slight tilt of his head was his only reaction. Sylar didn't appreciate (or find accurate) the use of the word 'afraid.' _Paranoid, maybe. Justified. You have no reason to be nice so I know I wouldn't enjoy it – you'd make sure of that. And who said anything about sleeping together?_ That last thought he found the most interesting.

XXX

Peter huffed, shooting an accusatory look at the champagne bottle. He shook his head, his feelings continuing to be ambivalent – he should apologize, but he didn't care, both at the same time. "Fine. You'd make a rule about that if you were king of the world. I'd make it a rule that people had to look out for each other, instead of screwing each other up all the time."

With another sharp exhale, he went back to his ice cream, prizing off the strip of chocolate from one side and then the other, less enchanted with it now that he'd gotten pissy over Sylar's insinuation that he was a bad nurse. Or whatever it was Sylar was insinuating. 'Hey, I think you might kill me if you had the chance – that makes me so hot' just made no sense at all. Peter kept his eyes on his side of the table (and mostly on his ice cream), quietly bristling, good mood abruptly spiked by the indecipherable contradiction.

XXX

Sylar glared, his plans foiled once again (not that he'd really expected it to work – maybe Peter just hadn't had enough booze, yeah, that was it. Though he didn't legitimately want to fuck a drunk Peter). _Oh, because you're here to look out for me, not your girlfriend. I can still 'screw' you, Peter; don't test me._ To his relief and regret, Peter seemed through with his more obscene eating habits – the majority of it seemed to be chocolate coating. Sylar pushed at his erection with the heel of his hand to give it the hint that it needed to disappear, taking a large bit of ice cream again, focusing on the cold of it. _I guess it's my turn again._

"I want my abilities back. Here," he stated petulantly, mournfully, frowning at his treat, then at Peter. "Just to have them. I miss having them. Even if it's not the same without people." _They're not really special without people to see them. Same for me. I'd make a law that I'd be special but it wouldn't be real – I haven't earned it._ It was honestly like being an amputee suffering from phantom limb. They were at least familiar and comforting – the abilities, not people – hell, he probably liked his powers better! Humans being something he could never figure out. Abilities, unlike humans, met his needs. "I think if…there were more people my, um…the…the Hunger would come back, you know? It's a trade-off, I think," Sylar admitted without knowing why, maybe just to draw Peter out of his mood, get him to engage again. That much was surprising, the implication of a trade-off – it was unexpected. It wasn't like he'd been faring any better when surrounded by people. "I'm surprised it didn't come back with you being here." _Even if your ability is pretty worthless. You make me hungry in other ways, I guess._ Sylar glanced over what little he could see of Peter's body above the table.

XXX

"Glad it didn't," Peter said, Sylar's disclosure softening him from his momentary grumpiness. "The Hunger, that is." He watched as Sylar gave him something of a sizing up, eyes traveling over him almost palpably. Peter cocked his head a little at that, tfhen took a sedate, sucking bite out of what was left of his ice cream bar. That Sylar was looking him over didn't bother him. If anything was going to perk Peter's interest, it was appreciation followed by an absence of aggression - not that he was interested. He directed his attention back to the ice cream bar, now entering that careful phase where you tried to keep what was left of it on the stick long enough for you to eat it before it fell off.

He was studying the ice cream bar when he said, "I'm not real _happy_ about you cutting my head open. If I were king of the world, I'd make you apologize for that." _I don't know if I'd believe you, but it would be nice to hear it._ He glanced up a few times as he finished his dessert, sucking the stick clean and then nibbling at the ring of chocolate left on it. There was no heat in his voice or even much in the way of accusation. What Sylar had done to him way back in Mohinder's apartment was wrong. Peter was still ticked about it, but he had far greater offenses to reserve his wrath for.

He put the stick down and cracked open his bottle of water, taking a swig before asking with simple curiosity, "Was it the abilities you liked having, or what they let you do?"

XXX

His gaze since returned to Peter, Sylar spared a second to contemplate the difference. His own didn't abilities immediately strike him as having those two aspects so clearly – they were almost one and the same for him - but he'd killed other specials for the sins of self-loathing and misuse. There definitely was a difference. "Both." It was something of a random question filled with meaning (or so he supposed). "Does that…matter somehow?"

XXX

"Well … you said you wanted your abilities back, here, but I couldn't tell if you wanted other people around or not. It made me wonder if it's just having the abilities that you like, or if it's using them on other people – what you can accomplish, what you can change. It's the difference between inward-directed or outward, I guess. One is …" he waved his hand vaguely, "the abilities change you, make you different; the other is the abilities let you change everything else."

Peter pondered for a few moments, staring sightlessly at his plate, empty of all but a clean popsicle stick. His brows twitched as he thought of another way to put it. "It's like, which do you enjoy more – getting to play the game, or winning it when you do get to play? Would you play if you didn't get to win?" He looked up, watching Sylar with a serious intensity, like the conversation had strayed into something really important. Ironic, then, that Peter didn't know which answer was 'right' or 'better'. The part of him that wanted to be moral and good thought abilities should be judged by how they let you change (for the better, he hoped) the lives of others. But another part of him, a more selfish, denied, and hidden part, wanted to start that change with himself.

XXX

Sylar listened and crunched on the ice cream bar as he did so, contemplating the dialogue and the ideas therein. It was an increasingly personal question. The second analogy boggled his mind because he couldn't tell what belonged to which – changing himself or the world and playing the game or winning it. He dismissed it. "I still…like both. But if I had to chose…Hmm," he made a sound of indecision. "It can go either way. I suppose the most effective one is changing yourself." Sylar threw a check-in glance Peter's way, almost to see what the other man thought of that, if it was…approved. The guy was watching him intently; it made Sylar wonder what he saw when he looked.

A little uncomfortable, especially with the hanging implication that he wanted or felt he needed to change himself, he made to redirect: "It's not just…using abilities on people. That's all you seem to do with them, but there's more to it. I like that I can reach out…" He extended his hand in a very familiar motion, as if he was choking someone – Peter - or reaching for something invisibly cylindrical, "and take something." Fingers flexing, he heaved a rueful sigh before he relaxed back – his target, Peter's empty glass, unmoved on the table. "I used to be able to. The power of the mind. It's raw but I can harness it. Do things no one else can." _Be special. Powers substitute what I wasn't born with. Special comes from the inside, then the things you do with it. I need people_ _and powers to be special. By myself I'm not much._ Face darkening, Sylar tried not to remember a similar conversation with Maya in some dusty car in Mexico or how clumsy he'd been with telekinesis at first with Chandra.

XXX

Peter stiffened, sitting up straight, pulling in air, and leaning away. Adrenaline silently flooded through his system, making the room surreal and unimportant – his attention utterly riveted on Sylar's hand. _He can't … he can't … he can't do anything … right?_ He tried to breathe as he waited, finally noticing Sylar's gaze wasn't on him, but on the glass in front of him. Nothing happened and Sylar went on with his spiel, having been focused on his target and not the man sitting behind the glass. A variety of reactions were parading through Peter's mind – attacking, fleeing, smashing aside the things on the table and issuing loud, confrontational threats, or doing nothing at all, as Sylar didn't seem to get how his 'reaching out and taking things' interfered very directly with people's bodily autonomy and sometimes, their life. Peter finally managed to pull in a deep breath, letting it out slowly while a cold sensation of pins and needles flashed along his skin as the fight-or-flight hormones faded.

XXX

He bit down on his mostly-bare popsicle stick and sucked it clean before raising his eyes to Peter once more, fairly certain his explanation had gone over the hero's head. Sylar cleared his throat to hopefully cue a shift in the conversation.

XXX

Peter was still sitting there immobile, though paler than he had been before. When Sylar finally looked directly at him and cleared his throat, Peter jerked a little. "Yeah. Well. We're done here." He nodded to himself, standing and gathering up his plate and empty glass, carrying them into the kitchen with steady, sharp movements that betrayed his suddenly elevated tension. _He didn't do anything. I've got to relax. It's no big deal,_ he thought, trying to sooth his nerves.

XXX

"No, Peter…C'mon…" Sylar practically whined. The other man's abruptness was obvious, the cause less so.

XXX

That tone of voice had Peter glancing back, eyes narrowed to slits as he looked over his shoulder from the sink. _He doesn't have a clue. He didn't even mean it. But he_ _ **should**_ _have. Is he killing people without even understanding …?_ Peter turned away again, shaking his head. He didn't feel that Sylar's issues were his problem. _He's still a murderer._

XXX

Sylar stared after Peter for a moment, sighing, and getting his own rear in gear to clean up. It hurt his head to stand again. _I don't even know what I did. He asked a question and I answered it_ , he stewed, taking his plate and cup to the sink. ' _Be honest, but don't answer my questions' is that it? Why ask the fucking question then, if you don't want my answer?_ The air was tense with discomfort and awkwardness, any proximity was unhelpful. He wasn't happy about it, having preferred their amiable meal much better. He huffed and moved with rough efficiency, going back for the crackers, twisting the plastic sleeves closed, stuffing those back into the boxes which went into the canvas bag while Peter handled the cheese.

_Some birthday. Can't even sit through one fucking meal without fucking something up. Talking too much again._ Something about this was bothering him, the formula seemed familiar – trying to please and failing, having the night's events and his role in them dictated to him. Wandering back into the kitchen to be useful or close despite the aura, he asked, "Do you want this?" when he spotted his barely-sampled champagne cup, lifting it so Peter could see. _Great going – he'll probably think I mean to get him drunk._ "Just…Never mind," he replaced it on the counter in frustration. _Let Peter handle it._ He swiped at his brow, positioning himself hopefully out Peter's way.

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar's glass. He wouldn't mind more champagne, but he was done with the meal and done with dealing with Sylar. He just wanted to get away from him and besides, drink out of Sylar's glass? _Uh, no thanks._ As Sylar was still more-or-less underfoot, very present in Peter's space (or at least the room Peter was in, which was closer than Peter wanted Sylar to be at the moment), he directed, "Go get the rest of the champagne and put it up." He watched with still-angry eyes as Sylar moved off to do it. Marginally less tense, Peter added, "You can turn the cork upside-down and it should fit." He sighed, turning back to close the fridge after putting away the cheese, and set the knife down next to the sink.

XXX

Sylar gave him a matching look but took up the bottle and made to follow the instructions, getting the cork off the screw and turning it dry-side down for reinsertion. He shoved it back inside and placed it in the fridge.

XXX

The only things left on the table were the bottles of water. Peter carried them back, offering them to Sylar to put in the fridge as the man turned from putting away the champagne. His voice another step calmer, Peter said, "Yours is the one partly empty. Mine's the nearly full one." He looked away after brief eye contact. "I'm going to go to bed."

XXX

Sylar accepted the pair of plastic bottles, positioning Peter's on the left, his own on the right. It made sense given that the master bedroom (Peter's for the night) was on the left; the guest bed (Sylar's) was on the right. He moved out of range of the fridge door, turning to look at Peter as he spoke. A nod was all he could answer with, unhappy with the- with _his_ situation. He didn't want to sleep but knew he should. Mostly he hated having the stigma of Peter's hatred for whatever it was he'd done to earn it (again) more recently. It would probably result in nightmares despite the proximity with the other man. _If I could just hear him breath when he sleeps, I'd feel better. But that's the whole point._

XXX

Peter walked over to the open-plan bedroom he'd chosen. He felt exposed, not even sure Sylar was going to go to bed himself. What if he stayed up, hung around in the living room, which was just feet away from Peter's bed? _It's not like I haven't fallen asleep with him around. Of course, he was a bit more concussed then and hadn't just reminded me of how much he likes to go Darth Vader on people who annoy him. Just because, 'raw power of the mind' and stuff._ Peter exhaled. _I'm not going to live in fear. 'Fear is the mind killer' … isn't that from some other movie?_ His brows pulled together as he failed to place the quote.

Peter gave a brief shake of his head at the irrelevancy and moved around the bed, putting his back to Sylar and sitting down. He brought up one foot to rest on the opposite knee as he unlaced his shoe, tugging it off and dropping it aside. He wiggled his toes, running his fingers between them and looking at the state of his sole. The blisters from his first few days here were now unremarkable, pink patches of skin that he recognized only because he knew what he was looking for. He rubbed over them, massaging his foot for a moment before switching to repeat the process with the other shoe and foot. When done, he picked up the shoes and loosened the laces so they'd be quick and easy to put on in a hurry if he needed. This last wasn't due to Sylar – it was something he'd been doing since being hunted by Homeland Security. He set them down together right where his feet would hit the floor in the morning, socks on either side.

XXX

Sylar aimlessly almost followed Peter into the bedroom. Instead he hovered between the bathroom and master bedroom, staring at Peter. He didn't know why he did it, really, just that Peter was here and more interesting than any room. He didn't know what he was looking for, if anything, because he didn't expect to see anything amazing. It was that stupid longing for human presence, and, as usual, it came across as creepy and perverted and desperately lonely when he wasn't angering the life forms around him.

He found interest, though, even in Peter's most mundane actions, perhaps because these – performed with Peter's back turned – were unguarded. He knew the empath's back was still sore and that he'd been limping some days ago, but Peter's care of his feet (of all things) was attentive. Sylar assumed they were bothering Peter somehow – why else look at them? Not that they were bad looking feet; Nathan had grown up with those feet but Sylar couldn't see them clearly from where he stood now.

XXX

He pulled his shirt off over his head, looking back to see what Sylar was up to. Peter didn't usually sleep wearing much – boxers were his usual, but it wasn't like he'd brought anything with him. He wasn't going to advertise his paranoia by remaining in his jeans, and sleeping in underwear was too confining to be comfortable. Going naked … despite his desire to conquer his fear by facing it down, that was a step too far. (Also, parading around nude was rude.) Peter dropped the shirt on the bed and stood to go through the dresser and closet for options. He finally settled on elastic-waisted sweat pants. A retreat into the bathroom allowed him to change and take care of his needs before emerging in his new sleepwear.

XXX

So much for not seeing anything amazing – Peter's shirt came up and off, revealing a toned, tan back (because, of course, even Peter's _spine_ had to be muscled). As a body part it wasn't a provocative one, but the amount of it, bare as it was now, and the knowledge that it was very nice human skin, when Sylar hadn't seen any in years, was tempting. More so because of how soft it looked. The other man glanced around to see where he was. Sylar didn't move, though he felt he probably should. _What are you waiting for? A lullaby? A good night kiss? You're not his brother._

While Peter rummaged in the drawer, Sylar withdrew to the other bedroom. _He's actually going to wear something he found in a random apartment? He's still wearing the clothes he arrived in._ Maybe that was his own personal preference, but wearing 'someone else's' clothes seemed unappealing to Sylar. _Am I supposed to change? Should I leave the door open? Oh, what the fuck – its not like he's going to check on me._ Sleeping in jeans didn't give him trouble. Not when he'd been sleeping fully-clothed for….well, a long time. _Don't lose any clothes this time._

He glanced up at the sound of various bathroom pipes activating but Peter didn't appear in his doorway. Sylar sighed and sat on the bed. Unlike the master bed, its side was up against the wall. He tugged off his shoes, setting them by the side table. His coat was next – he rested that on the foot of his bed. He felt his head pound at the idea of lying prone on the mattress and his body suddenly dragged from the exploits of the day. Pulling back the covers allowed him to slide inside. It felt weird, this bed. It was way too big even though he mostly fit on it for a change, unlike his own cot. This felt too…open. Having sheets and a comforter was also strange but there was no help for it. Resigning himself to feeling miserable, nightmares, the strange bed and vulnerabilities therein, he clicked off the lamp and tried to burrow into the blankets.

XXX

Peter pulled back the covers and waited silently for more than a minute, not sure what he was listening for. Sleet was still stinging against the windows now and then, accompanied by gusts of wind, but if Sylar was making any noise, Peter wasn't hearing it. _He's always been good at stealth,_ Peter thought, considering the various times the man had just appeared out of nowhere – at the end of the corridor at Wells High, at Kirby Plaza, and most spooky of all, at Mohinder's apartment. He shook his head and climbed under the covers. _Thinking about how good Sylar is at sneaking up on me and mur- trying to murder me is pretty dumb for going to bed with him in the next room. Is it murder if I recover? I think it would be. Attempted murder at the very least. Ow, hand hurts. My wrist, too. And, damn it, my back. Should have taken some painkillers … maybe drank more ..._

Peter struggled to find a comfortable position, being too tired to toss and turn. Instead, he made a few unhappy, inarticulate grunts, trying out two or three positions before deciding to bore himself to sleep thinking about the law. It worked, but his first dream was an outgrowth of those thoughts - he and Sylar were sitting in Nathan's political office, just like they had been before Rene showed up to tell him about the storage unit. Except Sylar didn't look like Nathan. He was just Sylar and in the dream, Peter didn't mind. They were chatting about Mom and the carnival and things he couldn't remember real well, hanging out relaxed with one another. That was all it was – an unsettling dream, to be sure, but milder than the reality.

There were others – some banal, some disturbing, some just half-waking sensations of very real pain or wariness. The combination of discomfort, unfamiliar setting, and apprehension about his roommate did not sit well with his subconscious. Although he was usually able to direct himself out of troubling dreams, he grew tired and frustrated with himself and tried to **force** himself to stay asleep. So when the nightmare started, he did.

XXX

Sylar had managed to doze at least, his full bladder protesting enough to keep him from sleeping well. When he couldn't take it anymore, he grudgingly woke himself. No nightmares yet but by going to the bathroom, he hoped to prevent any at all (unlikely). The headache had faded to a dull roar but it quickly raced to more sharp, shooting pains of being awake. He groaned and grumbled to himself, peeling off the warm covers to stand on unsteady feet. Without waking fully or being consciously aware of his surroundings, Sylar walked to the closet - approximately where his own bathroom was in his apartment. The handle was different and he couldn't find the light switch. What he could see didn't look like a tiled bathroom, so he looked around the rest of the room to figure out where the hell he was. Recollection hit him – he wasn't in his apartment – and slowly the layout came back to him as well. He shuffled down the mini-hall to the bathroom – this time succeeding in finding both light switch and toilet. "Gah!" the light blinded him for a moment, literally, stabbing his eyes. He brought a hand up to get some relief from the glare and felt his way to the toilet using the sink counter. He was definitely sitting this round – sightless and unbalanced as he was from his injuries.

XXX

Like the other dreams, it was just a situation – Peter's thoughts too disjointed for anything with a plot. His father was trying to force him down into a cargo container like the one he'd been confined in for that horrific trip to Ireland. He knew cargo containers usually had their doors on the ends, but this one in the dream had it in the top – it was decidedly coffin-like. At first, he teetered precariously on the edge, Arthur trying to push him in with what Peter assumed was telekinesis while Peter resisted with some equally unseen power of will. A final, vicious shove and Peter lost his balance with a rough gasp, barely catching himself from plummeting into the yawning blackness beneath him by using flight. He couldn't get away, though. No matter how much he strained, he couldn't seem to evade his father's power. He groaned low in his throat, the noise coming out as an uneven rasp. He fought with the blankets for a moment, thinking they were his dad. Tangled in them, he lashed out unevenly with his right, being rewarded with a stab of pain from his broken hand.

The pain pulled a sharp cry from him as his eyes flew open but he didn't truly wake. It was dark – whatever light there was from the other rooms wasn't enough to penetrate Peter's sleep-fogged fear that he'd fallen inside the container and was going to be locked away forever, forgotten and starving in the oppressive darkness, deprived of everything and everyone, even of his sense of self.

XXX

Rubbing at his forehead to try to ease his wounded retinas, Sylar heard one of those emergency noises, the kind that automatically raised the hair on the back of his neck. In the dead of night. It caught his attention instantly as he was finishing up and he paused after drying his hands, head cocked to listen better, body tense and alert. When it didn't happen again he went about washing his hands, dismissing the sound. _Stupid concussion's making me crazy. Crazier. Peter's not helping any._

XXX

His mind rationalized the pain as being from falling. He was trapped then! He made a whimper as tears welled in his eyes, but he scrunched them shut, concentrated, and tried to fly again. Peter felt himself rising and he was almost out of the container when his father appeared again, looming over him angry and judgmental and determined that Peter know his place. "You're grounded!" Arthur shouted at him, pointing a finger at him that made Peter's chest clench in fear. It drove all the breath out of him.

That was almost the end. His concentration broke and his flight failed, but something caught him. Sylar was standing off to the side on the roof of an adjoining container, moving his hand surreptitiously, levitating Peter with his telekinesis. Peter wondered if he'd ever been flying at all, or if it had been Sylar helping him all along. He ignored his father and tried to call out, "Help me!" The words sounded like a hoarse whisper. Peter tried to repeat them more loudly, but although his throat strained, he feared he was too quiet to be heard. "Sylar! No … help-" Stymied, Peter thrashed, trying to reach the edges of the opening he was hovering over. If he could grab an edge … "Get me … get me there … Sylar ..." He struggled with the name, trying to repeat it even though his lips seemed to have turned to ice. His father must have been using an ability on him. Numbly, his tongue stumbled over the name of his potential savior.

XXX

Hand on the switch, Sylar was about to feel his way back to bed as his would-have-been scorched retinas, then he heard it again. This time it was much clearer; he heard words but the alarmed tone was the same. His eyes had been closed as much as possible to protect them but now he forced them open, painfully, asking into the night, "Peter?" _It sounded like him. That was my name._ "Whatcha need?" Because, obviously, those were very needy sounds. If only he could decipher the location and cause…maybe then he could get some sleep. He left the light on and moved towards the last place he remembered seeing Peter. There was some motion on the bed, he could see with some bathroom backlighting. "Pete?" he said again, looking for confirmation of some kind. He got none. His question turned to worry. "Pete?" The pained motions on the bed ceased entirely.

XXX

Then Peter stopped, going totally still and rigid, not even breathing. Someone was coming close to him – Sylar, he thought. Wasn't that Sylar walking closer, calling him 'Pete' of all things? He would have been annoyed by that if he wasn't so desperate and frightened. His father was still there, a looming threat ready to strike at any moment. He was outside of Peter's field of vision, but that only made him all the more terrifying. Peter made a noise in the back of his throat, trying to ask Sylar for help but he wasn't sure the sound made sense. It came out more as a plaintive bleat of attempted verbalization.

XXX

Sylar was awake as he was going to get, anxious as hell. _Oh, God. Did I hit him too hard? Was it the food? The champagne? Does he have an infection? An allergy?_ That last noise tore at him. It was not a good sound; that was all he knew. An old, familiar instinct roused in him. As quickly as he could – which given the length of his legs meant considerable speed – Sylar went to Peter's bedside. Something besides floor, some semi-hard object, met his foot when he got close, startling him further. He swore and lost his balance, catching himself on the bed and, since he was in a hurry, he went ahead and sat on the mattress beside Peter, uncaring for once where they touched. "Pete!" he reached out for the younger man's shoulder, shaking him for a response. _Goddamnit, where's the lamp?!_ He didn't know, his shadow partially blocking the light from illuminating Peter. _What's going on?_


	55. Unpacked Cargo

Day 13 (December 23), Night

The hand on Peter's shoulder surprised the crap out of him, like it came out of another dimension. It was still Sylar, though – the voice and the silhouette matched the nightmare. He was to Peter's left and Peter grabbed at his arm, fingers latching on above the elbow. Just like that, he had an ability – he could fly. Or something, because he was able to sit up, muscles finally obeying his desires. "Sylar!" he coughed out, hanging onto the guy and looking around wildly for a moment. Arthur was gone. It was dark, dim … safe maybe? Peter hugged Sylar to him without thinking, heart pounding and breath coming fast with a near-sob of relief. "I don wanna go back there," he slurred into Sylar's shirt, still seeing him as the guy who had saved him from being sent back to that hell of privation.

XXX

Sylar jumped at being grabbed but Peter's tone now sounded conscious. He found himself dragged forward until his arms were full of a half-naked Peter. That stunned him some more. The contact was wonderful and he reacted to it almost instantly, holding Peter to him with arms around his warm, slightly sweaty shoulders. "It's okay. We won't go back there," he promised _._ _I have_ _no idea what you're talking about. It must have been a dream. He's mentioned them before._ While the younger man calmed, so did Sylar. He barely resisted the urge to make some purr or hum, maybe a moan of contentment at holding and being held. It was platonic and wonderful. Though he supposed he was twisted for deriving so much pleasure from Peter's upset, he didn't pay that much attention. His cheek was pressed against Peter's face, his nostrils filled with that familiar sibling smell of Peter and his hair products and that was totally relaxing. He rubbed Peter's back and shoulders, brisk but slow, strangely enjoying the opportunity to give comfort. While not unheard of, it wasn't a role he often got to play.

XXX

Moments passed. The sense of the dream faded fast, replaced by the reality that the guy he was holding was not the fictional 'it's okay if he pretends to be Nathan' guy who had saved him from something (except apparently from having a bad dream). All those times Sylar had twitched and moaned in his sleep and Peter had ignored him paraded by his mind's eye, leaving him with a sense of guilt that he hadn't done for Sylar what Sylar, the horrible killer, had the sense of common decency to do for him. Peter backed up, putting four or five inches between their bodies and leaning his forehead on Sylar's upper chest, reluctant to pull away quite yet.

XXX

He sighed. Peter had separated them; cooler air rushing between where they'd been warm just seconds before, but placed his head against Sylar's chest. Sylar wished he'd removed his shirt for sleeping, too, just to feel the touch of another's skin. He could almost feel it regardless. It was intimate because of Peter's need right now. He wound up blissfully cradling the man's head and neck to him. "It's okay," he whispered again, desiring not to break this fragile moment with any interfering communication.

XXX

Peter had the strangest feelings going on. He wanted the comfort, but definitely didn't want it from this particular person. Sylar smelt like sleep. It was a weirdly powerful association for Peter – not sleep and Sylar, but rather sleep and comfort … trust … and intimacy. When he was with someone and they smelled like this, it was almost universally a good association. But this was Sylar. Sylar who had … done all the things Sylar had done, which Peter didn't even want to think about in his current position of accepting support from him. Sylar who had been making passes at him. _What the hell was he doing checking me out while I was asleep, anyway?_

Peter pulled back further, bringing his head up and giving Sylar a couple prods to let him know he was done with the holding. "I'm fine." Peter cleared his throat, dropping his hands to his lap, left hand feeling over the brace as he wondered why it was hurting. "It was just a weird dream. You can go on." He directed his eyes away and to the side, ducking his face. His hair fell across it, screening him off with the most flimsy of walls. The corners of his eyes were wet. He resisted the urge to wipe them, feeling that he must look ridiculously weak and not wanting to make it any worse.

XXX

The empath fed him a few lines of obvious bullshit, even in the dark and tired, Sylar knew that. Somehow. He let Peter have some space, but not all of it – he left an arm around Peter's shoulders, barely rubbing there. He ignored the dialogue, too (though it answered the safety-and-health question). "You okay? You were…calling me." _So it must have been a weird dream. He called_ ME _, not Nathan! Was it…was it another on_ _e of his prophetic dreams? Or the same one?_ Part of him wondered if he was in danger if it was a prophetic dream, another part pondered the likelihood of Peter lying all along about what this all-important dream was about. _I'm too tired for this._ Sylar had the natural urge to climb in bed with Peter to ensure the nightmares stayed away.

XXX

"I-" _I was not calling for_ **you** _. Well, okay, it was sort of you, but not_ you _you._ "It was a dream, that's all. You were in it."

XXX

_A nightmare, you mean. If I was in it…But that doesn't explain him calling for me._

XXX

Peter hesitated for a moment, canting his head a bit to look at Sylar's hand on his shoulder, where it was rubbing slightly across bare skin. This was way off the normal social script for this sort of thing. The most he'd expect from a relative stranger like Sylar was along the lines of 'Hey dude, you're having a bad dream. Wake up!' along with maybe a nudge or a shake, then them keeping their distance, because you just didn't go getting all cozy like this with someone you didn't know very well. Peter knew that was the script and while he might go around breaking it all the time himself, that didn't mean he didn't recognize how strange it was to have Sylar acting like this. _Sylar, the guy who misses being able to kill people with the raw power of his mind, or som_ _ething like that._

Another thing setting off mild warning bells was the tingling Sylar's hand imparted where it touched him and the positive _yearning_ Peter felt about that. It was like a craving or some unmet need and he didn't know what to think about it at all. _I've felt that before here. Is it … an ability thing? Is he doing something to me? Or am I just that hard up, that even someone like Sylar makes me horny? I don't … I don't_ feel _horny. That's not it. (Thank God.) Maybe it's just something about Mat_ _t's world here._

He leaned back and shuffled to the side a couple inches, politely dislodging Sylar's arm in the process. "I'm fine. Really. I didn't mean to wake you up." And at that, Peter gave Sylar an assessing look. He had woke Sylar, right? He hadn't been out there for other reasons, had he?

XXX

"You didn't. Was it that same dream again, the one you've been telling me about?" _That would explain him calling for me. (Wish his dumb girlfriend wasn't in the picture. But it was a dream and she isn't here_ _)._ Peter moving away only made room for Sylar to pretzel comfortably beside and before him, hands in his lap. He was curious now and this was his chance to pin Peter down on the specifics of the dream. So much for not talking about abilities, it happened to be one of Sylar's favorite subjects when the conversation didn't veer onto his modus operandi. Besides, with his headache raging and being disturbed from lonely sleep, talking with Peter and being near him sounded much better. "I thought you said you didn't have any powers." Even in the near-dark, his eyes narrowed a little, not that Peter could see him very well. _How are you still having future-dreams? He has Matt's power anyway, or so he says. It just…none of this makes a lot of sense._

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar's use of the space he'd opened up – Sylar was ensconcing himself firmly by sitting cross-legged on the bed like he'd been invited. Peter felt confused by the whole thing. Sylar was being comforting and friendly, more than friendly in fact, and yet it was _Sylar_. It reminded Peter of that long, companionable conversation they'd had while walking around the city – a conversation that had eventually gotten under Peter's skin exactly because Sylar was being so chummy with it. At what point, precisely, had he decided Peter was a great friend? Would that be before or after he'd decided to 'crucify' Peter in Times Square?

But getting on Sylar's case about the overly-buddy-buddy talk had only ended up with a stupid confrontation with a sword. Now, in bed, half-dressed, sleepy, and still rattled by a nightmare bad enough to leave him calling out for help wasn't the best time to have another throw-down about the reasons behind Sylar's oh-so-conditional kindness. Peter surrendered instead and did so by flopping back on the bed, scooting over a couple more inches in the process because he didn't want to be that close to the guy. He tugged up the covers to mid-abdomen.

"I don't have any powers," he huffed, reaching up to rub at his face and wipe away the damn tear tracks, hopefully with some level of discretion. _I'm sleepy. It's normal to wipe eyes when you're sleepy._ "It's not the same dream, not the ability dream, future-dream, whatever. It's just … one I've had before. Different versions of it."

XXX

"What were you trying to avoid, in the dream?" Sylar probed at the more painful part. _That much wasn't about his girlfriend. It was about him._

XXX

"Avoid?" Peter eyed Sylar. In the dimness and lying down, all he was getting was a shadow. Creepily, he was reminded of the almost unrelieved darkness of the cargo container. "Turn on the light, would you?" He gestured at the nightstand. There had been a little art deco style lamp there, he recalled. It would help.

XXX

Sylar had little desire to illuminate anything, not with his headache raging on. But it was a signal that Peter wanted to talk, so he complied, shielding and shutting his eyes at first.

XXX

Peter rubbed his eyes again in the light, letting them adjust. "I was trying to avoid being ..." He shrugged, frowning as he realized no short and simple explanation would cut it. He'd never told Nathan; he didn't think Sylar knew. Nothing would explain why he found it frightening without giving the context. He put a hand over his eyes briefly before putting it aside and staring up at the ceiling. It wasn't that hard to talk about because he tried not to feel anything about it.

"After I blew up over New York … eventually I found a way to heal Nathan. On my way out of the hospital, they jumped me. Wiped my memories – all of them, didn't even know my name." He swallowed. He hadn't even had a false identity to cling to and a 'normal' life to go about, however horrible Sylar's situation, had been. "And they …" another tense swallow and he looked away now, "handcuffed me to the inside of an empty cargo container. Shut the door. Left me there." He finally hazarded a glance at Sylar. "It was, uh, couple weeks, in February, on the North Atlantic. I didn't know I had abilities. I didn't understand why I wouldn't die. Or … well, why I wouldn't stay dead." He looked down, fussing with the covers. "The, uh, dream … they were putting me back in there." He shook his head. "It's just a bad dream."

XXX

Retinas eventually adjusting, though not as much as he would have liked, Sylar gazed down at Peter, listening intently. Nathan didn't know much about this and Sylar had been…in Mexico. _Ugh_. His eyes widened. _You- he had his memory wiped, too? Completely?_ A pang of understanding, sympathy even, at having shared such a horrible trauma, shuddered through him. Peter's experience with it was decidedly worse and Sylar could picture that torture all too easily. _Not just a bad dream - a bad memory._ He had no idea what to say to express his feelings of understanding – nightmares, no memories, answers or knowledge; dealing with abandonment and torture… Peter hardly had to hint how much it affected him because Sylar already knew, had already lived it himself. Sadly, he knew why things like that happened, even to Peter, but…He felt strangely close (or closer) to Peter in bonding over 'what they did to me' stories, possibly the most violating one, too. Uncertain how to comfort, he tried to follow the empath's lead and focus on the here and now, "Why was I in the dream?"

XXX

"My father was there. He was trying to push me inside, drain my powers first, though, so I'd never get out. You were using telekinesis to keep him from being able to push me in." Peter's voice dropped to very quiet, not quite a whisper. "I was …" _begging,_ "asking you to help me … more than what you were doing."

XXX

"That's a good reason," Sylar concluded lamely, equally quiet for a moment. He was glad to be of use and comfort, glad Peter had someone to get help from. Arthur Petrelli was kind of scary like that, and the threat of that kind of imprisonment…well. Thoughts became words as he mused aloud, a little introverted and slow, "Weird how… they can drain even the memory of your powers." Matt, Rene, Arthur and that Damien guy were all suspect. "You'd think you'd remember at least some of that. But nothing's really…safe," he sighed and looked up at Peter from where his eye line had fallen away. "When I…'woke up' I was buried alive, in some grave. After that they…the cop….threatened to, um….put me back there and started 'interrogating' me after he rubbed my face in a few things…He thought he could force a confession," he let out a dry breath that lacked humor, _yeah right_. "I wound up literally running from the dogs. Getting shot and tazed doesn't really make a difference, neither would dogs mauling me…powers going haywire…" he shook his head.

"Yours sounds a lot worse." _He didn't have to become someone else and deal with that whole nightmare though._ Attempting to lighten the mood a little, he flashed a micro-grin, "For once." _If he can survive that without a peep…_ For someone as emotionally volatile and needy as Peter, that Peter – an admittedly tough SOB – could handle it better than Sylar had demanded some respect. It also meant Sylar had to up his own game and quit whining even if the effects of the mindfuck were still present, much more a reality than a memory.

XXX

Peter gave a faint smile. _It's not a contest,_ he thought, but didn't argue it. Sylar's demeanor was enough to show he knew. Peter had still half-expected mockery. Sarcastically he mused, _I suppose it's nice to know my torture and betrayal by my family is up to snuff_. "Want to know what's really weird? I was stuck in that container for the worst part of three weeks, chained to the wall the whole time." He blew air out, retucking the blanket around himself and reaching up to rub his cheek with the back of his left hand. "A few hours after I got out, I was tied to a chair and managed to phase out of the ropes. The whole fucking time I could have ..." He shut his eyes briefly and shook his head. Escape had been in his grasp the entire trip. "I suppose I just didn't have the right trigger." He swallowed, grimacing and looking away. He hadn't been able to use the majority of his powers until someone showed him kindness: _Caitlyn._

XXX

"Heh." Powers, control, was funny like that sometimes. Sylar's abilities were far more…instinctive. They seemed to appear when he needed to defend himself mostly, other times they were like an extension of his emotions or…reactions to a name.

XXX

"So," he said a little louder and more strongly, directing himself away from that bleeding wound in his soul, "tell me about when you 'woke up'. What were you waking up from?" He turned his eyes intently on Sylar for a moment, before shifting his attention away to pick at the brace on his hand instead of skewering the guy with his gaze.

XXX

Sylar went still, now paranoid about their proximity, Peter's nightmare and tendency to hit things. Being thrown back into defense mode was that much more jarring after, apparently, relaxing. It was strange he didn't notice it, the relaxing. He was only slightly relieved when Peter looked away. "Uh…" he was about to say some vague line like 'nothing you want to hear' but what came out was, "Being someone else, I think. I don't know." _Fuck, don't hit me. I didn't mean…You asked…_ Sylar involuntarily leaned away a little, fighting down the urge to squirm. "I-I found the Carnival after that." _Ran right into Samuel._ He cleared his throat, the awkwardness only now dawning on him. Peter was…at least half-naked, cuddled into his blankets not six inches away and something told him that should be weird, though he didn't know why it should be weird. ( _Maybe because he's gay?_ ) _He sure smells good…_

XXX

Sylar's tension was palpable. For a moment, Peter couldn't place the cause, then Sylar answered and all was clear. _Oh. Nathan._ Peter exhaled slowly, having tensed up only a few seconds after Sylar did. "It's okay," Peter said softly, maybe unnecessarily because Sylar's reaction was pretty subdued. Peter petted the blanket a few times. "I think I understand." But he asked no more questions in that direction, not wanting to disturb whatever peace they had going at the moment.

XXX

_What does that mean?_ While it sounded straightforward, it also sounded too kind and forgiving for the topic. It sounded too good to be true. Sylar still had no reply to it so he moved on from the confusion. "What happened after that – the phasing and the chair?" Sylar tried to bring the focus back to Peter. He knew there was a lot even Nathan was missing from that part of Peter's life. While that might have been okay for Nathan, not caring and all, the gap wasn't acceptable for Sylar's mental notes. Peter hadn't been chatty about it either, quite short with his answers. The younger man had disappeared – to Scotland? Ireland? – and then shown up ready to release the virus with a madman. Something had happened along the way.

XXX

Peter's thoughts went to the events after the chair – they were kind of a mess, since his most frequent thought about that period in his life was trying not to think of it. He squirmed visibly, nose wrinkling slightly in either discomfort or disgust. He looked away to the side silently, saying nothing at all and trying to fight down the overwhelming urge to cry.

Finally, he said roughly, "I'd rather be locked in that container again than what happened after." He'd fallen in love like it was the first time, and then lost her forever. It had hardened him inside, though not the kind of hardness that bespoke of strength. He struggled with himself, torn between telling Sylar to leave and let him be alone for that cry, or keeping the guy there precisely to keep himself from breaking down. He realized he was breathing too fast and had tensed again. Peter relaxed himself purposefully, reaching up to touch at his eyes and brow, then forehead. _Let it go. Let it go. It was a long time ago. I don't have to deal with it now._

XXX

_Uh-oh_ , Sylar thought. _That bad? Crap. I'm supposed to be calming him down, not winding him up again._ He reached out and patted Peter's leg in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "Do you think you can sleep again?" he inserted into the wounded silence, trying to distract once more.

XXX

Peter jumped solidly at the touch, head snapping around with a momentarily murderous expression that faded fast to a mix of sullen and confused as he realized that a soothing pat was something he shouldn't freak out about. He moved his leg away, scooting a few inches further towards the other side of the bed to avoid that happening again. So Sylar was going to leave. Peter was both relieved and disappointed. "Yeah," he said weakly, lying back down and facing away, thoughts going back to the desperate feeling of loss and betrayal he'd experienced in the dream as his father was pushing him into the container. _Maybe I should just … let myself feel it. If he's leaving ..._

XXX

Wordlessly, Sylar leaned forward, flicking off the lamp to consume the room in near-total darkness. That done, he rose and lumbered to turn out the bathroom light. He wasn't happy about Peter's wary twitchiness. Something was better than nothing and he supposed he couldn't ask for much more.

XXX

Peter curled up on his side, pulling the covers up to his armpits and slowly letting go of the restraints he'd put on himself, beginning to permit himself to wallow in depression and regret. He sniffed slightly, thinking he should wait until Sylar was well settled elsewhere before getting some tissues in case he did break down and cry. The bathroom light clicked off, plunging all in darkness. Peter stared at the slightly lighter areas visible of the windows, waiting for Sylar to go off to his bedroom and give him some privacy. In a true, living city, the night sky would be much lighter from all the streetlamps and nightlife illumination. Here it was almost nothing and with the storm clouds outside, not even the moon was out to relieve the blackness.

He heard Sylar pad back into the area, but literally thought nothing of it. Then the mattress dipped and Peter tensed all over for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. _What the hell?_ Frozen in place, he waited. Unmistakably, Sylar settled down on the far side of the bed, the one he'd been sitting on earlier and that Peter's repeated scootings had left empty. Peter cleared his throat, sniffed loudly, and shifted his limbs around where he was to make his presence absolutely clear. The social cue went ignored.

XXX

"Night, Peter."

XXX

He didn't answer. _Do I get up and move? Get up and leave? Get up and kick him out? Or just get up and get a drink_ _and decide what I want to do?_ Peter breathed out slowly, tension draining away as Sylar did nothing else – lying on the bed seemed like the extent of his invasion. Peter felt tired. And sleepy. He'd been tense too much, sleeping fitfully before out of fear of Sylar and now the man was right here in bed with him. Perversely, it made him much less scary. _How does he know I won't smother him in his sleep? Maybe I'm the scary one. He trusts me?_ Another wave of relaxation flowed through him. Lids drooped. Peter snuggled into his pillow.

_What would it mean anyway if I got up and made a scene?_ Peter mused sleepily. He stuck his right foot out behind him so that if Sylar did try to get on his side of the bed, hopefully he'd feel him first. _Focus, Peter! Him in his_ _bedroom, him here, hardly matters. Wait … no, really focus … I'm in Parkman's basement. Or at least I hope I'm there. We're not even here in bed together. This is all … symbolic or something. Like, metaphorical. Maybe … maybe we're just sharing memories a_ _nd feeling close, so we seem close here. Share much more and we'll be fucking. Ha. Hmmm …_ Peter's thoughts spiraled off into deep slumber faster than he would have thought possible, sore muscles and emotional exhaustion leading to soft snores in record time.

XXX

Day 14, December 24, morning

Sylar was slow to wake up. He was alone, he could tell. Of course he was alone. Why he had to realize that after so many years alone puzzled him. His head hurt before he'd even rolled over to face the lit window, but he did anyway, looking around at the strange apartment. Understanding came to him when he saw a pair of jeans and boxer-briefs, both black, that were not his. Sylar blinked at that. _Peter. Is walking around in just a shirt?_ He couldn't help but snort at that, _I t_ _hink you forgot something, Pete._ That was definitely a new feeling, turning to see another inhabitant's clothes, indicating Peter had slept with him. Just slept. Sylar was still dressed, nothing out of place so no funny business had gone on. He could still smell Peter on the sheets. He grinned a little. Despite his aching head, he'd slept…well, that had probably been the best night's sleep he'd ever had. Not a nightmare in sight. _Company makes all the difference. We should get rained in more often._

Peering out into the living room and what little he could see of the kitchen, he was alone in the apartment. _Maybe he went out for breakfast. Didn't he say he liked that diner?_ He tossed around the idea that he'd been abandoned, the proximity proving too much for the Petrelli. The nurse probably wasn't coming back for a while. He didn't like those thoughts. Morning wood grew uncomfortable in his jeans and thus he was motivated to the made him dizzy, made his head burn and pound but he made it to the in hand, he idly stood, leaned against the counter for support, easily stroking himself, eyes closed. He was quiet, as usual, only exhaled breaths and soft sighs breaking the silence as his stroking turned to pulling and tugging on his increasingly rigid organ. Sylar panted as he got into it, fairly content even as his skull pained him with every beat of his heart, and as such his imagination supplied fantasies of being used. It was pretty mindless, instinctive. He pumped himself faster, rougher. It didn't take long for that to carry him over. His eyes opened as he eagerly spilled into the sink, quickly washing away the evidence. He only allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the aftermath of pulsing hormones below his headache.

He then considered his options with the shower/bath dilemma. Growling to himself, he activated the bath faucet. _Damned un-masculine, girly, flowery bullshit…_ As he let the tub fill up, he had the foresight to grab shampoo or what passed for it – the former resident was apparently pre-pubescent, if his hair products were anything to go by – a bottle of bright green Pert was it. Sylar was increasingly grateful for Peter's absence. There was no way he'd ever live down the bath or the shampoo. With a frustrated sigh, he stripped and got into the sufficiently filled tub, shutting off the water. Oh, that felt good. The surrounding heat made for a powerful muscle relaxer. _Stupid shampoo will be perfect for Peter, I bet. Something kids his age use._ Sylar purposefully ignored that thought, why he'd projected such an age difference between him and Peter. The rest of his bath was uneventful, shampooing successfully if grudgingly, until he realized he'd forgotten a towel. _Remember the shampoo but not the towel?_ So he unplugged the tub and heaved himself out to snag one from the far wall, scrubbing himself dry and wrapping it around himself in short order.

XXX

Peter was feeling pretty good as the elevator brought him back to the top floor. He attributed it to the workout more than anything else, though if pressed, he would have agreed he'd slept uncommonly well. It had been awfully strange to wake up next to Sylar, the sort of thing that should have been the stuff of nightmares but had instead, when he woke, struck him with how mundane it was. Sylar was just a guy: human. Just as Peter had been in the middle of the night, upset about a past he couldn't change. That Sylar had honored that and given it respect and empathy was something Peter was still chewing over in his mind.

The elevator doors opened. Had he been thinking when he'd slipped stealthily out of bed that morning, he would have taken more than shoes, socks, and shirt. As it was, workout complete, he wanted a shower. Any apartment in the building would have served, but this one was where he'd left his pants and underwear. Although he'd done the workout shirtless (not unusual for him), he wanted out of the now-true-to-their-name sweat pants. He turned the doorknob quietly, so that in case Sylar was still asleep he wouldn't wake him.

He could hear noises from the bathroom and see the bed was empty, so Peter stopped trying to be quiet and strode in directly. As he walked across the living area towards what he supposed was the open-plan master bedroom, he glanced to his right at motion and light in the open bathroom doorway: Sylar, in a towel, and only a towel. Peter stumbled on his own feet.

XXX

Movement flashed across his vision. There was no sound accompanying it and the shape was human sized. Sylar jolted hard. Suddenly there was someone here with him and he wasn't dressed or prepared. He exhaled harshly when he saw it was just Peter. Because who else would it be? Despite the rough start, he was happy of the companionship once more, the apartment felt more comfortable, snug and alive with him here. He didn't care why Peter had come back, just that he had returned. The domestic aspect of it disgusted him with himself. Working at calming himself, his headache sharp once more, heart rate elevated (probably with more than one cause), he saw something weird going on with Peter's feet as he left Sylar's field of vision. Frowning, he walked into the hall, partly to be out of the bathroom and to see what Peter was up to. He was hovering at a distance now his wandering anchor had returned. _Was he spying on me? Why would he try to sneak up on me? He wasn't headed in my direction…He's_ dressed _\- sweat pants._ "Where were you?" he demanded, paraphrasing several questions at once: why'd you leave? What were you doing? Are you (we) okay? Did you eat?

XXX

Peter got his balance again, having nearly, but not quite, fell into the bed. A quick glance back showed nothing he could blame his clumsiness on. A quick glance at Sylar reminded him of the actual reason. He focused on Sylar's face and the question. "I was downstairs," he said before taking a moment to consider that Sylar had no right to his whereabouts. He squashed the knee-jerk defiance that reared its head. Sylar … had attachment issues and if he was Peter's patient, it was probably unwise (or at least unkind) to aggravate those. "I was working out, getting some exercise. Are you done with the shower?" He moved over to where his pants and underwear lay, gathering them up with care not to lose the contents of his pockets across the floor. Not that he really had much need of his wallet here, but the utility tool was useful. "If you're not, I can go across the hall." _I probably should have suggested that first._

XXX

"Oh." That made perfect sense, in fact, Sylar knew he should have thought of it. _Damn concussion._ _Peter even mentioned he works out so he doesn't have nightmares. So he's…not happy about…last night. I guess I should feel lucky he didn't use me for his punching bag this morning._ He was disappointed, though. "Yeah, I'll- um…" he hastened back to the bathroom, bundling up his clothes and snagging a hairbrush. _I'll just change…in the guest room._

XXX

Peter made his way into the bathroom, locking the door. Not because he was afraid of assault – and that was an odd, refreshing feeling that he mused over for a moment – but simply because he'd begun to wonder if Sylar might wander in to join him much like he had in the bed. _Attachment issues. Might be something else going on there? Co-dependent? Or maybe just dependent, because I don't know that I'm … Co-dependent means I'm dependent on him, too, right? I don't think I am. Other than the obvious, that we're here together, but that's just human nature. But is there something concussion-related going on? Head injuries cause …_ can _cause personality shifts. Is that part of the problem? Or issue? Not a huge problem, really. I … well, not happy about him being in my bed. But if I can get him back to his apartment, I can go off to mine. Hm. First day I was here, he wanted me to move in across the hall to him. Maybe it's not a concussion thing. Why the fuck does some serial killer want me living next door to him? Maybe it's a Nathan thing?_ Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn't know what to do about that. It took a lot of the blame away from Sylar and he was uncomfortable doing that. It was Sylar's responsibility to act like **Sylar** , not Nathan. It was something he wanted to address, but right now was not the best time for it.

After a quick shower without shampoo (after he was done, he found it next to the tub, not that it was a brand he would have used anyway), he dried off, rinsed his mouth, and dressed in the bathroom, exiting fully clothed.

XXX

Sylar heard the lock click as he sat on the guest bed and got dressed from there, taking it slow, pouting a little. _Really, Peter? I slept with you_ _last_ _night! You're unharmed and you're still…?_ That was frustrating. He ran the brush through his hair with more force than necessary after toweling it but the treatment couldn't make it stay out of his face, not without some gel. He was pretty sure it was a fluffy mess with that stupid shampoo. With no sound but water in the pipes and no immediate, accessible company, he got nervy and fussy, so he turned to making the beds just because. Leaning over wasn't a treat. _Worried about my hair and clothes, haven't shaved. Worried about your appearance when it doesn't matter – Peter doesn't care. Much._

Peter didn't linger in the shower. That didn't sooth his nerves any because Peter would come back out and say…what? What was Peter going to do? Probably demand that they go home, separate. Or…was Peter still in nurse-mode? Even if he wasn't, Sylar had stated he didn't need assistance (yet here Peter was, having offered - forced it on him, rather) and he wanted something of a snack. _Maybe he'll join me before he leaves._

XXX

Sylar was in the kitchen when Peter came out, which reminded Peter that he was kind of hungry. Or a lot hungry, maybe, which turned his thoughts to the goal of getting Sylar to eat more. _Isn't he to the point yet where he can manage that himself? It's not like I'm being all that successful, anyway. Maybe if I just make sure he has food and keep him on a schedule that would be enough? Getting kind of tired of hand-holding._ Especially if Sylar was getting in bed with him, but Peter wasn't thinking about his motivations. That action of Sylar's had caused a subtle shift in Peter's behavior, making him more prone to holding Sylar at metaphorical arm's length.

"Can you pour me a glass?" Peter asked to Sylar already having the milk out.

XXX

"Hmm? Yeah, as soon as I can find the….glasses…" he murmured, mostly to himself. _Does he really need to ask?_ That was a bit weird since Sylar had already assumed it would be 'milk for two.' Peter's presence assured and increased Sylar's social anxiety and his head did not appreciate it. He had to be conscious of a lot more now, how he looked, how he sounded, what he said…The usual. It was stressful. If it kept up (either the stress or the headache; both seemed likely to) he was going to bury his head in the freezer. His companion indicated the correct cabinet and he got their drinks poured. Milk wasn't a meal, though. "Did you have breakfast yet?" _Probably should have asked that first._

XXX

"No. Thought we'd eat here," Peter said kind of brusquely. Mostly, his tone was due to distraction as he moved on to open the fridge. After a moment of consideration, he fished out the eggs and cottage cheese. _Getting tired of eggs, too. One of these days I ought to do pancakes or biscuits … hm, I could pick up one of those tubes of biscuits at the store next time I'm there. Or pre-mixed pancake batter like they have in restaurants. Do they sell pre-mixed pancake batter in grocery stores? Hm, not that it matters – I could just steal it from the restaurants. Heh._

He searched for a pan, finding a very nice, Teflon-coated one perfect for his needs. "I need a little butter or something, margarine maybe." Much as he didn't like margarine, he figured it was okay to use a little to grease the pan. He'd been told too many times that it was unhealthy, even if he wasn't sure what the bad part was about it. He had yet to clue in to the fact that he didn't need it at all when using a non-stick skillet. "If you'll find that, I'll get the eggs going." Five eggs and a healthy dollop of cottage cheese, along with some salt and pepper, were whisked together left-handedly. He was definitely getting better at that.

XXX

Sylar twitched a curious brow at the man's demanding intro. Peter got around to more-or-less asking for butter. _Oh, I bet you do want butter. Butter-fiend. Butterfingers. Ha. I wish._ He moved to the fridge and located margarine in fairly short order, passing it over. Only then did it occur to him to wonder what that product was for. A frown peeked over Peter's shoulder to see him coating the pan with the stuff. "What d-….?" He cut himself off, shaking his head. _He is so weird. It_ _'_ _s nice to know Nathan didn't really underst_ _an_ _d his…ways. He practically raised him._ After watching the apparently senseless butter-play – the cottage cheese sending him over the relative cliff of sanity - he occupied his mind (and, secondarily, his hands) with locating utensils. "Why did you lock the door?"

XXX

"What door?" Peter asked as he turned on the stove, letting it warm up.

XXX

"The door to the bathroom." _You've been locking other doors I don't know about?_

XXX

"Why do you care if I lock the bathroom door while I'm in there?" Peter asked, glancing briefly at Sylar out of the corner of his eye. It was the first time he'd looked directly at the other man since entering the kitchen, and to call the momentary look 'direct' was a stretch.

XXX

Peter's eyes would light on an affronted expression. "It's just a question. We slept together and no one got 'smothered' so why lock the door?" _You get to ask random questions about me all the time so play fair, Petrelli. Why so fussy about it?_

XXX

Peter blew out air. "We need to talk about boundaries, Sylar." Peter poured the egg mix into the pan, setting aside the bowl and getting an appropriate spatula from an implement jar next to the stove top. Thus armed, he turned to face the man he was talking to since it would be a little while before he needed to stir anything. He crossed his arms loosely, spatula poking upward like a weapon, and looked Sylar right in the eye. "Don't get in bed with me unless I invite you. If I, or you, want to lock the bathroom door or whatever, that's fine. Unless you think I'm dying in there – fell on my toothbrush somehow or slipped in the shower and hit my head – stay out."

He looked down, chewing his lip briefly as the spatula dipped to a less erect and confrontational angle. In a much lower tone, he said, "If I'm having a nightmare and you want to wake me, that's okay." In a tone of light chiding, he added, "And if we're in the same apartment together, or likely to be, you know, shut the bathroom door, okay?" He smiled and gave a slight roll of his eyes because _**damn**_ , Sylar had looked good. The bruises were largely faded and he had no idea how much the 'wet and fresh out of the shower' thing totally did it for Peter.

XXX

Sylar mimicked Peter's body language unintentionally, his face dismissive. _Oh, we do, do we? Slipped on your toothbrush how…?_ "Peter," he addressed the other man slowly at first, but uncooperative and rather sarcastic overall, "not everything needs to turn into a discussion. God, I forgot how much you like to talk about crap." He shook his head lightly, remembering scores of times when Peter had tried to draw him, Nathan, into emotional minefield talks. Nathan had wanted none of it even if he'd appreciated the thought behind it. Peter just didn't understand the difference in their worlds where emotional subjectivity and 'do-what-you-want'-ness didn't really factor in.

"And I'll shut the door when and if I want to, not before." _You most definitely can't make me._ "There's nothing there you haven't seen before – you're a nurse." _My nurse, at that. A gay one, too._ "Unless you see something you like…?" Sylar lilted seductively, amused and smirking about it; because Peter had to be referring to seeing him in nothing but a towel. The empath's expression gave him a little hope.


	56. Passing Out

_Day 14, morning, December 24_

Peter snorted immediately at Sylar's insinuation that Peter was interested in him. He most certainly wasn't – appreciating the obvious was a long way from actually wanting to be with someone. He gave Sylar a glare accompanied by a rather aggressive look down his body before turning back to the stove. Peter stirred the eggs.

XXX

"You didn't answer my question. Why did you lock the door?"

XXX

Peter sighed, a bit more dramatically than necessary. _Can't the guy take a hint? Answer: No, probably not. Time to be blunt, then._ "Because I didn't want you in there, Sylar," he said, finishing up with this round of fiddling with the food. He put the spatula down and turned to face his companion. "If I wait until you've barged in with me, then you're already in there. You got in my bed last night and-" Peter made an exasperated chuffing. "I was too upset and sleepy and whatever to kick you out like I should have. You shouldn't have been there!" he said with emphasis.

XXX

_You don't know that. How is that even a comparison? I hate the keep-away game. Shouldn't have- Since when shouldn't…_ Sylar's frown was extensive. He realized Nathan must have...must have what? He was thinking from the brother perspective and Peter wasn't his brother. That was shocking on several levels, horrifying, depressing and just plain hurtful to come back to himself in a sense. He was reminded of the differences between himself and Nathan – the reasons why he'd liked being Nathan in the first place. It felt like a roller-coaster drop into Hell, except with less fun. The upheaval in his upper stomach smelt of guilt – Peter wasn't his anything and he hadn't asked or invited him. Sylar didn't like the feeling or the implications one bit so he pushed it aside and tried to crush it. He was being wrongly accused here, no surprise.

XXX

Peter was getting worked up, agitated by the contradiction of his feelings. Angry now, he spat out his accusation, "You saw a moment of weakness and took advantage of it. We're not sleeping together tonight; we're not even sleeping in the same apartment. Mine's right across the street. That way, you can leave whatever door you want open, run around naked if that makes you happy. But if you want me around, you're going to have to act right."

It was a bizarre rant, given Peter's own tendency to wander his apartment in the nude and his gratefulness for Sylar's sympathy the night before. The heat in his words was in direct proportion to the unwanted and unasked for warmth of his feelings. He shouldn't, and wouldn't, feel that way about Sylar. Peter had slept well and woke up full of energy and life, which was now being vented at the other man. He turned and went back to messing with the eggs, a scowl in place as he suspected he'd be eating them alone at this rate.

XXX

Eventually, Sylar was going to have to answer but this blame didn't belong to him – it was Nathan's. _What was I thinking? Crawling in bed with_ him. "What?!" ' _Taken advantage'? How was I supposed to know?_ Sylar's mouth went tight and linear, his face a confused, angry, defensive mess. "You are one to talk about running around naked," he growled, dredging up that hypocrisy with ease. "And you can enjoy your nightmares uninterrupted from now on, Petrelli." _Just like me._

Peter had turned away, dismissing him and ordering him around like it was nothing – like it was all his fault and Peter had no share in it. Sylar advanced quickly, gripping Peter's arm and yanking him around to face him. He was probably standing too close but he refused to be ignored. Unfortunately, he had no words to specify his indignation, frustration, anger; his glare faltered as he struggled to come up with meaningful dialogue. Mostly he was stunned and hurt, the attack seemed to come from nowhere, the paranoia unfounded.

XXX

Peter freaked out when Sylar grabbed him. In that second of terror, he thought he'd pushed it too far; was about to get slammed into the stove and beaten, maybe killed; there were knives and painful things in the kitchen; and how it had been a mistake to ever take the serial killer on as a patient. He dropped the spatula – it was too flimsy as a weapon if they were seriously throwing down, and grabbed blindly for the handle on the skillet … which wasn't where he'd hoped it was. He was left grabbing at empty air and with his broken right hand, anyway. Even if he'd connected, he wouldn't have much strength in a swing using that hand. Sylar had his left.

That realization made – that he was ill-suited to defend himself - another was close on the heels of it – that Sylar was just staring at him. Peter stared back, heart going 90 miles an hour, breathing fast, teeth slightly bared. For a moment, they were still, just looking, as Peter watched emotions playing across Sylar's face. Another realization – Sylar's emotions … maybe Peter didn't need to be concerned about the guy trying to kill him?

XXX

After a few long seconds, Sylar finally blurted, "I am not a child." _So do not fucking treat me like one._ "How is any of that taking advantage? I didn't take anything you didn't want to give or you'd have said something." _Right? I hope…?_ "You're seriously going to try to punish me for that?" _This is hopeless then._ "Seriously?" _And out of all the other moments of weakness?_ "No, you're right. I saw a moment of weakness and took advantage. Lying in wait for my chance, waiting for you to…what, _snore_?" Sylar snorted in contempt at that.

XXX

Relief washed over Peter subtly as he still stood in Sylar's grip. _Okay … we're not fighting._ "Neither am I, Sylar. We're both _adults_ , with adult needs. There's no punishment; I'm not your parent and I'm not your jailer. But that doesn't mean there aren't consequences. You piss me off? I'm going to do things because I'm pissed off. You get in bed with me like that and I feel threatened, so I'm going to do things to protect myself. I don't feel _safe_ with you." He jerked his arm away from Sylar's grip. "Now included. Get your hands off me," he said, voice dropping to a low, threatening growl.

XXX

Sylar could only frown more. Weren't consequences synonymous with punishment? At least, that was an awfully parental word to use. "But why would you f-" Sylar shot back before it hit him like a thunderbolt. _Sexually threatened. Because I got in bed with him? Oh_. That seemed like a rational conclusion to draw, even for no-boundaries Peter Petrelli, which was why it hadn't occurred to him before now. If Peter had slid in bed with him, Sylar knew he'd assume… _Oh._ He blinked and dumbly allowed Peter to free himself. That felt strange. He felt bereft. Of course he had no right to touch Peter ( _in any way_ , his mind added). Apparently that included even comfort. "I…didn't…" he fumbled, stepping back in confusion. _But he didn't say anything…He didn't protest what I said about him wanting it so why…?_

He'd at least learned what a shut door meant growing up. He wasn't that socially incompetent. When Mom shut the door, he was not ever to enter. The symbolism wasn't hard to miss. He'd never liked that, not having access to her should he ever need or desire it but such was life. Sylar tried not to see the similarities between Peter's locked door and the last time Mom had shut the door on him. It freaked him out regardless _. Not a punishment, though?_ With some haste, he seated himself at the table, leaving the kitchen to Peter because he suddenly feared what shut doors and barred access might mean, or worse, what it might lead to.

XXX

Peter's breathing slowed, ramping down from the combat-high he'd had going there for a few seconds. He watched warily as Sylar retreated to the table, not sure what the guy was going to do. Peter blinked when he realized that what Sylar was doing was complete capitulation, totally backing down, with Sylar slouching at the table meekly, still and quiet and making himself small and inoffensive. _I've seen that before. When he was afraid I was going to deck him._ Peter let his eyes drop and turned back to the stove, picking up the spatula and turning the eggs. They were a little browned on the opposite side, but not burned. He kept an ear tuned to Sylar, but as he'd expected there was not a peep of sound.

_I'm not going to take this._ Peter didn't try to put his finger on what about the situation he found intolerable, but he definitely wasn't going to let it continue. He snapped off the stove, noisily set aside the skillet, and strode back to the table. He couldn't take up the stance he wanted with both hands on the table and leaning his weight against it, so he compromised by holding the back of the chair on his side of the table. "No, Sylar, you _didn't_. You didn't do anything bad to me. You _surprised_ me and surprises, from _you_ , don't go over real well with me. You surprised me by being kind; you surprised me by getting in bed with me. The second, with the first … makes me wonder if helping me with the nightmare was just an excuse to push my boundaries a little and see what I'd let you get away with when I was upset. Well, now you know, which is why we're not going to be sleeping in the same apartment anymore." Peter waited for a response, his attention completely and intently fixed on Sylar.

XXX

Sylar didn't bother straightening up when Peter stalked over, but he did stare back at him just so Peter would know he wasn't cowed. The first half of Peter's explanation was…most welcome, relieving. He'd done something right. Peter even sounded like he appreciated it. It was only part of something right – never a whole. The empath wasn't pleased with his methods or maybe he wasn't thrilled with Sylar's motivation, but either way, there was still something wrong with it and he didn't know how to fix it for next time. _Oh, come on!_ He railed about not sleeping in the same apartment. _Punishment to fit the crime, Petrelli; Jesus! He was already upset; I didn't do that._ His face showed his resentment plain as day. _I just wanted to hear you breath_ _e_ _. That's not a bad thing. I know you'd want the same thing if you were me. There's no clocks here, weird bed, no pajamas – its not my apartment;_ _it's_ _weird._ But he said none of that. "We've been sleeping in the same apartment for weeks now," he ground out, reasoning, hinting, "It's too quiet." It was such a tiny thing yet here it was going to be taken away regardless. It seemed cruel.

XXX

Peter teetered on the cusp of an angry, argumentative retort before an image came to mind of Sylar, curled on the chairs and dozing while Peter played the piano. It was enough noise and much of it off-key at that, to keep anyone awake, yet the thing that had woke Sylar at the end was the long, still silence after Peter had stopped. He blinked as the light bulb went off over his head, now thinking of all those continually ticking, clicking, and whirring clocks in Sylar's apartment. "Okay," he said weakly, straightening from the confrontational posture he'd had before. "Okay … then … you _were_ wanting to hear me snore?" He tried to avoid sounding like that was as bizarre as it seemed, but his expression was clearly taken aback. "That's … you were serious then? Oh." Peter's eyes darted around the room a little randomly as he breathed out, taking his hands off the chair and letting them hang at his sides.

XXX

His companion eased off but Sylar was still uncomfortable, now for new reasons _. I sound like a freak when you say it that way, Petrelli._ "Sure," he replied, "Snoring, breathing, sound…" He couldn't read Peter or the direction things were going. _Do I push or… Blow it off and say it's meaningless, never mind? Is he reconsidering? Probably not but at least it's…out there. He just thinks I'm a freak now_. "Not that I think you snore that much – you didn't last night, just…" his voice tapered off. _I behaved myself. I don't know what I'm going to do if he won't stay._ "So what does that mean?" Sylar looked up as he rubbed at his orbital socket to try to alleviate his headache. It was sapping his patience and control; soon he was going to be irritable and needy. Needier. What irked him was that a headache, a little head injury, was going to get the best of him in front of Peter. Sylar wasn't fond of the painkillers but he clearly saw their purpose this morning – he couldn't remember the last time he'd taken some. He wanted to roll back into bed, alone or not, and lie there, miserable in the dark, for the rest of the day.

XXX

Still very thrown by the turn of the conversation, Peter said, "I … um, I think it means I'll need to think about that. Maybe we could … um, work something out." _A metronome maybe? We could look for clocks here … Or I could stay, after I already said I wouldn't … It'd be stupid to pretend I was locked into that. It wasn't like a promise or anything._ He stood there for a moment, feeling a bit awkward, then went to fetch the two glasses of milk Sylar had poured earlier. He pushed one partly across the table to Sylar as a show that the argument or confrontation or whatever had ended.

XXX

Peter was not ruling out sleeping in the same flat again. Awesome. Doubt (and possibly guilt) were fantastic footholds. A sealed-shut answer would have meant he was screwed. Sylar slowly reached across for the halfway proffered glass, sipping at it, quite satisfied with himself. Except for his headache.

XXX

"It's not something that's on my list of things I won't do – you know, being in the same room with someone. Not that I'd really … Yeah, we've slept in the same apartment, but I was in a _chair_. It's way different in a bed," Peter confessed nervously. "I don't, you know, I don't necessarily mind my own business in a bed." He eyed Sylar uneasily for a moment, uncomfortable in the knowledge that he'd woke up mostly on Sylar's side of the bed, his foot wedged under the other man's leg, disturbingly close to being back to back with him. _Who knows what I might have been doing if he hadn't been on top of the covers?_ And that was the real issue – Peter was about as concerned about what _he_ would do as he was about Sylar. Already, last night he'd declined to make a fuss when he really felt he should have. He didn't like the position he was in here – not at all.

XXX

The chair was a good piece of information. If necessary, one of them could sleep on another, separate apparatus but it wasn't ideal. Sylar smugly eyed his companion right back as he confessed to 'not minding his own business'. His discomfort was cute, acting like he'd done something completely sinful just in getting a night's sleep. Sylar's lips twitched at a smirk, his imagination going wild. _Oh, if only_. And that, too, was useful information. Nathan certainly remembered being cuddled and welcomed into bed with his little brother after a nightmare or traumatic event. "Okay."

XXX

Fidgeting, Peter went back for plates and forks, bringing them in a stack to the table for Sylar to distribute while Peter went back for the eggs. He divvied them up before sitting, toying with his fork rather than digging in.

XXX

After a glance, Sylar separated the utensils with a muffled groan of protest as his brain felt like it was sliding and sloshing into the front of his skull. Then awkwardness reigned as neither of them went for the food. Between his head and his stomach, Sylar felt like he was being split in two – the scent of the doubtlessly wholesome eggs wasn't helping. He fiddled with his glass instead. It was too much to resist, "So how did you sleep, Peter?" he murmured in a low voice.

XXX

Sylar's near-purr earned him a brief glare, followed by a pointed look at Sylar's food. Peter barely kept himself from snapping a retaliatory order for the man to eat. He leaned away in his chair instead, distancing himself. Though hungry, Peter had more pressing things to consider than feeding his face. Sylar looked and sounded way too happy about things. _Why shouldn't he be happy? Maybe he's getting something he wants – noisy sleep, apparently._ Peter still felt vaguely used, like his discomfort with the whole arrangement was being mocked somehow; that tone of voice and the smugness didn't sit well. He liked the guy better when he was meek. _Groveling would be nice._

Peter shook his head at that uncharacteristically dark thought and cast about for something else to think about. Sylar was still not eating, ostensibly waiting for Peter to answer him. "Fine," he said shortly. "You?"

XXX

The empath's less-than-thrilled response garnered a sigh. "Good." It was Sylar's turn to pick at his food. "Really good, actually. Nothing weird." Sylar kept his head down, clarifying that last part. It was quite a new experience sleeping in the same bed with another human being.

XXX

Somewhat mollified, Peter drew closer to the table to eat, picking up his fork with his right hand. One finger rubbed across the slick strangeness of the band-aid between cast and the neighboring digit. He waggled that finger back and forth a few times. The blister still hurt. A lot of things hurt – not so much after the rest and workout, but … It occurred to him he'd never found those painkillers he'd been looking for the night before. A suspicious glance across the table at his companion's still-full plate had him thinking about how chronic pain caused nausea which manifested in decreased appetite.

Peter sighed and rubbed his face with his left hand, feeling across the sore spot in his left brow and the lingering sensitive areas on his face that didn't hurt unless he probed at them as he was doing now. He had other parts that pained him more frequently – his hand and the small of his back and groin. But they were manageable – basically if he didn't use them, they didn't hurt. He could still think and be responsible for his own self-care. Head injuries like Sylar's … not so much. Peter's reason for putting up with the jerk was to look after elements of Sylar's well-being that Sylar couldn't be trusted to do on his own.

"Have you seen any painkillers around here?" he asked, looking up with a lack of enthusiasm as his role here as a nurse or at least health care aide came back to him. "How's your stomach? Or your head?"

XXX

_Crap. Was I supposed to be looking for some?_ Sylar's head came up, meeting Peter's eyes with a bit of a shocked expression. He shook his head, "No." Somehow Peter's clear lack of interest, despite the questions, made him feel like the jerk, reminding him that, yes, he was the jerk here. "They're both going to kill me before you do. Champagne and ice cream are in the fridge for when that happens, happy birthday and Merry Christmas." He snorted and chuckled a little, recalling a similar breakfast setting. "When I was in Mexico, my babysitter there was some girl, Candice – she was an illusionist. A real shame I didn't get that power, but she made me eggs, too." He nibbled a clump of egg.

XXX

Peter gave a single 'ha' laugh at Sylar's remark about his head and gut hurting him, but sobered fast as Sylar went on. _I didn't come here to kill you!_ And that Sylar thought he might celebrate anyone's death? It left Peter staring as Sylar looked down at his plate and went on to talk about Mexico. Peter set his fork aside, appetite flagging and wondering why he felt a sense of betrayal that Sylar thought that of him. After all, it wasn't like Peter didn't have reason to feel that way, or that he hadn't within the last couple months, or that he didn't want Sylar to suffer for what he'd done. Plus, Peter hadn't made a secret of any of that. Ultimately, though, it seemed more likely that Sylar was speaking of how he thought Peter felt, based on how Sylar would feel were their positions reversed. That was sad and irritating. _I'm not_ **you**.

"I'm going to look for the pills." He sighed as he stood up, walking off sedately to the kitchen to go systematically through the cupboards, looking for medication. He had lots of experience with locating people's meds. They were either in the kitchen, the bathroom, or nightstand. If not in those three prime areas, then it could be random, but Peter figured 9 out of 10 were in one of those spots.

XXX

_Oh my God. Just keep your mouth shut already!_ Frustration lanced through him at his failure to interact 'right' as Peter so aptly put it. He felt bad enough already at having scared and taken advantage of the guy (all in the name of comfort or communication), and Peter felt he had to stay and take care of him when he obviously didn't want to – here Sylar was not eating the prepared breakfast he was certain tasted good… "I'm sure your eggs are better," he placated in hindsight, in case Peter was taking offense at that.

XXX

"What were you … Um, why didn't you get her power?" he asked as he nosed around. The question he ended up going with wasn't much better than the one he'd almost asked, 'what were you doing in Mexico?', but he had a hunch Sylar would answer the second one easier than the first.

XXX

Having occupied himself in the now-lonely living room, Sylar had just finished sipping at his milk when he heard a question that truly surprised him. "You're – You-" _want to know about me killing someone?_ "Uh…" he floundered for a moment to deal with the shock. His track record of the day for dialogue wasn't doing him any favors. "I guess you can't…absorb powers when you…don't have any yourself. Obvious now, I know." It would have been much the same as shape-shifting but…a year earlier. "I had the Shanti virus," Sylar clarified.

XXX

_Wait, does that mean he killed her anyway? Damn it!_ Peter had actually been hoping for some evidence that Sylar was able to be with someone, especially someone taking care of him, without ill effect. That the guy had killed even his caretakers was so offensive as to be ridiculous. He shook his head in dismay and exasperation, glad he was out of Sylar's line of sight for the moment. Not finding the painkillers, though he'd found vitamins, Peter crossed the living room for the bathroom. "What were you doing with the Shanti virus?" _Whatever that is – maybe threatening to infect everyone if you didn't get what you wanted?_

XXX

"The Company injected me with it to keep me harmless or something like that." Sylar stressed, "It's really difficult to be harmless with them around." How many had he killed without his powers? Maya's brother, the car owner, Candice, Maya…A significant number anyway.

XXX

"Yeah?" he called out from the bathroom, relieved that 'had the Shanti virus' meant Sylar had been sick rather than physically possessed whatever it was with intent to distribute. That the Company had an injectable ability-neutralizing agent wasn't surprising. Homeland Security had gotten those neutralizing rigs from somewhere, after all. Peter's continuing search turned up a bottle of aspirin right off. It wasn't the painkiller he favored, but it would do. "The Company had some really screwed up ideas of how to handle people," he offered as he left the bathroom, for the moment putting off his various questions about this Shanti virus in favor of dealing with Sylar's current distress.

Peter returned to stand next to the table, thumbing open the bottle, left-handed, with ease. "Do you think you're going to be able to eat much? If you can get some food down, I think you should take a double dose. If you can't, just the standard." 'The standard' for what Peter was doling out to Sylar was still double what the bottle recommended for pain management, but recommended doses were calibrated to a smaller person than Sylar was, and were selected for treating run of the mill headaches. Peter didn't know what Sylar's head felt like, but he was assuming it was something more along the line of 'migraine'.

XXX

As much as he didn't favor medication, painkillers being like a cop out for 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger' (as much as he feared being called a wuss for opting out of pin), Sylar knew he needed the pills. He was losing his calm, Peter was already pissy and threatening – it was only a matter of time until he said or did something that would tank the situation. After he set the situation on fire and broke it to splinters. Rock and a hard place decisions and what's more, he had to trust Peter and hope he would care for him to avoid disaster. "I…I'd love to eat; I'm probably hungry, I just don't know that it's going to happen." Dead serious, he stared grimly up at his companion, "You're probably going to need to drug the hell out of me today, whether I eat or not."

XXX

Peter sighed a little, eyeing Sylar and trying to get a feel for what the man was implying. Was he in a lot of pain? Or was he saying that Peter ought to knock him out somehow because he was going to be an asshole otherwise? Or both? He counted out four times the regular dose. "Well, eat as much as you can, at least. If you don't, this is going to make you even sicker to your stomach." He gestured in the direction of the kitchen. "I can make you something else – toast, there was some yoghurt, I'm sure there's stuff in the other apartments – if you think you'd eat more of something else. Like if eggs are a bad choice? Too greasy or heavy or something?"

XXX

[Sylar merely nodded, taking the pill from Peter. _I know._ Making another meal seemed like overkill. "That's not…I don't think that will be necessary. I like your eggs; its just my stomach."

XXX

Looking at Sylar was quickly turning into an examination, as Peter's eyes widened back to normal and a little past it. His brows drew together in his 'I'm concentrating' face. Sylar looked peaked. His body language was off – posture more defeated, slumped and drawn at the same time; motions overly deliberate with none of the casualness that should have been there; eyes tracking a little too slowly. "Do you mind if I take your pulse?" he asked, beginning the motion towards Sylar's left hand with his own. It wasn't that he had any real concern for Sylar's heart rate. Peter wanted the opportunity to feel his skin for other symptoms. Taking a pulse was more socially acceptable than randomly holding someone's hand or the more maternal forehead touch.

XXX

"No, sure." Sylar proffered the hand, his left because he knew that much without it being indicated. He had to pull his jacket and shirt cuff back a little to expose his wrist, holding them there while he watched Peter work. _Did he see something?_

XXX

Peter found the pulse point immediately, turning his wrist out of habit to glance at his useless, nonfunctioning watch. He made a tiny grunt of displeasure and rolled his eyes a bit before putting his focus back on his patient. He didn't need an exact reading to tell the heart rate was a bit too fast, that Sylar was warm but not too warm, and not clammy. After a dozen or so seconds, Peter curled his hand over the back of Sylar's, rubbing a little. He directed quietly, "Hold still," and pinched up the skin for a few seconds before letting it go. It didn't relax flat as fast as it should have.

He pursed his lips, trying to remember the last time he'd seen Sylar drinking much of anything. _Still had a full champagne glass after dinner, not even sure he opened his soda at lunch, so … yesterday morning?_ "You're dehydrated. You need to drink – constantly – until you start peeing clear. I'll get you some water in case you can hold that down better than the milk. We're not going out today. We'll just take it easy here."

XXX

Sylar smiled about the watch not working. _Should have let me fix it. People never know how much they need a clock until they don't have one._ He didn't move, watching his companion to see what the fuss was, beginning to feel some doubt about his symptoms with the light of Peter's examination shining on him. The petting on his hand was wonderful, calming, something he needed at that moment. The touch did its purpose but something in his gut spiraled out of control anyway. _I didn't think of that. I haven't really had to pee. Isn't there more water in water than milk? I had some water, just not enough._ Relief and gratitude flooded him like a head-to-toe wave. "Okay," he croaked. Peter was going to be bored as hell with no puzzle or piano in the room, assuming he stuck around at all. _He said 'we'…_ "I'm sorry. I think I saw some magazines by the couch." Sylar pointed, definitely trying to keep Peter here in spite of everything. Not wanting to be trouble collided with wanting the attention, treating his symptoms versus amplifying them. Now he was split between the two.

Sylar scrubbed at his forehead before hefting his fork, holding his breath so he wouldn't smell the food and brought it to his mouth. It still tasted, obviously, his stomach still rebelled but he forced it down. _Beaten by eggs._

XXX

Peter stalked off to get Sylar's bottle of water from the refrigerator. It had seemed reasonable to keep it from the night before because it was nearly full. So was Peter's, but he'd finished off his champagne, and in any case, he wasn't suffering from a condition for which one of the prime treatments was to have the person drink lots of fluids. He brought it over and set it next to Sylar's plate, then took a seat on his side of the table. Peter looked at his so-far untouched eggs. They'd cooled a lot, but just as he was still hungry, he was also not ready to eat them. He picked up his fork and stabbed them anyway.

_Never done long-term treatment of a concussion. What was it the teacher said in class? They needed constant supervision and assistance with self-care, might have otherwise unexplained personality or behavioral shifts, will sleep a lot, push fluids on them, keep out of bright light and the reach of children? Something like that._ He put his forkful of breakfast into his mouth. _I've been treating him like a hospice patient, letting him dictate a lot of his care, because a sense of control is important. But that's not what he is. He's more like an ambulatory trauma patient who doesn't know what's good for him. Leaving him in control is stupid._ Peter ate a few more bites, silently, not wanting to set a bad example by trashing his food like he felt perversely inclined to do.

XXX

Sylar immediately took a few sips of the water when it arrived. His caretaker did not interact further, focused on his own food. Sylar assumed the silence was due to his failure to thrive and slumped to continue the trick of at least getting food past his nose and into his mouth. He considered nausea: _why does the body even have that function? It's going to do the opposite thing its supposed to do – keep me alive. How can you go hungry when you have food? Does this happen to everybody or just me? Did he hit me in a certain spot of the head?_ He knew it wasn't on purpose if that was the case and Peter seemed intent on clarifying that nausea was a symptom of concussion. It still bothered him that his own body was attacking him and there seemed little he could do about it except force-feed himself breakfast.

XXX

"Can you at least get down one more big drink of water?" Peter watched as Sylar seemed to take the minimum amount he could get away with. It impressed on Peter that the guy was trying to be cooperative. It just wasn't enough. Getting persistent – begging, pleading, pressuring him – was not only undignified, but it hardly ever worked – not with hospice patients and certainly not with Sylar.

XXX

Sylar nodded. _You sound like my grade school teachers._ But he took a big gulp. The water wasn't hard on his stomach, the food was. _So why am I dehydrated?_ They'd been…talking a lot while eating he supposed. Peter was a good distraction from anything and everything. Ironic, then that the self-proclaimed healer-helper was getting in the way of his own goal.

XXX

Peter cleared away their dishes as Sylar went to retire. He piped up, "Hey, if you're going to sleep, do it out here where I can keep an eye on you." He gestured at the bed they'd shared the night before, which in the avant-garde, open floor plan of the penthouse suite, was open to the living room unless the wall screen was pulled out. Peter had left the screen tucked away the night before out of stubbornness. Now it was convenient in allowing him to keep Sylar where he could see him. "You'll be able to hear me better, too," he added, hoping that sweetened the deal for the other man.

XXX

That caught Sylar's limited attention. He didn't bother making much of an expression – he didn't want to waste the energy and Peter wasn't watching anyway. _I guess I was thinking I'd be banished to the guest room. After all the fuss he made about never-ever sleeping together or in the same suite and spying on him while he slept…_ The last request, offer, demand hooked him. He didn't answer but shuffled into the bedroom, stripping out of his coat to situate himself in Peter's side of the bed. That way he'd be able to smell and hear Peter and think...more perverted, intimately impossible things.

XXX

Dishes were dealt with; the kitchen was cleaned. Peter poured a half glass of champagne and collected up the magazines Sylar had mentioned and a coffee table book on Western European art that he had not. He drew a big, leather-clad, tilting chair over near the bed and rudely put his feet up on the dark wooden footboard of the bed, putting the foot stool that had come with the chair next to him as a make-shift end table for his drink and resting place for his reading materials. He was being sloppy and low class. He didn't think Sylar would mind. Or notice.

XXX

True enough, though Sylar heard Peter settling in (quite close it sounded), he was already drifting off. A brief shift to snuggle himself deeper in the comforter with the illusion of genuine care, despite his pained body, he was virtually content.

XXX

He paged through magazines that would have been better off blank-paged, devoid of interesting content as they were. He had one about food and one about fashion, full of women's clothing, accessories, and make-up. His eyes would have glazed over in the real world just as fast as they did here. The art book was more entertaining, but it had almost nothing new in it. Peter had seen most of the works himself, in person, on various family trips to Europe. _Which is not surprising, because we're not really here. This is all from my memory._ He set aside the book and finished off his drink, looking at the slumbering man in front of him. _I need to focus!_

_Okay, focusing. My problem here is that Sylar is fucked up and he's not getting better. A few days ago, he was okay during the day, getting up to work on the puzzle and being engaged most of the time. Now … Yesterday he slept almost all day; today looks the same. Worse, maybe. He shouldn't be getting **worse!** He should be getting **better!** That's why I thought he'd be okay to come here. But how the hell do I get him back to his apartment, short of carrying him? On the ice. In the cold. With him being conscious and contrary enough to fight with me over it. That won't work._

_There's got to be another way. What am I doing here? Waiting for him to die?_ He put his feet down and leaned forward, brow furrowed. _I've got to_ _ **do**_ _something! I could … go to the hospital and get IV fluids. Maybe there's some medical books there I could jump-start my memory with on how to treat a concussion. I could bring back a wheelchair in case I need to get him back to his apartment in case maybe his whole problem is being too far away from his clocks._ He shot a glance at the window. He'd looked out earlier that morning when he went down to exercise. The ground was covered with a sheet of ice from the night's precipitation and when he'd looked, light flurries were coming down. He could see more white through the windows now. He stood and walked over, looking out at the lowering clouds and the continuing snow, falling heavier than it had been. _It's only going to get worse. I'm going to get fucking snowed in here with a guy who might need medical care, badly, and … and maybe this means he's dying or something in the real world. Fuck. Doesn't matter – he's dying_ _ **here**_ _._

Resolved on a mission, Peter moved into action. He searched the nearby apartments for thermal underwear and thicker socks, finding a heavily insulated coat that went down to mid-thigh. The selling point for it was the wrap-around throat-guard and the drawstring on the front of the hood. Although his own jacket was fine for crossing the street from one building to another, he had no idea how long he'd be out. A bigger challenge than the weather was going to be finding the damn place – he'd been there once as part of a looping route. It almost certainly wasn't going to be a 'walk ten or fifteen blocks and then come back' sort of thing. There was also his still-hurting psoas muscle. In his workout, it had been easy to select exercises that didn't exacerbate it. He wouldn't have that luxury sliding around on ice. Such barriers had never stopped him before; they wouldn't now.

He found a yellow legal pad and left a note: 'Sylar – I've gone to the hospital to get stuff for you. I will come back. I'm not leaving you. -Peter' _That looks sappy as hell._ He held the pen poised to strike through the last sentence, but decided against it. It was what mattered most to Sylar – that had become clear. On the off-chance he woke alone, he needed to know he wasn't abandoned. Peter set the pad on the nightstand. He stared at it for a moment, then walked off down the hall quickly, having thought of something he'd seen while searching for adequate winter clothing. He returned with an old-looking, wooden desk clock – all Peter knew about it was that it made a ticking noise. _Maybe that will help?_ He set it on top of the note and left.


	57. Bedside Manner

Day 14, December 24, Late afternoon/early evening

His sleep was disturbed several times and his dreams were very strange. Sylar kept looking for his anchor as he wandered an abandoned building but something else was chasing him. The thing chasing him was going to maim him and tease him with hope and the promise of death before it bled him out. And if he escaped it, he knew the chances of finding his anchor were slim and he'd be left roaming, alone, always looking over his shoulder, until he breathed his last. Either way, he was going to die alone. Clocks followed him throughout the dream, floating in mid-air. Sometimes the ticking relaxed him with its lively, hollow presence and petrified him with its meaning and time-threatening like a countdown. The passage of time was annoying even while he slept. Eventually their hands reached out to claw at him. 'Sleep when you're dead!' his mother's voice harked.

When he did finally wake, it was to a more peaceful atmosphere. It was darker outside than it had been earlier and he mumbled for his brotherly companion on instinct – he knew he was around here somewhere, "Peter?" Sylar opened his eyes and glanced around until he spotted Peter beside him. "Hey." He smiled, then noticed Peter's clothes were different, a fitted gray t-shirt and black sweat pants. Worriedly, he asked, "Why did you change?" _Did he do something? What happened? How long have I been out?_

XXX

"I went out for a while. I had to go to the hospital to get stuff for you." Peter gestured to the bag of rehydration solution hanging from the headboard above Sylar's head, the thin, clear tube running down to the man's arm and taped in place. "My clothes got wet so I had to change." His voice sounded tired, even to himself.

XXX

His eyes tracked to the bag of medical-looking fluids. Curare was colorless, too. Sylar hadn't been paying attention when the glycemerine came into play. He started badly. _I knew it!_ A low, desperate whine escaped him as he clawed the needle from his elbow, throwing it away as he made to sit up, gasping with fight-or-flight instinct. His body was sluggish and uncoordinated, definitely dehydrated, moving his head and neck was agonizing now. "What the hell is that, Peter?! What did you do?!" _What did I do? I'll die soon enough, just leave me alone and I'll die – you don't need to hurry me along! I don't have any powers! This is what I get for sleeping around you._

XXX

"Whoa, whoa! Sylar, no!" Peter started up, hands reaching out to thwart Sylar's thrashing, but he was way too slow and that wasn't because of his physical condition. It was simply the effect of Sylar's own panic and haste. Peter stopped moving, hands still out but pulling them closer to himself as he eased back a little. He gave the inside of Sylar's elbow a quick glance – it wasn't bleeding badly, but the entire shunt had been jerked out. Next his eyes went to the disconnected tube, off in the middle of the bed, on the other side of Sylar from where Peter was. It was probably dripping, but no big deal. Then his eyes flicked to the bag – still hanging there and the valve to turn off the flow was over Sylar's head. He wasn't about to reach for it. He looked at Sylar – eye contact.

"Sylar, you didn't even wake up when I put that in. You were _unconscious_." He spoke in a slow, deliberate fashion, trying to role model being calm and sane. Peter dipped his head, pulling his hands all the way in, and then on second thought, extending his right to rest on Sylar's blanket-covered shin. "I'm not going to let you die. And if I have to fight you over that, then I will," he said with determination.

XXX

The nurse backed off, adding another layer of confusion onto an already thick mixture. Sylar's eyes widened at being touched.

XXX

"There is nothing in that bag except a basic IV rehydration solution – sterile water, salt, sugar, some electrolytes – no drugs," he ended, guessing at one of the causes of Sylar's agitation. Peter knew if their positions were reversed, he'd be wildly paranoid. "I promise you. My word of honor – I'm not trying to hurt you." He gave Sylar's leg a slight squeeze before his hand left the man as Peter leaned back to his previous resting position in his chair. He gave Sylar time to calm down and respond.

XXX

 _No drugs? Word of…._ Indecision reigned. Sylar was at Peter's mercy. It boiled down to whether or not the solution contained drugs (and what else, if anything, Peter was going to do while he slept – a needle in his arm was somewhat violating). If it did, he'd die or wake up somewhere; his situation couldn't get much worse. If the solution was clean…He twitched when Peter released him, blinking and tracking the other man's movements. "Sounds to good to be true," he muttered before threatening with more volume, "Don't you dare stick me with anything else. I will make you regret it." It didn't quite strike him that all Peter need do was stand and he could do whatever the heck he liked, but his objection had been voiced. "Shouldn't have bothered with this." _Either let me die or heal on my own time._ Slowly, Sylar made himself comfortable, partially upright, eyes primarily on his companion. With a wave of a shaking arm, gesturing between Peter and the IV, he snipped, "Fine, have your fun," then tried not to think of glycemerine.

XXX

Peter made a small noise, like a swallowed 'huh' or maybe a grunt, before levering himself up out of his chair. That had gone easier than it could have. He waved at the IV and tube, asking, "Can you reach up and clamp that tube for me? It's going to wet the bed if you don't."

XXX

Looking up, Sylar fumbled his way up the tube, pinching it in one hand and twisting the dreaded tab with the other. The whole operation took a several minutes.

XXX

He shuffled around the chair in the slim space between it and the wall. Outside, snow continued to fall, though not terribly heavily. He went to the wheelchair he'd parked just inside the door, searching through the stuff piled on it for another syringe, catheter, adhesive patch, and other stuff. Equipment assembled, he considered his options: climbing on the bed to get to Sylar's left antecubital, trying to lean over him for the same, doing his right distal, or trying the right antecubital again. Much as he didn't like dropping a line in the same location twice, it remained the best choice for the same reasons he'd picked it to start with – the small of his back and his groin muscles were killing him from slipping on the ice, which precluded getting on the bed as a working location; he didn't think Sylar would tolerate him leaning across him (and neither would his back); and he suspected the IV would remain in place longer if it wasn't on the hand.

XXX

Sylar watched his companion, immediately noting the wheelchair. "Oh, c'mon…." he protested that.

XXX

He returned to Sylar's side, laying his things out on top of the legal pad on the night stand. "I take it you've had IVs before," he said to make conversation. Nathan had, at least. Peter tried not to think on that. Much as habit and good medical hygiene dictated he wear gloves, one of Peter's hands was in a brace; and the whole glove thing seemed a bit pointless in fantasy-land. Bare-handed, he reached to cup Sylar's elbow with one hand and turn it with the other, examining the bloody spot where the original IV had been. To explain himself, he said, "I'm looking to make sure you cleared the whole mechanism, cannula included. Looks like it." He put his fingers in a V shape and pushed lightly on either side of the spot to be sure. Then he put a clean cotton ball over the injection site, holding it for a few moments. He looked up at his patient while making sure the site clotted. "Hey, I can't let you die here. I'd be all alone then. For _years_. Might not be anyone coming for me. They certainly haven't yet. We gotta look out for each other."

XXX

"Mmm," was the affirmation. _How could something be left behind?_ fired through his brain but Sylar didn't bother to chase it down for an answer. _Let Peter do his thi_ _ng._ He didn't know what to say to the rest of what Peter said. _Why wouldn't anyone be coming for Pete? Who else is around?_

XXX

Peter put aside the cotton ball and swabbed the area down, then carefully applied a tourniquet around Sylar's bicep. "Hand me that tube over there, will you?"

Peter detached the old catheter and set it aside with the rest of his trash, checked the end of the tubing, let it flush a little, and attached a new connector. A quick glance at Sylar's arm showed him the tourniquet was doing its job. Thus prepared, he picked up the syringe and looked to Sylar. "Okay. I'm about ready. You good?"

XXX

Sylar met his eyes and gave a single upwards nod. He glanced only once at his arm – and the damned needle. How he hated the pincushion, guinea pig, piece-of-meat feeling. There were violations and justified paranoias that lingered in him from the past – even Peter was an offender. "There'd better not be any drugs in there, Peter," he reiterated, mostly to assuage his fears of hallucinations, spinal taps and waking up as someone else. _I must be stupid to trust him. I don't trust him. I just don't have a choice._ The needle slid in and he waited for any kind of adverse effect, scanning Peter's handsome face. Part of him wanted to ask if Peter got off on this and why he'd bothered with the uncomfortable and somewhat dangerous trip to the hospital but he knew what the answers would be – the same as they always were.

XXX

"I'm extra-sure you needed this from how you woke up so fast once I got the drip going on you," Peter said as he carefully and securely taped everything in place. He was mostly watching what he was doing, expression intent, with only the occasional glance at Sylar's face. Now that he was done, though, he looked at him more. "I've heard they use IV fluids as a hangover cure in some parts. I'm hoping it will be a big help to you."

XXX

After some moments passed and the idea of harm-free assistance began to sink in, he spoke, eyebrows furrowed with some emotion, "How did….how did you find your way?" _If there's no drugs then he…did that for me?_ "It's snowing; what…" _was worth that? And why'd you do it? Am I really that messed up? I sure feel like it. He must be… Crap._

XXX

Peter gave a laugh that was mid-way between ironic and humorless. "Yeah, and underneath that snow is a layer of _ice_." He reached up and turned the valve on the tubing, letting the solution flow again. Peter began to gather up the plethora of wrappers and trash that were collecting on the nightstand. He waved generally at the window. "I left this morning, but you might notice it's dark out. I got lost trying to get there. On the way back, I was using that wheelchair as a walker," he said with a snort. "I didn't know if you'd need it or not, but I know _I_ did, for carrying stuff and keeping my balance."

Things gathered, Peter squeezed between the chair and wall as he took it to the trash in the kitchen.

XXX

"Could you grab my book? It's out there, somewhere," Sylar pointed hopefully to the living room/kitchen. "Then you should rest." It sounded like Peter needed it more than ever.

XXX

Peter grumbled about Sylar's direction for him to rest, but it was merely stubbornness. He needed the rest. Reflecting on that, he got the painkillers, took several with a swig of water from his bottle out of the fridge, then replaced his bottle and got out Sylar's. Pills and bottle in one hand, he found the book and picked it up with his right, putting the apple he'd found with it between forearm and his body. Thus loaded, he returned to the bed and recluttered the night stand, only this time with things they wanted. He looked at the book before handing it over, face brightening at the subject of baseball. "Oh, hey. That's cool. You like baseball?" Realizing he'd forgotten something he needed, Peter went back to fetch another bag of saline so he wouldn't have to get up for it later.

XXX

"Thank you," Sylar murmured, grateful for more than just the book as he took it. The apple was still good, still looked good, too. Fruit would be hydrating. _He's sure pampering me. And he hasn't forced me to do much of anything – hasn't so much as asked for it either._ As screwed up as he was, he would almost prefer for there to be a motive behind Peter's kindness; at least that way he knew what to look for and how to handle it. Genuine nurturing perplexed him, left him off-balance yet touched, assuming he could recognize it.

"Y- um, it's…sports," he replied. He was pleased Peter had noticed and brought it up – that had been the whole point of reading it. As useful as Nathan was (dead, of course), Sylar wanted his own knowledge on the topic, memories of books instead of a tainted sleaze bag.

XXX

Peter settled into his chair mostly because that's where it happened to be; he didn't give any thought to choosing to sit elsewhere – further away, or using the bed in the next room. He'd been using it before to keep an eye on his unconscious patient. Now maybe that wasn't needed. Once seated, looking forward at a wakeful Sylar, it occurred to Peter they were a bit close, but moving the chair was tedious and a glance at the bag over Sylar's head told him he might as well stick around to change it in a half hour or so. He hadn't cranked the flow to full bore this time like he had when Sylar was passed out. Out of interest and to cover for his presence at the bedside, Peter asked, "Can you tell me what you're reading? Like, right now?"

XXX

Sylar was gleeful that Peter sat again – so close! It was nice, even that much proximity, warming him more than the blankets. It was like little sparks of life, tingles, making him feel human and decent. "Uuhm…." He hedged, leafing through the book to find his place, "That's a good ques- Ah! Batter/Pitcher Matchups," he then gazed at Peter. When the other man looked interested – of course he was, Peter liked baseball – Sylar thought to elaborate, eyes traveling back to the pages. "It talks about…randomization and….pitchers throwing or not throwing to big hitters. It's mostly numbers and technical stuff," he admitted even though that's what drew him to it. He looked to Peter again for a response, if any was coming.

XXX

"But … yeah, what I meant was could you actually read it?" Peter feared that maybe that was too awkward, too intrusive, maybe rude. Or juvenile, as his emotions turned to worry. _Is he going to think I'm like a kid asking for a bedtime story? Or ..._

XXX

 _He wants me to…? Like…?_ "Sure, get comfortable. It'll bore you, though," Sylar warned, flashing a grin anyway. He was still nauseous, his head still hurt, but he felt a bit stronger and more aware. When he took a break, he'd drink, eat a snack, take some more pills and see if Peter would take more, too. Sylar propped the book on his stomach and read from ' _The Book'_. "In discussing strategies of intentional walks, we tend to focus on the 'yes/no' question: should the pitcher walk the hitter, or pitch normally to him?"

XXX

He was relieved that Sylar didn't make a big deal out of the request and began reading. Peter settled back in the chair, listening and watching. Oddly, his memory flashed back to reading the stock pages with Charles Deveaux. It was weird how much he missed that guy. Out of all his patients and all the people he'd lost (Nathan and Caitlyn excluded – they were special cases), Charles was the one he missed most. More than Simone or his dad or different patients he'd lost. He'd felt like there was so much more there that they should have, could have talked about. Plus, the guy had … he'd treated Peter with _respect._ His empathy had worked back then and he knew how Charles felt about him. It was how Peter imagined family members should feel for each other. Not the way … He swallowed and worked his way back in the chair, letting his lids droop as he listened with decreasing attention to what Sylar was saying. When his body urged him to turn to his side and pull his feet in to curl up, Peter refused. He blinked his eyes fully open and rubbed them, getting to his feet.

"I'm going to change the IV bag. It's still got a little in it, but I might as well switch it now." He didn't want to admit he was doing it now out of concern he'd fall asleep and not do it at all. Peter shuffled next to Sylar, putting his hand on the wall to lean in carefully. Spiking the new bag took only a moment. He paused to review his patient, whose color was remarkably better, eyes tracking well, and looking much more alert. His ability to read, by itself, was a heartening sign of his mental function.

Peter smiled a little, so glad the trip had been worth it. On the way to the hospital, he'd thought of little other than getting there and what he'd need to get. On the way back, he'd started to entertain doubts. What if Sylar was fine and he was overreacting? What if Sylar was dead and he'd fucked up by waiting too long? What if Sylar resented his interference and would have rather died? What if Sylar woke up hateful and acting like Peter's efforts were nothing special, just like he doubted the sincerity of everything else Peter was doing for him? Respect – he wanted a little respect – not a casual assumption that Peter was here to kill him.

XXX

Sylar paused in his reading to watch Peter's hands as he messed with changing the IV bags. He was much more at ease with Peter being around, even as the man stood over him, angelic bangs of mercy hanging down in his tired face. Softly, he urged, "Lie down, Peter. You need to rest." _Lie down next to me and we'll sleep again._ He adopted his most innocent expression but he was sure he looked as rough if not worse than Peter. His mouth was a bit dry from reading, unused to the activity. Sylar stretched out an arm to reach water bottle and pills, downing more of one and a few of the other before resuming his position.

XXX

Peter's smile strengthened. He suspected Sylar had no idea how (non-sexually) seductive that was to him, especially coupled with the look on the man's face. Or maybe he did know, since after all, it sounded like he was trying to talk Peter into bed with him. "No, I think I'll just sit here for a little while longer." Which Peter knew was ridiculous even as he said it. What he meant was that he was going to sleep in the chair. He just didn't want to say that.

XXX

 _So stubborn. Insisting that I don't kill myself but it_ _'_ _s okay for you to kill yourself, all in the line of duty. Whatever, Peter._ _You'll come around._ "Eh-heh," Sylar sounded dubiously, "Then go get a blanket." This time he tried a more commanding tone, demanding smarts and self-care from and for Peter.

XXX

Peter made a disagreeable sound, but went to fetch it anyway. If he were going to sleep in the chair, then he would need every comfort he could get to be able to truly rest. He stood in front of the guest room bed, tugging at the blanket. _I could just sleep here. I'm sleepy. I'm here. Sylar will be alright … right? Yeah, he'll b_ _e fine._ Peter's eyes swept over the bed, then he shut them, swaying slightly in place. He hurt. He was tired. But those weren't the real factors making his decision - it was that he didn't want to be alone. _What if Sylar needs something? I ought to be ther_ _e._ It was a complete lie to himself and he knew it, trying to shove off responsibility on the other man. He opened his eyes and pulled the blanket off the bed. _Well, he_ _ **might**_ _need something. And what if I need something? No, that sounds dirty. Maybe I just_ _want to be close to someone like last night?_ _There's nothing wrong with that, is there? But that's why I need to be in the chair, not the bed. It's okay if I'm in the chair. (Right?)_ He returned, blanket in hand, still lost in thought even as he went about doing something his conscience was half-heartedly arguing about.

Peter settled into the chair, tired and sleepy, letting his defenses down and giving up the fight with himself. He squirmed under the blanket, trying to find a comfortable position. He'd fallen more than once on his trip, bruising his knee, hip, and elbow, but the main problem was how much it had strained and worsened the muscles that had been pulled when Sylar fell on Peter's upraised knee. "Could you keep reading?" he asked hopefully, since that had taken his mind off his ills earlier.

XXX

His wonderings were answered when his companion returned. Peter's voice brought him right back to when the younger man was a child – lonely, eager and cute by anyone's standards, otherwise irresistible. Nathan had dealt with the majority of Peter's emotional neediness growing up, at least giving the illusion of 'shoulder to cry on.' He was very fond of the kid who wouldn't grow up. Sylar took all that in, having no words to describe it. It was wonderful to be desired, as company or for a task. His lips twitched towards a grin as he watched Peter seat himself, blanket in hand. "Yeah," he replied, feeling warm on the inside. He didn't quite know how to categorize 'reading to Peter' – teacher/student, parent/child…? It wasn't important. "The primary motivation for modern bullpen strategy, at least, how a team's best reliever is used, is the save rule…"

XXX

Peter sighed, thinking it was kind of unfair that Sylar wasn't sleepy, even if that made perfect sense – the guy had slept all day and at the moment, the worst symptoms of his concussion were probably fading fast. Sylar might be feeling better than he had since the fight! Peter, not so much. He made a small, unintentional noise of discomfort, eyes opening again at that embarrassing sound as he began another round of shifting to find the right position. _I want the footrest. That's what I want._ He looked at the edge of the bed, right there, so inviting, able to elevate his feet and stretch out just like the footrest would allow, but without having to get up and get the damn thing. And even more, Sylar's leg was on it. Peter shut his eyes for a moment, remembering how he'd woke up next to the guy, one foot touching him, or as close to touching him as he could get. _He wouldn't mind, would he? (Of course he wouldn't mind. He wants me.) Is it bad, what I want? (I should have stayed in the guest room.) I told him that I didn't mind my own … Don't think real well when I'm tired. Just want … It's not wrong, is it_ _? I put my feet on the end of the bed this morning while he was in it. That wasn't wrong? I don't know._

He put his feet, both of them, on the edge of the bed next to Sylar's leg. Peter didn't look at Sylar's expression – once his feet were in position, he shut his eyes and curled to the side, tugging up the blanket and tucking himself in to sleep. And oh yeah, that was almost exactly what he wanted. Almost. He pushed his feet to the side a little until one of them was right up against Sylar's leg (though separated by sock and blanket and sheet and Sylar's jeans). _Ah, that's perfect._ Sleep stole over him.

XXX

Sylar glanced up when Peter made a noise but there was nothing wrong beyond the fact that Peter was in a chair when he didn't have to be. He went back to reading aloud, ignoring Peter's antics with whatever he was up to, "If a reliever has a saves clause, he'd love to get in those three-run games, if only to make padding his saves that much easier. As well, relievers themselves may prefer a defined role that is based on the inning, rather than the leverage of the situation."

Moments later a pair of sock-clad feet were beside his leg, resting on the bed. _O-oh_ , Sylar clued in, pleased by the passive-aggressive development, _so you still want a piece of it_. _Why not take the whole thing when it_ _'_ _s offered?_ He paused to smirk at Peter's snoozing form before reading some more, "Relievers can appreciate the fact that there may be a situation in the seventh or eighth inning that can be a turning point for the game, but their conditioning prepares them only for the ninth inning, or perhaps two outs in the eighth inning." Another motion had Peter's feet against his leg. _Hmmm_ , Sylar thought, flying high on the contact. That was no accident. He was desirable enough for that. He continued his oration until he heard those sleep-breaths from Peter, which didn't take long. The poor guy was out with good cause.

Sylar took some time to watch the nurse's sleeping form and think about their weird day. _He really did the whole k_ _night-in-shining-armor thing. For_ me _. I can trust him to….what? Take care of me in a near-death situation that he caused? He won't pull his punches but he'd do the rest of that for me. He could have gone out and got poison; he could have left and not come_ _back and he….I guess he doesn't want me dead. He just wants to kill me._ He knew there was a difference in motive and meaning to 'kill and inflict pain' and 'want you dead and gone.' Actually, Peter's behavior, his actions showed his particular affliction was the less deadly of the two. If Sylar was going to die it would be by accident at Peter's hands.

Sylar slid himself down so his head could rest on the pillow, careful not to overly-disturb Peter's feet – not that the empath wouldn't come right back. He absorbed the text silently now, for some hours as his brain insisted on staying awake, his body somewhat nervy, desiring activity. Peter lying there so innocently was a temptation for activity. Laying the book aside, he tried closing his eyes to see if sleep would come and it did.

Another uncomfortable urgency woke him. _This had better not become a habit,_ he groused to himself, throwing off the blankets only to be entangled in the IV tube. _Owch! Fuck._ Sylar waited until reason struck him, sitting there getting cold and more awake as he stared at the IV solution like it was to blame. _I'm stuck? Something has to give here_. The bag was long since empty. _Isn't there a thing where you can take the tube off and leave the needle? Will Peter be pissed if I ditch_ _the needle? He'll have to stick me again…_ Fumbling with the bag told him that there was a wire involved with the headboard. _Christ, this is ridiculous_ , he growled audibly as he struggled with the restricting apparatus. Eventually he got the wire loose, taking the bag, tubes, needle and all with him – over the bed because Peter was blocking the way - for a wobbly, dark dash to the bathroom for blinding and urination. Thus relieved, he came back and saw Peter curled up with his feet sticking out of the blanket. _Huh, usually that's my problem for being tall._ He had sympathy for that and he approached with caution. At worst, he'd be accused of molestation, but it was for a good cause. Sylar lifted Peter's feet, watching his face as he did, lifting the bed's blankets to slide the man's feet under.

XXX

Peter stirred some. Hands were on his ankles, moving them. He sucked in a shallow breath, gripping the arm of the chair to dispel the fleeting sensation of falling that came from being sleepy and having his feet lifted. Even the very slight change of balance point triggered it. He blinked, looking muzzily at Sylar, registering the man's identity and for some strange reason coding him as 'safe'. Peter's lids fluttered down again as he let Sylar do whatever it was he was doing.

XXX

"It's okay, just…" Sylar began but Peter didn't seem aware anymore. Sylar crawled back onto the bed, tossing the still-connected IV junk aside to sleep. The empath's feet snugged against him and they slept again.

XXX

_Day 15, December 25, Christmas Day, Morning_

Peter's foot flexed before he woke, pressing into Sylar's thigh enough to establish his location. Contact. Life. Presence. It soothed Peter before he was even conscious. "Hmmm," he hummed as he became aware of himself, blinking his eyes open. _Chair. What am I doing in a chair? Oh, yeah, I remember … Sylar?_ He turned to look at the head of the bed.

"Hey, how'd you-" Sylar began.

Peter's foot flexed again involuntarily before he snatched it back guiltily. His knee hurt incredibly at the motion, provoking a gasped, "Oh, fu- I mean, _ow_."

XXX

"Ah. Told you so, should have slept in bed," Sylar smirked, _With me_.

XXX

Peter rolled painfully from his curled-up, side-lying position to his back, having difficulty believing how stiff and pained his knee was from what he wouldn't have thought was a high-stress position. His back and hips made their own input to the discomfort-o-meter. Gruffly, he asked, "Did I lay like that all night, with my legs stuck out like that? Feels like I hyperextended the damn thing!" He sat up (another mild agony in itself) and put both hands on either side of his right knee. He'd fallen on it the day before so it was a little swollen and more than a little bruised, but the problem was mainly the protesting tendons. He rubbed gingerly.

Ignoring Sylar's last comment, Peter answered the first, abbreviated one, his voice still rough. "I slept okay. How about you?" It felt weird to be exchanging bedroom pleasantries with Sylar, but what else was there to do? Irritation surged around in him that Sylar kept inching up the intimacy level between them way more than Peter was comfortable with. And yet it was hard to blame Sylar – he hadn't necessarily been mentally competent and a long-range plan seemed definitely beyond his abilities. It was more … circumstances, but Peter still found it annoying. Especially given how much he now wished he'd just said to hell with it and shared the bed. Or been strong enough to have slept in the guest room.

XXX

"I slept well," Sylar nodded, pleased with the results and with the exchange.

XXX

Snarling more at his own weakness of resolve than the pain of getting up, Peter levered himself to his feet and stumbled forward to look at the disconnected IV bag on the headboard. It was a little askew. It took him a moment to realize there was supposed to be two of them there and another moment to figure out the other was right in front of his feet on the floor. _Damn, I need coffee_. "Did you disconnect that?" he said as his eyes traced the intact tubing up to Sylar's arm.

XXX

Geez, Peter looked rough. Maybe it was his turn for a day of bed rest. Sylar couldn't remember if the other man had gotten any (aside from the other night) since the fight or…since he got here. He didn't care for the accusation, after all, he'd left the damn needle in! "No, it just jumped off by itself last night. You pumped me full of fluids, I had to go!"

XXX

"How are you feeling?" Peter said, voice softening from earlier. He took Sylar's elbow and forearm with a couple checking glances to his face. "Hang on and I'll ..." He ran his hand across the skin, then down to the back of Sylar's hand so he could pinch it up to check turgor as he had the day before. Satisfied with what he saw, he concluded, "I'll take that out."

XXX

The wind blew out of his sails at that. "Better. I think the IV helped," Sylar admitted. Peter grabbed him very familiarly, no question or consent. Medical exam be damned, even this light contact was going to bring a blush to his face – he was definitely feeling warm everywhere else. Waking up with someone who took care of him and talked to him was indescribable. "Okay." That pinch was almost sexy. Sylar licked his lips and ogled his otherwise-focused nurse as he removed the needle.

The other man's distraction continued as he rubbernecked about for something before instructing Sylar to place his thumb on the bleed. Sylar made a bit of a face; it seemed kind of trivial since he wasn't going to bleed out, vein versus artery, but he supposed it needed to clot so he obeyed. _He's not going to put another one in?_ Sylar was very aware of how much trust he'd given Peter lately, medically and as a caretaker, and Peter had failed to confirm the worst of his fears. He knew he was going to act like a pathetic puppy from now on, following the guy around, getting on his nerves, inevitably being kicked away – but worrying about his ultimate safety was off his plate for now. If he fell, maybe, just maybe Peter would pick him up. He wanted to kick himself on instinct just for daring to hope.

Squirming to sit up more, feeling vulnerable enough as it was, he caught Peter's arm with his clean hand before he could turn away, "Should- You should rest." Now that Sylar felt he was out of imminent danger, he conceded that he was worried about Peter's health now. He had to at least look out for the younger man since he was doing a rather crappy job of it himself and Sylar didn't want him dying either. Still flushed, heart rate elevated, he used the expression that had gotten a reaction before, open, pleading, intent; adding in a low voice, "I know a few things that could help." _Like orgasm. Orgasm is great for joint pain and anything else you've got. We even have a bed._

XXX

Peter's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; his breath came faster at that look, especially coming on the heels of cooperation, what might be gratitude, and a sign of care. It really stopped him in his tracks. His face showed his unthinking curiosity about things beyond just the 'things' Sylar might be able to help with. "Like what?"

XXX

That darling idiot bought it. That was cute; it gave him a rush. "Sex. Massage. Shower. Stretching," Sylar shrugged.

XXX

 _That was a stupid question. Just idiotic. And I fell right into it._ Peter shut his eyes for a long beat, opening them with a slight roll of his head and a definite pull away from Sylar's contact. "No," he articulated clearly and firmly. _Massage sounds nice,_ his mind traitorously informed him. "I just got up," he went on in a surly tone, giving up on trying to make it clear to Sylar he wasn't interested. (Which probably wouldn't have been very convincing anyway, what with the suckered-in expression Peter had just had on his face.) "I don't need to rest," he complained as he shuffled around the side of the chair, using it copiously for balance. On the other side, he surveyed the room, unsure of where he wanted to go. Wistfully, he said, "A bath or a hot tub sure would be nice, though." _Followed by a massage. That would be extra nice._ He growled at the turn of his thoughts. _Remember the part about being crucified? And Nathan being dead? Yeah? Good. Don't forget it with him, no matter how innocent he can work himself up to looking._

 _There's a tub here, though. Don't really want to make breakfast feeling like_ _this._ "I'm going to take a long soak."

XXX

As expected, the answer was a shutdown, but it wasn't as bad as it had been in the past – far more…civil? "A bath is good," Sylar agreed, calling after Peter, "You know we could do all four in there!" There was no answer. _He's gonna make me rest and I just woke up._

XXX

Peter hobbled over in that direction. _Lock the door or not? What did we decide yesterday? I don't think we decided anything, but he went off to the table and sat himself down and didn't argue_ _anymore._ Peter shut the door, hesitated, and didn't lock it. _He'd better not come in here, or else I'll hit him in the face with the damn toilet brush,_ Peter thought irritably, setting up the water to run as hot as he could stand. _Or I could throw water o_ _n him._ _I'll bet he wouldn't like that – wet washcloth to the face. Yeah, that would suck._ Peter continued his not-very-mean-spirited grousing until he was submerged in hot water, slowly loosening the knots in his muscles. Considering who he was complaining about, his retaliatory plans were mild.

XXX

Peter was gone and Sylar was left trying not to picture that 'long soak' with little success. Wet, smooth skin, sweat, relaxation…in the nude…Sylar sighed mournfully. He definitely wanted something, wanted more – all this teasing and taste-testing was giving him a bad case of idle hands. As a brain-picking murderer and watchmaker with more curiosity than he knew what to do with mixed with too much brains and unanswered questions and no social interaction or physical contact made for a very insane, lonely, motivated background. He wanted to touch, to talk and he wasn't getting it nor was he likely to.

Then there was the freaking niceness from Peter, who had been talking to him for a minute there. Sylar had gratitude and no way to express it. Gifts weren't viable at the moment since he was somewhat house-bound; Peter's birthday and Christmas seemingly forgotten. It was a distressing combination. _How long is 'a long soak'?_ Breakfast would be a good start but he didn't know what Peter wanted or even what he could make on his own. _Toast?_ But first he had to pee and Peter was in the only bathroom (he knew he wasn't allowed in, especially if the guy was naked – more was the pity) so he wandered down the hall to the next suite and used the bathroom there. Adjusting his hair and disparaging his growing beard, he returned to the kitchen to find bread but no toaster. _Fuck. Typical. Time to get creative._ A grilled piece of bread would have a similar toasting affect. He found a pan and heated it, getting out some butter and coating both sides of several slices. Sylar poured milk for two and got his book from the bedroom, waiting for one-handed Peter to start breakfast.


	58. Breakfast of Champions

_Day 15, December 25, morning_

Peter emerged from the bathroom in a much better mood, feeling much better, too. He was hungry, having been too worn out the day before (and honestly, worried about Sylar) to get himself dinner. Sylar was now at the table, reading and looking well, so Peter left him there undisturbed as he moved over to the stove to see what the deal was with the opened loaf of bread and the butter next to it. "Oh, you found the butter. Good. Not real keen on margarine anyway."

XXX

Sylar glanced up mostly to see if Peter was dressed – he was; that was too bad. He rolled his eyes about the butter v. margarine affair. As Peter followed his heart (otherwise ignoring him), Sylar went back to his book rather than stare at Peter's back.

XXX

Peter turned up the heat on the stove. "I'm guessing you want toast? What happened, did you get started over here and get distracted or something?" he asked as he wandered over to score one of the glasses of milk, downing half of it in a single, lengthy gulp. The taste was really appealing. Sylar probably wasn't the only one a little dehydrated. With a quick glance to make sure the bread was doing okay in the pan, he got down a bowl and a box of cereal, one of those granola types with bits of nuts and fruit in it. Peter set them both on the table and returned to the stove in time to flip the bread.

XXX

_Want toast?_ Having been buried in his book and forgotten his plans, Sylar was curious why Peter would jump to that assumption. His eyes narrowed when Peter made a crack about his mental state. _Getting distracted. Ha! Did you walk out naked and I missed it? Just hit my head? Sudden onset of amnesia? Then no, I didn't get distracted._ Sylar was quite assured his mind was (usually) a steel trap. It was his key to survival and sanity. "No," he practically growled, "Cold toast sucks so I got it ready and waited for you so you could deal with the stove." Peter did him one better in passive-aggressively waving his other preferred breakfast in his face before walking off. Sylar stared at the cereal box, wounded despite himself, his gesture being thrown in his face. _Does he think I can't cook? I'm not even doing the cooking. I prepared it. Was I supposed to know he wanted cereal? Did I miss something? I haven't cooked for him yet – he didn't want to eat with me. So that's how its going to be._ In a grumpy/hurt tone, he explained because he had to, "Two of those are for you, Petrelli. Like I can eat three pieces of toast."

XXX

"Three pieces of toast wouldn't even be a full-sized breakfast for you, Sylar. Hey, go get the pills from next to the bed, will you? And if you could get that chair out from next to it, that would help." It had been difficult enough to maneuver it over there one-handedly.

XXX

Mouth a moue of a pout, Sylar sighed, snapping his book shut, and rising. _Menial chores now? Because I didn't do a good job with the food? He's the one who stuck his tongue all over my butter!_ He returned with desired objects, clunking the chair down, snagging some pills.

XXX

"What do you want to do today? I'd rather stay in this building, unless there's something you need really bad from your apartment." That was Peter's way of saying, 'Sliding around on the ice sucked so badly yesterday that I'm having trouble convincing myself to do something as trivial as merely cross the street to get my toothbrush.' "Oh," he added with a sudden thought, "I found that clock in one of the other rooms. Thought it might help you sleep." _So maybe I won't have to sleep in the chair next time._ He finished up with the bread and brought it to the table, rebelliously putting all three slices on Sylar's plate, while fetching the rest of the milk for his cereal.

XXX

"I'd want to do completely nasty things repeatedly on a mattress. Otherwise I need to do something or I'll tear you, the apartment or that very nice clock apart just for fun." He had noticed the gesture and it fit so well with Sylar's own apartment that he'd been calmed without being particularly aware of the source. Now it was his turn for cabin fever. "I have a book, though. The clock was…It helped a lot. That and hearing you breathe." In for a penny, while he was being grateful and saying what he wanted he might as well throw that out there for reinforcement, assuming Peter was interested in it. Sylar blankly eyed the pile of toast with confusion.

XXX

Peter laughed. "Completely nasty things, huh? You go find your own bed to do that in," he said lightly, leaning some of his weight on the table as he settled into his chair. He read Sylar's other comments as a 'thank you' of sorts for the clock and staying in the room with him. That was nice and cheered Peter up enough to banter. "But something I'd like to do is repeat that mini-mental exam on you so I can see how much the IV fluids improved things. Something's sure made you perky this morning," Peter said, chuckling at Sylar's second (or was it third?) sexual innuendo/invitation of the morning. Most of Peter's apprehension about the threat Sylar might pose to him was gone. He poured cereal and then milk into his bowl. In a more sober tone, but his eyes still smiling, Peter said very genuinely, "I'm really glad to hear you're feeling good."

XXX

The lot of that caught Sylar's attention, his eyes locked onto Peter. _As opposed to 'our' bed? 'Your' bed? Not that I need a bed at all…_ When his thoughts, questions, whatever they were went unanswered, he let it drop. "Perky's a word for it," he murmured. It wasn't the ideal word to describe his mood. Peter probably just liked that he was less needy. Yeah right. "You can make me feel even better, Petrelli. Doing completely nasty things and eating toast," Sylar intoned but he was too late on the breakfast front.

XXX

Peter snorted, not giving the invitation any more of a response than that, then took a few bites of cereal. He would have preferred it with sugar, but not enough to go look for it. He definitely preferred it softer, so he stirred it into the milk and said, "Maybe we could find an electric razor or two? Or I could probably use a blade now, or even a safety razor if I had to." Peter wiggled the free fingers on his right hand, miming the act of shaving for a few strokes. He'd latched onto the electric razor before because he hadn't been sure he could manipulate anything else reliably with his right hand. Now he felt more confident he could handle it. He eye-balled Sylar's vigorously growing scruff. "Get one for you, too, unless you're going for the mountain man look."

XXX

Embarrassment flashed through him when Peter struck one of his more obvious, long-held insecurities. Dressing nicely (like a nerd, even in the middle of a New York summer) came in handy sometimes, covering him from neck to toes. That way no one but he and mom knew he was hairier than a fur rug, and not an attractive, expensive one, either. There was no other way to tame it so he let it be. Only after he'd bloodied his hands had he allowed his beard some leeway. That served a purpose, too. The stubble, his attire and his body language of assumed power gained him notice. It worked wonders for sex appeal, go figure – he'd been clean-shaven his whole life. _/'Your skin is so soft; like a baby.'/_

'Mountain man' didn't sound complimentary and that wasn't a look he was going for. Voice short, Sylar snapped in the 'what's it to you?' tone, "Yes, I'd like one." After a brief glaring look to make sure Peter wasn't trying to make that a punch line, he bit into some of his own dry, grilled toast. _That's crappy toast._ The butter had been made into a crust but it offered little flavor – it was basically cooked plain bread. _No wonder he wants cereal._ Sylar went to the kitchen to retrieve the butter and knife mostly because he refused to allow his breakfast to suck more than it had to, not when he could fix it. Applying the butter, he tested it. Much better. The grilling was a different texture but toast was still toast. Then Sylar wondered if his 'mountain man' look was keeping him from getting laid; he sent a sideways, curious glance over towards Peter. What the hell, "The beard not doing it for you?"

XXX

Peter did a double-take – first at Sylar, then at his 'beard', then at Sylar again. On a lark, he humored the man. More thoughtfully, he gave serious consideration to how facial hair contributed to Sylar's appearance. His eyes scanned over Sylar's various rather handsome and attractive features, considering his beautiful eyes, shapely bone structure, perfect lips, and intimidating brows. It seemed a crime that such an angelic face had been granted to such a demonic man. Peter looked at his hair, in a bit of disarray and frizzed, probably due to bad hair product. Even so, it framed his face nicely. The picture Sylar made was a lot dark despite his pale skin, with a well-defined face that didn't benefit from being obscured by facial hair. Even clean-shaven, Sylar virtually exuded menace most of the time. More hair did not reduce the perception of threat. Peter made up his mind. "No, doesn't do it for me." He took another bite, looking Sylar over again while thinking about the man's repeated overtures to him this morning.

XXX

Sylar tilted his head to the side at being inspected. That he had not been expecting. Then Peter continued looking him over, several times…Sylar stared back after it reached (and passed) the point of awkwardness and discomfort. The longer it went on, the more uncertain he became because after that much time, the answer was sure to be a negative one. Finally Peter answered but it seemed a simple answer to the stated question; the nurse didn't expand to include the face. _So something else_ does _do it for you._ Sylar smirked; he was allowed to.

XXX

"Your beard or lack of a beard isn't why you aren't getting laid. There's two big reasons," Peter said, waving the hand without the spoon in a general way, "one is everything you are, or at least that I think you are. You seem mean and you're difficult for me to predict, along with everything that's happened," Peter swallowed and his voice roughened, his face tilting down a little as he continued, "before." His lips thinned and he looked to the side, biting his lip briefly before looking back, trying to push aside his anger. He was trying to explain himself so Sylar would stop it with the passes, so the man would understand why he wasn't getting anywhere.

XXX

There was a barely-noticeable hitch in Sylar's breakfast motions at that. _There goes that theory._ Stupidly, he was surprised his motive had been sussed out (at all and so quickly, too), but it had been an obvious one. _How many times has he figured it out? He's not dumb; smarter than he looks; smarter than he lets on. Not just another pretty face._ Once that was dealt with, he focused on Peter. _I seem 'mean'? (That's so schoolyard! 'Mean') I seem mean? Gee, I can't imagine why...Was no one ever mean to you, pretty Peter, is that it? More like he thinks no one should be mean to him – ha! He's a hero, a good guy, martyr on a mission, handle with care._ Sylar held back (though it was a near thing) from rolling his eyes.

XXX

"The other reason is that you're sick, you're injured. I don't do my patients. At all. Especially ones that are mentally … compromised." He gave Sylar a look like he must think the worst of Peter to think he'd take advantage of the situation. "You want to have more of a chance with me? Eat." He gestured at the toast. "Drink. Get better. Focus on _that_."

Peter shook his head, feeling around the edges of his rage about the other reason – Sylar struck him as an asshole and that was on top of him being a murderer. He pressed his lips together so firmly it was a grimace before serving himself another bite of cereal and forcing himself to eat it. With a huffy breath, he reached over for the painkillers, getting out the usual number he gave Sylar and taking them.

XXX

_Didn't stop you from sleeping with me,_ Sylar plotted a response, thinking Peter was finished. He wasn't finished: 'you're insane but something might happen when you get better?' And less important, 'quit bugging me.' "You're a moron. You can't even stick to your own rules. Why would you expect me to?" Sylar threw out bluntly, boiling inside yet calmly taking a bite of toast. ' _Setting the example' I believe its called. Ask my parents; they did a fantastic job as you can see. Results: the insanity everyone likes so much. They think I like being that way._

XXX

"A moron?" Peter sputtered a little at how absurd that was. _Don't ask a question you don't already know the answer to,_ ran through his mind from Petrelli Verbal Defense Training 101, but he ignored it. "What rule are you talking about?"

XXX

"Rule Number One was not calling me crazy. What do you think 'mentally compromised' means? I'm not stupid, I have a huge headache because my brain was bashed around. And I asked about fucking before we fought," Sylar was marginally sure about that last point. "Do you think I can't make decisions or have an opinion like this?" He was insulted which made him angry and the insults only grew the more he spoke, the more he thought. "If I'm not much of a patient then you aren't much of a nurse, _Dr._ Petrelli." One of the last things Sylar remembered was Matt telling him to abandon all hope; 'that ship sailed…You really are insane.' It was a touchy subject coming from a household where his thoughts and emotions were called into question just for existing. It was a label he'd had to endure without knowing if it was true; /'The man is a deranged sociopath.' 'You're a psychopath.' 'Unrestrained lunatic.' 'Serial killer.' 'You're a monster…like me.' 'You're damned.'/

XXX

Peter snorted in disdain and answered hotly, "I think 'mentally compromised' means you have a fucking concussion bad enough that you can't look out for your own best interests. It doesn't matter when you asked. We're right now, right here," he stabbed a finger down at the tabletop in emphasis, "and you were unconscious yesterday afternoon. It doesn't matter how bad you want to do it, I'm not interested until you're well!" Peter glared at him, steaming a bit. "And ..." he faltered, realizing what he'd said sounded like he'd be all over Sylar once the guy recovered, which was far from the truth, "and probably not even then. No, not even then. At all. Definitely." Shaking his head in exasperation, he dug into his cereal, muttering, "Fuck it." _Just shut up and stop arguing with him, Peter!_

XXX

_Uh, apparently it does matter when I asked._ Sylar inhaled for a sigh. _He mentioned that before, being unconscious. I was just sleeping._ Then he blinked when Peter slipped up – he knew it would happen eventually. The whole 'keep asking the same question' routine worked for a reason (even though it was kind of an interrogation-slash-torture tactic). His eyebrows went up in glee as he smiled broadly. As expected, Peter tried to back out and deny; that had him chuckling, leaning forward and smirking next, "You wanna try that again, Peter? I didn't really feel the conviction there." Sylar felt validated, being right and somewhat desired was an incredible, rare feeling. It was kind of…fluttery. Someone would care if he died, would do things to prevent it; someone had a preference about his looks and gave a damn about his health; someone might want to touch him. That was a big deal and it was serious motivation to get better. In fact, he resolved to make a miraculously quick recovery.

He snorted openly in amusement when Peter swore, taking a drink before sarcastically mollifying, "Whatever you need to tell yourself." The denial stung but it wasn't lethal, it came with the package. "Too bad Hiro isn't around to see this," he said in a low voice, focused on not looking too eager while his insides were jumping, and forcing down the toast.

XXX

"What's that about Hiro?" Peter asked suspiciously, still scowling and trying mightily to ignore Sylar's idiotic gloating about a simple slip of the tongue. He hunched around his bowl of cereal like he was trying to defend it.

XXX

Sylar went still. "He…said something that…it's been a thorn in my side for some years now. You'd be proving him wrong." Another pause before he decided to admit, quietly, "For me, that's a good thing." Just maybe that type of thing mattered to Peter but it was a long shot. Sylar was always wondering if he'd survived the 'die alone' part since nearly every one of his deaths was without friend or companion except the person killing him (which he didn't think counted). It was the not-knowing that spiked his anxiety.

XXX

Peter didn't know what Sylar was talking about, but at least the smirking had ended quickly. Too quickly, Peter suspected. He shot Sylar several suspicious glances, but the man seemed to be applying himself to his breakfast. Peter did the same, slowly relaxing his posture. Sylar wasn't going to take his cereal, so there was no point in circling his arms around it like a barrier. No, Sylar was the one who tended to eat his food like that, and although he wasn't as hyper-vigilant about it as he'd been at first, he still ate like a prisoner.

"Just as long as you eat, drink, and get better," he said in a low voice. And if it served to motivate Sylar in taking care of himself – whatever – Peter added, "Nobody's going to be getting any action if you're dead."

Peter felt around his feelings again, but this time different ones than the rage. He had no love for Sylar and barely anything that qualified as friendly. What he had was an admission that Sylar was here, he was human, and he had some traits that Peter could see could be likeable, if the jerk decided to play them that way. The deal-killers were Sylar's past, Nathan (a separate deal-killer from all the other murders), his unwillingness to help Emma, lack of understanding about the world they were trapped in, and that he took too much joy and pride in hurting, scaring, and being superior to Peter. Peter relaxed a little further because put that way, he didn't think Sylar had a snowball's chance in hell of making it with him. Some of them were issues the man couldn't change and the rest seemed so core to his personality that it seemed unlikely he would change them, assuming he was capable of it.

Cereal finished, Peter leaned back in the chair and stretched a little, the chair back being just the right height for him to pop his spine in a place or two. He made a tiny, happy noise and settled back.

"Let's get started on the MME. What's the date today?" That was the first time it had occurred to Peter that it was Christmas Day by Sylar's reckoning in here. He tried not to think about what the holiday would be like the next time he had to deal with it for real. Spending it snowed in with Sylar was actually better than the alternative of merely being alone.

XXX

Sylar had since been playing with his food to fool Peter into thinking he was still eating. He'd consumed a piece and a half of toast (he thought that was significant). _The what?_ "The…twenty-fourth?" _I didn't do anything special for his birthday and now Christmas is going to go by._ This had not been a shining example of his…hosting skills. It worried him because he could do much better and he didn't want Peter thinking he didn't care about the man's birthday or holidays. Sylar himself didn't much care for his own birthday or the holiday but it was an excuse to do things in a boring, eventless world and he wanted to make use of it. A crappy welcome he was giving his companion; here he was housebound, sickly and holding Peter back. It was like performance evaluation was coming around and he was asleep on the job.

XXX

Peter asked, "What's the full date, month and year?"

XXX

A frown rose to his face unbidden as he fretted over his near failures. _Oh, who cares about that, Peter?_ He looked at his nurse with some confusion, hastily trying to answer the question so he could get back to his plans, "Um…the twenty-fourth of December…2,000…12."

XXX

"What's the season?" He smiled wanly at this one, because the snowstorm made that pretty obvious.

XXX

The smile halted him. His head inched to the side. Sylar glanced straight ahead, out the window to double check; his lips twitching at a grin, "Winter, obviously." _Christmas – winter, that's really easy, Peter._

XXX

"What day of the week is it?"

XXX

Sylar shrugged from his sudden slouch, muttering, "I don't know," as he fiddled with his cup.

XXX

Peter wondered if Sylar was throwing the test deliberately, although he couldn't fathom why. Sylar had been seeming pretty well put together earlier, but asking someone to focus on something outside their usual train of thought was an effort – an effort the test was designed to evaluate. "What town, county, and state are we in, to the best of your knowledge?"

XXX

"New York. Queens, Brooklyn…Manhattan? New York." Now he gave Peter an expression that questioned the empath's sanity.

XXX

_Okay, so that one's easy for him – location good, time bad. I wouldn't have guessed that._ "What's the address of the building we're in?"

XXX

This was a more honest non-answer. Living for three years in the same place had blinded him to those details – he had no need for addresses. "I really don't know. It's…the one across the street, to the right. P-something. Nice building."

XXX

_Well, I don't know where we are either, so there's that._ "What floor are we on?"

XXX

"The top." That was a pure educated guess.

XXX

Peter didn't know whether to count that as correct or not, but decided to go with it as such. "I'm going to list three objects. You're supposed to remember them and recite them back to me later in the test, when I ask you to. They are orange, chair, nickel." Peter made sure he had Sylar's attention for that part. "Can you repeat them to me right now?"

XXX

Another look told Peter he was wasting his time, but he parroted it back to make the man happy.

XXX

"I'm going to spell a word forwards and I want you to spell it back to me backwards. The word is 'world'. W-O-R-L-D. Spell it back to me in reverse order."

XXX

Sylar focused on 'seeing' the word in his head, to see the letters. Maybe sounding it out or something. "D, L, R," 'World' like 'word.' "O, W."

XXX

Peter pointed at the table they were sitting at. "What's this called?" Then he tugged at his shirt. "And what's this?"

XXX

"Table." He smirked, looking over the clothing. _That's the thing you'll take off for me later._ "Shirt." _Bye-bye, shirt._

XXX

Peter didn't care for that smirk, but he didn't comment on it. "Can you repeat the three words I told you to memorize earlier?"

XXX

He started with the easiest, "Chair, nickel…." Sylar cast around the room, looking for the last word. It was fruity and colorful…He spotted it on the couch's pillow, "Lime."

XXX

"I need you to repeat the following, exactly: 'No ifs, ands, or buts.'

XXX

An eyebrow arched at that. It seemed random or maybe Peter was just having a laugh. Or worse, laying out conditions for something, getting him to 'agree'…His eyes narrowed and he leaned back, straightening. "I can, but I'm not going to. Sally sells seashells by the seashore. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood," he rattled off. Social skills and communication – crap; linguistics and verbal retention – excellent. Tongue twisters posed little difficulty. "There's another one about Peter but I don't know that one." Nathan did, though. No way a nursery rhyme about his little brother was going to get by him. "/Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; a peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked. If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?/" _Guess I do know it._ He was already leaned away from Peter so he settled for inspecting the tabletop to avoid eye contact.

XXX

Peter raised his brows slightly. _He doesn't know it, so he recites it to me?_ He waited a beat for an explanation, but Sylar studied the surface of the table instead, looking guilty and insecure. Peter exhaled and looked over in the direction of the bed, thinking about the next part of the test. It required a pad of paper, which was conveniently in the room, inconveniently far from where he was sitting. _Oh well, part of it is the ability to follow directions._ "Could you go get that pad of paper for me? It's on the night stand, under the clock. There's a pen next to it."

XXX

Sylar waited for a moment, watching his partner. _Why does he need paper? Paper airplane? No, he wants a pen. Can't he get- He got an IV in a snowstorm and nearly broke his hips._ That decided him and he stood without hurry. When he got there and picked up the pad, he saw there was something already written on it which shocked him. No people here; there were no left-over notes, no farewell, no notice from previous occupants. Sylar stood there to read it, personal, unimportant or whatever, it was of interest. _Peter must have…Yeah, that's his handwriting: 'Sylar – I've gone to the hospital to get stuff for you. I will come back. I'm not leaving you. –Peter.'_ The sick part was that he wanted to keep the note. He could feel his masculinity slipping away. The note was…so help him, _sweet_. Working that over in his head, he trudged back, more focused on the pad then on where he was going. He had to course-correct when he nearly ran into the back of Peter's chair. He took the liberty of stripping the top note before handing the pad to the other man as he sat.

XXX

"Thank you," Peter said, accepting the pad. He hesitated before writing the standard direction, 'Close your eyes.' Under normal circumstances, an EMT or nurse was administering the test, a trusted individual who was being voluntarily allowed to provide medical services. One had nothing to fear in closing one's eyes in front of them. Sylar … might not feel that way about Peter. _I could ask him to lift his plate or count him going to get the pad as following an order. But … I'd also like to know if he trusts me that much._ He wrote the standard command and passed the pad to Sylar.

XXX

He took it and read it. A blink at the page, then a glance at Peter. _This is his idea of a kinky game? I suppose I'll hear him get up and he can't reach me…_ Sylar settled back in his own chair and shut his eyes. Only then did he wonder what the point of that action was. God, he was whipped and he wasn't even getting any. Yet.

XXX

Peter waited a beat, sitting perfectly still and smiling a little, relieved and pleased. "You can open your eyes."

XXX

Eyes open, Sylar quirked an eyebrow to express his question. It went unanswered as Peter was moving on.

XXX

He passed over the pen. "Please write any complete sentence. Doesn't matter what it is." This one shouldn't be hard, as Sylar had been able to read fine the night before.

XXX

Well, now, that sounded like a trick question. _What is that, Freud? What's that called; it has a name…_ "Um…" The only problem was what to write. 'A tourbillion is not a complication,' he wrote as neatly as he could.

XXX

Peter reclaimed the pad and took a glance at the sentence. All he cared about was that it was an intelligible, complete sentence. He did a double-take. _What the hell is a tourbillion?_ With a small shake of his head, he moved on. The test was supposed to be administered without interruptions or distractions, so he'd have to ask about it later. He drew an interlocking pair of pentagrams, focusing carefully to get them regularly shaped. He pushed the paper back over with the pen. "Now copy that picture as you see it, on the same piece of paper."

XXX

He sighed at that one. A couple of house-shaped (or was that home-plate-shaped?) figures, really? Sylar cast him a thanks-so-much look but took the implements. _I should draw something shocking. I would if I could draw better._ Instead he set about copying the picture a little too literally but he assumed Peter wanted perfection. As such, it took him longer than it should have mostly because of that.

XXX

"Thanks." Peter looked at the rendering. It was a little skewed, but it met the basics. He tore out an extra page from the notepad. "Take this piece of paper in your right hand, fold it with both hands, and put it in your lap." Only after he was done did he lift the sheet and extend it for Sylar to take.

XXX

Now Sylar's look was bland disbelief at this latest absurdity. He snatched the paper, matched the ends (with both hands) and pressed the crease, setting it in his lap for all of two seconds before he crumpled it (with both hands) and tossed it against Peter's shoulder where it bounced off. "Ha," he chuckled. That was his idea of a subtle clue that he was through with the test. "It's going to take more than that to keep me entertained. And origami comes with directions. I saw a cool dragon once." There was table football and those strange number-triangle-flap options the girls in high school used to annoy with, too, if they were really that desperate.

"What would entertain me is hearing about what does it for you," Sylar suggested liltingly, canting his head.

XXX

Peter jerked a little about the thrown paper, but didn't overreact. "In a sec," he said to Sylar's suggestion. Peter took up the pen and made a few marks on the paper, running through the questions in his head and tallying. He didn't know how to count some of them, like the building neither he nor Sylar knew the address of, or Sylar's refusal to repeat 'ifs, ands, or buts' but then supplying several tongue twisters in its place. He wrote '24' on the paper and looked up at Sylar.

"What it does for me is give me an idea of how much, if at all, getting the IV helped you. The first time I had you do the MMSE, the day after the fight, you scored just a little better than severely impaired. The second a couple days later, you were a little better still. Now you're at the top end of lightly impaired, which is a pretty big jump. It's just a snapshot diagnostic, but it ..." Peter leaned back and looked upwards for a moment, "it helps me get some of my bias out of evaluating how you're doing, and more importantly, it helps me stay focused on what you need. Like, help and stuff. Instead of me ..." he shrugged, making a little head wiggle of ambivalence, "focusing on things that aren't helpful." _Like beating you up some more, for example._

XXX

_I never would have guessed you're biased. I've been saying that all along._

XXX

" _ **You**_ need to eat some more of your toast. You've got more than a piece left there." Peter leaned forward again, pointing at the incriminating evidence still on Sylar's plate. "Come on and help me out here," he tried to cajole. "A piece and a half of toasted bread is not a meal, Sylar. You need to _eat_."

XXX

"I _am_ eating!" Sylar immediately defended. "I know that. I can't eat when you're asking me questions and giving me stupid tests." There was no way he was taking all the blame for this. He'd been good – was being good still – and he'd assisted in making his own admittedly bad breakfast. Peter was glass half-emptying him while Sylar felt that a piece and a half was an accomplishment, even in baby steps. _They always demand change in more volume that you can accommodate. It's not reasonable._ It was little wonder he couldn't meet the necessary quotas.

XXX

Unimpressed by the excuses, Peter pushed. "Come on, man. At least finish your milk." He waited patiently, showing not the least inclination to get up, hurry, or go do anything else. He had nothing more important on his schedule for the day than making sure Sylar got enough food and liquids in him to avoid needing the IV again.

XXX

In a sassy tone, Sylar retorted, "Al- _right_." Peter didn't so much as blink for movement. Realization dawned at that. "You'd better not stare me through it, because that's not going to help get it done," he warned with surety. It was unnerving now the focus was on his eating capacity. Some of his earliest memories were being stared at while he tried to eat at the Gray's dinner table. Adjusting to what he now knew was his 'new family's' way of doing things had been a rough transition, amnesia included. He glared until he was sure his message took before hefting the glass.

XXX

In mild exasperation, Peter asked, "Then what do I have to do here? Tell me. Because I am _not_ looking forward to trying to rig a feeding tube."

XXX

Sylar stopped drinking to lick away whatever milk mustache he undoubtedly had, given that he already had a dark mustache of his own. "Are you threatening me?" He didn't know what a feeding tube was, but it sounded like medical equipment penetrated him somehow, somewhere and he didn't like the sound of that. It sounded completely uncalled for. Panic began and he started planning a quick exit strategy. _His whole body's hurt; I only have to watch out for my head._ "I thought you wanted to play nice."

XXX

"Playing nice only counts if you're alive," Peter snapped. When the threat didn't get the desired result, he switched gears to a different sort of threat. "I got some Zofran while I was out. It helps with nausea, but most of what I picked up was injective. On the plus side, it should help the queasiness right away. Do you want me to go get it?" Peter hooked his thumb in the direction of the wheelchair and the bags of medical supplies on it.

XXX

What annoyed him was that his first question was 'Do you think I need it?' After that came 'Why didn't you offer it before?' That was suspicious. _Of course it's injective. I can't trust that. Is that really a question if I want it or not?_ Sylar pointed a finger in Peter's face, "You do that and I'm leaving. If you want me to eat, shut the fuck up and go play with something. Take a nap if you're cranky, I don't care. Keep this up and I'll starve out of spite. Jesus, do you bully all your patients like this? I can see why you got sued."

XXX

Peter's lips pressed together in a thin line as his face fell, along with his gaze. Equal parts angry, stricken, and shamed (no, probably not equal – he felt angry more than anything else), he pushed himself up from the table silently and took the milk and cereal box back to their places in fridge and cabinet, returning just as quietly and impassively to take the bowl and spoon to the sink. As he came back by the table, he swiped the pen and pad of paper, taking them with him as he went to the bed and straightened the covers a little so he could lie on top of them. He stole the pillows from the side Sylar had slept on, making enough of a mound to prop him up a little. He helped himself into bed by scooting and tugging at his pant leg to help swing his left leg onto the mattress. At no time did he look at Sylar; the apartment could have been empty other than Peter.

XXX

_Finally_. Sylar breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't wanted to leave or fight. Now he could breathe without his every move being watched. He initially thought Peter wouldn't get annoying. Boy, was that a stupid idea; failure to think through the younger man's history _._ _I guess I'm just surprised he threatened me that way, medically; all that trust me, you have my word crap. Make up your mind._ Peter was miffed big time, he knew, but didn't care. He'd deal with it later, assuming he had to at all. Finally, his mind was able to blank and focus on his food, the little self-care he could manage on his own.

XXX

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he looked at the scribbles on the pad and tried not to think about what Sylar had said – any of it. _What the hell is a tour-billion and why isn't it complicated?_ He looked at where he'd written '24' and drew the face of a clock around it, putting tiny numbers from one to twenty-four on it like the military clock Nathan used to have in his office. _Wonder where that thing went? I haven't seen it in years._ By convenience and intention, the notepad he held in front of him was directly between him and Sylar, blocking line of sight.

Depending on how one looked at it, Peter was either sulking, coping, or copping out. Sylar had managed to hit enough buttons in that one outburst that Peter completely disengaged – there was the implication he was a kid (needing to play with something), he was unfriendly (cranky), that his pushy attempts to help had Sylar threatening to self-harm (not that Peter took that seriously, but it was still there), and of course the capper being a general slur to his ability to help people. If his leg and lower back hadn't hurt so bad, Peter would have left the apartment entirely. Instead, he lay on the bed and tried not to be depressed over how sometimes people didn't want his help, or to be saved, or for him to make a difference. They just didn't want _him_ and they had a right to that. He tried very hard to lose himself in drawing fire consuming the bottom of the page and think of nothing at all.

XXX

Sylar refused himself the right to miss Peter's proximity and attention. He worked on his bland breakfast, eventually downing another piece of cold toast (his total now two and a half). It went down a lot easier with milk and a book. There was definitely something to be said for reading during a meal. When he was alone, he hadn't ever really had a reason to stop reading to eat so it was something of a habit. _Butter. It has nutritional value. So does bread, carbs. Toast is so a meal. From the guy who thinks cheese and crackers is a meal._ Toast just wasn't very filling. Sylar attempted a few bites of the last half of toast but didn't get very far. That avenue exhausted, he turned to Peter who was dutifully doing something and resting (hopefully he'd gotten his threatening mood under control). "We should get more food if we're going to stay here," he addressed his companion. _That should make him happy. Exercise, adventure, following his idea._ He supposed they could move to another suite but aside from new scenery, that would be pointless.

XXX

Peter made no response to the statement other that to think nastily to himself, _For someone who doesn't like being alone, he sure doesn't do much to make people want to be around him._

XXX

Perhaps he was antsy. Sylar's attention lit on the clock Peter had provided – he hadn't gotten a chance to look at the antique properly. He walked there and picked it up for examination. Even at arm's length, he could hear it ticking warmly. It had a voice, even if it was 'out of tune'. It was a normal sized desk clock, reddish-brown wood with some lighter carved fan-like accents in the corners. The font was unique, the face was round and the hands were beautiful swirl patterns that looked vaguely leafy or maybe like flames. He smiled on getting to know it. "Beautiful," he commented aloud, stroking it with a thumb. He wondered where Peter had found it.


	59. Christmas Spirit

ay 15, morning, December 25

Peter looked up at the word Sylar had spoken. It sounded like he was complimenting the clock, or maybe in an indirect way complimenting Peter for bringing it here? Because that's what Peter wanted and he felt like a spoiled, ungrateful child for wanting it. He wanted thanks or a good word or some form of approval, and considering his only source here was Sylar, was … well, pretty fucked up. Getting Sylar's approval would be as screwed up as getting his father's. It was a no-win proposition because at least with his dad, there was no way to get appreciation for doing something on your own – only blind obedience was rewarded. _It's probably the same with Sylar. Th_ _e only thing he'd thank me for doing is sucking up to him._

Peter's eyes fell and went back to his notepad, a sad and sullen expression on his face. _I've been here alone too long. Or at least, alone other than him. I shouldn't care what he thinks. It shoul_ _dn't matter. He's a murderer and no telling what else. He isn't anyone I should care about! … But he's the only one here._

XXX

Since he'd only been partially trying to get Peter to engage, he wasn't shocked when he didn't get any response. Strangely the snow falling outside was making his high-up world seem dizzy so he took a small step back and sat on the bed. He felt something of Peter's against his back – it was nice, but he didn't do anything about it. Instead, he continued his inspection of the clock, itching to get at its insides.

XXX

For a very long moment, Peter allowed the touch. Easily long enough for Sylar to notice they'd bumped accidentally and course correct. _He's going to get in bed with me again._ He knew it, fatalistically certain that this was Sylar's version of making a play. _For a guy with a concussion, he sure seems able to stay focused on getting laid. But, well, if there's something to get fixated on, that one's pretty damn common._ With a tired huff, Peter gave Sylar a little shove with his knee and then scooted himself away a few inches. He stared sightlessly at the notepad, thinking that stabbing the guy with the pen if he touched him again was way too big an overreaction, regardless of how satisfying it would be. Also, Peter didn't think it would help.

_I was just trying to help you!_ _That's all._ Peter frowned, unhappy about the whining he was doing inside his head. _'You liked the clock?'_ he nearly asked, wanting desperately to fish for a compliment. He struggled again with his stupid desire for a kind word. Staring straight forward, Peter decided he had to say something or else he was going to blurt out something ridiculously transparent and embarrassing. Maybe if he asked about something else, it would get his mind out of the insecure rut it had fallen into. He focused on the page. "What's a tour-billion? And why was that the first sentence that came to mind?"

XXX

Sylar had both no knowledge of how much time had passed and the knowledge of every second that passed while he lost himself (almost) inside the clock. The shove came out of nowhere. He heard the noises of Peter moving around behind him, which didn't bode well. Sylar stood abruptly, shakily. All he could picture was Peter's fist swinging towards his head again. He only glanced behind him enough to see that the other man wasn't advancing. He felt confused and a little hurt; after all, he'd only been sitting, hands occupied with a clock, how threatening was that? _I…No_ _sitting? No sitting near him, specifically_ _._ Gingerly, keeping his peripheral on his companion, Sylar replaced the clock on the nightstand and took his time retrieving his book from the table. He wasn't deterred by Peter's behavior, one way or other he'd get a clear answer. If everything harmless was pissing Peter off, well…they might have a problem. _Obviously, that is the case. Every breath I take is an insult to him already._ Sylar returned to the bedroom, going to the same side he'd slept on the night before. _He'll move or not; I'm not making him do anything._ He was daring Peter to shove him again, or find fault in reading together in the same bed.

Laid flat, snug, his head propped on his folded forearm behind his head, as Peter had all the pillows, his book was set on his chest. The position (apart from the pillow shortage) would be perfect to fall asl- Not a moment after he'd settled, Peter spoke. _Huh_. Sylar turned to look upwards at him as Peter was sitting, back against the headboard. "A tourbillion is a rotating cage used in older style watches. It doesn't actually have any purpose, but they used to think it kept more accurate time for being a wristwatch – the motion," his hand made an 'iffy/wavy/unstable' gesture. "Now it's just an expensive show-piece, literally. I don't know why it came to mind. It was either that or 'Peter Petrelli is a male nurse.'" Sylar shrugged.

XXX

"I am not a _male_ nurse; I'm _a_ nurse," Peter said huffily, repeating a line that he had had cause to repeat many times. It remained annoying to him that no one doubted his masculinity when he was introduced as a paramedic, even though it took far more training to be a licensed nurse. But Sylar probably meant nothing by it and wasn't trying to rub his nose in how he'd chosen a less-than-virile profession. He set the notepad down and scrunched himself forward by way of apology for being snappish. "Here, take your pillow." In what was probably an attempt to assert conversational dominance and/or balance out surrendering the pillow, Peter added, "Oh, and if the day before yesterday was my birthday, then this is December twenty-fifth, not the twenty-fourth."

XXX

_You're a male nurse, Peter._ Sylar dismissed the fuss and the thought (Nathan would have made a dig). He was definitely going to have to take a nap now; he had a pillow. "Thanks," he took it and lifted his head to place it when Peter mentioned the date. Sylar paused mid-motion, neck muscles craned upwards as he stared at his bedmate. _So not only did I get it wrong…it_ _'_ _s al_ _so Christmas._ Some part of him immediately felt saddened. Peter was here, alone and hurt, with him. He obviously didn't want to be here. The rest of him was very glad Peter had appeared; it meant he got at least a small connection. "Then we definitely need better food," he announced simply, moving the pillow behind his head. He was mourning his lack of capability to cook which struck him as incredibly Martha Stewart and that was an unsettling thought all its own. Either he wanted to repay Peter or he wanted something to do or, worst of all, he actually cared about the damn holiday. _It's also a sucky Christmas. Too bad I'm not 'well' or it might literally be a sucky Christmas._

When nothing more was said, Sylar considered something he'd been wondering about since Peter appeared. "How do you sleep knowing I'm still alive?" Surely the short walk between bedrooms or apartments, the distance between them in bed or even when Peter slept in a chair must drive him insane. Sylar couldn't imagine letting a murderer live, not one who'd slain a loved one; but maybe that was the problem – the loved one part. Peter's hands weren't clean either; he'd killed Sylar and drugged him, too. Somewhere there was a difference between their morals. _Or maybe I'm not anyone's loved one_ _so it_ _'_ _s…okay?_ Unlike the nurse, Sylar didn't take death as personally anymore, not when there were worse things to actually fear. It might sound like a refrain of 'why haven't you killed me (yet)?' but he was asking it in regards to Peter this time. _Maybe_ _that has something to do with the nightmares._

XXX

Peter gave him a long, steady look. That was a heavy question and not one that had the same answer now than it would have had Sylar asked it a few days after Peter had arrived here, what with Peter's initial barricades on his door to alert him to what seemed like a highly probable assault. No assault had come – at least none that didn't involve Peter being fully awake and ambulatory. He let the notepad rest on his lap and spoke slowly, almost introspectively as if he thought he were disclosing something very private. "I … trust you. Not to do anything to me." He gave a small nod-tilt, half-shrug. "I'm trusting you to be a decent person about it. We both have to sleep."

XXX

Sylar raised an eyebrow at that. Peter was saying that outright instead of hinting at it or hoping for it or negotiating for it. _Decent person._ He knew that wasn't the same thing as _being_ a decent person; just acting like one. It was, however, an improvement, the capacity for being decent even if he was faking it. It felt good regardless.

XXX

Peter looked away for a moment, then made another half-shrug. "I know you've got your reasons to kill me. Maybe a lot of them." He glanced at Sylar uneasily, too aware that they were within reach of one another. A lot of violent things could happen fast at this range. His breathing shortened, blood pressure spiking. "But I'm hoping the ones not to outweigh them." His eyes made another cautious sweep of his companion, alert for the slightest untoward movement. Peter's right hand ached and he quit trying to semi-consciously clench it. Realizing how wound up he was getting, he took a deeper breath, trying to relax. "It's just the two of us here. You've been alone for a long time. I know I'm a pain in the ass, but … I just tell myself I'm worth more to you alive than dead." He swallowed tensely. "And I hope you not getting to fuck me doesn't have anything to do with that – with my lifespan here."

XXX

That was not the answer to the question he'd asked, 'how do you sleep knowing I'm alive and I killed Nathan?' Sylar then said as much, ignoring all the glances his way, instead focused in the general area of the kitchen, "That's not what I meant." _Yes, you are_ _a pain in the ass – in mine and Nathan's and /_ _D_ _ad's and Ma's._ _/ And people call me trouble? He's cute and a do-gooder so he gets a pass?_

Nastily, Sylar immediately weighed the pros and cons of his answer. _Will it increase my odds if I say yes?_ Yes to 'sex affects your lifespan'. _(That's threatening. That will work if he enjoys being raped. Which he won't – he'll hate you forever, assuming he lets you live)._ So the answer was no. Sylar sighed, admitting grudgingly, "Unfortunately, no. It won't affect your lifespan. Obviously." _I'm worried what my lifespan will be if…that doesn't…happen._ He was not in a good place, hadn't been for…a very long time, but events had compounded a lot of damage and he felt he was barely hanging on – sometimes he wasn't managing even that, stuck in a void or free-fall. Desperation described his nearly life-long quest for a connection. Peter hadn't volunteered, he'd just drawn the short-straw.

XXX

_That's not what you meant? What did you mean, then?_ But for the moment, Peter made a slow nod of concession and said, "Good to know. That ... wasn't obvious to me."

XXX

_Hang on._ "What do you mean, 'not getting to fuck you'?" Doubt slithered back in. Peter was obviously barring him from sex because of some non-physical reason, one of those emotional/social/moral things Sylar had so much difficulty with. One of those things he couldn't fix, despite his attempts. In his experience, the physical, the urge or desire to do harm (for revenge, punishment or amusement) always superseded anything else. The confusion came from Peter's insistence on good health and that one halting, unpersuasive answer which had sounded enough like an agreement.

XXX

Peter bristled, getting an annoyed expression on his face. _You don't 'get'_ _to fuck me like it's some sort of a prize for good behavior! But … wait, didn't I use that phrase first? Better not say that, then._ He made a frustrated sigh and ditched the option of ignoring Sylar's question and jumping back to the issue of finding out what Sylar had meant to start with. _His question first; mine later._

"I said there were two big reasons." He held up two fingers on his left hand. "One is that I just told you I'm concerned about you murdering me and you're wondering why that has anything to do with us hooking up. The other was that you probably don't remember what the two reasons were." He looked at Sylar intently, almost a glare. "You asked me earlier if the beard didn't do it for me. You want to know what really doesn't do it for me? Not caring about other people!"

XXX

_How many reasons do you have? How many excuses do you need?_ Sylar concluded he was being toyed with because he was quite sure Peter was changing his 'requirements' every time the subject came up. _You trust me but you're_ _worried I'm going to murder you – which is it?_ He frowned at the Peter's pissy appearance and felt anger roil a moment later. _I do so care! I asked you what you wanted!_ He took a deep breath to get over that one, waiting until he was sure he could speak. _I should just shove him down and give him what he wants. (A fuck or a beating? Both?)_ His comeback was glib. Peter was offering it up for discussion. "So the beard doesn't do it for you. Then what does do it for you?"

XXX

Peter made a frustrated growl, all the more frustrating because he felt safe enough with the guy to hang out and even let some of defenses down. But Sylar seemed to have a huge freaking blind spot when it came to basic empathy – not the special ability or some fringe benefit of an ability or even just being a good person – no, he seemed to have a problem with one of the basic features of being human. At least in this arena. _Which probably has a lot to do with explaining the murders. And molesting Mister Bear. Poor teddy bear._

"Okay, listen," Peter said, turning to look fully at Sylar. "Let's try a visualization exercise. You know how you keep making these passes at me? Let's imagine that instead of me, you were cooped up here with Matt Parkman, or anyone else who was, you know, your worst enemy. And _Matt_ keeps making passes at _you._ " Peter smiled lewdly for a moment. Sylar had expressed his disdain and disgust of Matt, so hopefully this would work. "Passes you don't want. He keeps telling you how he can change this nightmare into a wet dream if only you'll … you know." Peter gave Sylar a pointed look. "You tell him you're not interested, but that doesn't seem to matter much to him." He waited a beat, scanning Sylar's face, hoping he understood or at least tried to. "That's where I'm at here, Sylar. And the fact that you don't seem to _get_ that is what makes sex out of the question."

XXX

Sylar turned his head to the pillow to watch his companion lecture (it was that telling tone of voice, which would be cute if it wasn't so damn righteous and annoying); his book was closed, resting on his stomach. The disgusting part was, he had little difficulty picturing that scenario, not that Matt would ever, ever make a pass at him, but the whole 'worst enemy/someone who hates you/someone you hate' doing so, absolutely. Sylar's lips thinned and his eyes narrowed to mildly express his utter revulsion. It made his skin want to crawl away. He bluffed his way through the speech with his patented blank face. He 'got' it all right, more of a 'been there, done that' kind of thing, actually.

Sylar knew the kind of sex Nathan had, he could guess at the kinds the Petrelli parents had (though he didn't enjoy the thought, because gross, those were kind of like his parents); he could make a less accurate guess about Peter's love life, too. _I don't know what kind of sex he thinks I've had, then._ Peter's sex life was probably…"Wait, wait. Are you holding out because you want me to like you before we fuck? Ha!" Sylar barked a laugh. "That's so grade school. Since when do you need to like someone for sex?" _Seriously? When?_ "That has nothing to do with it – you're not my first choice and I'm not yours." _Duh!_ "Liking you or you liking me isn't going to happen; do I really need to explain that to you?" He lifted a hand, palm outwards, rolling his eyes, "Never mind. Forgot who I was talking to, Bleeding Heart Petrelli."

XXX

Peter stared at Sylar, dumbfounded by those statements. He had opened his mouth to say something in the middle of it, but when Sylar laughed, Peter shut up and kept listening, face caught between confused and disbelieving. The individual words Sylar was saying made sense, but strung together, it was like Sylar was spouting gibberish. The certainty with which he was speaking was … well, stunning. Peter had no idea what to say in response, but his mind was slowly wrapping itself around the idea that Sylar was so damaged that perhaps he didn't see any value or use to people having positive feelings for one another. It certainly explained the murders.

XXX

Sylar faced forward again, beginning to pick up his book before aborting the motion, turning back, "Seeing as how you're the only one here and you're you, that does make you my worst enemy." Even though Peter wasn't really in the top five of that list. "If Parkman tried to make moves on me, I'd make him paaa-…" _pay_ …Just too late he stopped himself, when most of the word 'pay' left his lips, the drawn-out intonation leaving little doubt as to what he'd said. As soon as he did, he knew he'd screwed himself over and his face showed it. He closed his eyes as defeat, sadness, and mostly self-directed anger passed through him. _I get it. So that's what he's doing. Clever. Unoriginal, but clever that he figured that out so soon. I know he did because he didn't list Nat_ _han as a reason not to fuck._ It was punishment, no matter what Peter tried to call it. Sylar felt like he'd been tricked into making an admission (really, he was just stating something he wished didn't exist but that something was also perfectly obvious). It implied Peter was more in control of Sylar's life than he was comfortable with. He looked away quickly, cracking open his book, hoping they both forgot his slip.

XXX

Peter tilted his head slightly. "I'm not turning you down _as payback_ for killing Nathan. I'm turning you down _because_ you kill people." _Nathan included_. "And because I'm not about to be with someone who doesn't like me. If you can't understand something that basic, then … it's not going to work out." Sylar was getting up. Peter fell silent for the moment, going quiet and watchful as his tension spiked up again and he worried that pissing off a brutal killer wasn't a good life-choice. Not that such had ever stopped Peter in the past – standing up to bullies, lipping off to his father, rejecting Nathan's idiotic plan – yeah, telling off people who were in a position of power over him was something of a bad habit. Calling him a bleeding heart had certainly brought several of those people to mind and the fear/tension from Sylar's sudden activity shifted Peter's demeanor to aggressive.

"Hey, I still have a functioning hand, here," he quipped as Sylar rounded the bed, feeling a perverse need to irritate the dangerous man as much as possible. He waved said appendage at Sylar to gloat. "It's not like I don't have options!" _Shit, what if he breaks my other hand? Well, I suppose I could always rub myself against things._

XXX

He stopped short. Slowly, he turned around to give Peter the look of death – it was very much a warning. It slid into something more manic. _If I cut some things off, you'll still be useful to me, Petrelli. Don't mess with me alone here._ His second idea was to gather up every bottle and tube of lubricant so Peter wouldn't have any. If he were able, he'd be over at Peter's apartment doing just that. The little shit was going out of his way to be a regressive, vindictive, rude asshole. Sylar had to wrestle with and temper his reactions; Peter threw out a challenge and it took the last shreds of his already frayed control not to take a butcher knife to Peter. The plan was clear, his emotions...less so.

_He doesn't know anything, does he_ _?_ _You don't know what I understand!_ Part of him still recognized Peter as his brother. The whole subject of 'liking,' it was a joke; it had to be. It could only work one way; everything else was a disaster in the making. His intelligence was assumed, generalized, and degraded. He was a monster so those things were beyond him. Peter was the one being stupid, not grasping the obvious, necessary concept that had always eluded him. The empath came from vastly different standings than anyone else and he used his higher morals to avoid learning that lesson, despite having his face repeatedly shoved in it by father and brother. _He thinks he's better than me, the little prick._

Taking a passage from Nathan's book once more, Sylar took his book and left the apartment without another word, leaving Peter by himself. He knew how much that move could sting. He wanted Peter to worry and wonder where he was, what he was doing; and in his experience, the whole no-response part often served to rattle others even though it seemed like he was calmly taking whatever shit they were trying to dump on him. That was another lesson he'd learned, another bone he'd had to let go of, 'let them think what they want.'

Sylar fumed as he limped down the hallway. He didn't intend to come back. Instead he would find his own holiday feast and perhaps drown his woes. He would piss Peter off by at least trying to enjoy himself. Hopefully it freaked Peter out. His patient was not going to heel. Sylar went down a few floors via the elevator, heaving a deep breath before entering the first apartment he saw. The apartment was still big, being part of the more expensive upper-level floors that supposedly had a view (this one didn't, since it was in the middle of the building). It was a white-and-dull-blue color scheme, complete with amenities but Sylar was focused on the kitchen. The former owner must have been a complete hippy because nothing in the fridge was edible. He moved on to the next apartment; this one had a window and had a yellow-and-green theme. Most of its food was frozen, fried or canned. His head was worse, his body ached, his hip started to throb where he'd been kicked; walking and bending was taking more out of him than it should have.

A third apartment was purple and orange – the female owner had foolishly taken the liberty of adding pink to the décor and it was overkill. But this woman liked real food. At least she had proteins and some carbs as a general order. He wouldn't go without nutrition. Stealing some pre-cut pepperoni slices, he snagged a beer, an apple and M&Ms. As an afterthought; he got a glass of water so he didn't dehydrate because that would interfere with Operation Piss-Off-Petrelli. He settled into the cushy dark leather chair with his finds and his book. Admittedly, his head hurt much worse without Peter, the drugs or the IV. He longed for a television set that worked. Christmas Day, camped out, not exactly hiding; alone again; he tried to avoid thinking about Peter and how they weren't having sex.

The reason why was absurd. _So as soon as I become a non-murderer and kiss his ass, I can get laid. Why do I doubt_ _it's_ _that simple?_ The part about not liking Peter was something of a lie, again, the whole brother thing. That didn't change Peter's past abuses but of course, Peter was going to ignore his own blame. Sylar didn't appreciate being the one to carry the cross alone; he was always the one who had to change. And worse still, he couldn't understand how or why Peter got to make conditions about being liked where Sylar couldn't. _If I had the power to say that, I would. I...don't think anyone would listen. And I'd still be alone because no one would like me._ Selling himself short never got easier, but it was a choice of something versus nothing. Sylar took a vicious bite of apple to make himself feel better.

XXX

Peter waited as time passed after Sylar left, weighing his concern about the menacing look Sylar had given him against his continuing desire to antagonize the guy. They were both stupid and the wisest thing either of them had done was Sylar simply leaving. He looked at the notepad and sighed. _He'll probably be fine, whatever it is he's doing_. He started filling in the edges on the left side of the flames drawn on the paper. _He's probably out looking for food,_ _or just cooling off. It's not like we were really communicating anyway. I wonder if Sylar's ever really communicated with anyone? Really? No siblings, right? Didn't he say it was just him? I think he did. And his mom. Not many friends from what he said. Fr_ _om that dream I had, working in a watch shop looked slow and lonely. Nothing like working with a partner all day and a dozen different patients and their families. Or having a brother and a dad,_ _even if I didn't like him, we talked. Sort of. He talked_ at _me, at least and I talked back. Never had a good conversation with him, but even so I had_ something. _What if Sylar's problem is he hasn't had that and his only way of dealing with disagreement is …_ Peter looked over at the door _… walking out?_

_Anything_ _I should do about that? Rehabilitating Sylar is not my job._ His thoughts held up there for a moment, considering that. _But … on the other hand, things would work a lot better here if we worked together better. Or could at least tolerate each other's compan_ _y. Okay … so how do I make him worthwhile to be around?_ At that, Peter was stumped. _I can't really_ make _him do anything. I'm not a psychologist or whatever, a therapist. I can talk to him … I_ was _talking to him. It didn't work out. But maybe that's what it_ _takes? Patience and letting it not work out while he figures out this isn't something he can run from or a problem he can solve by killing someone? Of course, he might be out there looking for a way to solve it by killing me._ Peter mulled that over, thinking about Sylar's body language as he'd left and when he'd become angry at the table this morning. _Nah, he's not going to kill me. No more likely than any other time, that is._

Eventually, Peter gave up doodling and thinking about Sylar. It didn't occur to him to try to chase Sylar down or look for him. Instead, he got up, stretched, and searched the apartment from one end to the other, being neater about it than he had when they'd searched places before. He assumed he was going to sleep here tonight, because his hip hurt badly enough that the prospect of sharing an apartment with Sylar for another night was better than braving the ice between apartment buildings. He felt safe enough here, although as the morning disappeared and afternoon wore on, he started to wonder if he'd have the place to himself after all.

He'd found a cheese slicer in his thorough search, putting it to good use on what was left of the cheese and bread. He wasn't very happy with how soggy the bread was in the middle after microwaving to melt the cheese. Peter spent long minutes considering the oven before putting the next slices in the microwave. Sogginess be damned – he didn't want to set off the fire alarm or whatever bad consequence might happen if he tried to do cheese toast in the oven. He wasn't feeling adventurous at the moment. His biggest adventure of the day was leaving the apartment to search all the other top floor places. He wasn't looking for Sylar or for food, but for a hot tub or some other amenity that might make his back and groin/thigh muscles quit hurting. He didn't find any, which set off a spate of mental cursing about the nature of the world. He returned and took another long, hot bath. At least water heaters worked.

By dinnertime, he was depressed, cranky, and restless. After eating an ice cream sandwich and snagging the rest of the champagne, he made his way to the ground floor where he worked out a tiny amount (arm reps, mostly), played a couple sets of billiards (very badly, but so what?), and played some music (which made him smile, although by that point he was also quite tipsy). Grinning happily to himself for the first time in ages it seemed, he rode the elevator back up when his internal clock judged it be to 'bedtime', humming the 'Ode to Joy' which he'd found mixed in with the hymns in the sheet music in the piano seat. He wasn't sloshed, but he was drunk enough to have relaxed, which had more to do with overcoming the pain than any dulling quality of the alcohol. He rapped twice at the apartment door, not expecting it to be locked and not waiting more than a second or two between knocking and trying the knob.

No one was there. Not just 'no one answered', but 'no one was in the apartment'. Peter stood in the middle of the living room after searching the place, smile gone. A lack of Sylar was worrying. For the first time today, he began to seriously consider what sort of trouble Sylar might get himself into. He put the rest of the champagne in the fridge and got a tall glass of water as he tried to clear his head. A bread sandwich followed.

_He's not so messed up that he can't take care of himself for hours or even maybe days. He might be fine. Or he might not be. He was unconscious yesterday, which isn't a good sign. What's the most likely place he would go,_ _if he wasn't here? His apartment. Shit. What if he fell? That stuff is really slick under the ice and he might be impaired enough to try it. What if he hit his head? He might die. Totally healthy people die from that shit every now and then; people who alr_ _eady have a head injury are way worse off._

He picked up what was left of his bread, retrieved the heavy coat he'd used on the previous day's expedition, and put it on in the elevator. He stood outside of the front doors, feet just touching the snow. You didn't have to be an Eagle Scout to see that there weren't any tracks. Peter's from the day before had been filled in overnight, but it hadn't snowed much today. Peter had had plenty of time alone in the penthouse apartment today to stare out the window. There'd been a few flurries in the morning, but nothing after Sylar left. _There's probably a back door, too._ A few moments later, he looked in the stairwells just to be sure, but no sign of Sylar anywhere. It relaxed him. _He's probably just holed up in anot_ _her apartment. He can sleep whole days away without a problem. Hopefully that's what he's been doing. I still want to check in on him, though._

He took the elevator up, one floor at a time, looking down hallways. No open doors, no sign of Sylar. He tried yelling down one. Besides being undignified, it made his jaw ache. _I don't want to limp down every hallway and check every single apartment in the building. My leg's already killing me. What else worked to call him out? Beating on the street with that metal_ _pipe. Could I do that here? What would I use? A cue stick? No, not solid enough. What else is around here that makes a lot of noise? A whistle? No, let's stick with something I can beat out a steady pattern with. What about that kid's baseball bat? Didn't_ _I kick that under the bed? It'll be rough getting on my knees for it, but I'll bet I could make a racket with it._

A half hour later, he was most of the way through visiting each floor, beating the closed doors of the elevator with the baseball bat. He wasn't whaling on them or swinging all that hard. His first choice of hitting the floor was too muffled by the carpet, but if he hit the metal doors right in the join in the middle, they reverberated really nicely – a noise that carried without sounding like he was trying to bash anything down.

XXX

Sylar spent the rest of the day, reading, sipping and dozing in and out of consciousness. It was quiet and he didn't know if that was a good thing or not. He mostly worked over his dilemma. He could 'like' Peter and open himself up to humiliation and rejection; he could play the man's game. Or he could stick to his guns and give Peter a life-lesson on how the world worked for non-Petrellis; he could make Peter play his game (and in doing so, probably not get laid). But goddamnit, that last sass about masturbating really got to him because there was nothing he could (productively) do about it. _Jealous of the guy's right hand? Why should I care what he does with his dick? It's not like I'm interested in it for its ow_ _n sake._ It was evening when he was jarred out of his fugue by a low, echoing, metallic sound, rhythmic in nature. _What the hell? Did he find a drum set or something? (I thought he preferred beating my face in for stress relief?)_ The sound grew closer and it was coming from the direction of the elevator. He was curious enough about the source of the noise that he slowly rose and stuck his head out, hanging onto the doorjamb to check the hall.

XXX

Seeing movement, Peter stopped immediately and leaned the bat against the wall before turning back. Hands up in front of his chest for a few seconds, palms out in an indication of harmlessness, he limped down the hall towards his only other companion. "Hey. Sorry for disturbing you, but I needed to check on you before I turned in. How do you feel?"

XXX

_Shit._ He'd been found, lured right out by the simplest trick in the book. Discovery interfered with his childish solution of revenging himself on Peter for that masturbation comment, even though he wanted to be around the man and was happy someone had looked for him. There Peter stood, looking a little too mafia for his comfort. Sylar braced himself, ready to disappear into the room again and slam the door in Peter's face and look for escape or weapon while the man battered the door down. But Peter set the bat aside and made to approach. _Disturbing me? You almost…With a bat? You're not sorry!_ "Do you answer all your house calls with a bat?" he groused, pissy at being disturbed and startled with a show of force via blunt instrument. "I'm alright." _The room service here sucks_ , he thought by way of being lonely.

XXX

Peter gave a tilt of his head and mild shrug, dropping his hands and coming closer. He gave Sylar a quick once-over to double-check his words, seeing nothing amiss.

XXX

_He came back to check on me? Or did he come back for me? Do I want to go with him? Does he want me to? Hang on…_ Sylar draped himself alluringly in the doorway, purring in a deep voice, "Is that really what you came to check on? My… health?" God, he flushed warm at the very idea – Peter showing up, worried, possibly interested, at his door. He raked a glance over his companion. He was tired, hurt (because beer just wasn't cutting it as a headache painkiller), and overly-desirous of human contact.

XXX

"Well, uh … yeah." Peter stopped there, eyes doing another circuit of Sylar's body language. His brain only now put together what this could look like to Sylar – hunting him down at bedtime for some vague, possibly spurious reason. _Er … what do I do about this?_ He stood there uncertain and more than a little put-off that Sylar could construe the most innocent of motives as lewd.

XXX

"Is this the part where I invite you up for a nightcap? I've got beer." Peter began to respond and it looked like rejection. Frustrated, lonely, angry, Sylar slid out of the doorway. He moved quickly until he stood utterly in Peter's space, toe-to-toe, which slotted their groins perfectly, he laid hold on the man's shoulder before he could escape. "Where's your Christmas spirit, Petrelli?" he rasped manipulatively, desperately, positioning his face nearer to Peter's, flying high on the thrill of closeness and (from what he detected) sensuality between them that was probably the result of the beer. It probably dulled his survival instincts because this was a good way to get hit again. He ceased his advance there, trying to gaze through and into Peter. It was completely cliché, the apartment building suddenly took on a familiar hotel-hall feel, the sleepover, post-date aspect was huge.

XXX

Peter stiffened, straightened, and wished like hell he was taller than Sylar. In an interesting development, his right hand did not hurt; he wasn't trying to clench it. Nothing triggered inside of him to fight or flee, so he stood his ground exactly where he was and met Sylar's gaze steadily, lifting his chin enough to make their faces parallel. It would be very easy to kiss. Sylar's thumb rubbed tantalizingly across his shoulder while Peter tried to ignore how deep the guy's eyes were – really tough to do while staring him down and feeling his breath puff lightly against his face. "I've been taking you at your word, Sylar. Now take me at mine: _**no**_."


	60. Not So Private Time

Day 15, December, Evening

Immediately, Sylar was both impressed, proud, and disappointed when Peter held his own. He was close enough to smell the booze on Peter's breath. _Perfect, we're both buzzed._ His body was aching for something; he just couldn't name it. Or he didn't want to. Hence nearly standing in Peter's shoes. The man's head pulled back to gain height and at first glance it looked like he was going to… _kiss_. Sylar nearly took that as an offer then and there, hesitating to be sure, but he didn't break eye contact since that seemed to be what Peter was demanding and he wasn't going to back down from a staring contest. He was so close; his hand literally on a man who wasn't moving away, fighting, or emoting disgust. This was a test of his self-control and of Peter's resolve. But, Christ, if temptation wasn't screaming at him right now. Mind in overdrive to rationalize a way around a direct negative, he appealed with a lilt that was a hinting question, "So…no on the nightcap."

XXX

_He's going to take no for an answer_. Peter was sure of it now and that eased a tension inside of him. He relaxed a little, happier, breathing deepening. "No."

XXX

Sylar didn't move away. _(He said no). I heard him. I heard him and I want to ignore him. (But he said he trusts me! You know this isn't going to work). But it will feel good…He wants it or he'd move away!_ His jaw clenched. He glanced at Peter's mouth then away with some shame. Entertaining fantasies was only going to hurt in him in the long run. He didn't want to _kiss Peter_ after all; that would be weird; he just wanted…This wasn't going to be an arrangement that allowed kissing anyway. There was no attraction and his due was retribution, not reward. His hand slid from the man's shoulder to the wall, which he used to push off from, putting a few inches between them, loath to give any more space; his pride prevented it. Backing off just wasn't his thing, not when his prey stood still and looked him in the eye, so assured and defiant. That challenge alone ate away at him but he had to leave it…untouched.

XXX

Sylar was still standing there, breathing on him, looking at him, looking at his _lips_ for Christ's sake, respecting his wishes, and looking so damned desirous of him that Peter felt a flash of goose-bumps and a warming across his face that he knew was a blush. He was feeling other things, too, as an awareness of an increased weightiness at his groin impinged on him. _Fuck. I'm wearing sweats! They don't conceal shit. Don't look down. Don't look down, Sylar. Don't look down._ Peter moved away all of a single step, blinking a few times and glancing past Sylar at the open door to the apartment, trying to mentally will Sylar to go away without any last 'scoping out' that might reveal Peter was tenting his pants like an oversexed teenager. It was just biology, Peter knew, but it was also awkward as hell and he didn't look forward to trying to convince Sylar that a boner did not mean he wanted him.

XXX

Sylar consoled himself as he turned and entered his temporary apartment, _I have new information._

Peter didn't follow him in as Sylar went to the couch to gather his book and pepperoni. He took a pair of beers in case Peter changed his mind. The nurse was gone, unsurprisingly. Turning the reason for the disappearance over in his mind, he hobbled close to the wall down the empty hallway to the elevator, which was returning to his floor. He took Peter's search and discovery as some kind of invitation and didn't give it another thought. Moving so much and standing felt good after lying down most of the day (especially to relieve any aroused jitters) and it felt homicidal to his headache. Opening the door was a slight hassle – food, beer cans, and book – but he made it, no thanks to Peter. _He couldn't leave the door op-_ And then he saw why.

XXX

Relieved beyond measure when Sylar went back into his apartment without incident or southward glances, Peter strode off down the hallway. _Good. Fine. That takes care of that. He's okay. I'm okay. He'll sleep down here. I'll sleep up there._ It was settled. The elevator doors shut behind Peter and he slumped against the wall, leaning the bat in the corner so he could rub at the unwanted half-staff erection that wasn't nearly so obvious as Peter had feared. But as to what had caused it … _oh yeah_ … Sylar wanting him had tripped over from 'scary' to 'sexy' in a heartbeat when Peter figured out the guy wasn't going to push it. And how long had it been since Peter had jerked off, anyway? Assuming nocturnal emissions didn't count, he hadn't since he'd gotten inside of Sylar's head, which even if subjective, it still felt like more than two weeks. And he hadn't since Thanksgiving, or rather, the day before at the very least. He couldn't remember the last time before that, as the days and weeks had run together with a blur of extra shifts at work, swapping powers, running around with Noah, staying up at night with the police scanner for company, and running out at odd hours to investigate any close-by reports. For an otherwise healthy adult male, that was a long freaking time. He had a metric shit-ton of unreleased, repressed sexual urges and somehow Sylar, someone he didn't think he'd fuck in a million years, had tapped into that.

Well, there was one sure solution to _that_. He walked into the apartment, dropped the bat over the arms of the wheelchair near the door, and headed for the bathroom. _If part of the problem is how long it's been, I can fix that._ He snagged a washcloth from the bathroom and walked back into the living area, loosening the drawstring enough to push his pants down some. He freed his now fully-erect cock, stroking it left-handedly as he stood there, mind divided between the image of Sylar's lusting eyes boring into his own, handsome face inches away, and the need to get some lotion – he'd seen some around here somewhere when he'd searched the place, but at the moment he couldn't quite focus enough to- The door opened. _Oh fuck._

XXX

Sylar freaked so hard he stood motionless, his eyes feeling like they were about to pop from his skull he was doing 'deer in the headlights' so well. _That was his dick. What- He was-? Oh my God…_ When the bathroom door slammed after Peter fled the room, Sylar gracelessly shoved his things onto the table and collapsed in a chair. _Oh my God…Breathe. That's not…um…Wow._

Accidental (or even purposeful) nudity was against the Gray Household Commandments. Not so for nudist Peter Petrelli. He felt dirty just by being in the same room as… _that_. Sylar rubbed his forehead against the table, lifting it and dropping it lightly several times against the cold surface, pawing at his hair when he thought, _I am so fucked up._ Why did he get the feeling he'd caught a relative in a compromising position? _He's…He's never gonna come out of there, he'll flush himself down the drain or barricade himself in the sink._ Part of him desperately wanted to unlive that moment, a smaller part was curious and it wasn't getting much air time.

XXX

Safely hidden in the bathroom, Peter tied off his sweatpants. In the face of fear and shame, his erection was fading fast. Shakily, he reached over and locked the door as quietly as possible, then put the toilet lid down and sat on top of it. _Oh my fucking God, he saw that. HE SAW THAT! I am_ _ **never**_ _going to live that down. 'Oh, yeah, Petrelli, you're not interested in me, huh? Then what were you doing right after all I did was stand too close to you, hm?'_ Peter could hear it now. _Why the fuck didn't he knock?! What the hell, Sylar? Rude much? I know this is all your head and you think you're king of everything, but what the fucking hell? Knock next time, Goddamnit!_

_Did I say something that indicated I wanted him back up here? Did I invite him? No! I didn't say shit. He left for his own fucking apartment. And I said … well, I don't think I said anything. I just went down to see if he was alive and okay, but … I said no to a nightcap. That doesn't mean he's got a free pass to come back up here and barge in while I'm … Jesus fucking Christ!_ Angrily, Peter threw the washcloth in the dirty clothes hamper.

XXX

_He's fucked up. He's so fucked up. Why would he do that? Just go waltzing around with his…Why would he do that to me? Why can't he do things in private like a normal person?! Goddamnit! What am I supposed to do now? There is no right response for this, none. (Why was he erect?) Maybe he just does that at night…Unlikely…He hasn't done that before that I know of. (It couldn't have been…OhmyGod….)_ He wanted out. He wanted to curl up into a ball and stay there. Suddenly the whole 'seduce Peter' thing was very serious. The guy had been about to jerk off on something he'd done. On purpose.

_(You really should have thought that through, Mr. Confidence). I did! I just didn't think he'd respond at all and so…quickly. I thought…I'd have more time. (Congratulations, it worked. Get pretty because it's only a matter of time_ _._ _) Shut up, let me think…Is he gonna blame me? I didn't do that on purpose, how could I know? Its not like there's a blinking light above his door when he's…(I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to! It was an accident!) Man up! It's_ _just a little dick. (It wasn't_ that _little…)_ Sylar made a muffled moan of distress into the table. He seriously considered leaving, shutting the door loudly on his way out to give the guy some (apparently much needed) privacy. But that was cowardly and it undermined his words of 'interest'; he was so stuck. What he could do was make plenty of noise – ( _Should I make sounds like I'm…?_ He couldn't work himself up to it) – in the kitchen. He closed cupboards noisily, opened and shut the fridge (to place the beers and pepperoni inside – there was no way he was snacking now). Noticing the bat, given their recent….encounter, Sylar hid the weapon behind the couch for his own safety. When he sat at the table again, he tried to turn pages loudly.

XXX

A succession of noises outside told Peter two things – Sylar was still there ( _dammit_ ) and Sylar was noisily announcing that he was otherwise occupied and wasn't going to confront Peter. Because honestly, the worst thing Sylar could have done out there was stay dead silent, making Peter wonder what he'd have to deal with if he came out. If he could have stayed in the bathroom until Sylar left, he gladly would have, but that might take all night. Instead, he took the opportunity to slip out of the bathroom and into the guest room, which conveniently didn't require him to go out where he was guaranteed to be seen. He didn't look to see if Sylar happened to catch sight of him anyway, as he would if he were standing where he could see down the hall. Peter kept his head ducked and shut the guest room door behind him. A sigh of relief. He took off shoes and socks, then climbed in bed. He huddled alone, cold, bothered, and hyper alert until the stresses of the day combined with the warming of the blankets to send him into sleep.

XXX

Sylar didn't know what else to do other than go to bed. He didn't know whether to expect Peter or not, for all he knew they guy was sleeping in the tub tonight. The bathroom door opened but from the sounds of things, Peter went to the guest bed and stayed there. Sylar had stopped reading and had since been zoning out while he waited for Peter to fall asleep. Maybe he was working himself up to fulfill his crazy need to sleep near Peter or maybe he was planning his elaborate suicide, death-by-hero. There was no sound or sight of the younger man – Sylar wondered if he was waiting for him in turn. Forty-five minutes of agonized internalization later, he removed his shoes, snagged a pillow (Peter was a pillow-hog), and padded into the guest room. The only light came from the kitchen and hall, which he stood in, but Peter didn't move. Placing his book on the nightstand, he lifted the covers slowly and lowered himself into the same bed, facing Peter. With the door somewhat cracked open, he could see fluffy, dark eyelashes peaceful against the man's cheek, that crooked mouth slack and drooling in sleep, making him look even younger and in need of protection. It killed any wayward perversions he might have had with a tired, ugly churn in his gut. Sylar tensed when Peter shifted away to make room for him and failed to wake as he replaced the covers around them both. Eventually he relaxed to the sound of the other's breathing.

XXX

Peter's left leg hurt. _Ow._ He didn't fully wake, though. He shifted, stretching his leg, rolling forward on his right side until he was touching someone, his leg over someone else's. Fingers snagged on cloth and he tried to toy with it. It seemed hard to do for some reason, like his fingers weren't cooperating. _Oh … dream. Yeah, dream._ He let himself fade back into stupor, ignoring the other incongruous datum about having his leg on somebody. But his subconscious didn't ignore that, industriously spinning a fantasy where he was fucking someone … or trying to … or going to. He wasn't real sure what he was doing or going to do because the dream was still coalescing in his mind with different phantasmal images trying to match themselves to the sensations he was getting. Groggily, he thought about reaching down with his hand, but that seemed like too much effort. He was getting plenty of contact already anyway.

XXX

Something was pressing on him as Sylar slept. Initially it didn't register as a non-dream contact but it grew closer, more insistent, more rhythmic. Sylar woke with his hands extended against Peter's stomach and chest, pushing him away. The guy's face was close to his and he started out of sleep and into wakefulness at the sight, much to the complaint of his skull. "Whummm…?" he protested, stunned into silence when he realized what had been poking and rubbing him. Once again it was Peter's dick, hard and heat-seeking like a missile. Sleepily, he declined, "Nno." _No. Nope. No thanks. I gave at the office._ Sylar pushed, hoping Peter would take the hint, awake or otherwise. When neither happened, Sylar retreated….and clacked his head against the bedside table. "Ow! Oww…" he whined, rubbing his already traumatized head. The whole event was entirely unexpected. Sleeping with someone was strange and clearly perilous. _I just want to sleep; can't it wait? I'll…figure something out…Later._ He stood up because he wasn't getting any more sleep in a warm, erection-filled, occupied bed. Rubbing his face, he didn't look at Peter, who was awake after all that, instead he shuffled out to the couch where he couldn't be joined or prodded further. He curled up there, headache also aware enough to give him grief, attempting sleep again, alone this time, but he was jumpy and worried now.

XXX

Peter stared. He blinked. It was dark, but not _that_ dark that he didn't know what had just happened or who that really was. Besides, the world wasn't exactly overflowing with candidates to be in bed with him. _What the fuck is he doing here? A nightmare? Am I having a nightmare? Am I just thinking I'm awake and I'm not?_ His fingers hooked into the sheets as Sylar stood up and casually moseyed his way out of the bedroom like he hadn't just been in bed with Peter. Like he hadn't very obviously _put_ himself in bed with Peter. Peter was left speechless by the violation. _I shut the door, right? I thought I shut the door! What the hell is he doing in here? I was … I was … with him … what was I doing? I was dreaming of sex. What did I do? How far … did I …_ He did a quick check of himself, but aside from what he suspected was a bit of precome, he was pretty sure he hadn't finished the job. _What the hell is he doing in bed with me?!_

Anger suffused through him, shaking away the last dregs of drowsiness. Peter wanted to fight, now. _I'm not safe. That asshole thinks he can barge into my room and get in bed with me and … and … I've told him I don't mind my own business! I'm not a platonic bed partner. What the fuck was he thinking? Asshole!_ He walked out into the hall, moving slowly out of caution, as he didn't know where Sylar had gone. He stared at the rumpled master bed in the dawn light, but it was empty. _There!_ Sylar was on the couch, curled awkwardly in the corner, flashing Peter's mind back to the frightened huddle Sylar had adopted on his own couch shortly after Peter had forced his way into the guy's apartment to take care of him. It took a lot of the heat out of his temper. _What if … he was asleep, too, and … and he's not in the mood and … his concussion … and he has that hang-up about sleep sounds or whatever and he didn't come in there to trick me into fucking him?_

More of the anger faded. Peter pulled in a deep breath and let it out. He walked to the master bed, grabbing the last pillow on it and pulling off the top blanket. Wadding it up a bit, he walked over to Sylar, whose face looked particularly wan and pale given the lighting and his ever-darkening beard. Peter offered the pillow and blanket. He felt like he should apologize for molesting the guy, but he also felt like Sylar should apologize for … whatever you called what he'd done. Because Peter felt sort of violated by that, like he'd woke up to find Sylar had made Peter rub his dick on him. But it was complicated and he was still confused. Voice tight, "We're going to talk about this in the morning," was all he trusted himself to say.

XXX

Sylar's eyes opened when he felt the other's presence. He tensed, ready for hell to break loose, but didn't move other than to track Peter's approach with his lidded eyes. The relief was palpable when he saw the man held bedding, accepting it carefully when it was offered. "Okay, thanks, Mom," he said without malice. He put the pillow in place and relaxed under the blanket as Peter left. _Wonder why he did that…_ It was a possibility that Peter was chasing him, maybe to finish off or accuse him but instead he was made comfortable and was going to get a postponed lecture. _Don't think it's necessary but whatever,_ he thought as he snuggled in.

XXX

Peter went back to the guest room, locking the door this time. _Didn't I tell him something about shutting a door? Didn't we have this argument just a day or two ago? But his head is fucked up. Did he remember it? Maybe, maybe not. Does he sleepwalk? I don't know. Was I having a nightmare earlier and don't remember it and he came in like he did before and that's how he got in here?_ He climbed back in bed, letting worried questions prowl around in his head for the next hour or so. There was no way he was going back to sleep.

Eventually, he got up quietly, put on his socks and shoes, and left the apartment with as little disturbance as possible.

Peter scouted through other apartments until he found a box of pancake mix. He shaved and showered while he was out. They were both quick affairs. The shower got his brace wet because he'd still been so unsettled as to have forgotten about his need to wrap it. He remembered once he was wet; it was too late. He found a toothbrush to label as his own and used it. Feeling more presentable (if he was going to have a throw-down with Sylar about boundaries, he wanted to feel like a human being for it), he gathered up the pancake mix and a bottle of maple syrup, returning to their joint apartment. He knocked and made a point to wait until he heard some form of welcome from within.

XXX

_Day 16, December 26_

Sylar started. He was warm but the couch wasn't ideal for sleeping. "Hu- huh?" he croaked at first, then solidified his voice louder. _What's going on? Why the fuck is he knocking? He knows what I'm doing._ Opening his eyes the bare minimum, he saw Peter coming into the apartment, carrying things. He scowled and pulled the blanket over his head, signaling his unreadiness.

XXX

Peter put his things down in the kitchen, then leaned on the counter while he took his brace off. He was slow and careful, but still hissed a little on the final removal. It was swollen – that was unavoidable – but it wasn't discolored, which was the main thing he was checking for. Well, it was dirty. He retrieved a clean dishtowel to scrub at the faint lines of soiling that marked his skin around the edges of the brace. He'd had it on continuously for most of a week now. Setting the wet brace aside, he wiggled the fingers he felt were safe to wiggle and then went about one-handedly preparing to cook, assembling ingredients and equipment to make sure he had everything before he got started.

XXX

"Ooh…" A few moments later Sylar complained at the noise and the hovering presence that prevented rest of any kind. Since Peter wasn't pestering him, he peeled the blanket back, breaking an arm out to cool off a little, too. He watched Peter as he moved about the kitchen, thinking about last night and the possible threat of the impending discussion. He absorbed himself in observing the other man's motions, being pleasantly lazy. _So…I saw his dick, didn't see it real well, though…I think he got hard after…the hallway._ While his memory may have been selective with the concussion, he remembered that quite clearly. _He's not freaking out. Yet; but_ _it's_ _hard to tell if I'm in trouble._

Shifting to sit up, he felt how dirty his clothes were. He couldn't remember, and didn't want to, how long it had been since he'd changed. If he started to smell…As much as he liked to wear what he'd claimed as his own clothes, there would be more in this apartment building. Peter had changed, hadn't he? The sweat pants now gracing his round backside. _Which I'm not looking at._ Raising his eyes, he quietly asked, "Peter, are there- is-is there more clothes in the room?"

XXX

"Yeah. Don't know if they'll fit you, but yeah. Men's stuff in the master bedroom, women's in the guest." Peter was pretty sure he had everything he needed to make the meal. He reread the instructions to be sure.

XXX

"'Kay. I'm gonna…get some clothes _." I'll keep mine. I should take a bath._ Sylar didn't feel like expending the effort and aggravating his head more. _Sponge bath. I should tease Peter about it._ Instead he went to the dresser in the master bedroom and found the last pair of sweats; they were a ridiculously bright medium blue color but it would do for now. He took those and a white tee-shirt and socks to the bathroom where he sat on the toilet seat and gave himself a lousy sponge bath wipe-down. It ended up riling his headache anyway, leaning down and all. Sylar noticed a pair of Peter's underwear hanging on the towel rack and stared at them for a moment. _He got off anyway, after that? Does getting caught do it for him? That would explain a few things._ Ditching his own undergarments and socks, he dressed in the apartment owner's clothes; they were probably, mostly clean after three years and his skin was now clean. Combing his hair, he reminded himself that they needed a razor of some sort, and toothbrushes because he knew he was an unfit mess and he was extremely unhappy with that. Resigned, he emerged to see about drinks in the kitchen.

XXX

"Hope you like pancakes," Peter said with a glance over his shoulder as Sylar entered the kitchen. Peter turned forward again to watch the progress of the last cake and blinked a few times. _Wait a second … what did I just see?_ His mind's eye played over the visual of Sylar in way too tight of a t-shirt and between it and the sweat pants was a jarring, eye-drawing inch of exposed, darkly-furred stomach. Peter's brain had helpfully taken a snapshot. He pulled his head down a little, forcing himself not to look again. And maybe ogle. It would surely _look_ like ogling, especially after last night and he didn't want that. _Did he dress that way so I'd ogle him? No … I don't think so. I think he's just hard up for clothes._

Peter cleared his throat, trying to get his mind off the subject of Sylar's sartorial choices and what might be under them. "So, uh, how do you feel this morning?"

XXX

_Hmm,_ pancakes sounded good. It had been a while since he'd made them for himself, probably too much a creature of habit. Sylar moved around Peter and the stove, approaching the fridge for the milk, which he poured into respective glasses. He glanced up from placing the glasses on the table. _Tired. I was sleeping on someone else's wood this morning. 'Not today, honey…'_ "I have a headache." He asked to feel out the other man's mood and determine how the inevitable discussion would go, "You?" Another kitchen-to-table trip brought back utensils.

XXX

"Still sore, but laying around most of yesterday was a big help. The muscles are tight and they hurt, but it doesn't have that watery, weak feeling anymore." Peter suspected that was more than Sylar wanted to know, so he stopped there and carried the plate of pancakes over to the table. He still had half the batter left, but he'd already made more cakes than he thought they'd eat. "I want to talk a little about the Zofran," he said, changing the subject back to Sylar. "It's for nausea. They use it standard for patients coming out of anesthesia or going through chemotherapy. It will help you eat more. If it would help me convince you to take it, I'll take some as well. I got injective because when I was at the hospital, I was thinking about your current condition, and not how you'd be in a couple days. It works just the same, but faster."

XXX

They sat but Sylar tensed at the subject. More drugs. "Come on, Peter. I already let you do the IV…" he protested, because that was seriously pushing the boundaries of his trust. He was fine as near as he could tell but there was such thing as slow poisoning and similar obstructions to his wellness. If he wasn't sick now, it would still count against Peter if he'd lied and there was something harmful in the solution. _Good,_ Sylar thought when Peter offered to take the same medicine. "If you do it first….I'll let you." _It's_ _in his best interest, too. The last time he drugged me…I woke up as his brother, his real brother._ Peter made a face but went to get the equipment. When he returned, Sylar teased, "You're lucky I'm not squeamish – needles might make me lose my appetite before I can eat." His arm was bare already with the short sleeves of the snug tee-shirt so he had nothing to do but watch as he waited for Peter to load up a pair of syringes, tourniquet and inject himself with one of them. He made sure the plunger depressed. _Isn't he supposed to clean everything before he does that?_ Sylar had hated giving himself even one injection, Mohinder and Claire's compound; Peter handled it like it was nothing. _He did do drugs for fun._

Trust and truth proven, Sylar proffered his left arm on the table, within easy reach. At least Peter at the decency to use a separate syringe. The nurse went about the same process to inject Sylar, under observation. "One of the techs in Level Five came to give me an IV once; she forgot to cap off the other end so it wasn't connected to the tube," he snorted with false humor, "Got blood everywhere. Another one was stupid enough to stick the needle in my hand – she was new; took her ten minutes of rooting and grinding around in my hand before she said it was too swollen and had to get her supervisor. The rest of them mostly poke around a dozen times until they get a vein." Sylar shook his head, "At least you know what you're doing." Peter wasn't real chatty and Sylar hated being dealt with like an animal at a vet or worse, a prisoner in a Nazi camp, so he did the talking, sharing a minor, relevant story. Perhaps he was trying to avoid the 'discussion.' Finished, Sylar turned back to the food, snagging several pancakes covering them with butter that quickly melted before coating them in syrup. He was hungry, his stomach roiling, but the idea of pancakes was one he was going to stomach regardless. "And you can cook," he praised after his first delicious mouthful.

XXX

Peter's mouth dropped open briefly; his expression softened and cleared. "Thank you," he said, obviously moved by the double compliment. It made him feel better about the lack of trust Sylar showed by wanting Peter to take the drug as well. A few seconds passed while he forked over a couple of his own pancakes. "The two things they really hammer on for paramedics is IV skills and intubation, under any and all circumstances. You have good veins. Whoever was working on you wasn't competent. I guess, on a _somewhat_ good note, it's nice to imagine the people on Level Five maybe don't have enough patients to get practiced at it."

XXX

Sylar quirked a brow. _I have good veins? Huh._ "Needles were not the worst thing they put in me there," he clarified, knowing he was lucky it hadn't been a penis or two. Instead it was drugs, wires, tubes and shunts, mainly, maybe the food. On the subject, he held his fork and paused, "Hey, wait, um…does this drug have…side-effects? Do I have to wait to eat or avoid stuff?" It wasn't like he'd ever had anti-nausea medication before, but basic pill instructions he could remember – because Mom didn't read the label directions.

XXX

"No. That's one of the reasons why I picked it – it's mild and has no side effects statistically different from a placebo." Peter held up his own arm, the one he'd injected. "That's why I didn't mind taking it myself. It's safe." Peter knew he was very slightly distorting reality, but they weren't _in_ reality and more importantly, the difference that existed was significant to statisticians only. The messy truth of medicine was that it rarely cured anything directly – it was just better than the alternative. He was sure there was probably some deep meaning in that, but for now, he devoted his attention to the pancakes, skipping the butter and using syrup alone.

XXX

Assuming the nausea left, he'd only have to deal with the massive headache that still plagued him. The hip, thigh and toe pain lingered, but his back was alright so long as he avoided the couch, which seemed likely. As Peter ate, focused on food, Sylar smirked at him. _He really has no idea what I'm capable of, does he? Just…going about his way, eating breakfast like an innocent. But he's not innocent, is he now?_ As good a boy as Peter might be, tried to be, thought he was, well, Sylar knew otherwise. Somehow the not-knowing which, angel or demon, he was going to end up with was exciting.

The nausea decreased and he was able to finally eat more as the pancakes tempted him. They were mostly quiet as they ate, either a lingering embarrassment or growing comfort in the other's company, or maybe it was just the process of eating. Funny how that went easier without nausea and Petrelli disturbances.

XXX

Peter kept an eye on how much Sylar ate – not by staring at him, but by simply watching the stack of pancakes. Sylar put away what for a man of his size was acceptable – assuming he wanted to lose weight, but not a lot. It was enough food that Peter didn't argue it. ' _Jesus, do you bully all your patients like this?_ ' drifted through his mind. He tried to ignore it, or at least learn from it. When Sylar made a few of those 'I'm done' motions after finishing his last bite, Peter nodded and stood up, declining to wolf down the last pancake and certainly not trying to force it on his companion. He fetched the bottle of painkillers, taking his own dose before doling out pills for Sylar.

XXX

Sylar took the pills and downed them without fuss. So far Peter hadn't led him wrong as far as medical treatment, which was surprisingly helping him feel better. _Maybe he just doesn't want me whining about being in pain_ , that was certainly motive to shut him up. When younger man asked if he was finished; he stood and helped clean up, food and dishes, giving the nurse a pat on the shoulder as he turned away from the sink. Sylar wandered into the living room, trying to kick-start his brain into planning where he should rest and what he should do – what Peter was going to do. _Should I read or sleep? Will he let me sleep?_ Either way, Sylar went to the couch and sprawled there.

XXX

Peter looked back after the shoulder pat, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. _That was friendly. What's that mean? Has he … has he ever done something like that before? Touched me, patted, anything?_ Nothing came to mind, aside from a few less-than-platonic-seeming caresses in the course of helping him with his brace or giving him a clumsy physical exam. _Is that because he was in bed with me this morning? Or was he in bed with me because he's feeling friendlier?_ Peter turned back to the sink with a sharp shake of his head. _He wasn't in bed because he felt 'friendly'; he was in bed with me because he was hor- wait, if he was horny, then why did he leave? And stay gone, too?_ The question of what Sylar was after circled around in Peter's brain as he rinsed dishes, taking his time at it. When he was done, he tucked the still-damp brace under his arm, snagged the dishtowel, and walked over to the living area where Sylar was reclining.

"Hey. I wasn't in a listening mood a couple hours ago. I think I'm in more of one now. Tell me about this morning. I want to understand."

XXX

That caught him flat-footed. The subject was this morning, not last night. Sylar lifted his head, not liking his position with Peter standing over him. "What about it? I was sleeping," he defended. "It's not like that's abnormal for you." Sylar looked him over, highly doubting that last part. "There's nothing to tell." _What could I have to say? Why do I have to explain myself? I don't know why we have to talk about it._

XXX

_That's not abnormal? What's not abnormal – me sleeping, or me waking up snuggling on him? Or more than snuggling, I guess_. Peter wasn't keen on admitting to what exactly he'd been doing when he woke, even to himself. "No, when you were in bed with me. What was going on there?" He took a seat in the chair easiest for Sylar to see from his position, pulling out the brace and scrubbing at it with the towel, hoping to dry it a tiny bit more before putting it back on.

XXX

"I don't know about you, but I was sleeping – trying to. It's not my fault you picked a small bed." That sounded lame even to his ears, 'you didn't come to bed, dear…' _He had better not try to pin that on me; him….doing that._ "I have a concussion and even if I was going to make a move, it wouldn't be while you're asleep at oh-dark-thirty in the morning. You wanted some and I said it was fine, no big deal," he shrugged it off.

XXX

_I wanted some? I wanted some!?_ Peter's head snapped up at that, teeth clenched. With an effort, he pressed his lips shut and went back to dabbing at the brace, using more pressure that was probably necessary. _Calm the fuck down, Peter. He's trying to upset you. That's obvious. Also, wait … he said it was fine? No big deal? All I remember him saying is 'ow' and leaving._

XXX

While Peter digested that, working up a reply, Sylar thought to interrogate a little himself, "Did you finish, either time?" A hooked thumb towards the bathroom, "The underwear…"

XXX

"What about the underwear?" Peter asked after a moment to figure out what Sylar was saying. Because yeah, he remembered taking them off the morning after the adventure to the hospital. He glanced in the direction of the bathroom. He figured they were still in there. "What of it? We're practically living together. My underwear has to be somewhere," he said, declining to address what Sylar was getting at.

XXX

_Yeah, but usually your underwear is on_ you. "I'm just curious," Sylar worked up a slight one-sided smirk, "Just want to know how easy your trigger is; want to know what I'm dealing with here."

XXX

Peter's brows rose. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and opened up the brace. Voice tight and teeth a little bared, he said, "How 'easy my trigger is' shouldn't be any of your business. I had the door shut. I didn't invite you in. But I wake up and you're in bed with me." Peter's jaw clenched and popped audibly, making him wince and nearly derailing the conversation (or at least his side of it). The stab of pain ruined the 'I'm incredibly angry about this' expression he had going there for a moment. He rubbed at it tensely, pulling his thoughts back together.

"Sylar ..." He sighed, rubbing more gently at the corner of his jaw as he let the anger die down and got at the unease that had been fueling it. "I am … you are … Listen, we gotta be safe in our own beds. Beds, sleeping, should be a no-fighting zone. And a no-taking-advantage-of-each-other zone, for both of us. When I first came here, you didn't get to see this, but I was barricading myself in my apartment at night. You want to hear me sleep, or whatever?" He stared at Sylar intently for a few seconds, "Give me some space. Stay out of my bed. Because if I don't think I'm going to stay alone after I fall asleep, then I'm not going to let my defenses down anywhere close to you."

XXX

Sylar stared back, upset and showing it at the anger directed at him. It was distressing, especially since he was innocent and hearing his companion had barricaded himself away for safety without provocation. _Who's fighting? I didn't do anything! I can't even be upset he was…rubbing on me? Giving him space isn't fair! He gets what he wants and I get nothing!_ Everything about the last two weeks grew to a head – not being alone, Peter appearing, being real, supposedly; Peter avoiding him, moving away…picking fights…breaking in…taking care of him, seeing him with his pants down, sleeping with him but always holding him at arm's length, making excuses, making it out that Sylar was at fault…The mental (and emotional) rings he'd run around Peter had exhausted his barriers. It boiled down to his inability to get his desires met – even the platonic, small ones. It made him feel like so much used trash.

"I didn't…do anything," he breathed, feeling something tickling his temple. The boy who cried wolf. Peter was never going to believe he was innocent in anything, not with the evidence and motive stacked behind them both. Inhaling raggedly, he insisted because he had no other choice, "We were both sleeping. Nothing happened. I just wanted to hear you b-breathe…" It was then he noticed his nose was stuffed up, his vision hazy. Brushing a quick hand over his face, feeling the warm moisture trailing to and from his eyes; Sylar blinked in surprise at his hand then stood there, aimless for a moment. "You can't keep making promises and agreements you're not going to keep, Peter. It's hard enough to believe you now." Trying to, desperate to believe Peter he was. Hand pushing his completely scruffy hair back, he remembered where he'd laid his book.


	61. Proximity Alert

_Day 16, morning, December 26_

Peter sighed, affected by the tears. He tilted his head away and then back. He tried not to look at Sylar, but his eyes kept sliding to the other man anyway. They burned a little; his chest felt tight. He knew the feelings – sympathetic, empathetic, contagious. "Sylar ..." he said softly, almost a whine or a plea. All he could think of at the moment was the last time he'd had tears in Sylar's presence, when he'd dropped the guy, or Nathan, off the roof of Mercy Heights. Sylar had been laughing on the way down and saluted Peter after. How many times had Sylar seen others in emotional pain and scoffed at them? _But I'm not Sylar._

The man hesitated at Peter saying his name, eyeing him.

"I didn't say I was going to take that away from you. I woke up with you in my bed and I'm still here, Sylar. I'm right here." Peter pointed at the floor. "I haven't left. You _did_ do something. You got in my bed without my permission. And you _knew_ it – we'd already talked about the door. I'd told you I didn't want you in bed with me. I didn't sleep in the chair the other night for no reason, Sylar." Sylar walked out; Peter let him go.

XXX

Sylar was too worn out to care what Peter thought if he stopped by the bathroom. Doing so, door shut for once, he cleaned his face up, clearing his nose but he didn't linger. He wasn't going to hide away and sob (at least not when Peter knew about it). Retrieving his book from the guest room, he returned to the couch to make a point that he, Sylar, was going to do what he pleased and that didn't include pouting and crying like a heartbroken girl with a crush – which was something Peter might do. He was prepared to ignore Peter if he had to but it sucked to be around the guy and know everything was off limits. No touching, no talking, no looking. Reading quietly was okay, though, as it always had been.

XXX

Peter waited until Sylar was situated on the couch, while he put the finishing tightenings in place on his brace. He leaned forward, clear body language to continue talking. When the guy cracked the book instead, Peter felt a stirring of anger at being deliberately snubbed. It was a juvenile punishment for not … what? Fucking the guy? Getting fucked? Or just sleeping with him? He didn't know. He leaned back, forearms out along the uncomfortably modern arms of the chair.

Peter took a different tack. "I think … that after three years alone, that experience of not having anyone else here, never knowing if there will be, thinking everyone's abandoned you, maybe even not being sure who you are …" He swallowed, mind skittering around the edges of his bad dream, trying to balance the subtext with the reality as he faded the description from one to the other, "not being able to help yourself, not knowing _how_ you can help yourself … I think finding someone after that would leave a person with the urge to grab on, hold on, and not let go. That's how I felt the other night when you woke me up out of that nightmare." He watched Sylar for a few long moments, letting it sink in that he wasn't without understanding. "But that's me. How would you feel?" He canted it theoretical on purpose – people often had trouble saying how they felt at a given moment, but could address how they might feel in similar circumstances more easily.

XXX

Immediately his attention was suckered in, the content was…so accurate. Sylar frowned and stared between them at the floor, introverted. _Oh, God, how does he know that? He…feels that, too?_ Slowly he closed the book. He could feel Peter watching him but it wasn't important. His eyes tracked back and forth over invisible points in the carpet. _Is he real?_ Once again he considered the idea that Peter was a hallucination, a self-made image teasing him and telling him what he wanted to hear like when he'd shape-shifted into Mom and made her say things. It would explain how Peter knew to say those things because no one understood that, not that well. _Peter…This is Peter. He's done that before, for…(Nathan). He's an empath; he knows things. Maybe…_ Sylar inhaled.

"Lost," he said simply. _Helpless to get what I want._ Pain crashed through him with the thought that perhaps Peter was passing judgment on his behavior, demanding strength instead of needy weakness; guiltily he worriedly glanced up at the other man's open, handsome face, soothed by what he saw there. "I know I should be doing better. I'm doing my best." _(That is such a lie.) I can't do my best here; I have needs, things I want. Leaving him_ _alone is not an option._ "No, I mean-…" He sighed, setting his book aside and shifting so he sat with his feet planted on the floor, hands wrapped around each other. Licking his lips, Sylar addressed what Peter probably wanted him to, "I got into bed with you. But I didn't molest you, okay? I didn't." He looked Peter dead in the eye for that. "I didn't touch y- I woke up and my hands were on your chest, but I didn't do it consciously. You were just…really close. I don't think I do anything weird in my sleep, except for the nightmares." What a series of corrections that was.

The nurse's point about staying here despite the incident(s) was a valid one – the man's bark was worse than his bite unless his family was mentioned – Peter wasn't outright denying him. Sylar clung to that and the fact that he was being listened to and offered a voice. "It's been three years and it was difficult before that. It's complicated and you just make it more complicated," he pleaded, hoping Peter could interpret that correctly, somehow.

XXX

Peter mulled over Sylar's last statements. _Three years without people and hard to get any human interaction before that, too? I can imagine getting friends wouldn't be easy while you were a killer. No friends, he's said. No family. Then there's whatever happened with his mother. And I make it complicated because … of Nathan (memories, brother, victim?), that I came here to get him out (rescue, doesn't want to help me but wants out?), he wants to kill me (competitor, antagonist, but he can't because then he'd be alone). And he's making passes at me. Where is his mind in regard to me? It's gotta be all over the place._

"Yeah," Peter breathed out, leaning forward to match Sylar's body language better, putting elbows on knees as his hands hung together loosely. "It's pretty complicated for me, too, right now, trying to figure out how to relate to you – are we … enemies, or friends, or something in between? Sometimes it seems like one, but then it switches. I don't think things are as complicated now as they were before coming here – at least here, it's just the two of us. That … simplifies things a lot. It lets us focus. I didn't have the same problems you did, before, but I spent some time on the run, feeling like anyone and everyone might turn me in, turn on me – family and friends _especially_. People I should have been able to trust were the worst. It's not a good feeling." Very seriously, with an inquisitive tilt to his head, he asked, "How do you deal with that?"

XXX

_Thank God._ Peter took it seriously; didn't lash out. It left him almost weak with relief and hope. Petrelli was really throwing the concepts at him: friends, enemies, the option of something in between and Peter's assumption/belief that he – they – should be able to trust friends and family. That wasn't universal to Sylar's understanding. It was kind of shocking to try to see how Peter's life wasn't perfectly linear, the guy had everything (besides a father, brother, mate and full-range abilities) so it was difficult to even picture what 'complications' might be there. It still sounded a bit far-fetched and false, the typical whiny rich boy complaining his lot. Turning back to himself, at first, Sylar blanked on answering that even to himself. _Deal? You don't deal with it – you can't; that's the whole point. If you could deal with it or prevent it, it wouldn't happen or it would be easier. Do I seem like I 'deal' with shit well? Why would he think I deal with anything at all? I don't know how._ Eventually the answer was simple and obvious; his primary solution and cathartic method was: "Killing people, apparently."

XXX

Peter felt a stab between his eyes, some bit of angry tension about Sylar's murders that Peter didn't want to be feeling at the moment. He reached up and rubbed it away with his thumb, hanging onto the tenuous emotional openness that seemed to be literally warming his skin. Sylar's comment didn't seem to be snark and Peter _felt_ that it wasn't. It was … complicated, just like Sylar had said. "Does it help?" Peter asked that honestly, ignoring his own experiences of shooting his father and trying to strangle Will in Ireland. Just because killing people hadn't helped him didn't mean that in that moment, Peter wasn't open to the idea that maybe it had helped Sylar. He wanted to unsnarl the man's complicated emotions, get at what was underneath it, and make it simple.

XXX

Once more, Sylar had to really stop and consider the question. On one hand, yes, killing people helped. It was a release, a vent, a pressure valve, an outlet, useful and necessary, too, because it made him more special and rid the world of incompetent, fearful freaks. On the other hand…well, his situation and mental state spoke for itself. Killing led to more killing which led to himself getting killed…wash, rinse, repeat. But how to answer? "I don't know, Peter. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about it." _Not right now._ He knew how bad that sounded but he didn't have a clear answer to give, even to explain his actions. Sylar gave the younger man an apologetic, pent-up, yet thankful look.

XXX

Peter gave a small, expressive, and acquiescing shrug, accepting Sylar's answer even if it was a lack of an answer. He didn't push.

XXX

It struck Sylar that he couldn't remember (or perhaps didn't know) what Peter's original intent was for this 'discussion.' "You're leading the witness, counselor," Sylar smirked a little, as much as he could but it was hollow because of what was going on inside him. Peter _had_ picked up a few things in prelaw; the rest of it from living with a pair of stubborn, power-hungry lawyers. /It always touched him when Peter attacked from the shadows with infallible arguments; of course, it was also equally annoying and troublesome because of that near-infallibility. His baby bleeding heart brother saw injustice everywhere, it was akin to a tainted witness, having blinders on, Ma called it 'rose-colored glasses'. So help them all, Peter knew enough to sink any ship and the he had timing (usually bad) in spades./ "What do you want?"

XXX

Peter studied Sylar for a long moment, but there was no help there. He was hoping to see something to tip him off as to the sort of answer Sylar wanted. Peter let his eyes fall to the carpet as he considered the question. 'Nathan back' was _an_ answer, but painful given the audience. 'Help' was a better one, but he didn't feel like the thing with Emma involved asking for assistance that shouldn't be willingly given by any person of good heart. "Happiness," he said with a tone that bordered on morose because he was depressed about how difficult it was to get what he wanted. He couldn't _make_ anyone be happy and sometimes it seemed like the world conspired to have him on the verge of fucking it up all the time. "I want people to be happy," he said sadly.

He stirred in his chair, uneasy that the attention was on him and his motives. Even if he thought they were good, he expected them to be judged harshly and laughed at. Nathan would have scoffed and snorted, rolling his eyes and looking away because Peter wasn't worth looking at while he was voicing the kind of ideals Nathan would call childish. Arthur … well, Nathan's reaction was kinder. But Angela would have understood – at least, Peter thought she would have.

XXX

Sylar frowned and gifted his companion with an 'are you serious?' forward tilt of his head, "Huh?" he asked dumbly, after watching Peter squirm for a moment. It was typical Peter, though, inarguably. _Am I…'people' to him? I told him what I wanted. Doesn't he know- hasn't he learned he's asking a lot?_ What's more, that tune sounded familiar to Sylar, not just Nathan. Nathan who knuckled under and followed orders like a good soldier boy because he allowed himself to think there was no other option – and he did want that pat on the head. _But Peter doesn't want to suck up to people – he's a pain in the ass! A rebel!_ Sylar blinked at the idealist.

XXX

Peter straightened and sought safety by turning the lens back on Sylar. "You want to hear someone nearby when you sleep, is that it? I remember you fell asleep while I was playing the piano, too. You don't have to be in bed with me … specifically … do you?" _Because that might be a deal-breaker._

XXX

Sylar pointed out, "You were playing music on the piano. And you want someone very close when you sleep, too, Petey; your dick told me so; several times." At that, he shut his mouth and thought through his next answer carefully. If he pushed it, would Peter balk? He knew the safe choice was 'no' but… to come so close (literally); Sylar didn't want to lose ground. It had been wonderful to wake up to another, semi-safe, warm, human body, at least until the bump-and-grind began. So he hadn't been invited, even stolen the experience was sweet. And strange. The emotional and mental reliefs a bedmate would provide paled a little next to kind of being molested in his sleep – it was a jarring reality Sylar was less fond of. But sleep would not be separated from molestation, unfortunately.

Hoping to avoid replying, Sylar looked up under his brows, pushing past his anxiety to rumble, "I want you in bed with me. I said I don't mind your sleeping habits." Then it occurred to him that he was clearly approaching this wrong, "But we don't have to do anything," he offered.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at that oh-so-sexy invitation. It was _so_ not where he was at, though (and not where he wanted to be, more importantly). "We're _not_ doing anything," Peter said, levering himself up out of the chair so he could pace around with an uneven limp. "Whether you mind my habits or not doesn't matter." Peter pointed at his chest demonstratively, puffing it out a bit. " _I_ don't want you in bed with me. My dick doesn't have a say in this. I don't want you close when I sleep; I don't want you close at all."

He paused there. His tone had become angry and what he'd said was meaner than he'd intended. It was tumbling out because he felt threatened by the idea Sylar would ignore his wishes and try to cozy up Peter like there wasn't this looming issue of Sylar's past between them, like Peter's feelings about all of that didn't matter. And worse yet, that he'd do it with that voice and those eyes and all the other things Peter might find tempting.

XXX

A delayed blink as his expression shuttered was the only reaction Sylar gave. On the outside. Internally, that didn't just sting; it hurt. Something so simple and small and it still had that effect. He'd been hoping…well, Peter acted like things might be warming up – marginally, yes – but warming all the same. Now it was disgust and misery, the usual tale; he wanted to simultaneously crawl into a hole and curl up there and beat Peter's face until it spoke something more pleasant.

XXX

"I am not here for your amusement," Peter said quietly, his voice laced with threat as he stopped his pacing to glare at the guy.

XXX

Sylar's face and body language chilled exponentially. His hands were tied (whether to crawl away or beat his companion) but he refused to lay down for this, whatever it was, wherever it came from. "Did I giggle?" Sylar rejoined, matching Peter's tone and glare. "But I'm here for your amusement, is that it? Are you gonna lie to me again? You said you weren't going to take this away from me." Through his anger and helplessness, his voice near the end was a lot more pouty than he wanted it to be.

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed again. He came closer, returning to his chair to stand next to it with one hand on the back, still angry and tense. "I'm standing right here. What I _want_ to do is walk out that door and do my own thing – whatever that might be – until I calm down, regardless of how long that takes. I'm not saying we're going to stay in different apartments, not even saying we're going to stay in different rooms. I _am_ saying I don't want you in bed with me just like you're saying that's where you want me." He paused a beat before going on with a less challenging tone, "The more you try to manipulate me on this, the less I feel I can trust you. Whether I trust you, how comfortable I feel about things, is important. You're acting like my feelings don't matter to you. But if these are things you want – my cooperation, goodwill, being with you when I don't have to be, helping you more than the minimum that's medically required – then my feelings matter."

Peter turned a little, hiking his hip up on the arm of the chair and letting some of his weight settle on it. "Why would you think I'd be interested in being intimate with you? _**You killed my brother.**_ Do you think I can just put aside my feelings about that? I'm trying, Sylar. Really." He felt his eyes water and nose burn, sad and frustrated that Sylar expected Peter to be capable of that much, so soon. He felt like he was already performing a herculean task emotionally, only to be derided for not being even better. Sylar was alive, he was whole, he had even been completely helpless in Peter's care and suffered not for it. Peter had come here to get him, willing to believe a prophecy that Sylar could do something worthwhile despite dozens of murders and years of preying on the weak and unprepared to attest to how he couldn't. But none of that was acknowledged, nor good enough – not until Peter prostituted himself, apparently, would it count (and perhaps not even then, if Sylar's uncaring attitude was any indication).

"I'm trying to treat you like a … like my patient. Like … someone who hasn't done what you have. Sometimes I can't … I can't manage that." He took a deep breath. His voice was starting to catch, so he looked away and tried to get a hold of himself. He crossed his arms tensely, hugging himself and looking withdrawn, wishing he wasn't there. How nice it would be to be somewhere else, doing something good, making a difference to someone, instead of being here, where he felt insufficient and like he was pissing Sylar off by simply having opinions about himself and what he should do with himself that weren't what Sylar wanted them to be. "I'm glad I've done a good enough job that you think it would be nice to be in bed with me." He looked back to Sylar. "That's … thank you." He wiped at his eyes, irritated and upset, turning to walk over to the wheelchair and aimlessly look through the contents of the top-most bag. He wasn't looking for anything other than something else to do besides look at Sylar.

XXX

Not minutes ago, Peter was understanding Sylar's state of being, now…The emotional whiplash from hope and relief to pure helplessness and despair left him speechless, long enough for Peter to…tear up and finish. Obviously the hope, as always, was a joke; and the relief was fleeting. It came and went with the overly-emotional Petrelli's moods. Sylar was dependent and unable to predict the next 'swing, nor to barter or plead his way into things because Peter claimed not to want them or Peter wouldn't stick to the deal – there were way too many 'or's' in this situation. He hated it beyond measure. He could see the fulfillment of his needs slipping away. _Who said anything about intimate and 'nice'? And then he thanks m-?_ "What are you doing?" Sylar demanded quickly of Peter riffling through his medical bag.

XXX

_What_ _ **am**_ _I doing?_ Sylar's curt tone was not lost on Peter, who looked back to see what was going on. The man's expression of too-sharp attention clued him in. _Fear. Afraid of medical stuff. I injected him back in that car, outside the Stanton. Maybe he thinks I'm looking for something to use on him._ Peter pushed himself upright and showed his hands. "Not doing anything." He tried to think of a good excuse or reason, but he couldn't find one. The more he thought about it, the more it struck him as completely valid of Sylar to be concerned – Peter was quite possibly going for a weapon, even if not consciously. Peter walked away, not sure where to go. He went to the end of the bed and sat there, feeling like a kid in a time-out.

XXX

"And you premeditated taking my mind from me. Sacrificing me for your brother; my mind so he can have my body. How is that a fair trade? Like I don't even have a right to my own mind and body? You didn't even notice when I was him." Sylar mostly remembered how hard Peter had clung to that wishful illusion. It had been so flattering and heart-warming, being defended against the world by someone who loved him – even if he didn't know who he was. For a few weeks, he'd had a real brother who accepted and acknowledged him, who heard out his problems and supported him. Of course that kind of acceptance only came when he was someone else, he knew that was the price he paid for belonging and purpose. He'd run out of words to describe how betraying and violating that was, and Sylar was not the only victim. Peter was active collateral, the kind that dragged brother and killer both through the ordeal, 'assistance' unasked for. "You're an idiot if you think that gets me in the mood," he croaked finally.

XXX

"Don't want you in the mood. That's my point. What's between us is too fucked up for it." He sighed, his face made a slow wince, and Peter ran his hand through his hair, fisting it briefly for the sensation of tugging on his scalp in distress over how he'd missed Sylar-as-Nathan. "Nathan and I weren't … we weren't on really good terms after the Stanton … or before it, either." He let his shoulders slump, hands going to his knees. It was depressing. He felt like a failure, even though he didn't know what he might have done if he'd found out earlier about the identity swap. "After what he did with Homeland Security and me seeing what had happened at Coyote Sands, I could see he was just repeating the same thing all over again. It made the Company look … reasonable. And I couldn't understand that. I couldn't get my mind around how all the bad stuff the Company was responsible for still made them the better choice than trying to be honest with the world about what we could do. So I just left. I checked out. I didn't talk to anyone – there was no one I _could_ talk to, about anything! Got my job back. And just … I quit looking up. I quit dreaming about flying. Just … made my world small. It seemed like it was working." Peter shook his head ruefully. "But you're right – I didn't even notice."

XXX

"Goddamnit, Peter, focus!" Sylar burst out. He'd been watching in confused horror as Peter went on some introspective retelling of his life. What's worse was that it didn't even sound that bad. But the topper was how Sylar's accusations went completely unacknowledged. _He's as shameless as I always thought. But he's too much of a coward to stand up for it. He's so…Petrelli. He really is going to ignore that, ignore_ me _._ Probably the worst assault and trauma of his life, dismissed. Not that he should have expected more, even from his otherwise soulfully understanding caretaker. It was a smooth move, Peter changing the subject; Sylar was effectively silenced. It was like he'd not even spoken or existed. His expression drooped. _No rehabilitation, no justice for the damned._ Nothing had changed. Taking advantage of Peter's silence, he took a breath, recovering enough of a stoic face to converse beyond his perceived loss.

"I thought I was the one who had a concussion; at least I can stay on topic," he snipped now he had the bastard's attention, keeping himself the voice of reason while making a point, "May I sleep on the couch while you take the master bed, or is that too close for you?" Asking people for things wasn't really his speed but the situation called for it to be spelled out.

XXX

Peter blinked up at Sylar in silent but obedient surprise. He couldn't, offhand, recall the man using that tone with him before – few did, as it was rude as hell. Those few were limited to his father, and occasionally Nathan when he was particularly irate. _I thought I was on topic … Aren't we talking about the shit between us?_ "Um," he hemmed in response to Sylar's question, "yes. I mean no, it's not too close. I just don't want you to get in bed with me, okay?" He didn't like the suddenly apologetic tone he had, but that's what came out when he was snapped at like that. It left him feeling guilty no matter what he'd done or not done.

XXX

Sylar didn't bother to hide his pout.

XXX

He swallowed and looked away to the side, then down at his brace as he fiddled nervously with it. _Maybe that wasn't what we were talking about. Maybe what we were talking about was how he was in bed with me last night and … yeah, that's what we were talking about._ In a hesitant voice, Peter brought up, "I was really thinking that maybe sometime today we could go back to your place, or at least consider it." _Christ, get a grip, Peter. All he has to do is snap at you and you sound like you're sniveling in front of Dad_. He cleared his throat. "That way you'd have your clocks and your clothes. I could sleep on the couch until we figured something out." _Is this going to be permanent? I'm not sure I'm down with you as a roommate for like … forever._ But Peter didn't voice that, waiting for Sylar's response to the idea of a return trip today.

XXX

"Alright," Sylar agreed shortly because Peter would stay near him no matter the location. It counted for something. He hadn't even asked for it and that was comforting. _I'll be comfortable, at home, but he won't be. Maybe he thinks his workload will be lighter that way._ He had nothing else to say – Peter had talked about his things, Sylar spoke about his, nothing got decided but he had a passable answer, which he was glad of. The conversation was over, so he disengaged to amuse himself until Peter wished to leave. Sylar faced forward, shifting the pillow to the other side of the couch, before lying against it, feet propped on the cushions. This way he was pointed in Peter's direction. His book reopened between him and the nurse and he involved himself with reading since reality depressed him. The pit of loneliness opened up for him again and he had a hard time believing that Peter didn't want even the most basic contact for contact's sake, especially if his claim of 'making his world small' was true. That Sylar could understand, having come from a small world himself.

XXX

Peter felt dismissed. Put on top of being snapped at and verbally jerked around, it stung and left him angry, but there was really nothing to say. What might have been a discussion of what they had between them had been rudely cut off, or perhaps, Peter considered, it was his attempt to broach the larger subject that was rude. In any case, a boundary had been set and Sylar had actually accepted it in a clear manner. Peter decided to take that as a victory for both of them and to make good his escape before something happened to sour things further. "I'm going to go downstairs for a while." He stood and let himself out.

Several hours later saw his return, clothes changed as he'd braved the melting snow to go across the street to his own apartment. There was still ice underneath, but he'd gone slow and it had been alright. He was happier, having experienced the usual reset of his mood in Sylar's absence, back to a mostly optimistic baseline even if that was a bit rocky given the things that had happened in his life recently. Peter had with him a plastic bag with a loaf of bread, a couple cans of tuna, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of pickle relish. He raised it briefly after knocking and entering. "Got lunch. Thought we'd eat before we go. How's your appetite?" Peter looked to Sylar for his reaction, his own expression hopeful and trying to engage.

XXX

Reading, disturbed sleep, in and out of nightmares that had eventually woken him, now he was back to reading, just about to doze again when he heard the knock. _Peter's back_. The stress of being alone lifted. Sylar wanted to rush over and…well, touch the guy. It bothered him – that he had this stupid feeling at all, that he couldn't get rid of it and that he couldn't do anything to express himself. If he had to worry every time Peter left…His dignity was fast going out the window. But Peter was real and he was here. "Hey," he said sleepily, blinking a few times to wake himself up, orienting on Peter. _Go? The- yeah._ "Hungry but…nauseous," was his shy admission.

XXX

Peter had a half-second of pause there, accompanied by a pleased smile and the realization that Sylar had just given him honesty – real, actual honesty about his symptoms. And he liked the expression on the guy's face, probably more than was polite. Thinking it might help Sylar to understand Peter's medical choices, he explained, "Zofran lasts four or five hours and it's safe to take more doses as long as it's not closer together than that. The usual process is that whatever was making a person sick – reaction to anesthesia or chemo – will have worn off during that time. But for a concussion, we just have to go by how you feel. Let me know if you need more. I don't want to be on your case all the time, but I'm still pretty worried that you're not getting enough." He turned to the kitchen counter to unload his bag, glancing around for any evidence that Sylar had snacked or eaten without him. He didn't see any. He headed for the butter dish, asking, "I've got tuna here for sandwiches. Do you like it like you had the salmon? Just meat and butter? I thought I'd try some pickle relish on mine." _I'll do his first so he can't complain about the knife,_ _but before the food I should probably get the medicine in him._

XXX

Sylar sat up, relieved and wide-eyed. Like a moth to flame, he was there hovering a few feet from Peter as he spoke. "Okay." The drugs had helped him, not hurt him – they'd worked. "Can-can you get hooked on that stuff? The Zolfran?" All he knew was that it was an injective drug, drugs led to addictions, and Peter knew about and had done drugs and Sylar had something of a problem with temptation. And he had a considerably happier bundle of five-foot-ten Italian as his current fixation.

XXX

"No, you can't," Peter said, leaving the half-started food prep to go wash his hands (or at least his left hand). Sylar was crowding him a little, too. "It's a really commonly used medication. You're not going to develop a tolerance for it either. The technical name for it is ondansetron. Zofran's the brand name," he concluded, enunciating the word just a little because Sylar had added an L to it. He finished up with washing, realizing strict hygiene probably wasn't that important here. If the food wasn't decaying, then infection risk was out. _Isn't it? I_ _think it is._ He turned to face Sylar, drying himself on a fresh paper towel rather than the dishtowel because even though he 'knew' better, the habit was still there.

XXX

Sylar nodded, still thinking a moment before agreeing, nodding again more definitively, "Alright." The mention of the nurse being worried and the easy, open offer for more medical ( _drug_ ) assistance went a long way. "I'm sorry, what else did you ask?"

XXX

It took Peter a moment to place what Sylar was asking about, as his mind was already moving ahead with calculating dosage and time since this morning's injection, and wondering if Sylar wanted him to take some as well again. "Oh. I was asking what you wanted on your sandwich." He gestured at the food on the counter. "So if you wanted something else, I could go get it before we started."

XXX

"Butter and tuna?" Sylar made a face, "Relish is fine. Is there mayonnaise? That's what my mom used to put in tuna sandwiches," he mumbled distractedly, looking around for the stuff to see if Peter had it. A second later, he realized what he'd just said, sounding like he still lived at home at the least. _Crap_. He cleared his throat awkwardly, turning to the fridge to get drinks of some kind. "We're pretty much out of milk," he declared, "There's…sports drinks, pop, water and beer."

XXX

Peter nodded at Sylar's somewhat ambiguous statement of preference, deciding to leave the assembly of vital ingredients to him. "I think there's some mayo in the fridge. I remember there was a bunch of condiments in there. Water's fine to drink." Peter walked over to the medical bag, getting out a new syringe, alcohol wipe, and bottle of medicine, drawing up the dosage while Sylar handled getting out glasses for their meal.

XXX

Sylar took the indicated beverage, gathering a pair of bottles. "Did you sleep or…play the piano?" Peter could be easily engaged sometimes, and Sylar was curious and wanted to see if Peter was chatty.

XXX

"I played the piano some. Wanted to take a nap, but I never settled down for it." Peter picked up the rubber tourniquet and gestured for Sylar to stay at the table for the moment. "If you'll sit, I'll give the shot to you now. Onset time for an intravenous injection is almost immediate, but it will still help to have it more minutes than fewer before you eat." He waited for Sylar to settle before going forward with the process, taking in Sylar's expression a few times to stay up with any possible sudden mood changes, like if Sylar realized and was offended that Peter was breezing by the part where he injected himself. "I explored the first floor a little more. There's a lot of maintenance space and stuff. And there's a basement with equipment in it. I didn't go through it very far though." He gave a short laugh and started, "It reminded me of … um." His brows drew together briefly and he looked down to slide the needle into his patient's arm. He tried to remember if Sylar had any context for the reference he'd almost made.

XXX

As Peter went about the business of prepping the meds, Sylar snagged the bottle of Zofran with his right hand, crossing over himself not to disturb the medic. Briefly, he segregated his attention to try to read the label, seeing nothing but useless medical terms that made no sense to him.

XXX

A quick glance at Sylar's face made clear the man was waiting for him to continue. More soberly, he said, "Well, I didn't have any abilities …" Injection complete, Peter released the tourniquet and collected his supplies, watching for any bleeding and seeing none. "It was after you'd thrown me out the window at Pinehearst. Claire and I were trying to get away from a couple guys my father sent after us and they followed us into some steam tunnels. One of them could create fire. I managed to lever out a gas pipe and when he tried to roast us, it blew up in his face." Peter shrugged briefly as he disposed of the trash, glancing back at Sylar. "We got away."

Peter moved on to the kitchen counter, pushing the tuna can to the side with the can opener next to it. "Could you get that open for me?" He went about getting the bread out and opening containers while Sylar helped, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the man.

XXX

Sylar listened, then considered it pensively. _Every once in a while Peter has a real, sideways gem that no one expects because it's not…brute force and in-your-face_ , he thought of the gas pipe maneuver. It threw off Nathan, who was strategic and prepared, army-trained; Arthur who never bothered and had an uncanny foresight, rarely being ambushed; and Sylar whose preferred method was disguise and manipulation, enemies close until he struck with whatever was handy – knives, bricks, coffee mugs. In the middle of thinking and can-opening, Peter asked for a knife which Sylar went about getting from the drawer closer to himself before it connected. A warning, parental look was given to the nurse, clearly hinting, 'you're not going to do that again…Right? You know better.' Then he handed it over, sparing an eye for the butter/mouth/contaminants while finishing with the tuna. After that, he passed over the mayonnaise.

XXX

Peter saw the look. He ducked his head and frowned, but otherwise went on. "I went outside, too. There's still ice, so we're going to have to go slow, and there's still snow, but it's melting. It's that mushy, heavy snow now and there's just a couple inches of it. You should probably change back into your old clothes so you're covered." The peek-a-boo band of Sylar's belly was not as distracting as it had been the first time Peter had seen it this morning, but it was still something he was aware of trying to keep his eyes off. It was kind of ridiculous given that he'd seen much more of the man, but somehow the sometimes-there, sometimes-not band of exposed flesh drew his eye more than if Sylar had been entirely shirtless. "I was thinking we'd put our stuff on the wheelchair and roll it along with us. I used it like a walker coming back from the hospital. It was a big help."

XXX

_You went outside?_ Sylar paused from handling his own sandwich ingredients. For some reason that was a little shocking. He'd let Peter out of his sight and the kid had immediately dashed towards his escape – his companion being near an exit was worrisome because how easy would it be for Peter to just walk away? It was scary to think how close he'd come - every day, every time he slept - to being abandoned. By then Peter was done and Sylar followed him to the table. _Covered? Like…my jacket? Wearing jeans so I don't…get cold or scraped?_ When that made little sense, he moved on. He wanted to say how he wouldn't be pushing Peter's ass around in a wheelchair, not for a mere broken hand, because any of that was pathetic, but on further inspection Sylar realized Peter couldn't operate the chair himself for that very reason _. Guess I would be 'pushing him around'._ He twitched a grin to himself, wiping it off quickly when Peter spoke.


	62. Doing It For Attention

_Day 16, afternoon, December 26_

"So what'd you do this morning? Did you get any further in the book? That's a lot more involved on strategy than I usually think about for the game. That's pretty cool." _You know, if baseball players can plan out their plays that much, I ought to be able to do a better job managing my life, and abilities and things, where lives depend on me. The stakes are so much higher than a game. Instead, here I am_ _. Stuck._ He lifted his eyes from his plate back to Sylar's, which were looking more clear and alert than they had for a week. _Those are really nice eyes,_ Peter thought wistfully and somewhat randomly.

XXX

"I slept; and read." Sylar had waited for the meal to drink, so he downed several long gulps of water before touching his food. His head was murder and he reached out, snagging the painkillers and taking the amount Peter had been giving him so far. He tilted his head at Peter. "Well, you play baseball. It's probably a different way of looking at it. Like…being there versus…reading about it." He caught Peter giving him a strange look. _What was that?_ Sylar stared at him for a moment or two longer than necessary, intending to inspire an explanation. When it didn't, he slowly refocused on his sandwich in disappointment, but not defeat. Baseball was kind of a dead-end conversation – Sylar didn't know much about it, Peter knew a lot and Nathan knew all he thought he needed to know about Peter, Petrellis, and baseball. "What do you want to do today?" was his crappy rejoinder. "We still have the…the…" Hadn't they been doing something in his apartment? "Puzzle. Or…you said maybe a game…? Sometime?"

XXX

Peter was busy keeping his eyes somewhere other than Sylar's now. He didn't know what kind of dreamy expression he might have been wearing before and he felt grateful Sylar wasn't pursuing the matter. He cleared his throat slightly. "Well, I thought we'd get over to your place and then get cleaned up, maybe do laundry. You'll have to show me where the laundry room is. We could take a board game down with us and play while the clothes wash." He smiled a little, thinking it would be a better diversion than staring at the tumbling garments or getting into another angry argument about whatever. _Not like we're short on topics for that._ "I think we were almost done with the puzzle. Shouldn't take too long to knock it out, but I'd rather get our clothes clean, first. I was going to hang onto those sweat pants to wear at your place. For sleeping, you know?" Naked wasn't something he wanted to be around Sylar and his norm of boxers wasn't an option for various reasons he didn't want to think about.

XXX

_Laundry now? Together. At my place. Sleeping, too._ Sylar sent a checking glance towards Peter, who looked normal, delivery calm. Knowing Peter, the whole statement was as innocent as Peter would like him to believe. No 'you wanna molest my underwear?' involved, nothing, zip. For Sylar, laundry with anyone other than his mother was downright intimate. It just didn't mean the same thing at all to Peter and since the nurse was the one dictating things…that meant laundry was just laundry. _If it doesn't mean anything why the hell should I care what you wear to bed on my couch, Peter? W_ _hy would you even bring it up?_ Petrelli's idea of small talk was not Sylar's idea of small talk. _(I don't make small talk unless I'm…hunting someone. That's why)._

He was also avoidant of the sandwich, namely its filling. How many times had Virginia forced tuna sandwiches on him? The last of which being…the night she died. He didn't get to mourn; it was a mere sandwich with disturbing memories. Unfortunately, he couldn't blame his hesitation on nausea this time.

XXX

Peter applied himself to eating, crunching on chips when his sandwich was done and rubbing at his jaw speculatively. "My jaw's not hurting today. I hope it keeps up that way." He sighed. "Haven't been able to eat carrots or celery or apples or a whole bunch of things for quite a while now. I've been told that crunch is real important to how satisfied a person is with food. What do you think?"

XXX

"I've thought about that. Maybe it's because soft food is associated with babies, sick or old people, like soup, applesauce, mush. Crunch is usually unhealthy food anyway, like chips," he gestured, "so maybe it's a guilty pleasure? But humans are animals and animals get satisfaction from eating when they've located a tree-full of nuts or hunted down a zebra. Maybe we get satisfaction from getting to use our teeth in a modern, industrialized setting." _I can think of a few non-food things I'd like to sink my teeth into…_ "Like you can take a tiger out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle out of the tiger." Which was something Sylar understood of a certain form of feeding. Once he'd cut his teeth, there was no going back to a hand-fed, mush diet. Idly, he wondered if Peter understood that, or felt the same way.

XXX

Peter blinked at Sylar a few times, startled by an answer he found bizarre to the point of near-unintelligibility, but at least non-threatening. Deciding it was okay and in fact rather quirky and cool, he smiled and nodded. He took his plate to the sink to clean up from the meal. He puttered around, limping just a little, and put things up while Sylar finished. He picked up the painkillers from the table and took a double dose, thinking he should have done that before eating. It occurred to him that Sylar had taken his own medicine without prompting – another great sign, along with the fact that the man had eaten nearly all of his sandwich. Peter carried the bottle over to the wheelchair, putting it inside the top bag. He called back, "Do you want to go right away, or digest some first? I'm going to stop off in the bathroom either way," he added as a liberal hint that perhaps Sylar should consider doing the same.

XXX

"Now. Or I'll fall asleep," Sylar said by way of reason. _Good grief! He has no concept of a filter._ The notion of blurting out personal information was frightening, dangerous, stupid and useless. Since Peter has gone to the bathroom, he shook his head at the helpless emotionalism, and neatly folded the note Peter had written him, sliding it into his book which lay on the couch. Then, on a whim, when no one could see him, he leaned over the couch to try to spy how the snow/ice conditions were on the streets. Tall or not, he didn't have the right angle; he faltered, dizzy, before kneeling on the couch to better look – he wound up with his forehead against the cold glass when Peter entered.

XXX

Peter emerged from the bathroom, underwear in hand, after seeing to his needs. He stuffed the garment down under one of the med bags along with the sweat pants and then gave the apartment a quick sweep, room to room. "Do you want to bring that clock with us?" He hoped the answer was yes. To a pathetic degree, he wanted even that small effort to mean something. _He said it was beautiful. He likes that stuff, right?_ Peter was the sort of person who would loyally read the stock pages to a terminal man who had been unconscious for a week; getting a clock for his brother's murderer represented the same tireless desire to gain approval, no matter what the circumstances. "Other than that, I don't see anything else to bring. Don't forget your book." He turned to see if Sylar had changed clothes, or if he needed to urge the man on to get into something that covered him more adequately.

XXX

Startled, Sylar quickly snapped back, muttering, "Ow" to himself when the other man spoke. Hopefully, he asked, "Can we?" The clock was in working condition, a lovely piece; it wasn't perfect; it needed some work, and anyway, he could always care for another clock whether Peter resided here or slept near him or not. It was like getting a Christmas toy. "I'll need to wrap it up." Occupied with thinking ahead, ignoring Peter, he walked past to prepare the clock, he considered if he should carry it to protect it from jolts, drops or vibrations. It wasn't as though he wouldn't or couldn't fix it if something did happen, he'd just rather nothing did happen. Bringing back a large towel from the bathroom, he gently, carefully covered it with several layers.

XXX

Peter watched the clock-packing for a few moments, pleased and warmed that Sylar was taking it with him. _He likes it! I feel like an i_ _diot for thinking that's cool. Oh well … I guess I'm an idiot then._ Smiling to himself, he went to the refrigerator and got out the remaining fancy cheese, then found the cheese slicer. He intended to show that to Sylar later on, but for now he just packed them in the plastic bag he'd used for lunch and then stowed them on the wheel chair. He looked back, unable to tell if Sylar was obsessing pathologically or just being ultra careful in taking so long and being so meticulous at what he was doing. Given the number of clocks in his apartment, Peter suspected the former. "Hey, you need to change before we go."

XXX

Sluggishly his attention was drawn from the clock. He gave Peter a blankly questioning face. _Why? Change into what?_ It was then he looked down to see what Peter considered inappropriate. Sweats and a too-small t-shirt. He'd forgotten. "Oh." Now the trick was remembering where he'd left his clothes. Sylar meandered to the bathroom, not finding them there, he moved on and found them in the guest room. The t-shirt he was glad to be rid of, it was much too tight and clingy. _Is he going to have to hold me up again?_ He kept only the new socks on, pocketing his own for cleaning later. He appeared before Peter, arms out and an expression of 'happy now?' or possibly, 'how's this?'

XXX

_Jeez. He's taking forever._ To forestall his frustration, Peter moved the clock-package from the bed to the chair, noticing that the towel was folded around it in some clever fashion that tucked the corners into itself or something. He wasn't sure, but it wasn't going to come unfolded unless he tugged at it. _How'd he do that? Huh._ He arranged the bags better so things wouldn't be casually dislodged, looping bag handles and carry straps around the arms and back of the wheelchair. He took a final look around the place, picking up Sylar's book and adding it to the load. _He's doing a lot better, but he's absent-minded as can be._ Sylar finally came out, holding his arms out for inspection. Peter spied something bulgy in the guy's pants pockets, too lumpy to be the rude suspicion that first leapt to Peter's mind. He didn't ask, just nodding and gesturing at the front door. "Can you get that?" Peter fell in behind the wheelchair out of habit.

XXX

Sylar gave him a continually annoyed expression, mostly for having the audacity to nod an 'acceptable/okay' at his wardrobe. Or maybe it was a nod because he was dressed at all. Refusing to think on that, he opened the door and passed through ahead of Peter. He lingered awkwardly, not sure if he was to follow or lead the wheelchair expedition. He hovered until it became clear he was leading – when Peter nearly ran into him with the chair, when Sylar impeded the hallway. Hands in his pockets, he walked at a pace to the elevator, opening it, stepping in and pushing the lobby button to make way for Peter and the chair.

XXX

"You ever pushed a wheelchair?" Peter asked as the elevator started down. "I'm assuming you've been in one at some point?" It wasn't exactly a novel experience that everyone needed to try, but Peter was sideways asking if Sylar had ever had to care for someone who couldn't easily get around on their own.

XXX

"I can't…remember," Sylar said after trying to think about it. His childhood was blissfully hazy (what he did remember wasn't great). "Maybe? Like…on the way to the door once or twice. I'm…I really can't say." He couldn't vouch with any certainty about his time on Level Five; hallucinogenics had really warped his perceptions of that time and place. It was a strange question, possibly a leading one, if Peter was trying to get him into the chair. He eyed it suspiciously. /"My wife was in a wheelchair."/ Sylar felt his face fall. The wheelchair was between him and the controls. Peter was closer to them _. I'm going to die in an elevator. Over a wheelchair._ Closed quarters with Peter I'll Beat Your Face In And Play Dirty Petrelli, dropping through the air in a confined metal box of death over a stupid question was so ironic it was almost funny. It was better than dying in a sewer, though. There was no doubt in his mind Peter was going to clobber him; it showed on Sylar's face, a painful, resigned grimace as he shifted, desperate not to squirm or freak out. He cast a last chance look up at the ceiling to see if the escape hatch was accessible – it wasn't, painted shut. There was no way he was prying the door open, either; Peter would use his head as a door-knocker long before that could happen. _I didn't mean to._

XXX

Peter's mouth gaped for a second before snapping shut in a tight-mouthed scowl. Any possibility Sylar had had a spouse in a wheelchair was wiped away by his expression and lack of explanation. He was talking about Heidi. Peter's chest tightened and he could hear his heart pounding. His hand hurt and he didn't even think he was trying to clench it. He wanted to grab the guy and shake him. Not actually beat him up, but just try to shake some sense into him. He could tell from Sylar's expression and stance and awkwardly looking anywhere but at Peter that he knew what he'd done. It left Peter flummoxed for the moment about how to respond.

XXX

"I wished…my mom would have gotten a walker…?" Sylar mumbled with a kind of white-flag appeasement that was both hopeful, desperate and honest, hail-Mary'ing for a distraction. "I- she…was always frail and small. She was always falling." At the risk of sounding completely mean and evil, he continued in a depressed tone, "She just did it for the attention." Since Peter was a paramedic, had taken care of the old and dying, had shared stories of older persons, Sylar added with slight question and a shrug, "Maybe you know something about that."

XXX

That did it. Peter couldn't hold it in any longer, not that he was all that clear what 'it' was, but Sylar's little slip had just obliterated the happy, numb distance Peter had been able to put between Sylar, his patient, and Sylar, the killer. His voice was cutting, angry, and raised as he lashed out verbally, "What would I know something about? Taking a fall for attention? What the fuck, Sylar?! Are you trying to say that's _me_? Huh? Jumping off things just to make people pay attention to me? That sounds a lot like the sort of thing someone _other than you_ would say."

XXX

Sylar's head came up nervously. This was probably the angriest he'd seen Peter yet and it was here, injured, in the elevator with deadly weapons, that he'd unintentionally goaded him into blasting off. The insinuation that he'd sounded like Nathan stung bitterly. _I'm not even being his brother and I sound like him – shit, shit, shit._ Peter had every right to be mad, enraged, actually. Sylar knew (too late) how his words might sound. _If he wasn't going to kill me now, he will for calling him a drama queen and comparing him to Mom._ He was miserable and stuck being yelled at because he couldn't keep his mouth shut or say the right thing.

XXX

Peter continued, "What do you think all of this is, anyway?" He spread his arms threateningly to indicate the entirety of the world, bristling as he did it. Sylar did not look happy about the rant. Peter didn't care. "You are _**not**_ _Nathan_. Matt Parkman made you think you were. It was a mental command," he snarled, pointing at his own temple with his left index finger, pointed like a gun, as his segue brutally abandoned the pretense he'd pandered to for weeks now about the nature of the world. "Just like you being here, just like this whole world that we're fucking trapped in! _It's not real_. And it's over. You're _not_ Nathan, you're _not_ my brother, and you _don't_ get to act like it just because Parkman and my mom and whoever else hatched some-" His throat choked up and tears came to his eyes. The plan had been so stupid! What if they'd succeeded? More, that is? Breathing raggedly, he tried to get control of himself, baring his teeth in frustrated anger as he stared down, by happenstance at the wheelchair that was mostly between them.

The elevator doors dinged and opened.

XXX

Surprisingly, Peter hadn't moved the wheelchair nor reached for any drugs. Trapped as he was, he wasn't going to take that as much of a comfort yet. Sylar bristled at being called crazy or…overly…delusional, whatever Peter was trying to infer _. If I'm crazy and making this all up, then how are you here, accepting and living in my world-of-make-believe, Peter, huh? Your hand is broken because you broke it. No one made you do that, not me, Nathan, your_ _mom or Parkman. You definitely don't get to tell me how to act because you helped them turn me into Nathan. Fuck you. Do you seriously_ _think_ _I'd act like him if I had a choice? (Maybe.)_ That last thought kept him from voicing his own upset reaction by taking some certainty from him.

The door opened and, suicidal or not, Sylar had enough self-preservation left to slide out before Peter could change his mind to enact death by wheelchair. He breathed hard for a moment, recovering from the adrenaline and shock that came from near-death experiences and being yelled at. Peter didn't emerge and Sylar stayed close, about a yard away, waiting in case Peter…well, he didn't much know what he was waiting for. _Is…he going back up? Is he staying? He's not gonna help me_ _back to my apartment now, that's for sure._ Just as he was about to call the man's name, he heard movement from inside the car.

XXX

Peter snapped to as the doors began to close. He jabbed the button to reopen them, pushing the wheelchair out aggressively and giving it a rough shove off to the side out of his way. He glared at Sylar like he was working himself up to round two, but instead he said, "I need to calm down."

XXX

Sylar met his eyes for all of a second, catching the glare as it was intended before looking away. "I'm sorry. I meant…You're a nurse. You took care of those…old people, the dying people." There was a word for that but it wasn't registering to him, and in his haste, and for fear of losing Peter to wherever he might go, Sylar didn't stop to think of it. "Like Charles. A-and you were a paramedic – _are_ a paramedic. I thought…you might have to respond to fake calls like the police do…" Explaining himself and neatly dodging answering what _he_ (not unreliable, eye-witness Nathan) thought about Peter's claims to aerial (suicide) hall of fame. It sure looked liked suicide, that's what Nathan had decided. Sylar understood maybe a bit more because instead of burying and denying his ability, he'd tested it out on a corpse he'd murdered and tried to kill himself after. "Dealing with…crazy people," Sylar waved an all-encompassing hand that included himself, the Petrellis, his mother, Peter's patients…

XXX

Peter's eyes shot to the side as he mentally evaluated his options (Go in the apartment manager's office and flounce on the couch he'd found there earlier? Go play piano? Play something else? Pace?) while Sylar rattled on. Peter was listening, just not looking at him. The nervous, tense, and completely conciliatory tone was taking the edge off his anger, though, turning his rage into sullen resentment. He finally gave Sylar a narrow-eyed glance, tracking the hand-waving. He looked away with an unimpressed eye-roll, stalking to the side to look in the exercise room. Going in there and blowing off some steam sounded okay.

XXX

Sylar turned and crossed the lobby, exiting the building. "Ow! Christ!" It was around noon, they'd had lunch and now the sun was out, blazing away into his tender eyes. He quickly raised a hand to look around. It took him a few minutes, but he spotted it; his apartment was only a few blocks to his right, across the street. Undeservedly grumpy and depressed at losing the warm crutch that was Peter, he set off. The view shifted as his foot went out from under him; he flew and impacted hard on his flank and elbow. It drove the breath out of him and jarred his bones, shaking him badly for how unexpected it was. Even Nature, Fate, wasn't happy with him. Since no one was there to hear him, and he'd gotten into the habit of talking to himself or the world before Peter had appeared, Sylar slammed the side of his fist into the ice, screaming at the pinnacle of frustrated anger to hear it echo, "FUCK!" For once he wanted to do the right thing – cross the street, walk himself home, have a conversation, or make a friend or keep one.

XXX

Peter had the door to the exercise room open and was starting inside when he heard the lobby door cycle open and shut. He looked back, seeing Sylar going outside on his own. "Hey, um ..." he said into the now-empty lobby as he stepped back in and let the workout room door swing shut. _Bad idea. Don't go out there alone, Sylar. What are you doing? Are you just looking?_ Peter followed, jolting suddenly in sympathetic pain and surprise when Sylar's first step onto the slushy snow-covered ice landed him on his rump. _Shit! Is he okay? Didn't hit his head at least._ He hurried outside, arriving in time to hear as well as see Sylar's tantrum at things not going his way.

XXX

Sylar heard the door and sat up, mortified. And after the things he'd said about his mother… " _What_ , Peter?! What do you want? I'm crazy and I'm just doing it for the attention!" Pushing himself to his knees, he gingerly rushed the process of standing, both feet sliding some before he got his balance.

XXX

Seeing that Sylar was well enough to rage at things, Peter couldn't stop the laughter that started bubbling up. They had a saying among EMTs that the loudest patients needed the least help. It was the quiet ones you had to worry about. Sylar's anger reassured Peter the guy's worst injury was to his pride, which turned what might have been horrible into hilarity. Peter was chuckling as he tried to help Sylar up, even if Sylar was having none of it. "Aren't we all?" Peter said in answer to Sylar's words. "Come on, buddy. Hang onto me, alright? Get back over here under the eave where you're off the ice."

XXX

Sylar growled wordlessly; it was all just too much and he couldn't express himself any better than he'd already done. Then he got hurt and Peter laughed at him. So, yes, he struggled against the nurse, impairing Peter's help somewhat. Mostly he flopped around like a wet fish, looking still more ridiculous, trying to get his feet while Peter had all the balance and footing in the world on the bare concrete under the eave. The nurse was considerably stronger than he was, though. His face wound up against Peter's arms and chest a few times and he got a face-full of what Peter smelled like. Sylar wanted to stay there. God, he about melted…He may or may not have made some ambiguous sounds about it as they moved around. His clutching and grabbing at Peter's coat and buff arms was completely legitimate, as were his sounds. He was needy and he knew it.

XXX

Trying to herd Sylar to safety, Peter said, "That stuff really messed me up yesterday. Or the day before that, I guess. You've got to watch it. Can you still walk okay?" He took a step back and eyed Sylar, trying to judge the man's stance and balance.

XXX

"I'm fine!" Sylar spat quickly, pulling away from Peter, trying to cover up for…well, everything. He bristled at the very thought of needing assistance. _Just like Mom. I didn't do it on purpose! He thinks I did!_ He wanted to vent, physically, at something soft, powerless, available and responsive, which mostly described Peter here – and he would have laid into Peter if he didn't think the nurse would kick his ass. He searched for something to blame instead – there had to be something besides his rather 'human' error. The indignity was a weakness he couldn't afford. Relief came when Peter didn't rub it in, but it left him just as confused what to do. There just wasn't anything to blame. "I used to be able to make ice; melt it, cut it up into tiny pieces, disintegrate it; fly over it!" But Peter ignored him once more. Sylar didn't know what to do with that, either.

XXX

"Let me go get the wheelchair. We'll both hang onto it. It's a big help." In a much better humor (seeing Sylar fall on his ass was a great tension-defuser), Peter went back inside and retrieved the ambulatory appliance. As he got it outside, he said, "I'll take the right. You take the left. Let's just go real slow." He took hold of the right handle of the wheelchair with his left hand, leaving Sylar to take the left handle with his right hand. It put them each on opposite sides of the thing, jointly pushing it forward along the sidewalk.

XXX

Sylar grumbled dissentingly, but slowly followed the example after thinking ahead some. If he fell twice he'd look stupid on purpose, instead of on accident like the first fall looked (or so he hoped). "I didn't fall on purpose," he informed Peter to cover how retarded he felt co-driving a goddamn wheelchair filled with drugs, which didn't seem to bother Peter, then again, little aside from Sylar seemed to. His protest was important because he needed Peter to think every ailment or injury was real, even if it wasn't. And he hadn't fallen on purpose, this time - he needed to make that clear. _When I fall on purpose…I use rope for effect._ Sylar was wound tighter than the bundled clock, fussy, twitchy, paranoid, defensive. He'd come close to getting his lights knocked out several times now. He wanted some kind of emotional outlet that would be acknowledged and addressed with kindness and help; he wanted his own bed and rest without the roaming, all-encompassing gaze of the sun or Peter's judgmental, triggery scrutiny. He wanted some of that wonderful smell and human flesh Peter possessed. And when he was done resting, he wanted some safe interaction, damnit. _I want, I want, I want. I know._

XXX

"Yeah, I know. Stuff's slicker than snot." Sylar seemed really stressed to Peter – voice tense, body language wound up and a little jerky, eyes darting around like he expected the ice (or Peter) to come after him. It was enough to make Peter wonder if he was uncovering another weird phobia. _Wasn't he afraid of thunder, too?_ He made sure to move slowly and deliberately, keeping an eye on his companion and trying to do nothing that might agitate him further. _I wonder if he's just afraid of thi_ _ngs he can't control with his abilities? Well … that's kind of broad. That's … everything now. But if someone had been really powerful and then lost it all, then maybe he feels like he's at the world's mercy?_

XXX

Peter wasn't giving him much and that made him nervous. He could neither cut into the man's head nor read his mind to see what was going on inside. Other people's thoughts were dangerous, threatening, and untouchable. It was like they could see everything in him, everything about him and he couldn't retaliate, explain or fix whatever they saw that they inevitably didn't like. They reached his apartment building with little incident (a few slips in the slush on his part). "You're-you're coming up, right?"

XXX

"Sure. That was the plan." Peter took over driving the wheelchair alone now that they were off the ice, which left Sylar both hands free to manage doors, the elevator buttons, and to keep his own balance.

XXX

Sylar relaxed then, which struck him as an odd reaction. _Stockholm Syndrome. That's all. He's…not my brother; not my friend. He's not anything but dangerous. But he's going to play a game with me._ He mentally scoffed at that. _A board game or the world-domination game? Do I care which? (Do I care who wins?)_ They rode the elevator with much less tension this time – Sylar making a point to avoid looking anywhere near Peter's person the whole way in case any warning glares were being lasered at him. For such a usually gentle man, Peter could really make someone uncomfortable – although, for such a usually gentle man, Peter could kick ass, make trouble and glare like few others with much less effort than Sylar thought fair. He hobbled a little faster to his door, where he saw that the wheelchair would be a tight fit in his crowded apartment.

Partly blocking the door, he suggested, "Um…you should…leave it in the hall." Hinting still further (but he would put his foot down and fight over it if need be, his phrasing, tone, and body language were a red herring of politeness, for now), "You can come out and get the stuff if you need it." Which was his way of being safe and in charge – the meds, and Peter's possessions, weren't welcome. With that, he scooped up the clock and his book, making sure Peter didn't sneak anything in, before letting himself in.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said agreeably, parking the chair next to the grocery cart full of books in the hallway. _It fits right in. Ha. My stuff; his stuff._ He watched as Sylar gathered up the clock and book, noticing what seemed like a furtive manner in the other man. _Is he going to try to lock me out or something? He's acting really paranoid. Again. Didn't he ask me up? Or was that him being afraid that I would come up and hoping I didn't?_ Peter lingered over the wheelchair, giving Sylar plenty of opportunity to retreat inside without him. He pulled out the bag of cheeses and the slicer, trying to see if there was anything else that needed to be brought in. No slam of door sounded, so he glanced to the side to see that Sylar was observing him closely enough to telegraph continuing suspicion. _But he's not trying to lock me out. Maybe it's the meds that's concerning him? I don't know. Doesn't matter. I need to defuse him._ He held up his items, showing them off for inspection. Sylar seemed satisfied; they both went inside. _Probably not a good time to make a big deal about having found a cheese slicer._

Peter wandered into the kitchen to stow the cheese, still trying to work out what was up with his jittery companion. _Is he still_ _thinking I'm mad about the Heidi-in-a-wheelchair comment or the part about me jumping_ _off buildings_ _for attention?_ He turned around from putting stuff away to find Sylar virtually in his pocket, having put down his own things and then followed Peter into the kitchen with disturbing stealth. But the guy didn't appear to be up to anything malign. He was just … there. And continuing to eye-ball Peter like he expected Peter to try something at any moment. _He's really afraid. Of me leaving? That's what he's been_ _most afraid of since I got here._

Peter pulled in a deep breath, putting on a smile that wasn't the same as his usual nurse-face. It was different because it was more genuine, more gentle, and showing a momentary affectionate amusement. "Come on, Sylar," he said, gesturing back towards the living room. "Have a seat on the couch for me. You need to get out of your wet shoes. Socks, too, probably."

XXX

Having been given enough of a cue, Sylar led the way to the living room, sitting first. He waited moment, unsure what he was waiting for – most likely waiting for Peter to park it somewhere. When that didn't happen, he got to work. He'd laced his shoes snug enough, it wasn't his usual, thorough job because of his headache. His shoes were in better shape than his socks, which had soaked up the slush; they were the more difficult, too, sticking to his skin. The process was mildly frustrating because he wanted to hurry for several reasons, the pain in his head affecting everything it was so strong. _Did I take any pills? I thought I did…_ His jacket was the next thing removed.

XXX

Peter watched the removal. _Is he well enough to assess frostbite on his own? We weren't out long. He's otherwise healthy, so he's not in much danger of anything, is he? How wet did his feet get? Didn't he already have some_ _thing wrong with his toes? Kicked a file cabinet. I should look at that again._ He started to squat or bend – whichever didn't matter, as Peter straightened quickly and with a grunt of pain. "Nope, that won't work for me. If I get down there, I won't be able to get back up." At least, not easily, not without hurting. Between all his various pulled muscles around his groin and hips, getting up and down wasn't a simple matter.

XXX

Sylar stopped and looked up immediately. "Huh?" Then Peter clarified it. "Oh."

XXX

Peter dipped into the bathroom to emerge with a towel and took up a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Sylar. "When you're done there, turn and give me your feet. I want to look at them." He said it perfectly matter-of-factly.

XXX

Finished with the second sock, Sylar set them and the shoes aside. He looked up to see Peter not in the room, but returning to it. _I must be really out of it. Falling, running my mouth. I'm a pain in the ass and I don't mean to be. I wouldn't care for me, not like Peter's doi_ _ng. Is that stubbornness or patience?_ Virginia has been one to emphasize 'virtues' (and 'sins'). She'd cropped up enough, too much, already today. Sylar raised a long eyebrow. Peter looked very serious and un-fucking-bothered by his own request for the gift of feet. _O-kay…_

Sylar did as requested, shifting to proffer his limbs, trying and failing to hold them above Peter's lap but the angle of back and knees overcame him. The towel was a good idea, keeping clammy, otherwise smelly (dirty?) feet off Peter. _W_ _ait, isn't this a custom to other cultures? Foot baths? Foot…worship? What the hell's it called?_ His eyes were tracking between Peter and his feet in the man's lap.

XXX

"Set them down," Peter murmured, pushing Sylar's feet so the heels rested on his thigh. He immediately moved one over a few inches, off the still-somewhat-tender spot where Sylar had kicked him a little more than a week before. They were long, angular feet, appropriate to Sylar's height and size. Pale, too-white skin was cool to the touch as he rested his left hand briefly on the sole and then the fingers of his right (where they weren't restrained by the brace) against the top. The skin on the bottom was dry enough; that on the top was damp. He scrubbed with the towel at the wetter portions of skin. It was mainly on the top of foot (under laces and tongue of the shoe) and around the ankles. On the plus side, he didn't see any signs of frostbite. He set aside the towel to look at Sylar's toes with more interest.

XXX

The nurse plucked and tugged his toes aside, palming them just to…feel the skin. _Is this a test?_ Sylar's expression turned amused, _The 'let me massage your feet' line, routine…custom thing._ But that was all. He snapped his face back to neutral as Peter patted him dry, kindly covering him with the towel when done. "Do you…enjoy giving physicals? I mean…Is this a standard thing? Do my feet really need…this?" He tilted his head and gestured, curious and probing.

XXX

He tensed at the man's first question, shooting Sylar a wary look like Peter had just been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. He'd been accused too often of manufacturing situations to save people from (even if only once) and he felt on shaky ground helping Sylar at all. The follow-up questions let Peter relax a little. He watched Sylar's face for a few more moments as he double-checked intent. Then he looked at the towel-covered feet, resting his hands against them.

XXX

Sylar hadn't been fidgeting before, but he went still now, seeing and feeling Peter tense, stare and check out his feet. _Don't break my toes. I didn't mean anything (much) by it._ He debated pulling his feet away as a precautionary measure.

XXX

Thus settled, Peter answered what he perceived as a challenge to his ethics directly and straightforwardly. "Yes, I enjoy it. I like being with people, seeing them. You can't treat a patient without looking at them, getting information about them, and some of that information you have to get by touch. It's standard." He shrugged. "I think your feet need it. What if they had frostbite and I didn't bother to check? What if, since the last time I looked, those stubbed toes had infected or something? How would I know if I didn't look?" _And I can't trust you to take care of yourself yet._

Peter smoothed down the towel and tucked it in a little. It was an unnecessary, habitual care-taking gesture. His eyes followed what he was doing now rather than Sylar's face. More slowly and softly, he added, "We're taught, as nurses and paramedics, to touch our patients. It makes them happy; they feel recognized. There's a lot of studies about the benefits of positive touch." He reached up to scratch at his nose self-consciously, still looking down instead of at Sylar. "People don't get enough of it." He was trying not to admit that he knew he'd picked a profession that allowed him to connect with people, literally and frequently. It looked selfish (and possibly inappropriate) and he wanted to be the opposite of that. He wanted his career choice to be about his heroism, not about self-indulgence at the expense of others.


	63. First Kiss

_Day 16, afternoon, December 26_

Thank God Peter wasn't looking at him. Sylar knew his face was slipping, but he had little idea what Peter would see if he looked now, probably some wide-eyed wonderment or goofy confusion. He was stunned or…off-balance by that answer, mostly how it affected (rather, how it hadn't played a part in) his life. He wondered why that was. Then he wanted to rip the man's head open to see how he was made because that brain was sure to be an interesting one. _They make people like him? He sounds like…Wonder Nurse. Still. Why treat me that way? Why make me happy and recognized and positive? So I won't hurt him?_ He had always assumed those things were good, but to hear from a medical professional that those things were staples of health, well…It made a lot of sense and, honestly, it hurt because it did. Sylar wanted to protest the ideology oozing from Peter's person; just to make the explanation fit his own life, which wasn't resplendent with hugs and kisses or sex. The difference was a smack in the face of how…not-normal he was and how good normal, _un-special_ people had it as a rule.

XXX

He stopped there, trying not to think about how much he wanted to put his hands under the towel and directly on Sylar's skin. That was above and beyond medical care and thus off-limits, much like sitting around with one's patient's feet in one's lap. It sent the wrong message, he knew. But he couldn't bring himself to move them. Instead, in an act of idiocy he knew he was going to regret, Peter pointed out, "Your pants have got to be soaked from falling. You should get them off." He looked to the back of the couch, where the blanket had been flipped up. He pulled it down and tossed it over Sylar's legs so he'd be covered. "Unfasten them, lift up, and I'll pull them off." He plucked at the sodden cuffs. _I wouldn't be feeling so guilty about this if he were just an average patient. This would be completely normal: 'Got wet clothes? Ge_ _t out of them.' Normal. But with the usual patient, I go home at the end of the day and never see them again. I don't sleep on their couch while they're crushing on me._

XXX

Sylar blinked, whiplashed by the change in topic because he'd been sea-deep into analyzing it. He frowned about it. _Touch is good, now take off your pants? And I'm going to think there's a connection there when there isn't because Peter doesn't want…that, any of it. Does he say that stuff on purpose? Just drop trou under the blanket wi_ _th my feet in your lap._ Sylar battled a blush despite himself, mostly from the weirdness of the situation. _God, we're lucky I put my underwear back on. I'm sure my balls are free of frostbite, but thanks for thinking of them. They'd appreciate some 'recogn_ _ition.'_ He didn't say that though, not wanting to ruin...whatever the fuck was going on here. After a long checking glance at Peter, Sylar popped his pants open and arched up a few inches which was really as far as he could go, groaning from tight muscles, bruises and the infernal headache. When he settled, pants-less, he purposefully calmed himself: _This isn't weird. This isn't weird. This isn't weird…_ It was both nerve-wracking and…slightly arousing despite itself when all he could picture was 'positive touch' and Peter's hand sneaking up under the damn blanket. He sniffed dismissively, giving checking glances to Peter every few seconds. "Touch spoils people, too, Peter," he said by way of protesting the ideology. That's what he'd been told about physical gratification of most varieties. It was a subtle message that he considered himself more adapted or adaptable than Mr. Six Hundred Fucks. He wasn't that needy.

XXX

Peter snorted, but he was pleased that they'd managed to get past the depantsing without incident. He tossed the garment to the side and then fussed with the blanket and towel. He folded the towel a few times and put it under Sylar's bony heels so they wouldn't dig into his leg so much, tucking the blanket around them. Then Peter relaxed against the couch, looking very much like he intended to stay there for a while. Even for him, sitting here with Sylar's feet in his lap was pretty damn strange, but he was tired, it felt good, and he was feeling selfish. He didn't think Sylar would object and even if he did (as long as he didn't call Peter out on what he was doing), he didn't care too much.

Aside from the murky moral waters, there was something more clear-cut to debate. "There used to be a theory that cuddling babies spoiled them somehow, like they might go rotten if you touched them too much. It's wrong; disproven; false. People go insane without contact – depression, anxiety ..." He shrugged, letting his eyes fall shut. He was warming up enough to notice his own pants were damp around the ankles, but the rest of him was comfy enough. "Next you'll be telling me that caring for the terminally ill doesn't improve their quality of life."

Peter's eyes were shut; his right hand rested on Sylar's nearer ankle; his left was on his own thigh. He looked a lot like he might doze off like that. He'd gotten his way – Sylar's needs were taken care of without fight or argument, and Peter's loosely claimed prize of physical contact wasn't being denied or used to shame him. It made him feel like he could lay down his defenses enough to be snoozy for the moment.

XXX

Sylar eyed Peter's countenance. Instead of sticking his foot in it (figuratively speaking), he went the 'think harder, question less' route, considering what he knew of Peter. The man was relaxed, that much was obvious. Nathan wouldn't have cared if Peter was sleepy. But why the touching? His ankle of all things, his rather hairy ankle? The man who murdered his brother? There was no reason whatever to touch or allow contact after the frostbite/infection check. Not that Sylar minded, heck, he was thrilled; it was comforting. He just couldn't figure it out and…that was okay, he supposed (though it would rumble around in his mind for a while because it was an interesting, unanswered question or behavior). _So we just sit here, foot-in-lap, hand-on-ankle. Yup, we're enemies alright_ , he concluded with a mental eye roll. Letting go of the mystery, Sylar let his gaze wander over Peter's unseeing face, because he could and it was a familiar, good-looking face.

He softened his voice in case Peter was…trying to sleep, "The only things I know about old people is that they don't like living care and supposedly they get bad care there." After all, none of his parents had ever gone into care (Virginia definitely qualified and Gabriel had known it, more was the pity; Samson went the natural therapy direction) and all the dead/dying people he'd been around were terminal in a different, more immediate sense. "How do you know it causes insanity?" _Is the Company testing_ _on babies- Yeah, they are._ This was of particular interest to him; it wasn't like the insanity defense was going to clear him of anything anyway.

XXX

"Living care?" Peter's voice was still normal, even if his eyes remained shut. His expression showed a momentary puzzlement. "You mean assisted living care, right?"

XXX

_Why does his frown have to be so adorable?_ "Yeah, that," Sylar said indifferently.

XXX

"Yeah. No one likes to be dismissed or disrespected, to feel out of control of their life, or like their family members are just waiting for them to check out. It can be a really depressing, vulnerable time for people if they lose their mobility and ability to take care of themselves. There's some things about the eldercare system that makes it harder than usual for bad treatment to be corrected, but that doesn't mean bad treatment is all there is. One thing I liked a lot about hospice care was that I was absolutely sure I was making a difference in someone's life, helping them, sometimes when no one else would. There's a lot of good hospice nurses out there. Not enough, but a lot." Which was part of why he'd moved on to something he was more uniquely suited to, getting out in the middle of it on the front line. There were others who could do hospice care just as well as he could, but no one who could spin abilities into ways to save lives.

He sighed, his thumb working back and forth briefly on the blanket as he thought about Sylar's question. He frowned as he tried to remember. "There was a study in orphanages in … somewhere in Eastern Europe. Where the children didn't get much individual attention. And then there's been behavioral studies on infants, testing the whole 'cry it out' philosophy that a crying baby should be left to self-soothe. There's other studies on the effects of touch on preemies. They thought for a long time was that touching premature babies was too dangerous due to risk of infection, but it turned out the thing that was too dangerous was depriving them of human contact."

Peter shrugged, squirming a little and shooting a brief glance at Sylar before looking down at his hands. "Insanity … maybe that was the wrong word for me to use. What I meant was that going without human contact causes a lot of problems for people. With babies it's the starkest because they have no other experience, but it doesn't ..." He paused, remembering Noah's admonition for him to get out of his apartment and connect with his family again. Noah had known about Sylar's forced impersonation of Peter's brother; Claire had said so. Had Noah been telling him to go be friendly to Sylar-as-Nathan?

Peter gave a short shake of his head and brought himself back to the present. "It doesn't do adults any favors either. There's a reason why solitary confinement is a big punishment in prisons." _Or here. Like for you,_ Peter thought, realizing why there was that hint of personal interest in Sylar's voice. Perversely, it made him want to jerk his hand away from Sylar's leg as it occurred to him how much his touch might mean to the man. Peter had been doing it for his own needs, almost consciously declining to consider Sylar's outside of whether or not Sylar was likely to allow the contact. Now that he realized ... For the moment, he refused to give in to the urge to pull away. He left his hand there, his thumb rubbing a few slow circles as he thought it over, feeling through his emotions on the subject.

XXX

"No…Insanity sounds about right," Sylar admitted like a statement. He understood the concept of everyone he knew watching, wanting and waiting for him to die. It was one of the worst feelings he knew. _Connect the dots, Peter. You're a medical professional, I'm the patient; the adult patient needs to get laid to stay sane, see?_ He watched the thumb caressing him through the blanket. All the teasing and closeness grew on him. That tiny motion, intentional or not, had rippling effects like a butterfly's wings. _He understands, he's describing it perfectly._ _Has he already connected the dots? He needs touch? Does he want something? He doesn't want to say it. I can help with that._ As gently and smoothly as he could, Sylar lifted his feet away and knelt on the couch. He moved with necessary speed as he homed in on Petrelli's lips. _Don't read too much into kissing; it's not a requirement; it's just easiest…_ Passion wasn't driving him; it was more a case of fulfilling mutual needs. Nervous, ready to pull away, he skipped over bonding and communication. Leaning down, he cupped the man's jaw and artlessly pressed his lips against Peter's unsuspecting ones. _Come on; give me something; don't hit me; come on…_

XXX

In retrospect, Peter would have expected desire, passion, or lust to have been writ on Sylar's face. Maybe infatuation or yearning. Instead it was something akin to fear – an expression Peter would not have anticipated as a prelude to what followed. It had a lot to do with why he just sat there as Sylar got up all of a sudden, eyes fixed on Peter rather than any other goal. He watched with mild surprise as Sylar reached for his jaw, the beginnings of a thought forming: _He wants to look at my jaw again? Why now? Why does he look-_ By the time he realized Sylar wasn't just leaning close to peer at the way his mandible connected to his skull, the man was kissing him.

Peter jerked back, barking, "Hey!" Hands that had already been rising slowly sped up, finding Sylar's shoulder with his left, upper chest with his right. He gave a short, sharp push, uncertain as to what the response would be. His gaze scanned rapidly over Sylar's face, lingering for a moment on lips before rising and narrowing to meet Sylar's eyes. _He's doing this because I impli_ _ed he's insane? Like revenge? Or manipulation, like 'you say I'm insane so I'll act that way'? Or is it just all the fucking mixed signals I'm giving?_ Are _they mixed? I've told him fucking NO already I don't know how many times. (Then I should probably sto_ _p touching him and putting my feet against him and humping him in bed and putting his feet in my lap and agreeing to sleep in his fucking apartment!)_ "Back off," he said authoritatively, giving another push. He waited a breathless moment, a thrill of both fear and arousal surging through him as Sylar leaned over him, still so close. Too close. He could smell him, feel the heat of skin under his hands, and Peter's mind was flooded with the awareness that Sylar wanted him badly. His traitorous libido chose to point out that the blanket had certainly fallen enough to reveal bare legs and underwear (assuming Sylar was wearing any), but Peter's eyes stayed fixed on Sylar's face, curiosity be damned.

XXX

Sylar felt them disconnect and allowed himself to sway back with the first, light push. The second time with an explicit demand, he sat back on his heels, then shifted to his butt still further away, legs Indian style, face blank. He didn't like the retreat at all but his test had yielded an answer, a response, so the experiment was over; he didn't feel like pushing more than he had already, mostly because the consequence was sure to be another fight. Sylar's eyes lethargically tracked between Peter's left hand and his face.

XXX

Peter pushed himself up off the couch as soon as possible, stiff and coiled like he desperately wanted to start a fight. His left hand went so far as to make a fist as he faced Sylar directly, scowling and glaring. There was nothing quite there to set him to swinging, so he stalked off to the kitchen, pawing at his hair the whole way before turning and coming back. Guilt tore at him. Uncertainty. Knowledge that he'd done things that Sylar might have seen as come-ons. Admission, in his own words and thoughts, that Sylar's need for contact and intimate human companionship would be as great as anyone's who felt they'd spent three years in solitary. _But why the fuck am I the one to have to give him that?! Maybe I'm the only one here, but he killed my brother! And a lot of other people! If he_ _was my patient at the hospital they'd fucking_ remove me _from working on him. I'm compromised! Anyone knows that. I am not here to fix him!_

XXX

Sylar sighed when Peter stood. He felt drained. There was a time when he would have reveled in seeing even such negative passion because of him, aimed at him. Now it made him feel worthless that something as stupid and small as a kiss sent someone into a rage. He wanted to scrub himself raw in a shower to see if that helped make him more acceptable, palatable, presentable (make him feel better or get better results). Or beat some sense into his own brain. It wouldn't work but he entertained it childishly for a moment. This would only be one of many rejections; so this one didn't mean much, a pebble compared to a rockslide. He gave expressionless, undivided attention to Peter through his fit (the man was surprisingly controlled thus far) because that was the safest thing to do when someone was angry at him. They wanted his attention, they wanted to be and would be heard.

XXX

Standing in front of the man, still radiating a desire to inflict violence, Peter challenged, "Why me, Sylar? Why the fuck me? If it was some little old lady who had come here to get you out or Matt Parkman changed his mind or some preteen kid with an early power you wouldn't be making moves on them. What the fuck is it about me that makes you think this could work?"

XXX

Sylar looked up at the somewhat-taller, angry form. _Is he calling me a pedophile? I just kill people!_ Sylar bit that back with effort, with every intention of revisiting it later. ' _Because you're my brother?'_ was the best and only truthful answer that came to him and it was not appropriate. The question was not one he'd given much thought to; he certainly didn't have an answer to please both of them, not even a decent one to pass off for Peter's sake. That made little sense even to him because he had standards and Peter fit them for some reason – unfortunately Sylar didn't always know what those standards were, like his own preferences were hidden from him _. I have preferences?_ Another possible answer appeared: _(Because I know he'll hurt me?)_ Almost tonelessly, he replied, "You answered your own question. You're not old, you're not Parkman, you're not a kid. You're you and you're here." _I already told him we're not going to like each other…Does he still expect 'kiss and make nice'? I mean…He makes it sound like there should be something more – is that just him or is that how it really is? It doesn't matter either way. I'm insan_ _e._

XXX

Peter made an exasperated snarling noise and took a step back, running his hand through his hair again. His expression shifted from angry towards confused. He said as if to himself, "Yeah, but I'd hoped ..." _I'd hoped you had a good answer! But it_ _'s a stupid question. Why does anyone like anyone? But the thing is, why would he think I wouldn't freak out? He killed my brother! He's killed_ me _. Why does he think we could still-_

XXX

"And I am not a pedophile!" Sylar hissed for good measure. "Not like you ever bothered to ask Molly, Micah, Luke or Claire, but I never touched them. Like that." He sneered at the idea. _I let one crash on my – Taub's – couch and I slept in the same hotel room as Luke…and I touched Claire'_ _s cheek. None of that's…sexual. That's…Ugh!_ He also didn't contemplate the part where he'd gotten along with the pair of teenage boys, how both of them had wormed their way under his defenses with distressing ease. "They're all still alive, too," he added spitefully. That was an issue for contention with himself – letting Molly get away, not pursuing her. How easy his life would have been if he'd have just grown a pair and killed one little girl. _I probably wouldn't be here._

The list of things Peter thought he did or liked was far-fetched and stereotypical – it was insulting. Rather than endure another round of 'homicidal maniac clichés', he put his foot down. "You don't know anything about how I operate or why I do things. You'd have done a successful job of killing me if you knew anything about me. So…quit with that." His voice quieted at the end.

XXX

Peter made a choked-sounding grunt before snapping, "I wasn't saying you were a pedophile. Specifically, that's the _opposite_ of what I meant," he said with a dramatic wave of his arm. "I said if it was someone … too old or young for you to be attracted to - that's what I meant – _too_ old or young, then you wouldn't be making passes at them. You're making it sexual _now_ because I-" He rolled his eyes and leaned his butt against the side of the desk. _Because I fit whatever profile of people you're attracted to, whether that be broad or narrow. And there's nothing I can do about that. Nothing he can do about it. The attraction, at least. He can do things about acting on it._ "Fine. Because I'm me." _Complete non-answer!_ he fumed internally. Peter looked sullen and grumpy, still a little fidgety as he turned his mind to the other things Sylar had said.

"Glad they're still alive." He raised his eyes to regard Sylar steadily for a moment, a grudging respect that Sylar had some limits to whom he would kill. "Most of the time I didn't want to kill you. I just wanted to stop you. There's a difference." He crossed his arms and hunched a little as he looked away, unhappy for having entertained and attempted Sylar's death despite it going against his morals. "Who's Luke, anyway?"

XXX

Sylar's eyes were narrowed as they exchanged looks, but his wariness was decreased. He was more grouchy about the conversation than he was about the sort-of failed kiss (that just depressed him, less so if he'd gotten punched over it, but maybe that made it worse; he didn't know). "No one you knew. He…lived next door to my…real father. Probably knew each other most of his - Luke's - life. Little brat knew more about my dad than I do. Luke could…emit microwaves, like an EMP," Sylar sent a glance to see if Peter followed the acronym; Nathan was military so maybe Peter knew. Contemplatively he confessed with a far-away expression, "Saved my life a few times. He was a good kid." There was more he could say, stories he could tell, insights he could share. He stopped there because that was probably more than Peter asked for.

XXX

Peter nodded for the glance about EMP. He'd heard about it. It had something to do with nuclear bombs and scrambling electronic stuff. He made the leap to assume Luke had a power similar to Ted's in emitting radiation, but as he hadn't heard about any massive explosions, apparently Luke hadn't had to deal with the 'blowing up an entire city' side effect. _Or maybe Sylar helped him with that? Not killed him, but … no, didn't Sylar say you couldn't turn off an ability?_ He cocked his head, hearing a slightly different tone in Sylar's voice, almost … affectionate, definitely friendly, possibly mournful. It really snagged his attention, not that it had been wandering. Peter's expression changed from sullen to curious as his hunch straightened a little and he quit holding himself so firmly. "Tell me more about him. Was he a friend?"

XXX

Sylar's brows twitched in momentary amusement/confusion. "As much as I can be friends with a seventeen-year-old." Sadly, that spoke volumes. _I hang out with kids and the only people who tolerate me are going through puberty. They either think I'm some kind of savior or badass_ _. Not so different from adults, apparently._ "He was from Jersey; kind of a hyper-active delinquent…His mom was a piece of work. She's lucky to be alive." Sylar's expression clearly showed his distaste. He showed up and wanted to kill the woman just for…existing and making Luke's life miserable.

"The whole thing was…really ironic." _You mean familiar._ It was only after he met Luke that he re-remembered Samson killing his own mother. And Sylar had killed Virginia years before to finally unburden himself, albeit by accident. He showed up and the moment he knew the kid had a power, Sylar felt like he knew him; wanted to help him some, mentor him. He didn't know how to express that to Peter, or if it should be expressed at all. "He lied to me just to test out a power…" He shook his head, impressed. "He had balls, he had a pair enough to tell me that my dad took him bird watching. And that Luke reminded him of me. To my face. And this was a kid who saw me in action; he knew what I could do."

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter nodded, straightening to normal and letting his arms slide free of each other. "Friendship's not really age-dependent. I counted a guy who was a couple hundred years old as a … well, sort of a friend. I thought we were friends, for a while at least." He gave a brief eye roll and said introspectively, "I never really knew Adam." Lifting his head, Peter rallied with, "What seems to matter more is what people have in common. Sounds like you and Luke shared some common ground." _You resented that he knew your fa_ _ther? Jealous? Is this the father who left when you were young? I can see how that might tick a person off, to have someone else be the favored son through no fault of yours. Or son-substitute._ That wasn't a direction Peter wanted to explore at the moment with Sylar, but he wanted to hear more about this Luke guy. Sylar had had a friend he hadn't killed. That was something Peter wanted to know more about, to encourage. He understood and admitted that he didn't know much about how Sylar operated, but he was learning more and more.

XXX

_You have no idea_ , Sylar thought about their 'common ground.'

XXX

"What happened to him, far as you know? You said he was still alive." _You also said he 'saw you in action'. What does that mean? Did you kill someone in_ _front of him?_ Not wanting to trot that out, because it sounded a lot like a judgment (and it was), Peter asked instead, "Was he able to control his ability?"

XXX

"Last time I saw him he was in an abandoned diner. That's where I left him." After all, they'd had some run-ins with agents, Luke knew what to look for and the kid was far from defenseless. Sylar's brows did furrow this time. "Yeah. Teenage boy with a power, he must have practiced. He never lost control even under stress. Had good aim, too," he said that like it was odd – and it was. "He was probably good at hiding it for school or saving it up for juvie."

XXX

_An abandoned diner? Huh. He was alive at least. And I assume by that Sylar means he was basically okay. At seventeen, he probably had_ _a phone. Assuming Luke had anyone he could call._ Peter considered Jeremy, Amanda, and Claire – the other youths he'd known with abilities. Those were the ones he'd talked to personally. He knew about Molly and Micah from others. _Sylar's power didn't freak_ _him out, so he couldn't have been too traumatized by Sylar's dad. I'm pretty sure Sylar said his dad had an ability, or the same ability._ "What kind of relationship did he have with your father?"

XXX

Sylar paused to give Peter a look. He wasn't quite wary but the questions were getting obvious. _Is this, like, a therapy session to him?_ This one was also a loaded question. "He…knew my dad for some years. At least, that's the impression I got. Luke's dad was gone. He said…He said…" another halt before he shook it off, "my dad said he had a little boy once and that Luke reminded him of me." His mouth was open to say more, tell the rest but it just wouldn't come out. /'He sold you for money, you know…He told me once that he had a little boy a long time ago but he needed cash so he sold him.'/ And the whole part about Samson being 'Mr. Rogers' and killing his mother. He closed his mouth and looked disinterested. Realizing Peter had no frame of reference, he explained a little, "He knew where my dad was and he was smart enough not to tell me for a few days on our road trip and when he did I took the address and left him somewhere off the grid. I don't know why my dad told him that." That last sentence reeked of insecure jealousy. Why should Luke have access to his father in case of freaking emergency when the old bastard couldn't even remember the mother of his child or his son's name?

XXX

"Why he told him that Luke reminded him of you? Probably because he missed you." _People are messy, organic. We don't make_ _sense and it's stupid to get bogged down in trying to._ Sylar's desire for the universe and other people in it to conform to his idea of appropriate behavior had never been so clear. _I'd say you were in for a life of disappointment, but you've already had t_ _hat._

XXX

"What?" Sylar was confused at that leap of 'logic', another assumption, another miscommunication. "No! I meant why my dad gave Luke his address. Jesus," he expelled. "My dad didn't miss me. He had cancer, and the Hunger. I'll give you one guess what power he wanted from me. I know, the irony is just painful," was his sarcastic finish. A forceful exhale banished those remembered conversations. "Say what you want about my family, at least I know when they're going to make a move. Your parents? I understand them, I speak the language but when it comes to the unexpected, I don't think anyone sees it coming."

XXX

_Ah. An exact copy of his ability?_ Peter wasn't sure what to think of two potential Sylars running around. Or the idea of someone possibly having that power for decades. Arthur came to mind, but Peter derailed that thought by focusing on something else Sylar had said and asking, "What kind of cancer?"

XXX

"Lung cancer, I think. He had an oxygen tank and he still smoked. He probably faked most of the coughing. He made the cancer sound terminal." A smirk twisted his lips at that, hearing, /'You'll heal, you'll be fine...I don't want to die'/ rattle through his memory.

XXX

"I've heard lung cancer is a mess." Peter picked up Sylar's pants and fetched the dirty clothes hamper from the closet, brows pulled together in thought as he did. In a suspicious, slightly accusing tone (accusing of Noah, not Sylar), he said, "Noah told me that Claire's ability wouldn't cure cancer. Or at least, that it would only cause a metastasizing tumor to accelerate growth." He stopped in front of the door to the bathroom, saying almost to himself, "Was Noah lying? What advantage was there to him getting me to take Jeremy's ability?"

XXX

Sylar tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "That…makes sense and it doesn't. Either he would be healed or the ability puts the cancer in overdrive, but it wouldn't kill him because he'd just keep coming back. Unless it was brain cancer, depending how close it was to his ability node. That might kill him outright. Or he might die anyway, or he'd be stuck at whatever stage he was at and keep dying and coming back. Huh." The knowledge was both comforting and frightening for all its mystery. Even if Samson had taken regeneration, he'd still be a wheezing old man with aching joints. _But Claire, Peter and I are young and beautiful, is that it? Yes. Survival_ _of the fittest._

"Bennet has a host of Bennet reasons to lie. He's a Company man. Do you think if the Company found a cure for cancer, they'd make good use of it? They don't protect or help anyone. Your mother, running things, has her own crazy agenda so maybe she wanted you to have that power." This Jeremy kid's life – just like Sylar's, Bridget's, Nathan and Peter's - was certainly small potatoes for her grand cockamamie schemes, the ones that never paid off.

XXX

Peter frowned, both at the simple fact Sylar had made a reference to Peter's mother and at Sylar's disturbing leap to talking about brain cancer ( _I never told him what Hiro was sick with, did I?_ ), then he slipped into the bathroom to look for any other articles of clothing in need of a wash. He emerged, propping the hamper on the chair while he said, "Maybe Noah didn't want Claire healing people? I've always wondered why she didn't. Maybe he thought that would protect her from being discovered and experimented on … or at least swarmed by people who wanted to be cured." He was still frowning. His job, his personal situations and track history – oh yeah, Peter had lots of reasons to want to tap Claire's ability as frequently as she'd allow. But that was her decision to make – her decision to be a hero. It wasn't Noah's.

XXX

_Did Peter mention doing laundry?_ Sylar assumed (hoped) that's what Peter was up to, gathering clothes and all. He decided to assist and further pester his keeper. Standing, he felt an unusual breeze on his legs that reminded him of his lack of pants. Before Peter could nag him, Sylar was at his closet, leaned against the wall, shuffling into a new pair of jeans. _Why does he have to be so active?_ "Aren't you still…sore?" he struggled for the appropriate word to sum up Peter's injuries. _I feel like my head is going to split open around one of those Alien pod-creatures and he's buzzing around like everything's fine._ Sylar had been looking forward to some quiet time but the Petrelli's blood was up. _Maybe he's…anxious about the kiss?_ Sylar snuck a covert glance at the man. He thought ahead then, pleased with himself for managing it, to changing shirts also. Jeans on, lower half covered, he unbuttoned his shirt slowly and slid into a fresh one. I'm _sore. I fell on the ice._ Approaching Peter and the hamper, he placed his days-old shirt inside. _I wonder how bad he'd freak out if I kissed him again_ , Sylar considered sadistically, unable to stop his expression from reading 'smug.'

XXX

"Yeah, I am," Peter said testily. _I would have been happy to sit on the couch with you, but you took it too far. I shouldn't have been doing that, anyway._ His eyes narrowed a little at Sylar's expression, and his next questions came out a little more demanding than was necessary. "Where's the laundry detergent? Far as that goes, where's the laundry room? I should have brought my clothes from my place."

XXX

_Oh. Laundry now, he means._ Sylar stretched his back and rolled his eyes in pure annoyance. "It's in the hall closet," he pointed and moved to get it, whether or not Peter was going to do it himself. "If you moved closer, you wouldn't have that problem," he commented mildly. "I'll show you where it's at." _Like I'm going to give you directions and trust you not_ _to get lost._

XXX

_I'm already going to be bunking on your couch tonight, Sylar. That's a lot closer than I want to be._ He blew air out of his nose, irritated that Sylar was still demanding more. _He's a control freak who wants me in his pocket all the t_ _ime,_ Peter thought uncharitably. Realizing Sylar seemed to be prepping for coming with him, Peter changed his tact, opting for a lighter tone as he said, "Hey, if you want to stay here and rest, that's fine with me. I've done laundry. Your clothes are safe with me." He laughed a little at the joke that Sylar might fear to let Peter handle the washing in the same way he didn't want Peter touching anything else of his.

XXX

Sylar canted his head again, missing…whatever was funny. _Implying something else_ _isn't safe?_ When Peter didn't move between him and the door, looking poised to leave him, Sylar struggled to come up with baiting activity. "We could…" _Talk? (No). Kiss? (Yes, but no). Ah!_ "Play a board game?" he hedged and reminded, "You said we could." When Peter looked grudgingly accepting, Sylar informed, "They're in the hall, you pick."

XXX

Peter swallowed down his grumbling as he conceded defeat, or at least that he wasn't going to be more direct in telling Sylar to stay away from him for a while. _Yeah, I'm sore. And I'm irritable. And I was planning on resting on the couch while … yeah, touching you like that should be off limits. Even just sitting there with my hand on your ankle. That's weird. Wrong. I shouldn't even want to do that. (Well, I cer_ _tainly don't want to now.)_ He sighed and carried the clothes hamper into the hall, looking at the choices. "We can play while the clothes wash," he said distractedly.

The box on top was a combination chess/checkers set. Peter nudged at it half-heartedly, remembering Arthur being overbearing and Nathan a gloating ass when he'd played chess with them. He'd played in college and had happier times with it, but the early experiences had soured the fun for him. He shot a sidelong glance back at Sylar. _He won't b_ _ehave himself any better. I'll bet that smug look earlier was about the kiss and 'getting one over on me'. I hate that attitude._ The next was Scrabble, which he liked, but judged might be too complicated for Sylar's current mental faculties. Clue and Monopoly were the next two, with various others further under. He hesitated on Clue. _Didn't he say he liked that? It involves killing people. Can I handle that? From him? Well, if I can't, it's not a big loss. I'm not all that invested in Clue._ He pulled it out and brushed it off. Not that it was dusty, but he felt like it should be. Having decided, he set it on top of the clothes and turned to his companion. "Hey? You ready?"

XXX

"Yeah!" Wait. "Not…yet." Sylar wanted some shoes for this. Clean socks and the damp shoes from before took moments, then he was in the hall with Peter, shutting the door behind himself.


	64. Get A Clue

_Day 16, afternoon, December 26_

"Where's the laundry room at?" Peter asked again in just as crabby a tone as before, trying to figure out a comfortable way of hauling a tall, narrow hamper in his present condition. It was doable, but awkward – too big to tuck under an arm, too heavy to carry one-handed, so he was left hooking the functional fingers of his right hand under the rim and trying not to actually carry any weight on that hand. Once in the elevator, he set it on the floor and stared up and to the side at a random spot on the wall in the opposite direction from Sylar. _I'm tired_. He breathed out heavily. _Most of what I've done is just a lot of sitting around, though._ He glanced over Sylar's way once to show a polite awareness of the guy's presence, then looked away again before he could be engaged in conversation. _What was it Matt yelled at me? 'If you go in there, you'll never come out!' Can't be true. I won't let it be true._ As the elevator doors dinged open, a new thought occurred to him: _What would I need to do to keep it from being true?_

XXX

_Okay. If that's the mood we're in._ "Basement. C'mon, I'll show you." Sylar led the way. _You should really move in. It wouldn't be that bad. Wouldn't have to be on my floor even._ He could feel 'cranky' radiating off Peter and it didn't bother him much – he knew it was harmless. That said, unless he wanted to piss the guy off, he had to pay attention to Peter and simultaneously not annoy or smother him. The ride down was silent but not tense.

XXX

The new scene distracted him. The elevator doors opened on a dingy, poorly-lit basement that featured exposed piping and miscellaneous equipment Peter imagined was necessary for the successful (if equally imaginary) operation of the building. He'd mostly given up trying to rationalize or understand the world. The only thing here worth understanding was Sylar, who still had so many walls up that it would be no easy task to bring them down. Peter hung back and let Sylar lead the way, thus gaining a little bit of privacy for him to wrestle the hamper into submission.

XXX

Sylar turned left out of the doors, leading away from the lobby. There were two right turns, a door, and a long horror-film hallway. "It's cleaner than it looks. It's mostly old," he informed, entering the last door to his left. The washers were on the right walls, the dryers the left. A tall table was mounted in the middle of the room, for folding. There was one chair and a carpeted step area that led to another hall with more apartments. That was there they would be sitting.

XXX

The laundry room itself was better lit and actually enclosed. Peter didn't think they had but a single load to wash. He dumped in clothes all together, not sorting for whites or colors. Just about everything they'd worn had been dark anyway. He frowned into the washer tub. "I used to wear colors. I ought to wear something bright tomorrow. What'd'ya think?"

XXX

Standing by, looking for the opportunity to aid the one-handed with the clothes, Sylar turned to him and grinned. Color was good, wasn't it? Getting Peter out of his mourning garb certainly was. "Sounds good to me." _Uh-oh._ "Um…Speaking of…" _Anal-retentive much? (Shut up. They'll last longer this way.)_ Sylar stepped in to sort the colors before Peter added detergent. The other man huffed and moved away – Sylar checked to make sure it was an okay detachment and it seemed to be. "It's…better for the clothes, this way. It only takes a minute," he tried to reason anyway, just in case or maybe just because. That done, he added detergent and started the machines.

XXX

Peter rolled his eyes but held his peace, stepping back out of Sylar's way, then further still because he didn't have anything invested in how the laundry was arranged. It was mostly Sylar's clothes and despite how easily irritated Peter felt at the moment, this wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to argue about. He snagged the game box from where he'd set it to the side before unloading the clothes and wandered off to the other side of the room, looking for a place to sit. A single chair meant they were both going to be on the floor and since he didn't want to sit flat if he could help it (due to pain when he'd inevitably have to get himself back up), the stair steps looked like the best option. He sunk down on the middle one carefully, near the half-wall so he could pull himself up when he needed to rise.

XXX

"Clue," he said, approaching Peter and spying the game. Sylar settled his legs Indian style and dug out the multitude of tiny pieces that went to the game. "Who do you wanna be?" He asked of the character player-slash-color choices, holding them up in his palm.

XXX

Peter tried to remember the details of the game. He knew the pieces corresponded to various personas, but that was about it. He didn't think which of the brightly colored tokens he chose had any rules-based impact on the game. With nothing else to go on, he picked the red one. He liked red.

XXX

"Ms. Scarlet. Is that red or pink? No, I think it's pink. Why'd you choose pink, Peter?"

XXX

Peter glared at him, passing the piece to his left hand, which curled around it in a fist. He swayed forward slightly, feet tucking back as much as he could on the step as if poising to get up. His bad mood surged to full force. "I picked it because it's _**red**_. What the fuck does it matter to you if it's pink? You got any other bullshit you want to get off your chest?" Sylar's comment about him being a 'male nurse' came to mind, setting him to wonder if Sylar saw him as effeminate and coded that as 'bad'. His eyes narrowed slightly in comprehension. "Does this have something to do with why you keep making passes at me?" He rocked back against his seat on the stairs, stretching his legs out and relaxing his grip around the game piece, which nevertheless had already left an imprint against his palm. "I am not _less_ than you because of the gender of those I fall in love with."

XXX

Sylar frowned. _(I was just teasing…) Keep your mouth shut already! He's not your fucking friend!_ He was left with confusion, feeling attacked without sufficient cause or reason. _He did say he liked red, which is still weird._ "I hit on you because you chose a pink- red piece that you just now took?" _I hit on you before you took it…_ Peter's mental/verbal leaps weren't traceable to him and he was twelve steps behind trying to piece them together to answer. He blurted "What?" _How did we get on love?_ "Pink is gay is good…?" he asked with trepidation, feeling out if that's what Peter was talking about. _Why does he think I care? (Nathan would care, but I'm not Nathan. Is he labeling me as Nathan or…?)_ Clue – red piece – female character – bullshit – hitting on him – loving…people; what, if anything, was the connecting factor? "Because you're gay? I hit on you because you're not, um…" there was a long pause to word this in vague Sylar-form, "opposed, that way. Not…counting that it's me." _Is he gonna hit me over this? I don't even know what I did! He will hit me if that's not what he's talking about._

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He wasn't following most of what Sylar was saying, but the gist seemed to be that Sylar was in the same boat regarding what Peter had said. _Is he putting me on?_ His lips pressed together tightly for a moment and he leaned forward, eyes boring into Sylar. "You don't get it?" Peter asked with a slight sideways motion of his head.

XXX

Sylar's mouth tensed at the familiarity of that – at Nathan's familiarity of that phrase. _/"_ _You get it right?" "Yeah, I get it." "Good man."_ _/_ came to mind before everything began to fall apart, thinking it many times as Peter 'didn't get it' about being mind fucked. As it was, being spoken to him now, it was almost like being asked if he was stupid. "No, I don't," he said, not appreciating the suspicious look he was being given either.

XXX

Peter leaned back, face relaxing as he accepted that Sylar didn't understand the context for the outburst. But before he addressed it, he needed to say something about another thing Sylar had brought up. "I'm not gay. I'm bisexual. It's two different things, but you're right that it means I'm not 'opposed' to being with men sexually." He skipped the mention of Sylar in particular.

XXX

_Eh-hu-uh…Whatever excuse you need to get off, Peter._ Sylar made a 'there you have it' face. _Just that sentence, 'being with men sexually', so casual. How does that even happen?_

XXX

_And now, the 'getting it' part._ He rubbed his heel on the floor speculatively, looking down at it and pulling his arms in closer to make himself smaller. "You know, my dad didn't like … a lot of things about me. The last thing he didn't like, before he died the first time, was me becoming a nurse. I'll spare you all his bullshit about it being beneath a Petrelli and move on to the part about how he didn't think that was a job for a man. If I was going to do it, then to him, it meant I _wasn't_ a man. That maybe I needed to wear women's shoes like Nathan got me for graduation, or that I was wearing my hair long because I wanted people to confuse me for a girl." Peter snorted at the stupidity of that. "As if anyone would, who actually took a look at me. God forbid my dad had ever found out I wasn't actually straight." He rolled his eyes and looked away. He knew Arthur had had reason to suspect. It just seemed swallowed up by Peter's general inadequacy to Arthur, or maybe his father saw it as too depraved to even mention. It was a ridiculous point of view to have in 21st century New York, but his father took Peter's stubbornness to absurd lengths.

XXX

Peter's point was a very obvious one, a good one, too, if he dared say so. Sylar should have thought of that, taken it into consideration. Nathan had been very familiar with the argument as the go-between father and brother. Arthur – the foundation for all of Peter's rebelliousness. Arthur who wanted his son to be…normal? So he could…dismiss or handle him more easily? That was the exact opposite of little Gabriel's upbringing. _Peter wants to be special, his dad wanted him to be normal; I wanted to be normal, my mom wanted me to be special. Yeah, I'd have been a good fit for the Petrellis. But that means Peter just…doesn't belong anywhere? That can't be right. Nobody turns him away. And on top of that, he's worried about being manly. So he works out a lot._ Sylar would know better than to assume that didn't affect Peter, even before this little outburst. _But why does he wear his hair long then, if not to piss of Arthur and Nathan?_

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a long, level look. "There's nothing funny about jokes that there's something wrong with me or anyone else for being other than my dad's stupid idea of a man's man."

XXX

_I wasn't referring to you dad's stupid idea of a man's man. (I was referring to my dad's stupid idea of it, not that I'd have ever been stupid enough to pick a pink or purple piece) Of course, I didn't mean for you to get this upset about it._ How often had Peter played with dolls or dressed up in dresses, put on make-up or stated a preference for 'girl' colors that this was such an issue? Sylar really had no idea what to say. He had his own opinion, Nathan's, Peter's, Martin's, Virginia's, and Arthur's opinion in the mix. The problem was he could understand everyone else's opinion – but Peter just did what Peter wanted to do, no matter the rhyme or reason, and he was good enough to rationalize it with whatever he wanted and make it sound passable. There was safety in numbers, being accepted by the herd but…the empath's side had sense, too. Peter was girly, he was rebellious, he was an outsider there was no denying it. Sylar was even pretty sure Peter knew that. Sylar didn't know where he fell into this whole mess – he'd been forced into obedience but driven to shine when he wanted normalcy. He still hadn't figured any of it out, mostly he left it alone because it was just so damn tangled.

For now, because Peter was staring at him, demanding agreement, Sylar nodded noncommittally. If pressed, he'd say he was acknowledging Peter's point of view, his grievance. Distantly, he was torqued that Peter wanted everything both ways (no puns intended): know him, but don't know him using Nathan's memories. "Why do you wear your hair long, then? The secret hope that you'll join a rock band? Not that it's a bad look or anything, it's just…" _Pointless?_

XXX

Peter let another long beat slide by, weighing Sylar's bland but curious tone, like Sylar hadn't just been insulting and Peter hadn't snapped at him in response. Absent was any recognition from Sylar that he'd said anything wrong – that nod didn't count. It looked like an acknowledgment that Peter had said something, not an indication they felt the same way on it. Peter sighed voluminously and let it go, reaching up to rake his mentioned hair back. "I was in a band, briefly. But no, that's not it. I like my hair long. A lot of other people like it that way. I had it short for a while; didn't like it as much. My _father_ doesn't get to decide what I do with my life _or_ my hair." _Or didn't, rather. Whatever._ His eyes cut off to the side in annoyance, then back. He pulled over the game box to distract himself, getting out the board and unfolding it.

XXX

Part of Peter's statement was bothering him. Sylar looked away for a moment, thinking abstractly, trying to connect it to what he knew. He wanted to see if he could explain some of that famously crazed Peter behavior. He didn't know that he cared particularly for the trauma involved (assuming there was any), but he would definitely point the finger at idiot-Nathan for not knowing or caring. That was just being a bad brother. "Peter, did…did some guy make you do things? Is that why you…?" He finished with a 'you know…' gesture to indicate those perverted fetishes Peter had.

XXX

Peter found himself in a dilemma. If he set the board on the lowest level next to Sylar, then Peter would have to lean down uncomfortably for it or ask Sylar to do his moves for him. If it put it on the highest level, above the short quarter-flight of stairs, then Sylar would have to move to that level, where he'd tower above Peter to an absurd and unacceptable degree. He frowned, glancing up and down the stairs at the two options. He set it next to where Sylar was sitting and scooted himself down to sit on the same level. It would be tougher to get up, but he figured he'd make it somehow.

He furrowed his brow at Sylar's questions and gesture. "Uh, it was Elle who cut my hair, not a guy." At Sylar's expression, Peter shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

XXX

Sylar tilted his chin down, giving Peter a more meaningful look, enunciating more. "Around high school maybe. Did a guy ever make you do anything for him, to him?"

XXX

"Oh!" Now Peter got it, and his face showed it with a bob up and down of his brows and a few rapid blinks. It was followed by a smile that was somewhere between a wince and bared teeth as he processed what Sylar was implying. Just to be sure, he asked, "You're suggesting … I'm bisexual because I was raped, or molested. Is that right?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar nodded again, waiting. Those were the common labels for such events, whether or not he thought they applied. He didn't know if Peter would answer this one in so many words.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar another long, searching look, one of many he'd given him so far during this conversation. Sylar seemed serious as could be and more importantly, he was _listening_. Not just 'hearing what Peter was saying' listening, but actually seemed to be trying to understand. Peter's left hand found his right, tracing the edge of the brace and scratching idly while he thought about what that meant for Sylar. He calmed and moved back so his butt was against the riser for the bottom stair step.

"No. That's not the case." He spoke simply and plainly, relating the facts in a manner he hoped was educational. "I wasn't raped in high school and it didn't have anything to do with my preferences. I've been attracted to both since the earliest sexual fantasies I can remember. That's how it is for most people: what you want, what you dream about, that's what you're attracted to, at least as far as general trends. It doesn't have anything to do with being abused, except that I've talked to a few people who … once they were mistreated by a certain type of person, they might stay away from that type after that and sometimes that's broad enough that they stay away from an entire gender, or just get turned off from sex altogether. Sometimes people don't get past it. Different people cope differently."

His voice had softened a bit towards the end, eyeing Sylar with a slightly furrowed brow. It was a thoughtful look. _He said liking each other didn't have anything to do with sex. Has anything ever happened to him? Is that why he's asking?_ Peter dug into the box for the cards, setting them out unshuffled on the board as he tried to feel his way through what little he knew for sure of Sylar's past. Oddly, the thing that came front and center to his mind was the whole Nathan identity fiasco, how Peter had tried to repeat it, and how upset Sylar had been about that earlier. His expression faded to melancholy. _Is that why he could never like me?_

XXX

_There goes that theory. I guess that's good he wasn't raped or anything. He doesn't understand it._ Sylar couldn't imagine that kind of thing, done willingly, being natural or pleasurable. He stared intently at Peter throughout his speech. _Wait, wait, wait! If I don't dream about guys, I'm not gay? They were wrong! I have nightmares, though…does that count? I don't really dream about that stuff so what does that mean? It's so complicated._ Sylar caught Peter looking at him and hastily fixed his face before looking away to think. _Some people don't get a choice. Oh well. It doesn't matter._ He sniffed and straightened, taking the yellow Colonel Mustard piece after all that.

XXX

Peter gave a small frown as he moved his cards to the side and pulled the other supplies from the box. Quietly and slowly, eyes mostly on what he was doing, he said, "You know, it's really hard for me to relate to you, to understand you, when you don't give me any feedback. It's okay; you don't have to at all. But if you want to sometime, talk to me about stuff, okay?"

He picked up the box lid, spying the rules printed on the inside of it. In a more normal voice, he said, "Now hang on a moment while I figure out how to play." Peter had played the game a few times years ago, but the refresher didn't hurt and his main purpose was to direct his attention entirely elsewhere, giving Sylar a few moments of privacy to think over his offer. Not that he expected a response right away, but maybe eventually. _Would probably go better if I wasn't getting angry and raging at him every five minutes._

XXX

_And what do I have to talk about? What does he want to hear? What does he need to understand? Why would he want to understand me?_ Sylar was reminded of Gabriel's trips to the school nurse. She'd invited him to talk. He never did. He was still touched by the offers but the reality of disclosure was complicated and dangerous. Because of that, he had to ignore it. _Most of what's happened to me didn't really happen anyway._ "Okay," he intoned, voice polite and lighter, less sarcastic than he felt, responding because it was required.

"Did you ever see the movie, Clue? All the multiple endings?" He shuffled the cards since Peter couldn't or shouldn't, passing them out then taking the three secret cards and putting them into the envelope. Idly, he checked out his own cards while Peter handled the pencils and check-lists. "I liked all of them except Mrs. Peacock's. It didn't seem…probable. She didn't seem capable, I guess."

XXX

Getting the gist of the rules, Peter set the lid aside and picked up his cards, sitting up straighter and glancing over at Sylar a few times. "No, I never saw the movie, but I remember seeing the trailers for it. I wouldn't think my mo- um." He cleared his throat and tried again. "I've seen a lot of people I didn't think were capable of what they did." The second try wasn't much better. _Um, I kind of fall into that category, too …_ Peter sniffed, looking anywhere but at Sylar – the game board, his cards, the box lid, were all good things to check on for the moment. His voice brightened with a new topic. "Unless maybe you're talking physically? Then yeah, I can see that. Especially with, you know, a candlestick, those pliers or whatever." He gestured at the wrench, not sure what that thing was called, but knowing one used it to loosen nuts and bolts. "So what happened in the movie?" he asked, desperate to get away from the subject he'd inadvertently brought up.

XXX

Sylar's jaw ticked but Peter moved on quickly enough, even so the comment didn't seem intended to encompass him at all. "I guess both. It was mostly her story that wasn't as strong as the others." Sylar shrugged. "It starts out like the game," he gestured, "all the characters get blackmailed into coming to Mr. Body's house and the movie unfolds, Mr. Body is killed, the maid is killed, some other people who come to the house get whacked. They set it up that everyone has motive or has killed someone in the past. There's a storm and they can't leave the house until the solve the murders because everyone knows everyone's secrets and the blackmailer is still at large in the house, the police have been called to arrive in a few hours. So they travel through the house and find secret passages, suspecting everyone else the whole time. Then at the end, there's a series of multiple endings, kind of like chose your own adventure. One is where the butler is the killer, he's the real Mr. Body and the dead guy is really the butler. One is Miss Scarlet blackmailing everyone through Colonel Mustard or something like that. Another is Mr. Green pretending- uh…well, he turns out to be an FBI agent. Ms. Peacock's was that her husband was some government guy and she knew all the secrets," he waved that off. "I dunno, I watched it several times and they all seem plausible, you know? If someone was off killing, then they weren't in the group scene, or they shouldn't be."

XXX

"Which ending was the real ending? Was it the first one they showed, or the last?" Peter fidgeted, instinctively disliking the ambiguity without focusing on why it bothered him. That sort of thing had never bothered him before, but he hadn't thought about movies and literary devices for years.

XXX

"Uh…I think the 'real ending' was the butler. They showed it first, I think." Sylar frowned, trying to wrack his memory. "Any of the endings could work, though, like I said."

XXX

"That's not the way things work," Peter said, trying to be reasonable and instead sounding defensive. His voice was tight and his grip on his cards too firm, curling the ones on the end. "I mean, maybe in a movie, yeah, but in real life, like if you have time travel, there's only one ending. You don't get to pick which one you get. You just … get the one you get. You don't get to _pick!_ " He stopped, because his voice was pitching up in alarm as he repeated himself. It was a stupid thing to get worked up over, and inappropriate. Lips pursed, he ducked his head and stared sightlessly at his cards. He wanted to go lie down, be alone, be away from this guy who kept stirring up all these unresolved problems inside of him.

Even so, he knew Sylar was not to blame for his sudden agitation. He tried not to think of various futures he wished had never happened, even if now, they never would. Regardless, they'd happened to _him_ – murdered Nathan, stranded Caitlyn, killed 97% of the population, shot Nathan – or, wait, those last two weren't him. Or at least not really him. Did it matter if he were the only one who knew about it? _(But then where's Caitlyn? And where did future-me come from if it doesn't happen after all?)_ He pulled into himself even further, shoulders hunching up as he put the cards face down and pinched his nose with thumb and forefinger. _And in one of those maybe-places, Sylar was a good guy._

Clearing his throat and still looking down, he said quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm … I don't understand time travel. I don't like the futures I've seen. They all … They're all awful, except for you." He picked up his cards and reached for the dice, since Miss Scarlet went first. He rolled them, a three and a one, woodenly moving his piece the four squares indicated. It left his piece in a hallway next to the lounge. He looked up at Sylar with a bland expression. "Did you like the movie?"

XXX

"Oh…" Sylar voiced because Peter wanted 'feedback.' "I didn't think about time travel. I never had that one." Not much of an excuse, he supposed, depending on where one stood on a lot of things.

"They're all awful except for my future or all the futures are awful except the ones I'm in?" He dared to ask. Either seemed like a really good answer but…the future was the future and not set in stone. A good future was unlikely to happen now anyway. He lusted after the idea that Peter might be interested in a future that was nice because he was in it.

XXX

"The futures I've seen were awful, including the one you were in, but the bigger problem for me was that I didn't run into anyone worth knowing except for you. And maybe N- hrm." He breathed out and looked down, trying to recall what Nathan had said to him in the morgue or wherever it was Peter had woke up next to a dead version of himself. Nathan hadn't seem bothered at all by the dead body of his 'real' brother. That was disturbing and Peter had been unable to stop himself from trying to get to the bottom of that. Snapping his eyes back to Sylar, he asked, "You were going to tell me what you thought about the movie?"

XXX

Before he answered the direct question, Sylar wanted to clear something up, "It's just a movie, Peter. The same people- the characters ended up dead, in the same way, no matter who killed them. Maybe it is like a…a…choose your own adventure ending but it's the same as solving a crime, like the game. You obviously don't have a problem playing the game, even with-" _a murderer. Yeah, definitely keep quiet._ Sylar cleared his throat, ashamed. "I liked the movie. It was clever and funny and kept you guessing and even then there's no clear, real answer so it's…kind of realistic, in a way. What's that saying you heroes like, 'morally grey'? It's not a black-and-white ending." He shrugged and rolled his turn, five, with his piece between lounge and dining room, closer to the latter. He was absurdly pleased to have gotten a higher, 'better', score than Peter, knowing dice was a game of chance notwithstanding.

XXX

Peter was still responding to Sylar's near statement of 'even with me', or at least that was how Peter was completing it in his head. He heard the rest, but it was less important. "Sylar," he said softly, "I don't have a problem playing a board game with you. This place," he gestured at the world in general, "is not good for me. I know it's even worse for you, but hey, you've got me here now." He smiled weakly, thinking his presence was the difference between a hell of sensory deprivation and feeling intermittent pain – an improvement, but not much of one. "Things will get better for both of us."

He rolled, getting a three and a four, enough to let him go to the Lounge or the Dining Room. He counted off the squares, noticing he'd be one move from getting into the Hall, too. He picked up the box lid to figure out if there was any reason to wait on going in a room. There didn't seem to be, so he moved to the Lounge as it was closer. "Hm, one accusation per game. But I can suggest ... hm. I can see the advantage to calling a player into a room, at least to the player you're calling because next turn they're in the room and can make their own suggestion. But I don't see what I'd get out of that. Or why we move whatever murder weapon I suggest into the room with me. What does it matter where the pieces are?"

XXX

_He did it again_ ; that was what Sylar registered subconsciously. Soft voice, admission of his suffering, a hint of connection or friendliness…Then that stupid/cute combination of reading the rules aloud or speaking his strategy, asking a question, whatever that was. "While we're on the subject of 'feedback,' how was the kiss?" He asked it casually, checking off the cards he had off the checklist.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, putting down the box lid. "I didn't want it; don't do it again." After a moment of threatening glaring, he dropped his gaze from Sylar's and thought about what feedback he wanted to give. _I just wanted to sit on the couch … with him. But we're stuck here and … and that's a point Sylar's been making for a while now … Lonely. Still haven't jerked off in forever. And there he is, offering. Human touch. That's what I was talking about right before he did it. Is that why?_ "I was talking about … the value of human contact right before you did that. What were you trying to do?"

XXX

Sylar glanced up to catch the full-force glare, double-taking because he'd asked civilly enough. _Why is he so threatened by that? It's just a kiss. He'd be the first to agree, a kiss is the lightest thing I'm capable of. I'm not his bitch boy (He just wants to know he's safe. Even you can understand that). I'm still not his tame bitch; he doesn't get to order me around._ Glare acknowledged, he went back to arranging his cards in order – a task of vital importance all of a sudden, now he wanted to avoid the conversation he'd begun. Mockingly, in his head he mimicked Peter's voice, ' _If you want to, you can talk to me about stuff, okay?'_ "Which answer do you want?" Sylar thought to cut to the chase, no more falling into verbal traps.

XXX

"Give me both." Peter's eyes stayed on him intently, refusing to pander to the dodge.

XXX

The older man sighed. "I wanted to kiss you or I want things from you," Sylar stated it in a no-nonsense tone, his face somewhat defiant.

XXX

"Which is it?" He assumed both, but wanted to see if Sylar would choose one over the other.

XXX

Sylar pinned his companion with a stare over the top of his cards. Damn these steps for being too small to sit Indian style. "You decide. You're going to either way. Pick which one suits your needs and that's the truth. It doesn't matter anyway. Are you going to make a guess?" he indicated the board game, leaving off the 'Miss Scarlett' jab he could have made. _Two can play this game, Petrelli._

XXX

"Matters to me." Peter eased back, ignoring the prompt about Clue just as he breezed by the glare. "I know you want … things from me, kissing probably among them. I don't want to give you that – intimacy, sex, you know?" He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck in unease. Telling someone he wouldn't be loving towards them went against a lot of core parts of Peter's being, but Sylar – he'd tried to murder the guy and still didn't feel sorry about it (sorry he'd fallen so low, yes; sorry he'd done it … that was debatable). Even if he knew very well how the feelings of hate and love weren't incompatible, he didn't want to soften his heart towards Sylar. That it was happening anyway in a dozen mundane ways frustrated him.

XXX

Hearing it was so much different than knowing it, and here Peter said it aloud. It was that extra reminder of his worthlessness. "I know," Sylar stated simply, giving feedback just so Peter didn't get any wrong impressions of his expectations. _(But he wants me to like him…?)_

XXX

That hurt and Peter knew it – hurt Sylar to be shut down, hurt Peter to know he was shutting him down. He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them as he huffed and indicated the game. "But I'm playing a board game with you." _That counts for something, right?_ He waved at the washing machines. "We're doing laundry together. Earlier we were sitting on the couch having a conversation. There's a lot of things I'm okay with." He dipped his head, trying to catch Sylar's gaze as he decided to get this out in the open rather than hinted at. With a steady, lower-pitched voice, he asked, "I was intending to sleep on your couch tonight because you wanted me there. Am I going to wake up with you on top of me or something?"

XXX

Sylar's head dropped for a moment. That was his cue to be grateful – and to swallow any and all unpleasantness his situation held. It was a tough mouthful; it usually was. He knew he should be grateful (and he was); he just wasn't the type to rest on his laurels because if he ever did, he'd be accused of sloth. And it was hard to turn away from a challenge with an outcome he viewed as attainable, to have his idealism smacked away. Since when was being tolerated a joyous state of being? It wasn't, but it was much, much better than the alternatives. He wouldn't lie, the idea of being atop Peter, even a sleeping Peter, sounded like a gamble; it sounded like danger incarnate and that was the attraction. His first instinct was to take that as an invitation, a dare, a warning, all of the above. Knowing Peter as he did thus far (and knowing him better after testing him with a half-planned, admittedly stupid kiss) the nurse meant it in the most boring way possible. Sylar looked up to see Peter feeding him a question – this one had a right and wrong answer (such a relief Peter showed that hint sometimes).

To cover his flayed and bleeding ego, he managed to say smoothly and pointedly enough, "If you ask nicely, and only if I can bring my concussion." He sniffed and made an impatient motion at the board game Peter was so obviously avoiding, "Use it or lose it, Petrelli."

XXX

It wasn't a 'no, you're not going to wake up with me assaulting you'. _And the guy wonders why I'm not on board with getting close to him? Even if Rene showed up and stripped all my memories (again), being with Sylar – just_ trying _to be with him – would be a fucking minefield! This is important to me. Why can't he tell me 'no, you're safe, it's good'?_ He sighed. _Because he can't. Because he's the kind of guy I even have to ask the stupid question. What he said is pretty much a 'you're safe', so … fine._ Incongruously, Peter moved back to the game. "Miss Peacock, in the lounge, with the revolver." He looked to Sylar expectantly.

XXX

Finally. No wonder Peter was difficult to handle – poor kid couldn't focus. Sylar had all three of the cards, once he shuffled them around so he could see. Big hands came in handy but with blazing lights and bad seating and a homicidal headache, his cognition or perception wasn't one-hundred percent. The question was, which was the best card to show? There were nine rooms, six characters, and six weapons but the rooms took the longest to get to and the cards were divided in half… _What the hell._ Sylar showed his partner in crime the character card, Miss Peacock.

That done, Sylar rolled himself into the dining room and surveyed his cards. He lacked the room, conveniently. "Ms. White, in the dining room with the…rope."

XXX

Laundry was migrated to the dryers and the game, simplistic with only two players, was concluded in Sylar's favor. Peter thought about explaining himself and how he'd only figured out the reasons behind some of the rules, and how they impacted strategy and choice in the game, right at the end, but he skipped it. Instead, "I think you've been holding out on me on the MMSE's I've been doing. You're pretty good at this." Peter helped put away the game, then got himself to his feet. He stretched, hands over head and shirt riding up, then rubbed his elbow as he limped over to the dryer to check the time left on the cycle. He rubbed his lower lip with his index finger. "Almost done. How about we pull them out and take them upstairs to fold?"

XXX

Sylar agreed. That was the next logical step, though he usually folded here in the laundry room. After forking the clothes into the hamper, Sylar pointedly hefted it – because watching Peter try to carry it one handed again would just annoy him. He left Peter to carry the board game, much more suited to his capacity at the moment. Back in his apartment, he seated himself on the couch. His knees became his table of sorts for folding, reaching in to snag an item of clothing to fold, doing so, setting it aside, before repeating the process. Sylar came across Peter's underwear and while he wasn't totally disgusted (they were clean, after all), he wasn't sure what he should do with them, socially speaking. Would Peter throw a fit and call him a pervert if he folded them? Just holding them now was risky in that regard. Was it rude to hold them like they might scald him? Or would Peter even notice…? Luckily as he watched, Peter came across some of Sylar's underwear, handling and folding them without a thought it seemed. _Okay…_ Now Sylar didn't know what to feel about that. _It's just clothing, right? He didn't do anything weird so it must not be weird._ He spotted Peter mishandling a shirt, though, "No, no. Arms together, folded in the middle…Like this," he demonstrated folding the shirt in half vertically, the armholes together before turning the sleeves to one side, then beginning the compression folds horizontally across the middle. After that, Sylar kept half an eye on Peter's folding process, curious about it. _Didn't I say something about folding clothes eventually? And he disagreed with me?_ That made him grin to himself.

Folding the laundry didn't take long with two of them (even if one man was one-handed). Sylar handled putting them away and Peter went about making soup for dinner.


	65. Cereal Killer

Day 16, December 26, Evening

Peter loitered in the kitchen well after the meal was over, putting things away and going to the bother of washing the dishes. Despite being tired, he wasn't in a rush to claim his bed on the couch. He was still waiting, hoping, for some manner of reassurance as he had been all day. Some 'no, I'm not going to force myself on you'. Instead, he'd been kissed without his consent and his concerns about that were not even worthy of a straight answer. Talking about it sitting across the Clue board from Sylar was one thing – it was easier to think that maybe Sylar climbing in bed with him that morning or kissing him that afternoon had been … innocent. Or understandably human. Getting ready to go to bed with the guy in the room was another thing entirely – this wasn't some hypothetical that Sylar might be venting his 'understandably human' urges on. Human beings hurt each other all the time, something Peter was painfully aware of.

He fondled one of the kitchen knives, considering taking it to bed with him. It seemed kind of extreme, but if he needed it and didn't have it … that would suck. If he had it and didn't need it, then it didn't matter and he had nothing to worry about. Peter was not unaware that the 'good' behavior Sylar had shown for the last week might be due mainly to inability. Now that the guy was feeling better, transgressions were afoot – not necessarily a coincidence. The more he thought about it, the more decided he became. He chose the paring knife, wrapping his fist around it. It had a small indentation before the heel of the blade, making it less likely his hand would slip past the bolster and cut his fingers on the blade.

XXX

Sylar didn't bother trimming his beard down to a manageable stubble, not tonight. There was little point besides comfort. He'd definitely do in the morning. Peter was…in the kitchen – the light was still on. At least, he was pretty sure Peter hadn't flown the coop. _Maybe I should have kept a better eye on him – the drugs are right outside and Peter is nothing if not a sneaky bastard_. Dismissing it because so far that threat had been unfounded, Sylar left out a blanket and pillow on the couch for Peter to arrange and fluff as he would. Ready for sleep, he turned off the living room lights and crawled into his cot, sighing just to be back with familiar things.

XXX

Peter continued his aimless puttering (planning out breakfast, but really just wasting time) until he assumed Sylar was asleep. Lights off in the kitchen left the apartment nearly dead dark. The cloud cover outside must have broken at some point during the day, because as Peter's eyes adjusted, he could see enough moonlight coming in through the window to get around. It made a decent enough nightlight that he didn't bother with leaving any other light on. He set the knife on the arm of the couch, finding the blanket and pillow Sylar had left out. Thoughtful, but on the other hand, self-serving. The guy wanted him to stay.

Peter arranged the bedding and sat down, stripping off his shirt and tossing it on the floor in front of him, far enough away that he wouldn't trip on it if he had to get up in the night. Next were shoes, carefully unlaced and examined for any residual dampness. These were placed more carefully on the floor halfway down the couch, laces loosened and open. Then socks were pulled off and tossed over with his shirt. He rubbed his feet and in between toes. Absently holding his right foot with his left hand, he listened as the many clocks simultaneously chimed the hour, and then ticked away in the comparative quiet after. He stood up, gave one last stretch for the benefit of his back and then flipped back the blanket. He picked up the knife and sat, preparing to swing his legs under the blanket and settle in.

XXX

A quick glance showed Peter, shirtless, engaged and…very armed. Without a word, he clicked on his bedside reading lamp and sat up. "Nuh-uh," he proclaimed loudly. "If you can't sleep with me, restless bed mate, then you can't sleep with a knife. You sure as hell can't in _my_ apartment."

XXX

"What?" Peter shielded his eyes from the sudden light with his right hand, the knife in question held tensely in his left. He hadn't expected to be confronted about having it. He hadn't expected Sylar to know at all unless things went badly, which he supposed might describe the current situation. Shirtless, already uncomfortable just to be here, and feeling threatened over his chosen method of self-defense, he dropped his right hand and took an aggressive tack. "I can sleep with whatever I want. And _who_ ever I want." _To mean: not you._ "Why do you care? Is me having a knife inconvenient for something you had planned?"

XXX

Sylar immediately didn't like that tone. A growled sigh-harumph of aggravation preceded his words. "I'm not contesting that." _Why do I care? Why do I_ care _?_ There was a long, silent stare, broken only by his occasional blinking as he processed that, or tried to. "Why do I care?" Sylar repeated finally. "Yeah, you're right. It is inconvenient. I was _planning_ on sleeping and waking up as _myself_ ," he stressed. "Do you not remember what happened the last time you stabbed me?" Sylar asked that with hurt confusion. The last time he'd been pierced by this man, he'd been torn asunder, left to wither or be destroyed, body and soul. He hadn't felt the sanity, the safety of his mind and body together for months and at the end of it, Petrelli had hunted him down to try again, this time with full knowledge of what he was doing. There was no way he was leaving stabby-Petrelli in custody of a shanking weapon whether or not he had a kill-spot.

He paused to let that sink in – hopefully with logic, not…paring knives. The next obvious issue was this escalation. "It was a fucking kiss. Get over it."

XXX

_The last time I stabbed him …_ The tone meant Peter entirely skipped the injections of Zofran he'd given Sylar recently. Sylar was too upset for it to be that. Instead: _Nails? The nail gun? No, stabbed. Kirby Plaza, sword through the chest. But that was Hiro, not me! Stabbed … glass, but that was him stabbing me._ His eyes dropped and slid out of focus as a quick sweep of events when he'd thought Sylar was his brother came up blank, just like the fight at the Stanton. _'Waking up as myself'. Does he mean the- Yes, he has to. The syringe in the limo. Right? Could still be the nails. Or maybe future-me stabbed him and he thinks it was me. That would suck. Again._

Peter looked at Sylar and tilted his head, brow furrowing and his grip on the object under contest loosening. "I remember," he said soberly. Just as seriously, he continued, "We're going to have to deal with the fact that we're both dangerous here." He gestured with his right, pointing first at himself, then Sylar, then himself again. "To each other. It's not the 'fucking kiss'. I'm over the 'fucking kiss'. What I'm not over is you telling me to get over it and acting like what you do, and what you have done, doesn't matter." Peter drew in a slow, deep breath, trying to relax the muscles of his back. They were tightening up and this was an important conversation that he wanted to have as calmly as possible. He breathed out slowly. The fingers of his left hand played with their grip on the knife. He let them, leaving his gaze and attention otherwise entirely on Sylar.

XXX

A light bulb was desperate to pop up over his head and light up because there was something there and he was too keyed up, tired, frazzled, something, to strike on the connection. _We're…saying the same thing, we're worried about the same thing? But I have to live with the knife? That's not fair._ Sylar's eyes went to the knife as it shifted in Peter's hand. Nothing came of it but he couldn't tell if the fiddling was a nervous, pre-emptive gesture or…not. He literally sat waiting when Peter finished speaking. _Oh, no. He didn't._ Peter was waiting, cleverly leaving open space and social pressure (and bodily threat) in such a way that Sylar had to fill-in-the-blank. And a guy holding a knife, not over the kiss, but the behavior, demanding the right answer was a mountain of unfairness. Sylar glared lasers at the nurse for that reason alone. "Do you have to hold that right now?" he snipped about the blade. If he was going to have to think, mystically procure the right answer or response, or worse, apologize or sleep, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it at paring-knife-point – his dignity and sense of fucking reality simply refused.

XXX

Peter glanced down at the knife, then gave Sylar a good, long look. _This gives me power over you? You're really afraid of it._ He waited to see if Sylar flinched or shifted under his gaze, trying to decide if the request that he disarm himself was a safe one to follow. Sylar's attention did not waver; he didn't give Peter anything, which was enough. Peter set the knife on the couch to his left, the opposite side of him from the other man.

XXX

That was good. Not great, but better. Sylar noticed the care (or paranoia) involved in setting the knife on the other side of Peter – it was smart whether Sylar did anything or not. His face showed his slight annoyance and acceptance, briefly. It was a relief, nonetheless, and it took the edge of tension away from the interaction. That Peter would put the knife down boded well. "Is it necessary to freak out about this before I sleep? If it's not about the kiss, can't this wait?"

XXX

Peter snorted lightly. "I wasn't freaking out about it. I was just going to bed - going to lie over here and mind my own business all night. If you minded yours, then nothing would have happened and I didn't think you'd ever know." He waited a beat, trying to see a way out of this that met his needs and enough of Sylar's that they could give up on this lousy day and get some sleep. "Would it help if I promised something?"

XXX

_Wh- really? We are saying the same thing. I'm…a walking arsenal and he has a knife. Stand-off._ Sylar's eyes narrowed at first, then he frowned and frowned harder. He had to think about the idea of being promised something, how much Peter's word was worth, and, if so, what he wanted. "Yes," he surprised himself by saying, looking up at the man, almost asking 'is that okay?' "I…just don't want the knife in here." _I believe him. I trust him not to do anything with his bare hands or any other object in here. How...strange and unexpected._ With a kind of rueful, humorous admission, he spoke softly, "Reality tends to…warp when you're around, Peter. But you'd have…done something by now if you were going to. You're a straightforward guy, right?"

XXX

"I try to be," he said, greatly soothed by Sylar's probably unintentional compliment. The set of Peter's shoulders eased and he got to what he really needed. "I want to hear you tell me that I'll be safe, asleep, here, tonight. And that I'll be safe by _my_ standards, not yours." He wondered what it was he should promise, having not been given any hints about that.

XXX

Sylar's face was dubious, eyebrow arced. He made a choking sound. _That's all he wanted? That's it?_ "You'll be safe by your standards." That was easy enough. And he didn't have to lie. There wasn't enough room on the couch for two. It was now up to Peter to believe that or not. Sylar tilted his head, awaiting that answer. The unlikelihood of that was the whole reason he hadn't bothered making any solid promise.

XXX

Peter turned his head a little, watching Sylar out of the side of his eyes. Then he chuckled silently and nodded. "Okay." He took up the knife in his left hand, rolling the handle in his palm and then looking at Sylar. "I promise I won't have any other weapon in bed with me, either." He gave that a moment, his intention being to find out more conclusively where the limit of trust should be drawn. It was the same bizarre, reverse brinksmanship that had led him to sleep in the exposed main bedroom of the penthouse apartment just a few nights before, leaving himself open to whatever Sylar might do. Sylar had indeed climbed in bed with him, although it was on top of the covers and after waking him from a nightmare. Peter didn't have as much objection to that as he did to the second, more underhanded and unwantedly intimate bed-sharing that had come when he'd retreated to the guest bedroom and shut the door. There was a point there, but Peter was tired and not making the connection.

He shifted, pushing himself forward on the couch to get his feet under him and himself up. He took the short walk to the kitchen, returning the utensil to its slot in the knife block. He did so without going to the bother of making a lot of noise to telegraph his action. Sylar would trust him or not, and he'd already said he would. He went back to the couch, making the briefest 'my hands are empty' gesture before twitching back the covers a bit more and sitting down.

XXX

Sylar could only blink and stare at this turn of events. _That worked?_ Peter believed him? Trusted his word? His words had meant something? That seemed so unaccountably nice on Peter's part. Sylar couldn't begin to label what flooded through him. It felt so good, whatever it was. Like the vice around his soul had eased. It was a balm, that he could be trusted on words alone not to harm someone, to be around them. He was being heard. Using his words – his word – had gotten something he wanted; he couldn't believe it! He'd talked down manic Peter Petrelli from a lethal weapon, hell, Nathan couldn't even do that! Sylar was practically giddy.

Peter did him one better and returned the knife without being asked and promised there were no hidden surprises. _I still believe him. Huh…_ He beamed at nothing and turned off the light once Peter was seated. "Night, Peter," his voice probably oozed with pleasure despite himself. An experimental kiss, board game, laundry, a successful negotiation and company while he slept; oh, yes, it had been a good day.

XXX

Peter settled himself in, head closer to the kitchen, feet in Sylar's direction, face up for the moment. He drew in a slow breath, looking over in the direction of the voice. "Good night … Sylar."

His toes scraped against the bottom of the blanket as he shifted around. Peter reached back to move the pillow, then turned on his left side so he was facing the room. He made another attempt to fluff the pillow, then wormed his head against it. _A smell._ He drew in a deep breath. _Sylar. That's him_. Peter wriggled, drawing up his knees a little, then extending one leg and leaving one knee up as the small of his back had its say about his position. He turned his face more directly to the pillow and breathed in again, wanting another lungful.

He wasn't sure what he thought about the scent, except that it definitely tickled something in his hindbrain. That, and he wanted to smell more of it. He wasn't even sure he liked it – it was like when you catch scent of something evocative or different and have a mindless urge to sniff more and deeper so you get a better whiff. _Um, can Sylar hear me over here? What do I sound like?_ With embarrassed self-awareness, Peter went quiet and still, straining his eyes warily in the other man's direction. It was light enough to see an outline of him, but he couldn't see features. Just as well – it meant Sylar couldn't see him. He hoped.

XXX

Sylar, being much more stationary, heard the process of wiggling. _It is the couch_ , he recognized. He heard an inhale, dismissing it as a weird sigh. A second, longer, purposeful inhale. _Does something smell?_ Sylar took a quick sniff of the air, finding nothing unusual. _Maybe it's me; I stink? People are more immune to their own things after all. I've never fallen asleep with him before, maybe this is something he does. Like…checking for carbon monoxide or…something? He's a nurse. But you can't smell that stuff._ A third, definite sniff in the dark. _Weirdest sleepover ever. I hope he doesn't do this all night._ Then it was quiet. Sylar wondered if it was an 'uncomfortable' quiet.

XXX

"Hey … Sylar?" His voice sounded softer and kind of weird in the dark. Juvenile. Peter cleared his throat a little to give it more age. "What do you want me to do if you have a nightmare? Give you a shake, throw a pillow at you, what?"

XXX

_(You'd…actually wake me?) Course he would; he wants to sleep, you'd be interrupting._ That made more sense than Peter wanting him to be getting a good night's sleep. Off-balance and uncertain, "Um…throw a pillow at me, I guess? I wouldn't get close or touch me – I might attack you," his voice ended softly, regretfully, not wanting Peter to think that was a threat. He didn't suggest a ten-foot pole, either. Sylar now noticed how strange it was, not having a concrete answer about himself – it seemed like that sort of thing should be known. It wasn't like he'd ever slept with someone around; the few times he had been woken up hadn't been pleasant for anyone involved. The paranoia about agents, doctors, monsters and God-knows what else was impossible to be free of. Then day must have rushed over him, consuming him in sleep.

Day 17, December 27, Morning

Sylar remembered waking once, sort of, and wanting to go back to sleep so he did. It was comfortable for a little while then it felt…empty. Sylar woke to knocking again. "Mmmm?" _God, what is-? That's so weird._ "C'min," he called out sleepily to give the all-clear. While Peter entered, Sylar blinked himself slowly to wakefulness, happy to recognize his surroundings. His clocks, his books, his bed, his clothes.

XXX

"Hey." Having managed to get through the night unmolested and unaccompanied, Peter gave Sylar a small but friendly smile. He issued a nod of welcome as well, then ducked into the kitchen on the off chance Sylar might still want to sleep.

XXX

Where had Peter gone? _Doesn't he have everything he needs here? I'm not exactly set up for guests but…he doesn't have a problem using my stuff. (I don't think…)_ "Where were you?" he asked, propping himself on his elbows, feeling his headache roar full force. He didn't really want to rise yet or rise at all.

XXX

Peter pulled out the milk carton, sloshing it and judging there was enough for the both of them. He glanced out at Sylar's question. As he stood in the doorway, his eyes dropped and a small frown creased his lips and brow. He didn't want to answer to Sylar about his schedule, but … it was a reasonable question if they were here together, somewhat as roommates and Sylar depending on Peter for a degree of care. _There's no reason why I should keep my routine a secret from him. No legitimate reason, at least._

Coming to a decision, Peter blew out a short puff of air and turned to search for cereal boxes. He'd seen some before. He answered over his shoulder as he looked through the cabinets. "I went to work out. I like to do that in the mornings. Then I went to my apartment and showered. Came back here. Thought we'd eat together. You want some cereal? I don't really feel like cooking."

Finding a half-empty box of Lucky Charms, he returned to the door to shake it enticingly at Sylar. "This stuff's horrible for you! I love it. Better get in here before I eat it all." With a mischievous grin, he headed off to get bowls, then medication.

XXX

Sylar was pleased to be worthwhile company to eat with; he puffed up with pride a little. The empath bustled around in the kitchen, asking questions without really needing answers. The Lucky Charms appeared with a critique of their healthiness-factor and in the same breath, their awesomeness was proclaimed and a challenge/laughable threat given. Sylar (after his initial wide-eyed confusion) couldn't help but grin. It grew into a smile as he chuckled and hauled himself upright. Peter was too chipper to eat by himself so there would be cereal left for him when he got there. Sylar noticed a book, one of his own collection, on the armrest of the couch. Apparently, Peter had been reading it at some point – ' _Realm of the Incas_ ,' an interesting choice. He wondered if he should be angry or comforted in the knowledge that Peter had helped himself to his things (and left it lying out). That wasn't a new theme. Either way, the book looked undamaged.

XXX

"Did- How did you sleep?" Peter asked, correcting himself from a question that only had a yes/no answer. Not only was it better to ask a patient something open-ended, but also, Peter actually wanted to talk.

XXX

Sylar entered the kitchen and nodded to the question, brushing his hair back. His focused on getting something to drink for breakfast. Task completed, he realized he'd been rude for several minutes, "How about you?"

XXX

So much for the open-ended question. He hadn't even gotten a yes or no. Peter let the attempt lapse between them, getting out spoons and bowls until Sylar volunteered to restart it with his own question. "I slept okay. Awful stiff, though." And he found the couch confining, wanting a bed big enough to stretch out on. Couch-surfing was definitely not a long-term solution, not that Peter thought he needed to worry about it anyway. Soon, Sylar would be well enough that Peter could move back to his own apartment.

XXX

Sylar grunted about the couch. There was little help for it (aside from crude offerings to 'adjust Peter's back for him'). _My promise didn't insure_ _against_ _back pain, Petrelli, and seriously, it's a couch._

XXX

Since it sounded like they were headed back to non-verbal territory, Peter prompted, "How's your stomach feeling? Do you want some Zofran or do you feel okay?" He looked up at Sylar, hands on the back of the chair opposite Sylar, hesitating on sitting down and obviously waiting for the answer.

XXX

"It's better today, but my head feels worse." Sylar sat and fiddled with his spoon, indecisive. "I'll…try it without?" Peter didn't have any objections, in fact, he looked happy. At that, they both poured and ate, Sylar stuck to his method of (playing with his food out of solitary boredom) eating mainly the cereal, leaving the marshmallows for after.

XXX

Peter nodded to himself and took a seat, a small smile showing his serenity with Sylar's choice.

Lucky Charms had some things going for it in Peter's estimation. On a personal note, it wasn't homogenous and he liked that. He toyed with having one bite of several cereal bits and a marshmallow, then just cereal, then three marshmallow bits together. Different combinations tasted different and he liked trying them out. On an interpersonal note, cereal was mostly milk and it was another way to get liquids into Sylar. Looking over, Peter thought for a moment the man was eating it the same way, but then he noticed the pattern. "You don't like the marshmallows? Why would you get Lucky Charms and not eat the marshmallows?"

XXX

Sylar looked up from his careful spoon-rationing. His expression was confused; how had Peter come to that conclusion? Not liking the marshmallows was how it appeared, though. "They're called 'marbits.' It's mostly something to do. I eat them last. I…like the cereal itself plain…" Sylar ducked his head and went back to poking at his breakfast, self-conscious now that his habits were weird and they both knew it. That decided, from then on he ate like a normal person, as careless as he could manage about the marbit ratio.

XXX

"Oh." Peter pulled his head back, straightening a little and looking nonplussed at the answer. "Okay. Sure." Looking for something different to talk about, he offered, "I'd like to finish the puzzle today so we can use the desk for whatever else."

XXX

Sylar looked up in relief. Peter's field trip adventures were very tiring. He knew he'd appreciate them more when he was at full health, but now it was just draining. He was pretty sure it wasn't that much fun for Peter, either, not as much fun as it could have, should have been anyway. _Maybe he remembered I have a concussion._ "That sounds good." He slyly probed, "How'd you like the book?"

XXX

"The book?" Peter's head turned in the direction of the living room, tracking to where he'd left his latest reading material. Then he looked back to Sylar, his face doing funny things as he struggled with what to say, wondering if the book's contents were some reflection on Sylar or his interests. "Well, uh, the Incans … they were … well, it's not the sort of thing they taught me in Catholic school." History had interested him well enough, but he couldn't remember the Central and South American tribes as any more than a blur of names and shifting regions, given short shrift in his classes. It was part of why he'd continued reading the text after pulling it down at random, spine unseen, from the shelf above him. He cleared his throat. "Seemed a little gory. I didn't know they had entire cultures where ..." His voice trailed off and he looked down to watch his spoon swirl around, chasing the last few cereal bits. Human sacrifice brought to mind a much more modern moment, when his mother had knowingly set him up for disaster at Kirby … and then there was the tangled crap she (and he) had pulled in trying to sacrifice Sylar for Nathan. "How do people do that to each other?" It was raw and heartfelt, more than the apparent subject matter warranted, as Peter's emotion for the question came from a so much more personal source.

XXX

A Petrelli's education was lacking? And lacking in the area of human sacrifice? That was hilarious, in a totally sick way. _Peter's a nurse…how is that gory to him?_ Sylar tried to absorb that without…laughing, questioning or otherwise mocking. The nurse's tone caught him off guard. Sylar tilted his head and waited to see if the outburst was rhetorical. The tone suggested it wasn't. The tone suggested Sylar hadn't followed some emotional thought process leading up to the outburst and he didn't want to jump in, taking things literally, especially when he didn't know the context. Of course, since Sylar was apparently more knowledgeable, he thought there were plenty of viable, less emotional reasons behind the question: the Incas sacrificed 'pure' children in attempts to control the weather for a good harvest, for the children to escort the emperor in the afterlife, and/or worshipping the sun as a god. The question as better asked to someone like Hitler, whose reasons were scientifically stupid, if interesting. The point being that Hitler at least knew better, the Incas didn't (not that it much excused them). History was good at showing human nature: cannibalistic.

Peter's question, posed to him here required a vague answer. Being singled out, trapped and persecuted (at least, that's what it felt like, no matter what anyone told him, no matter how they rationalized it or didn't) was something Sylar understood. He was only slightly suspicious that Peter was referring to the Hunger and Sylar's own acts of sacrifice. Voice blank, he said, "By caring about the end result more than individual lives." That he understood (given his background) and yet he…didn't understand it. It just…kind of… _existed_.

XXX

"But-" Peter pulled in air, held it under pressure for a moment, then let it out in an upset burst, accompanied with a small grunt. He looked at Sylar's blank face, realizing he was treading into dangerous waters here, but pushing on regardless. "Ends don't justify the means. But wait … that's what you're saying, isn't it?" Peter dipped his head, eyes still on Sylar's. "That … evil … is when people care about the end result more than the person involved?" Peter did not doubt that Sylar had a moral compass. Sylar had admitted as much before when he'd said he knew that what he'd done – all the killings, perhaps other things – had been wrong. And certainly he wouldn't be on Peter's case (or the Petrelli's) if he didn't see a glaring moral failure there. But Peter wanted to get it out in the open. It was important to him somehow, to get Sylar's agreement on the meaning of right and wrong. It was a foundation for other conversations, even if they weren't ones he wanted to have over breakfast.

Speaking of which, Peter's brows drew together as he looked at Sylar's half-finished bowl. "Did you start eating the marshmallows because I mentioned it?" His eyes, very intent like they always were when he had a subject he wasn't about to let go of, locked onto Sylar's face. "Sylar, you can eat your cereal however you want. You don't like them, don't eat them. Hell, we can sort your cereal beforehand if you'd rather." He laughed, waving a hand at the rest of the box. "Give me all the marshbits or whatever and you can have the cereal. That'd be great. Probably rot my teeth, but that's not a big deal."

XXX

_Is he mocking me?_ Peter repeated what he'd said, how many times, staring him down. It was like when what teachers did in class, countering your answer to their question with a question of logic that proved your answer wrong, doing so, of course, in front of a class full of your peers. There was no escaping the questions or the humiliation after the mistake. It was like a pseudo-challenge or pseudo-insult to his intellect and capabilities. _Fine, maybe it was a really generic, stupid answer but I didn't know what you were talking about._ The laughter sealed the deal. Sylar glared after that. His face was angry. He was not enjoying having his every word and behavior criticized. _Can't listen right, can't sit right, can't answer or talk right, can't eat right…What does he want?_ He lost it over the offer to have his cereal sorted beforehand, like he was a picky child, and that's what it meant, too: childish. Needy. Boiling over, he ranted, "You're asking a guy who can't eat his fucking cereal properly the definition of good and evil? Funny, Petrelli, really fucking hilarious!" His voice rose to a yell, made more impressive by the kitchen appliances and the small size of the kitchen itself. Sylar shoved the box at Peter; let him have the damn stuff if he liked it so much. He rose to drop his dishes off in the sink, clanking them loudly in the process. Turning around he belted, "What the fuck is it to you how I want to eat my fucking cereal anyway? Is that of vital importance for…. _anything_?"

XXX

Peter's brows rose with the volume of Sylar's voice. Words came out that were nonsensical in combination, but the hurt underneath was loud and clear even if Peter didn't know what had happened to trigger the outburst. He ignored the box that was shoved at him, both his hands going loose and level on the table. He was quiet and focused, his face blank, or perhaps with his game-face on. He didn't think he was going to have to fight, but he wasn't doing much thinking at all – just reacting.

When Sylar went to the sink, Peter started to interpret the whole thing as potentially nonviolent. _He's just venting. What is he venting about? The cereal?_ He turned and stood up just as quietly as he had sat, pushing his chair in and leaning his ass against it. He crossed his arms over his chest, head cocked, lips shifted to one side, his whole posture looking highly unimpressed. He was glad he'd washed up and put away everything the night before, and that cereal prep didn't involve skillets or knives. That meant there was nothing immediately dangerous for Sylar to grab near the sink and contributed to why Peter was able to let this wash over him for the time being. _He's mentioned the cereal twice now. And he acted weird when I first commented on it._

He blinked once, slowly. "Tell me about the cereal."

XXX

" _No_ , you tell me about the cereal. Hmm? You want to- you want to demonstrate the right way to eat cereal for me? Why stop at cereal?" Peter responding to cereal talks meant the issue (the one Peter had) was about cereal. At least, that was the cover story. Sylar couldn't understand how cereal was amusing or humiliating enough to warrant the attention. Peter's expression made him want to smack that indifferent look away.

XXX

"If it's important enough for you to toss the rest of your bowl and yell about it, then it's important enough to talk about." He spoke in a mostly reasonable tone although there was an undercurrent of irritation to it. It was hard to avoid thinking that maybe Sylar was just picking a fight because last night had passed uneventfully. "What matters to me is getting you healthy. That includes eating. If the food's something you don't want, tell me. Calmly." Peter chuckled quietly and added, "Remember last night? I can be talked down from things if you give me reasons instead of just blowing up about it."

XXX

Sylar was quiet as he thought his way around that. That his reaction was garnering a response like this was… _Or is this another joke?_ His eyes narrowed. His lips thinned at insinuation he was being unreasonable, hysterical, insane. Then there another chuckle from the nurse. Teeth and fists clenched, he grated his reason, "Quit. Laughing."

XXX

Peter's head pulled back, his expression sobering more from the perception of danger than from the words themselves. He looked Sylar up and down carefully, eyes going from face to shoulders to fists to feet and then back to face. _I'm not the one who needs to be talked down._ He drew in a deeper, careful breath, very conscious of a sudden, stupid urge to say to hell with being reasonable and to throw down right here in the middle of the kitchen. It didn't matter that the apparent subject was trivial; there were enough weighty, unspoken subjects between them to account for the urge. Expression even, Peter gave a single nod to agree with Sylar's … request, putting his left hand on the top of the chair behind him. He didn't have much of his weight on the chair – the previous impression of a semi-relaxed slouch had been mostly for show. Now he straightened a little, attention entirely focused on Sylar, eyes neither narrowed nor wide.

XXX

Jerkily, his hands unclenched. "Right and wrong isn't funny unless you're making fun of someone. And cereal…I don't even…" Sylar trailed off rather than say the words 'I don't get the joke.' It was one thing to be mocked, another thing not to grasp the reason for the mockery – most people seemed able to pinpoint the reason or cause, but he struggled.

XXX

Peter thought over the discussion and Sylar's reactions to it. _Maybe he thought me talking about the cereal was trivializing everything else? He's being an asshole about it, regardless. I wasn't making fun of him. How can I clarify that I really just wanted to talk to him, to hear what he had to say?_ "I was asking about it – about good and evil, the Incas, their society – because I _value_ your opinion on it. I wanted to know what you thought." He left the cereal out of it entirely, along with any denials of making fun of him.

XXX

"Oh, please," Sylar scoffed, "You don't expect me to fall for that, do you?" That ploy was so obvious even he saw it at first glance for what it was.

XXX

"Sylar, you have insights to things …" Peter ran his left hand through his hair, tousling it and rolling his eyes briefly at the ceiling, "things I don't want to have a frame of reference for." He sighed with resignation. "But I don't necessarily get to choose that. Sometimes it happens to me anyway, some futures … In some futures, I'm not that different from you. I want to know you. I want to know how you've coped." He frowned briefly, lips pressed together as he glanced down to remember. "I had a dream a few years ago, back when all of this started happening. It was one of those future-dreams. You told me …" he looked up intently at Sylar, eyes locked to his, "you told me I didn't know anything about power." He watched Sylar's face for a reaction. "I've thought about that a lot. I've never understood what it meant. But … that it was _you_ in the dream telling me that … it has to mean something."

XXX

Everything stampeded through Sylar's already over-heated and confused brain. He had a reaction to every sentence Peter uttered, good, bad, and ugly: _Did he roll his eyes at me? My frame of reference is undesirable? I get to chose the crap in my life? But he's the same as me, sort of. I don't cope, I already said that._ Then Peter stared at him and he felt caught, though it wasn't a negative paralysis since the man wasn't saying anything bad. Sylar blinked. _He dreamed about me? And I said that? That's…impressive of me. It's true; what I- he- whoever, said. Did he dream that before we met? That would be…(weird? Cool? Destiny?)_ His expression eased, no less confused, but given a sense of direction maybe (thoroughly distracted, too). He wasn't sure where to start speaking, most of it jumbled questions. "It means something, yeah. It's…it's just really…" Sylar lifted his eyebrows, closing his eyes for a second, shifting his mouth before returning to a more neutral musculature, "Weird that you would know that without…knowing that. I never said that." He shook himself and refocused, "Are you asking me about it?"

XXX

Peter cocked his head slightly, not sure what Sylar was trying to get across. It was like Sylar thought he knew something he didn't actually know, like maybe he'd accidentally said the right words and Sylar had misunderstood it to indicate comprehension on Peter's part. Or … well, maybe Sylar would clarify. "Yeah, I am."

XXX

"It's the same thing I told you about quitting abilities. Trying to contain power will… _tear_ you apart," Sylar harshly enunciated. "Because you're just a channel, a weak one at that. At the start you didn't know much about abilities, let alone power but you…got some experience," he ended ruefully. Ted's power and Hiro's, then that fateful Haitian's…He got the feeling he was ignoring something or forgetting something about the conversation. The catharsis of talking about the overpowering, mind-rending, soul-blackening intent of the Hunger distracted him. In fact, Peter seemed to know lots of ways to get to him…conveniently so.

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed a little, but the rest of his face was relaxed. It was a thoughtful/concentrating expression. _The power will out, will find a way to be released? Is that what he's saying? You just need a direction then, an outlet. It's like a fire hose, all that pressure?_ He frowned at being called weak, but he didn't argue it.

XXX

"This is all in my head, isn't it?" He nodded at Peter, calculating the odds and facts. "I've been here too long and I need a connection so I've finally gone off the deep end and decided to talk to myself." Having decided that, since there was nothing he could do about it (and he wasn't…displeased to have Peter here, real or not), he turned back to the sink to rinse out his bowl, mostly at peace with the knowledge. "If you're part of me then…you still need this explained, don't you?" _I must be the only one with a certified person in my head, a bunch of other people I murdered and used to know, who needs to explain the things I know to myself because I'm so crazy that I snapped and I'm now picturing my worst enemy for amusement._


	66. Truth or Dare

Day 17, December 27, Morning

Peter pursed his lips, straightening and stepping closer. He reached out and with the heel of his left hand, jogged Sylar on the right shoulder. "I'm real, asshole." He glared at the man for a moment, then turned away, shaking his head. He didn't like the disrespect implicit in being reduced to a figment of Sylar's imagination. It robbed him of his agency, made him meaningless in Sylar's eyes. It was twisted that Peter thought the world they were in was fake and Sylar was real; Sylar thought the world was real but Peter fake. _Great. Just great. I can't think of how to prove I'm not, either._ With a huff, he gathered his bowl and spoon from the table, putting them on the counter next to the sink where Sylar could get them and go through the same rinsing and perhaps washing. Then he turned to lean against the counter an arm's length away, facing the opposite way of Sylar who was at the sink. He gave a little sigh and crossed his arms loosely, looking over at him. "Go ahead. Explain it to me."

XXX

Sylar jerked aside from the contact he hadn't seen coming. When nothing followed and Peter turned away, he relaxed – it had been a simple, unexplained shove _. Why the attitude? Don't like being part of my mind? Join the club._ Only the wording was unique to Peter, a point towards proving that Peter was…real. _I wouldn't say that to myself, not in those words anyway. Is Nathan that…lively that he'd make up a Peter hallucination?_ The prickly nurse remained close and the proximity was vaguely threatening; Sylar kept half an eye on him as he rinsed the other man's dishes, too. "I just did."

XXX

Peter snorted, frowning and tightening his arms across his chest. "No, you didn't." _What were we even talking about? Powers?_ "Did your powers ..." Peter's voice softened abruptly, his expression changing from frustrated to concerned, "'tear you apart'?" He cocked his head suddenly in curiosity, not unleavened by empathy. "Is that why you think I'm not real? Has this happened before?" He turned a little towards Sylar, his hands dropping to the counter behind him as he blinked and moved his lips together a few times as if on the cusp of speaking. He didn't know what to say, though. His mind was full of the knowledge of power-induced identity disorders and his own experiences of losing his memories and later losing his body, stuffed bizarrely into a pseudo-possession of an ill-fated stranger. Imagining or being forced to imagine someone who wasn't really there seemed pedestrian enough by comparison. Peter knew of a half dozen abilities that could do it, without even thinking about it much.

XXX

Sylar heaved a sigh and swatted the faucet off. _Yes, I did!_ The implication that he had mental problems, seeing things or wanting to see them, that his sense of reality was completely fucked with no way of knowing up from down, really bothered him. He was further mystified as to who or what this apparition was. "Why the hell are you asking me that? If you're Peter, you hate me and it doesn't matter. If you're me then you already know the answer. This- you-" Sylar scraped a hand through his hair, frustration, paranoia and panic beginning to overflow. An extension of himself would behave one way, Peter (real or not) would act another way; it was important to know for that reason. And knowing if he was having yet another mental break would at the least be entertaining, alone for the rest of eternity. Not that he enjoyed looking like an unstable, paranoid nut job, even to himself. _But why Peter of all people?_

"Prove you're him."

XXX

"Prove I'm what? Who, me?" Peter snorted and turned sideways to the counter, fully facing Sylar. Lips pursed tightly for a moment, he regarded Sylar with narrowed eyes. It was precisely the question Peter had been entertaining himself, but he saw how he could turn this to maybe get the information he needed to answer it. Very seriously, he asked, "What could I do to prove that to you?"

XXX

Sylar stared at Peter for a moment as if trying to see through him. Then he cast around for suitable evidence. His eyes lit on the knife block. Not only would the test answer the question, it would potentially serve a dual purpose. Sylar pushed away from the sink, passing Peter to palm the largest knife. He turned and extended it along his forearm, handle out, towards his enigmatic companion. "Use that, however you want. Then I'll know." Not using it was not an option.

XXX

Peter looked at the weapon. The thumb and index finger of his right hand twitched, betraying his desire to reach for it. His face relaxed slowly as Sylar waited for Peter to accept the offer. "We already tried this, last night. I put it back." _Though it wasn't the big one – I had the paring knife._ Peter dipped his head in the direction of the knife block, not trusting his hands to make any gestures between them.

XXX

"And I get the feeling we're going to try it again and again until you run out of patience." Sylar pointed out, watching the man's face. "C'mon. You hate me, right? You've been trying to do this since you got here. Now's your chance."

XXX

Peter looked at the blade, feeling the same temptation and mental static he'd felt when he found the gun in the nightstand of that apartment they'd explored. _I didn't come here to kill him!_ But it hardly mattered. His mind flashed to Nathan dead in that storage unit, the weight of his body when Noah helped Peter lug him into the airplane, the distant roar of the jets that had flown overhead at the funeral … He took the knife. He told himself it was just to get it out of the hands of the unbalanced guy who wasn't even sure Peter was real. He looked it only briefly, having no great interest in a standard eight inch cook's knife. He held it point downwards between them, eyes locking onto Sylar's as his voice dropped to a growl.

"I've been trying to do one thing since I got here – one very difficult thing that you don't seem to give a damn about." He lifted the knife, knuckles whitening as his muscles tensed for the strike. "And you know what's going to happen to you if I don't get what I want?" He waited a beat, eyes boring fearlessly into those of the taller man. "Nothing," he hissed, turning to stab the knife solidly into the counter, the steel tip biting through the Formica and into the plywood backing. He left it there. Peter turned and stalked out, frustrated and tense, tired already of trying to validate his own existence to someone whose only interest in him was how to use him.

Peter walked off into the living room, scowling at the place, and flopped into the wheelie chair behind the desk. He sat there silently, brooding in the direction of the kitchen entrance.

XXX

Sylar was motionless, gazing sightlessly at the knife. _I'm so crazy…Why would he leave me alone with a weapon? Doesn't he know I'm crazy? He was supposed to…_ "No!" he cried out, finally finding his footing, his voice. He felt…betrayed and dismissed. Stalking into the living room, he stood across from Peter, the desk between them. "You're going to quit stringing me around! You've already done that enough and you're not honest about it. The knife, that knife," Sylar pointed back to the kitchen, speaking quickly, animated and agitated, "that's the only way you can prove this. I've got me in my head; I've got your brother – he knows you! - and if you tell me something Peter knows that I don't know, if you're him…then…it's just something I made up. Do you have a better idea? Because I'm crazy, remember?" _Give me something, whoever you are._

XXX

He watched the other man's agitation, Peter being annoyed at first with narrowed eyes and tensed posture. But as Sylar went on, Peter softened. It sucked, the bind Sylar was in, the tenuous grip on reality. He had to know, on some level, that the world he was in was fake. At the very least, it was so radically different from the real world that Sylar, an intelligent, rational man in a lot of other ways, probably had to imagine some pretty bizarre circumstances to explain it, if he found it explicable at all. The whole issue of where trash went, for example. It had been a brief conversation where Sylar had seemed aware of the unreality of the place. It had to take a lot of effort and determination to create the mental world Sylar found himself in. Peter wondered how anomalous his presence must be, simultaneously difficult to deal with due to difference and yet impossible to differentiate from the rest of the wonky world. He had sympathy for that.

XXX

"You say and ask all these things. It's...twisted and you lie and appear out of nowhere then you take care of me and leave me alive? You're not making any sense. And..." Sylar sighed again, sagging into the open chair, "that makes sense, too, because no one makes sense but...If you're Peter, just... _be Peter_. Okay?" His voice wound down until he couldn't talk anymore.

XXX

"I'm Peter," he said kindly, his voice softer and his posture having relaxed as Sylar came to the end of his rope. "I'm not you. I'm not something you imagined. I'm not," he waved vaguely at the rest of the world, "part of all of this. At least, no more than you are. We're different people. I have a history and I know it – a family, a childhood, people I've known, things I've done – the whole life story of Peter Petrelli. It wasn't about _you_. You weren't in most of it. You are a very small part of my life, Sylar. Who I am doesn't depend on you, wasn't shaped by you. It's _my_ life, not _yours_." It occurred to him that a confusion about boundaries might have tons to do with why Sylar had it in himself to kill people. They weren't him … and if they weren't him, then he didn't know what to do with them. Maybe they didn't count to him or were all frightening, unpredictable strangers who didn't make sense, just as he'd implied.

XXX

Sylar listened, allowing his face to emote what vulnerability it would for the moment. He tried to absorb what Peter was saying, trying to remember that Peter said he was straightforward. Few questions or inconsistencies sprang from the empath's words, so by and large, Sylar was comforted and what's more, he…accepted that this was Peter and Peter was real. For the most part. Of course, he wanted Peter to be real, as odd and masochistic as it was. It was almost like having Peter, possessing him but it was also the simple knowledge that he wasn't alone. _I'm not 'part of this,' whatever that means._ Being a small part of Peter's life was a strangely frightening idea, but perhaps that was because of the implied minimization of himself in general. Since he didn't agree with it, Sylar ignored it (and the flash of panic it inspired). Peter made sense, finally, insisting on his own history and his own identity interwoven with that history. Sylar suspected that Nathan would put a more Nathan-like slant if he were to conjure up a Peter apparition and this sounded…well, very Peter. If Sylar were to imagine the younger Petrelli things would certainly be different. It came down to Peter's own behavioral inconsistencies – nursing him to health, staying with him, playing with him (somewhat), and letting him live without abusing the abundant weapons around them.

XXX

Peter leaned forward in the chair, resting his forearms and some of his weight on the edge of the desk. "I'm not going to cut you up. Not unless we're already in a fight and there's …" He rolled his eyes quickly and shook his head, knowing himself well enough to know he'd make some very dumb decisions in the heat of combat. "That would be really stupid of me, but my point is that I'm not going to take that kitchen knife and hurt you with it, any more than I'm going to take that hammer to you." He waved to his right, at the stack of tools in easy reach. "If you don't understand why, that's because you don't understand _me_. If I was something you'd thought up, then you'd know why I did things without having to ask me, or guess." He pursed his lips and tilted his head slightly. "Do you get it?"

XXX

Sylar frowned more towards the floor. _Why should I care if you do cut me up? Why would you think I care about_ _that?_ he wondered. The burden of proof was on Sylar's plate – it was his task to understand things. It was assumed he knew the mundane, apparently commonplace facts of life like all humans came equipped with it and he was born wrong without it or that all humans were taught and he hadn't learned for some reason. Sylar had been struggling to understand everything for as long as he could remember. It was like a damn _dis_ ability, retardation. He felt like a freak, five steps behind what even an average person could easily grasp and he had to fight and manipulate his target to gain knowledge because it would not be freely given. When he couldn't understand, he had no one to blame but himself. _I do too know him. I do…I know him…_ It sounded weak even to himself. If the Petrellis lacked understanding of their own son and brother – what chance did Sylar have when he barely knew who and where he was? The expectations were steep and taxing. _(Just…try harder). I'm always trying harder._ Sylar nodded to everything Peter had said, even though he was still upset about the knife not being used. His head felt like it was being split down the middle, worse than before, and since he had nothing better to say, he grouched, reaching for a puzzle piece, "My head still hurts." _It always hurts, doesn't it?_

XXX

"That's probably because of the stress. If you're okay with it, how about we just sit here and work the puzzle and try not to aggravate each other too much, okay?" Peter smiled gently at Sylar, reaching out to get a piece of his own. He glanced briefly at it, mostly watching Sylar and making sure things were okay between them for the moment. _I have a feeling these standoffs, confrontations, whatever I want to call them, are only going to get more common as he gets to feeling better._ Peter looked down at where he might place the little cardboard piece in his hand. _Need to make sure we can … back down from it. Talk each other down. Trust each other._ He mused on their situation as they completed the puzzle bit by bit.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar breathed, "Okay." He nodded, still frowning but for different reasons now. He couldn't remember who'd aggravated whom and communication was…a blur; too many topics at once. Orienting on the puzzle, he thought it over slowly.

XXX

Peter noticed as Sylar wound down and seemed to space out, the puzzle piece eventually falling from limp fingers. The man's breathing deepened and face relaxed. Peter leaned back in the chair, watching voyeuristically as his bristly companion made adorable sleepy sighs through slightly parted, pouting lips. _He has nice lips._ Peter smiled shyly and looked away, coloring a little and being glad Sylar wasn't watching him. Of course, had Sylar been awake, Peter would have had something much closer to his game-face on, more serious and alert. He could relax like this and enjoy what he saw. Bewilderingly (to Peter), his mind seemed to think this was the perfect time to review Sylar's good points, the moments when he'd said things that were clever or tried to be helpful, and the flashes of compassion or vulnerability that he'd shown. Peter let his thoughts go where they would. There seemed to be no reason to feed his hate.

When Sylar's head started dipping, Peter eased himself out of his chair and circled the desk. "Sylar?" he said in a normal tone, wanting to wake him and give a warning of his impending touch. He repeated softer, "Sylar," as he stepped behind and put his hands on either of the man's shoulders. "Come on, buddy." His hands slid down Sylar's arms to squeeze a little over his biceps, trying to urge Sylar up. "Come on. Let me get you to where you can lie down. Bed or couch? I promise I won't finish the puzzle without you."

XXX

Sylar was snatched from sleep by contact to his shoulders. He started with a jolt, too disoriented to focus on where it was coming from, where he should defend himself. A quiet voice spoke to him and the contact – hands – soothed down his arms, giving him a choice. Instinctively he moved towards his bed, desiring the comfort it offered more than the need to question. He didn't bother to wake up much, either.

XXX

Peter used Sylar's downtime to go to the grocery store. The snow was melting rapidly, but there was enough of it still there, and his leg and knee still hurting enough that he didn't indulge his restless desire to explore the immediate few blocks around their apartments. Instead he returned to Sylar's place, stocked the fridge, made lunch, and occupied himself reading the book about the Incas. The puzzle had been nearly done when Sylar conked out, so Peter left it with one piece unset, laying the last piece to the side so Sylar could put it in and maintain the fiction that they'd worked it together.

XXX

The rest of Sylar's day was low-key and restful. He finally groomed when he woke from his nap and was required to do little else. Peter slept with him again that night. Well, not slept _with_ him; Peter crashed on the couch.

XXX

Day 21, New Year's Eve, Evening

Peter waited, poised breathlessly as Sylar stared bitterly at his game board like it had betrayed him. Finally, he muttered the words. Peter couldn't make out exactly what was said, but it certainly wasn't, 'you missed'. Peter erupted into laughter and whoops of victory. "I got it?" Mouth agape, Peter's eyes were fixed on Sylar's surly visage, making sure it wasn't a joke or feint, but Sylar looked too pissed for that. "Oh my God, I got it! I sank your last freaking battleship, man! Ha, ha, ha!" He put his left hand out asking for a high five. Sylar looked like he might grab it and break it if it stayed out there any longer, so Peter pulled it back swiftly. Instead, he swiveled his game board carefully, showing it off to his defeated opponent. "Look! Look at this! You _had_ me, man! You almost _had_ me! One more turn and you'd have called it and I'd have been dead."

Grinning widely, Peter leaned back in his chair, stretching exultantly. "You know what? I am never playing Battleship with you again." Peter stabbed a finger once at Sylar. "Cuz, look at that," he said, turning his motion into a wave at the game board. "What are you doing, stepping off a fucking grid? How is that any fun, Sylar? It's like I'm not even playing against a human being, just an algorithm." Peter's busily gesturing hand picked up his beer so he could take a deep draw off from it, emptying the bottle. "I can play that way, too, you know." He set the bottle down. "And then the game would be pointless - all a matter of who won the coin toss to go first. We could just have the coin toss, then whoever gets it right could gloat about what they did to make it happen, which is nothing. You're missing the fun part, Sylar!" Peter leaned forward sharply. "And you know what's really fun? That you did all that methodical bullshit and I _still_ beat your ass!"

XXX

Sylar angrily yanked the pegs from their holders on the board, shaking his head in disbelief, growling, "You won by pure chance. That's all." He paused with a handful of pegs to glare at his partner. Peter Petrelli liked to trash talk, especially a few beers in. Obviously Sylar wasn't thrilled to have his defeat rubbed in his face, but Peter was attacking his playing style, too. "Even computers can't foresee random Hail Mary's," he denounced, putting Peter's final (winning) move in the perspective light of desperation. The nurse had an educated guess to go on, sure. Regardless of the game, Peter played randomly, perhaps that made Sylar overly confident. He didn't point out how often computers won, that made him look worse still. "One more move and I'd have won with certainty." Being called a computer, more or less, was bothersome and slightly flattering. _I did things! I thought it through, I made a plan! I can, too, have fun! Or is he saying that like I'm not supposed to have fun?_ That slowed his otherwise urgent, jerky yanks at the pegs. _But I'm not supposed to lose, at least, not every time. And I haven't…Is he threatening not to play unless he wins?_ "I'm not changing how I play, Petrelli," he asserted, watching his companion to see how that was received. He was remembering how he'd been called out as a child whenever his strategies of 'fun' weren't making the grade. No, playing to win was important; fun was just… just that: a blank spot. Maybe it was a luxury or something he couldn't understand, which was very likely. _I'm not having fun correctly. People who murder other people for fun aren't right._ "Maybe playing against a computer will raise your game. Have another beer," he snarked, unsure of what or whom he was angry at now. _He has no idea who he's dealing with, does he? Makes me want to break him in. It's so tempting sometimes…_

XXX

Peter snorted and picked up his bottle. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Me drinking more would probably help you win, wouldn't it?" He swung the dead soldier back and forth as he waggled his brows.

He got to his feet, leaving his game board set up so he could admire it a little more, or to make Sylar be the one to have to disassemble it. Either way, he took Sylar's suggestion that he get another drink and headed to the kitchen. As he passed, he reached down and gave a friendly couple of pats to Sylar's shoulder, taking care to telegraph the motion. At one point he'd thought Sylar would get used to friendly touch and stop twitching from the contact, but it hadn't happened. So Peter had changed and gone to giving more warning. He was glad that seemed to work, as the alternative was no contact at all, something Peter shied away from. That would have complicated things like this current, non-verbal attempt to soothe Sylar's ruffled feathers.

XXX

Sylar ceased his plucking when he felt the patting. It wasn't as unheard-of as it had been in the past – Mister Touch/No-Touch offering up physical contact of any sort. He questioned it now because of Peter's win. _Is that a literal put-down, rubbing it in?_ A half-glare followed Peter as he left, albeit to get more beer (for once being an obedient boy). Peter seemed happy and friendly, though. _Maybe even…pliable. Hmm…_

XXX

The bottle went in the trash and Peter stuck his head in the refrigerator. A few days before, he'd taken one of the grocery store shopping carts and stocked up on stuff, including beverages. Since the champagne had gone over fine and Peter had largely gotten over his fear of being impaired around Sylar, he'd added a case of beer and a couple bottles of wine to other stuff in the cart. He snagged two bottles, because like even if he was mostly over it, he certainly wasn't going to drink alone.

Peter returned, setting the drinks down in front of their respective seats. "You don't _have_ to change how you play, Sylar. My dad and Nathan never did and I still don't like chess." He sat, looking across the table at the other man, a 'so there you go' expression on his face – one brow up and a brief tilt of his head. He added, "Since Battleship and chess aren't options, what else would you like to play?"

XXX

"Then maybe you should change the way _you_ play, Petrelli," Sylar sassed. His lips thinned at the reinforcement that he'd…somehow screwed up and lost a game to play with Peter; it felt like deprivation or punishment even. _But I do have to change or you won't play Battleship with me, apparently._ That it had to be mentioned more than once made it sound like Peter was at least trying to be serious about not playing it ever again (at least until Sylar mended his ways). As Peter got more chatty with drink, Sylar was drawn into talking himself; he gazed up at Peter from underneath his eyebrows. _Do you really want to know what I wanna play? (Should I say it?) What else could we play with our clothes on?_ "How about…" _What's a good party game?_ Nathan's memories from high school and college came to the forefront. Girls, smoke, booze, cards and more. Sylar smirked, "Truth or Dare."

XXX

Peter raised his brows without answering right away. Instead, he pulled out his utility tool, selected the bottle opener, and popped the lid off his beer. He passed the device towards Sylar as he considered the proposal. It had been a long day filled with the playing of one board game after another. Over the previous few days, Peter had won some of their games, lost others, and observed that Sylar was impatient and short when explaining rules. It meant Peter quit asking. Truth or Dare was simple. It also didn't obligate them to a specific length, and given that the evening had worn into early night, Peter wasn't keen to get sucked into an all-night game of Risk or something like it. Plus, he wondered what Sylar wanted to know (or see him do). His curiosity was what cinched it for him. "Okay."

XXX

"Which do you pick?"

XXX

"Truth." He collected the utility tool from Sylar and restored it to his pocket.

XXX

"What was the first New Year's you drank alcohol?" Sylar imagined it was pretty young – Nathan had surely noticed (if Angela or Arthur hadn't), but he didn't remember what year or age Peter was. He started with something light and easy. For now.

XXX

"New Year's? Is this New Year's? I hadn't been keeping track of the days … Huh." Peter shrugged, bemused, and focused on the question instead of the impact of having been here for three full weeks with no Matt, no way out, nothing and nobody but his brother's cranky killer to spend time with. "You know, we weren't one of those families that believed kids shouldn't touch the stuff until they were twenty-one." _'We'. The Petrellis. How does he take that, anyway? Does he think I'm including him? … Am I? Hm. Well, back to the question._ "So I'm sure I tasted alcohol back when I was five or six or whatever. Just the tiniest sip of champagne for the New Year's toast, if I was awake. It was traditional. But I think what you're really asking is the first time I got drunk." He looked at Sylar for a moment for confirmation.

"When I was thirteen, Nathan had come home for Christmas and my birthday, but he had to leave before New Year's. I ..." He looked at Sylar, having another of those unsettling flashes that this man's face was probably the last thing Nathan had seen. Peter grimaced as his face reflected an echo of grief and unresolved rage. He set it aside, looking down at the table, toying with his beer by rotating it in circles. "I was pretty down after he left. Bob Bishop came to the New Year's Eve party and he got me off to the side in the kitchen early on." Peter's mouth twisted down in an ugly fashion. He didn't like Bob's idea of a joke and he'd seen Bob's idea of good parenting in Elle. He chewed his upper lip briefly. He'd been lonely and upset enough about Nathan's departure to be suckered in by Bob's false offer of friendship. "He gave me a bottle of some kind of cherry liqueur and said it was a gift for me, a late Christmas present. It was really sweet. Tasted a lot like maraschino cherries, which, you know," Peter shrugged and waved his bottle around a little, "I liked it at that point. And they're okay now, but not my favorite and it took a while for me to get over it." He took a short drink. "Anyway, long story shorter, I drank it. Started puking hours before midnight and kept it up all evening. I was so miserable. I saw his face once, at the beginning when I was telling my mom I was feeling sick. He looked so ..." Peter tilted the bottle sideways, along with his head, "smug."

Peter tapped the fingers of his right hand, where they weren't bound by the brace, restlessly against the arm of the office chair. "So what about you? Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Sylar didn't hesitate. "Dare." Truth was uninteresting (usually painful) and what 'truth' did Sylar have to share anyway?

XXX

Peter leaned back a little further, enjoying the surprising rush of power too much for the comfort of his own conscience. _I could ask him to do anything …_ His mind blanked out for a moment as what he wanted most wasn't something that could be forced or compelled – and he didn't want to hear Sylar's apologies or confessions anyway. But there were other things where Peter wasn't as picky about motivations. _What I really want is to take him down a peg. Pegs._ He looked at the Battleship board – his still open, facing him, on display. Sylar's was neatly disassembled and folded shut off to the side. Cocking his head to one side and smiling with false sweetness, Peter said, "Tell me, with as much sincerity as you can manage, congratulations for beating you at Battleship. I dare you to concede gracefully."

XXX

Sylar's mouth went thin and flat, teeth clenching. _So that's how it's going to be._ That peppy smile on Peter's face made it clear what was going on. "Sincerity, huh?" His left eyebrow raised with disdain. He could easily give Peter a lie, a con, that would have almost more sincerity than if he tried to apply the actual emotion. The muscles around his mouth moved as he stared pointedly away from Peter, staring holes into the wall, working himself up to and into the correct frame of mind (if it was possible). Rules were rules – if the Dare specified sincerity, then it was required. _Congratulate him for winning by chance? That's…kind of hollow. But so's his mind sometimes, I suppose._ After a few moments for which Sylar did not apologize for using, he turned to back to Peter. After licking his lips, "Congratulations," he intoned with barest hints of 'this is forced and I don't like it,' "For…" the eyebrow went up again as he gestured, "beating me at Battleship." Honestly, the worst part was the last sentence; a simple conciliatory word wasn't too difficult to cough up.

_Will he do something similar the next time I do Dare?_ "Truth or Dare?" Sylar asked to move on.

XXX

"Dare." What would Sylar would ask him to do, given that power? Of course it was only so much power as either of them was willing to grant the other, but that by itself was part of the appeal of the game – how far would they let the other go?

XXX

"Why don't you finish off that beer in one go?" Sylar's smirk remained. _Get you nice and drunk. Plus, I wanna see if you can do it; I think you can._ As a bonus, Peter's long neck would be exposed.

XXX

Sylar's Truth question had seemed like a strange thing for Sylar to want to know, but now Peter saw it in a different light. A frisson of fear, or maybe just concern, passed over him similar to the feelings he'd had when he first came here, not sure what Sylar was capable of. _Is he trying to get me wasted?_ Peter looked at the bottle – he'd hardly drank any of it yet. He raised it nearly to his lips, looking past the colored glass to Sylar. "I never trusted Bob again after that thing at New Year's." _And I won't trust you if you show me I can't._

XXX

"You don't have to but you'll be the guy who wimped out of a perfectly good Dare. You're an adult now and are you really trying to make a connection between me and Bob Bishop?"

XXX

Peter hesitated a moment more, adding, "You're right. You're better company than he would be." He took a deep breath, tipped the bottle, and put it away in one, easy, prolonged swallow. In a way, he was giving Sylar a chance to show what he was made of.

"Your turn."

XXX

Peter's throat's gulping motions were hypnotizing. It was such a simple function, really. It was a human function. It involved soft skin and muscles, the need to ingest nutrition for survival…moisture and a tongue…Sylar blinked once to remove the image of the phallic neck of the beer bottle doing… _Okay…I didn't mean for it to do that_ … "Dare," Sylar said again.

XXX

Peter wiped his mouth, making sure he hadn't dribbled from the numb area of his lip. The way Sylar had been staring made him wonder. "Keep up with me - that's the dare."


	67. Humiliations

Day 21, New Year's Eve, Evening

Sylar couldn't help but smile a little, without teeth. Peter caught on marvelously quickly to his plan. That was practically delicious. He'd been discovered and the man still participated; it was very much like playing together now. "This won't be fair – I still have my liver function, Petrelli." _Ha! See, I can talk smack, too._ It was fair game because Peter himself had been the first to mention or admit to a familial (if rather obvious) alcoholism problem. Presumably things would be even if they both drank the same amount – they would at least be even on a battlefield if it came to that. Sylar hefted his literally untouched bottle, pushing aside memories of drinking Matt Parkman under the table, saluting his companion and assuming the position. It didn't go down as smoothly as Peter made it look. It was the aftertaste that came after every large, palate-washing mouthful. Sylar muffled his coughing, more determined than he was comfortable because no way in hell would he let Peter outman him at anything. _Eckgh_ , he thought on finishing. The dregs were a weight in his belly now, his throat coated with the stuff, soon his head would begin to feel lighter than before. /Reality shifted and he remembered multitudes of endless nights worth of parties, wasting valuable study time just to blow off steam from the pressures of life and college.../ Swiping at his mouth, he proudly placed the bottle on the desk. _And now…it's a drinking game_.

"Ugh…" Sylar cleared his throat then burped, not particularly loudly. He did not apologize for that basic human function, so unlike his former self who would have tripped over himself to gain favor and acceptance. "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Peter set his empty on the corner of the table, leaning forward to begin the process of disassembling his Battleship board. He'd gotten what he wanted in regards to the game; the board didn't need to be on display any more. He was buoyed way more than he thought he should have been that Sylar's concession had been both difficult for him to muster and relatively well-done. "Truth."

XXX

"What was the best lay you ever had on New Year's?" He knew Petrelli had at least a few to choose from – the little slut.

XXX

Peter snorted immediately, because that was really private and it smacked of a crudity Peter didn't attach to intimacy. _That is not fucking fair! What about the people I'd be talking about?_ He shot Sylar an unhappy, narrow-eyed glare over the top of his Battleship board, but it was short-lived. He went back to pulling white pegs from the various misses and thought about Sylar's wording. He didn't like picking and choosing words, but maybe there was a compromise. _(And what does he mean by 'what' was my best lay, anyway?)_ "I'm not going to tell you names." Flat. Final. No compromise. But ... "Are you saying you want a description?"

XXX

Sylar made his 'whatever' face before he thought it through. "Wait…unless it's someone I know…" _Unlikely. Shit, what if Nathan knows her? Or…him?_ Something about the timeline he was asking about seemed important. _Christmas…New Year's…_ "It's not Elle, is it?" he asked warningly. There was no amount of alcohol or drugs in the world to make it okay to hear about…that.

XXX

Peter opened his mouth briefly, leaving it that way as he tried to think of who they both knew, other than Elle, whom he had or might have been with on or around New Year's. "No, it's not Elle." _He cares about her. Good to know._ With a slight shake of his head, Peter moved to pull the red pegs from the ships, thinking back a lot further than Elle.

"This isn't real easy. I don't remember things by dates. I was never one of those 'notebook guys' who kept a file of who and when, what position it was, and a stupid rating." He gave a quick roll of his eyes in disgust at the concept as he tossed the now-restored submarine into the ship compartment and picked up the patrol boat. "I remember people. People, and how I felt about them, sometimes more than what we actually did." The patrol boat was done, so he moved on to the destroyer. "Nothing in the last four years. At least not on New Years." The aircraft carrier was next. "Before that ..."

He finished and shut the game, setting the hard, plastic, red box to the side on top of Sylar's blue one. Once he had his thoughts together, he had to decide how he wanted to tell this. _He wants a story, like one of those paramedic stories, but … with sex. And me._ Peter smiled and looked down at the desk. Sylar wanted to know … about him. He leaned forward, putting both elbows on the edge of the desk, raising his eyes to meet Sylar's. His smile deepened charmingly (and he knew it did). He reached up and pushed his bangs out of his face with relaxed ease, using the lures to better pull Sylar into the story.

"Here's one I remember really well. I didn't have a date, wasn't even really looking for one. New Year's Eve isn't what I consider a good time to hook up – a lot of people are sloshed and a lot of the time, I was, too. Too much alcohol and getting laid doesn't go well together. But I hadn't had very much when I saw this girl sitting by herself. She looked sad – looking down a lot, shoulders slumped, like she was a million miles away. I went over to her. She told me she didn't want to talk and was just there because she wanted to be around people. I told her I was the same way and asked if she minded if I sat next to her so people wouldn't think I was by myself, too. I wasn't trying to put moves on her or anything. I think she got that. We sat together, not talking, through the next song on the stereo. I don't remember the song, but the one after that was Clocks by Coldplay. It was a big hit that year." His smile brightened and he chuckled, waving at the various timepieces around the room. Maybe that was why this particular story had come to mind.

XXX

Sylar remembered the song. It had been hard to avoid it was so popular. It had a nice beat that was clock-like, bell-like, very catchy but the lyrics had nothing to do with clocks, that he could remember and so it was a little disappointing.

XXX

"She thought the lyrics had a lot to do with her life, which was depressing. We talked about why, which led to talking about music in general and what it meant to people. Turns out she was majoring in it, violin, but she wasn't doing well. She'd been upset all semester, trying to keep a long distance relationship with her fiancé, who had broken up with her right before finals. Instead of spending the winter break with him, she'd been hanging around campus. Alone. She asked me to take her back to her apartment, so I did. Once we were there ..." Peter raised his brows and tilted his head, allowing Sylar to entertain the obvious, but incorrect, assumption.

"That's not when I got laid." He smirked at the shift in Sylar's expression.

XXX

Sylar frowned. _But she said…_

XXX

"We made some coffee and sat out on the fire escape in the cold, while she told me all about her ex, how her parents adored him so much they'd already made arrangements for the wedding in the spring, how her music instructor had implied he was going to give her seat to someone else, and how she was starting to wonder if she had anything left worth living for. I told her about how I'd felt when I thought I was going to have to be a lawyer, and how much that crushed me until I found a way to do things on my own terms. I asked her what she thought a life worth living should have in it. She said she wanted other people to stop making the important decisions about her life and for her to make them instead. I told her she was right and that's what it all came down to. We watched the sun come up together. I asked her what decisions she wanted to make. She told me she'd decided she wanted to go to bed with me." He smiled warmly, waggling his brows as he waited, again, for Sylar to come to the wrong conclusion.

"I didn't get laid then, either. We just slept." Peter had another warm smile, this time in memory of tired cuddling and her surprise that he was happy to be with her on her terms.

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows went up. _Again? Did you get some at all? Then why are you telling me this story?_ Was it a relief that even the high-and-mighty Peter Petrelli misread the signs of women and had struck out?

XXX

"When I woke up, I showered. Came out to get dressed ..." Peter gave Sylar another teasing, maybe flirting look before continuing, "and _that's_ when I got laid. She pulled me in bed, pushed me down, climbed on top, and fucked me so hard it felt like the room was spinning. She was _all over me_." He smiled a little smugly at how enthusiastic she'd been. "I saw her again that night … and yeah, got laid again. And the next morning … again." Peter's grin widened. "She told off her ex, told off her music instructor, broke the news to her parents, and changed majors from music to social work." He chuckled, glad that he could be the catalyst for such a change in someone's life.

XXX

_That was a bad question._ Sylar regretted his choice thoroughly. He made a firm mental note never to ask Peter Petrelli about his good memories – because the spoiled brat had plenty. And now Sylar had to remember that one. _I don't want to picture that. I don't want to remember that. I didn't want to hear that. That wasn't…what I wanted…Why can't he just…?_

XXX

There was a long pause before the inevitable 'what happened next' of the story. "I never hooked up with her again. She moved on." Peter shrugged, eyes darting to the side at that distant sting. Bitterness tugged down the corners of his mouth, dispelling his previously pleased expression. If he did his job right in helping people, then they didn't need him anymore – but that wasn't very soothing when he returned to an empty apartment or tried to explain to someone why he got dumped so often. He got to his feet, heading to the kitchen so Sylar wasn't looking at the emotions he knew were showing on his face. "I'm going to get another round. Pick Truth or Dare," he said, voice gruffer than it needed to be.

XXX

_I hate him._ Every reaction he knew stampeded through Sylar's body, settling on rage and murder. Everything the man said was…wrong, too much, out of line, sickening…Peter stole the task Sylar would have otherwise taken, "You do that," he sniped. He hadn't desired to break Peter's button nose using his own desk so badly since the nurse arrived. The man who'd premeditated raping his mind had a memory like that? What was worse, Sylar couldn't envision what that kind of event would be like. He refused to admit the idea was both arousing and terrifying. ' _Hooking up' he called it. You…get them to talk then you wait for them to jump you?_ He felt jealousy, envy, in ways he couldn't explain. Maybe that was Nathan's reaction; he could hope that's what it was. Sylar stood, pacing around while Peter was absent. _Things don't happen like that. I bet he stole that from a soap opera or a porno. That's it: he lied. He made that up. He did that on purpose._ It had worked. That decided, his rage eased back from the tense, homicidal flood.

"Dare," he sneered, sitting after the medic. _Make it a good one; ideally involving my memory cortex and a wood chipper as a professional courtesy._

XXX

Peter returned, dropping off the beers and getting out his pocket tool to open them. He noted Sylar was in a bad mood now. Something that caused outright humiliation didn't seem like a good dare at the moment, despite how edifying he'd found the congratulations _. I'll have to come back to that and make him do the chicken dance or something else embarrassing. Hm. Can he dance?_ Peter leaned back in his seat, putting away the utility tool as his eyes became merry at the mental image of Sylar clumsily gyrating on a dance floor, not that the guy was clumsy normally (aside from concussions). _Hard to do that without music. I wonder if he can sing?_ "I dare you to sing me a song – a full one, not just a ditty or a jingle. Whatever you know all the words to."

XXX

Sylar's face was blank. _Was that supposed to be embarrassing or…what?_ His eyes narrowed with suspicion briefly. That wasn't the kind of dare he wanted – what did that prove? "I'd…have to think." A whole song? There went 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Stars', not that he could remember it. "Um…okay." It was a long time since his choir-boy days and his voice had long-since broken, deepening to his satisfaction. Sylar wasn't shy about his voice (but he wasn't sure how it would sound after two beers), though he didn't advertise it. He cleared his throat and sat up a little, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer…had a very shiny nose…And if you ever saw him, you would even say it glows…All of the other reindeer…used to laugh and call him names…They would never let poor Rudolph…play in any reindeer games…" He forgot the exact wording for the next verse, but rallied for the rest. It was one of those annoyingly memorable songs, impossible to forget especially when he'd watched the movie growing up, viewing it so much it drove Mom to forbidding it.

XXX

_Hm. Okay. Not what I expected, but it's okay. He's easy to listen to._ Sylar had a deep voice that resonated and carried nicely, getting better as he went, warming to the task. It was untrained, as far as Peter could tell, but it had a good timbre and an intensity that projected even in such a simple song. Peter liked it; it was satisfying, somehow, to know this otherwise irrelevant detail about his companion. He wasn't thinking about why he wanted to know the quality of Sylar's singing voice. If he had, it would have been something vague about the piano or guitar and wanting the occasional accompaniment. "We could go carol the empty city," he suggested rhetorically, taking a pull from his beer.

XXX

"Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Peter licked his lips, then reached up to wipe at them, catching a nascent dribble on the left side. He looked at the moisture on his thumb and frowned at it. _Fuck. Maybe I should stop drinking._ He set down the beer, concerned he was getting drunk enough to be less than his normally meticulous self about the side of his mouth. _I guess I could do a dare. He just did one. I don't really want to tell another story. No telling what he'd ask._ "Dare."

XXX

"Let me touch your hair." Sylar smirked shamelessly.

XXX

"Eh ..." Peter blinked repeatedly, then did it again. _O-kay. No telling what he'd ask, all right._ "My …?" He reached up and ran his hand along the surface of his hair on the left side. It didn't seem out of place. _Why? Just … because?_ He looked at that expression on Sylar's face, remembering something weird about how the guy had handled his head when trying to show him how to do a physical exam. _Oh my fucking God, he's not … this doesn't tie in with cutting people's heads open, does it?_ Peter swallowed and recoiled from the desk, hands going to his lap, his gaze on Sylar sharpening to an alert stare.

XXX

Sylar stared right back, calm and collected. He didn't think Peter would wuss out (Sylar wasn't asking for anything perverted or wrong…as far as Peter knew), but the nurse might place restrictions on the act – this was all about pushing the guy's comfort zone, seeing where his boundaries were.

XXX

_All he asked for was to touch my hair. Calm down. That's all he asked for._ Peter's eyes went to his beer, trying to calculate if it was better or worse to be more inebriated for whatever was about to happen. Since he didn't know, he left the alcohol where it was at. "Okay," he said, voice a little shaky.

XXX

Standing, he made his way around the desk to stand behind Peter and the roller chair.

XXX

Peter remained sitting, hands in lap. He tilted his head up to give Sylar a wary, but also curious, expression – eyes narrowed, brows drawn together, face intent. He had to suppress his urge to pull away when Sylar reached for him; it manifested anyway as a twitch, but otherwise, Peter held still for it – for all of it.

XXX

Sylar smiled a little at that extra look, but he didn't say anything. Let Peter freak out about it. Lifting his hands, he paused before making contact. Peter kept quiet, not taking those last seconds to put rules in place. _Thatta boy._ Sylar began with petting over the top of Peter's head, down around towards the back of his neck, just to get a feel for the texture of his hair. It was quite soft, thick, but not heavy for all the volume the guy managed. "Hm," Sylar's hum of acknowledgement and slight surprise was brief. He rubbed the ends of Peter's hair between his fingers; maybe a little dry, in need of a haircut. _Perfect._ Behind the nurse, Sylar smirked to himself. This was completely forbidden, touching someone's hair, yet here he was, with permission, doing it, one of those boundary-crossing things he rarely got to do. It was…personal, really personal: hair, touching it, allowing it.

XXX

_Okay, that's … that's okay. I think._ Without being able to see what Sylar was doing, Peter was left imagining based on the sensations. The stroking he could follow easily enough and then Sylar was doing something different, maybe picking up a few individual locks of hair and … what? What was he doing? This wasn't the matter-of-fact handling of a stylist or the intimate caress of a lover. Far as Peter could tell, Sylar's breathing was still normal so if he was getting off on it, he was slow to show it. Aside from however Sylar felt, Peter didn't find the experience as upsetting as it could have been. Instead, it felt nice. Weird though the whole thing was, he felt the tension easing out of his shoulders. Touch had a tendency to do that.

XXX

Peter wore this little haircut around probably just to make people want to touch it – the hair certainly seemed to cry out for it. Sylar's next touch was with combined fingers to different parts of hair – temple, back of head, the part - testing for variations in texture (and reactions therein, if that happened). Cursory exploration satisfied, Sylar slid his fingertips from the man's forehead into his hair, as if he were giving him a scalp massage. Yes, this is what he wanted. _That's right, just checking on that…hematoma you had._ This way, his fingers embedded and intertwined, he could clench his hands, make fists and control and demand, if he so chose. Sliding his fingers through Peter's lovely dark hair several times, slowly with no reaction, Sylar decided to try grabbing it. His loose 'grip' of sorts, tightened, squeezing the hair with space between scalp and fingers. _Do you like that? Will you allow it? Hmmm…_

XXX

A little more odd touching of different spots made Peter move his legs restlessly, but he had no other response. Fingers stroking into his hair led him to shut his eyes and let out a deep breath despite how inappropriate all of this was. Maybe Sylar got off on this, or maybe it was some harkening back to cutting people's heads open – either way, Peter was buzzed enough from alcohol to find it easy to not care. He cared that it felt good and that was what mattered. It was a dare and he was just being … generous in not stopping Sylar. Right. He felt warm and tingly, letting his mind wander to the last time someone had done something like this …

\\\He remembered a beautiful woman, tattooed, passionately running her hands into the hair at the base of his neck. He couldn't place her, or the situation, which seemed charged with an energy he couldn't identify any more than the person. He'd felt … betrayed?\\\ "Hm?" _Who is she?_ Digging further, Peter recalled the carnival with a familiarity to the scene that didn't fit; he'd never been there. \\\Samuel had introduced him to her: 'Lydia, come meet our new friend. Show him around a bit, will you?' His own name wasn't spoken, the significance of which he hadn't grasped at the time-\\\

Then a grip in his hair, both hands on either side of his scalp, changed everything. The daydream was obliterated by a different memory that Peter identified as his own much more readily, one of being jerked around by his hair, manhandled in a way that layered intimacy, violence, and coercion. He hunched defensively, drawing his body downward at the same time that he reached up with his left. "Nnn ..." His fingertips went to the side of Sylar's left hand and moved there in a mute hand-signal of concern, reaching across to probe restlessly at the right hand as well. "Let go," he said softly, his tone not so much a command but more like a question. Stiff fingers pushed against Sylar's wrists, urging him away, encouraging a release without demanding it. Tension spiraled through him, seeking an outlet.

XXX

Peter was surprisingly polite about getting Sylar's hands off him, not smacking at his hands or using language. Behind Peter, he made a face but slowly unclenched his grip, moving around to sit in his own seat again, across from his companion. He looked over the man's countenance to gauge just how upset Peter was about it. It didn't matter too much – Sylar had gotten to touch, with permission, Peter's tempting mane.

XXX

Peter leaned forward and away from Sylar, stroking his hair rapidly to self-sooth and chase away the feeling of being held in place. Memories he didn't want to have were safely locked back in their respective mental boxes. He gave Sylar a wary, hyper-alert look while holding his body as far away from the other man as possible. "You touched my hair. That was the deal. You're done." _Weirdo._ As Sylar moved away, Peter straightened, pulling his comb from his pocket and carding it through his hair, scraping it across his entire scalp. It felt odd where Sylar had brushed against him – a not uncommon occurrence and so Peter ignored it, trying to overlay the sensation with that of the comb, not that it worked very well. Not sure what he was supposed to do in response to hair-fondling-gone-bad or what could have only been a trip down Sylar's memory lane, Peter changed the subject. "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

The grabbing wasn't the best idea, not because it had failed quickly, but because he hadn't done it with much valid purpose. There was little to gain from grabbing Peter's hair. Now Sylar wondered how long he would have been allowed to touch if he hadn't grabbed. He felt strangely territorial about the re-combing. The insinuation that Peter wanted to erase Sylar's touch was pretty clear. Maybe he just envied the comb – he stared at the grooming tool as it passed through Peter's hair where his fingers had been seconds ago. Or maybe they just had a bad history with combs. For now, Sylar still had another human being on his hands – faint oil, scent, heat. He wanted to smell his hands. His fingers felt awakened, tingling with the sensation of phantom hairs still passing by and his hands wanted nothing more than to be back against any part of that warmth. His head was light, headache diminished; buzzing happily whether he wanted it to or not, from beer or physical contact he wasn't sure. "Dare."

XXX

Peter relaxed a little as the power shifted back to him. He remained unsettled by Sylar getting grabby; more unsettled that he still responded badly to that after all these years. He'd had girlfriends grab his hair, even pull on it. Given the right context, it didn't bother him (and was sometimes really sexy). The context with Sylar was unclear – standing over him, motives unknown, touching him intimately – it was the same emotional feel that he'd sensed in Sylar's memory that he'd inadvertently tapped. The experience left him irritable. There might have been a little vengeance in his choice for Sylar's Dare, or maybe it was an insecure attempt to assert dominance. He put away his comb and gave Sylar a half-hearted smirk he was putting on for show. "I dare you to sing _and_ act, or dance, the little teapot song, three times in a row."

XXX

Sylar lasered Peter with a glare. For one thing, that dare wasn't funny; the amount was overkill, and for another, it was obvious why he was being given that dare – punishment. He didn't make any rules about it, vindictive little snot. "Hardly a dare. I thought playing this with a Petrelli would involve two beers and juggling chainsaws, you know, something interesting," he sneered, putting Peter's annoyingly effective dare into proper perspective as he stood decisively. Once upright however, with Peter's eyes on him, the dare was immediately placed back into the utterly humiliating category it truly was. Sylar hesitated, ignoring how the pause might make him look. He did not want to get started, everything about his pride was rebelling. _I_ kill _people and this is what he wants me to do? Doesn't he know who I am? Doesn't he know what I can do to him?_ His 'big bad' image was already smarting. This was much more difficult than the consolation congratulations dare earlier and beyond simply singing.

Clearing his throat, Sylar glared again at the cause of his humiliation. _I'm never going to live this down. Maybe if I hit him on the head, he'll forget? Drunks forget things, too, right?_ Not bothering to sing, Sylar spoke the words to the tune in an uninspired tone of voice, half-assing the gestures. It wasn't like he knew the action parts real well, having only seen it a few times as a child. He'd never done it himself and doing it now felt awkward.

XXX

"Hey, it's interesting to me," Peter said with affected nonchalance. _Next time I'm afraid you're going to kill me, I'm going to think of this. Of course, this might be_ why _you're going to kill me._ Peter mostly controlled his snickering. _Oh yeah, the horribly scary Sylar-as-a-little-teapot. Next time he points that finger at me I ought to say_ _something about his 'spout'._

XXX

Once that was through (hoping his face wasn't flushed red), Sylar quickly sat and pretended he wasn't completely embarrassed by staring through Peter's face and sprawling as casually as he could, instead of slouching, avoiding eye contact and squirming in place trying to be invisible. "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

"Beer." Peter pointed at Sylar's so-far untouched bottle, and took a deep swig out of his own. He strongly suspected Sylar needed some alcohol to wash that incident down. "My dare earlier was that you'd keep up with me. Not just that bottle – all night." That was stretching it and he wouldn't fight much if Sylar refused, but Peter would certainly and pointedly end his drinking if Sylar wouldn't honor it. After waiting a beat for reaction, he said, "Truth," hoping to avoid having to make a similar spectacle of himself.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed for a few seconds. That was slightly dangerous because Peter could drink more than he could – the odds of Sylar getting drunker faster (and getting sicker) were greater. _Does he want to get_ me _drunk?_ He tilted his head in acquiescence, taking a few drinks. "Tell me your most embarrassing moment."

XXX

Peter stared for a moment, eyes large with a deer-in-the-headlights look as Sylar did him one better. Then he burst into laughter, his belly shaking as he leaned back and let loose. "Oh my God, that's good! I _totally_ deserve that!" He sat upright in the chair to stab a finger in Sylar's direction. "Props for a perfect revenge." He had the feeling this was a real game, more than he'd managed with any of the many other board and card games they'd gone through in the preceding days, more than he often managed with anyone. _This_ – this was give and take, and Sylar, to Peter's shock, was not shirking (well, he could have done the teapot thing with a lot more spirit, but Peter had picked it because he knew it would offend the hell out of the guy). He shook his head as the chuckling wound down and he started giving some actual thought to what he'd just been asked to tell.

He sighed and leaned back in the chair again, studying the ceiling. Random moments from childhood flashed through his mind – forgetting to get his parent's permission slip for a fifth grade trip to the museum and the teacher calling him out in class for being empty-headed, then having to go to the office and beg his mother come down to school in person, immediately, or else he would have had to spend all day doing nothing while the other kids saw all the cool stuff. It had mattered so much at the time. Or when Harry Belvidere caught him jerking off in the shower before sophomore year swim class, part of Peter's plan not to be caught with a hard-on (again) in the tight trunks everyone had to wear. Or when he realized his dad had gotten him fired from that fast food job he'd tried to work in college, and he had to pretend he'd fucked it up himself.

Peter slouched forward, putting his elbows on the desk and his face into his hands. He rubbed at his eyes and let all his air out. "You know," he said slowly, face still hidden, "the hard part is picking out which is worst." He lifted his face, cupping one hand within the other and resting them against his upper lip. "Most embarrassing thing that happened to me recently … Nathan … knew what happened, but I don't think he ever got what it meant to me." _And now he never will. Not that I think he would have, even if he was still alive. I don't think it was in him to care – not that way, not about_ **me** _ **.**_

Peter looked away, frowning. "I'd … just, _just_ told Simone that I'd loved her from the first moment I'd laid eyes on her. I wanted to be with her. I'd watched her with her father, and I thought she was kind, fun, thoughtful, intelligent ..." He smiled softly at the memory, making a slight wave of one hand.

XXX

_Love at first sight? Really, Peter?_ Sylar thought dubiously and humorously. _He probably just wanted to sleep with her_ _. A_ _ll that stuff he likes is so general…_

XXX

"I'd just told her that when Nathan got everyone's attention at the campaign fundraiser we were at, one he'd roped me into attending that I didn't even want to go to. I went because," Peter rolled his eyes, "he pulled the 'family' card on me. So there I was, when he announced to everyone – reporters, my parent's friends, the parents of some of _my_ friends, Nathan's campaign workers, Simone ..." Peter exhaled heavily, "he announced that I'd been trying to kill myself. The powers, the being different, special, everything I'd been trying to talk to him about, what we'd proven, he was dismissing and framing up as a cry for attention, some sort of messed up, fake, family fault. And he knew it." Peter bit his lower lip, baring his teeth in the process, nose wrinkling in half a snarl. "He knew it was fake. He didn't care. Humiliate me in front of everybody – that's okay, right?" Peter shook his head. "Because that's my role: make him look bigger, better." Peter took another drink. "Make sure I knew my place in the family hierarchy. Make sure everyone else knew it, too. That was embarrassing."

And angering. There was a bite to his voice as he said, "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows twitched upwards. Nathan had been blissfully ignorant of that but it definitely explained getting his jaw realigned by Peter's fist after that dinner. It was just Peter's feelings on the line, right? All the same, Sylar thought it was rather sadistic of Nathan to purposefully invite the unwilling Peter out just to scapegoat him (even if Peter had a hand in digging those holes – jumping off rooftops and professing love in public places – himself). _Yeah…that would…That just sucks._ He didn't want to contemplate how much utter shame that would have caused because he could picture it happening to him all to clearly. Sylar recalled what Nathan knew of Simone – stunning, a little too opinionated for Nathan, a little too mixed up in ideology and Peter, and now, she was quite dead because of Peter. It was still a bit sad, maybe a double blow to Peter because of her death.

"Truth."

XXX

"Tell me about the people you consider to be your family - or who used to be." He tilted his head slightly, eyes steady on Sylar. Peter was hard pressed to think of anything more critical than family, the people he would cut out his heart for.

XXX

"Nuh-uh. It has to be a question, Peter."

XXX

Peter snorted and pointed at Sylar. "Hey, don't you rules-lawyer me, buddy. I was trained by the best of 'em."

XXX

"If you'd learned anything, then you'd know better and phrase it properly," Sylar snarked his retort, "Because I'm no lawyer."

XXX

Peter frowned. "Your last one wasn't a question, either, and it's not like I answered it with 'October, 2006.' I tried to explain it." And it was so gratifying to actually have someone listen to that explanation. Just that, by itself, made Peter feel so much better. He looked to the side, trying to think of how to word it so he'd get the information he wanted. Hopefully, he'd answer Peter's intent, and not simply give him a list of names. "Here it is: When people are talking about family, present or former, who are the people you think of in those roles for you and your past?"

XXX

_He sure has a fetish for my family._ "I assume you're excluding any parent with a trust fund," Sylar stipulated, referring to the Petrellis. "My mom was a secretary, she raised me. My dad is…the guy with the Hunger and cancer. If you include former…there….was…" _my mother_ , he tried to say but the words wouldn't leave his mouth. If he said it, then Peter would ask about her and he just couldn't talk about her. There wasn't much to say, nothing to interest Peter or anyone else. He frowned deeply, inhaling to cover the silence and regroup. "My uncle, he restored timepieces." That part he finished definitively. As far as he was concerned, that was his family in their politically correct, politely conversational, rehearsed nutshell.

"Why are you asking? Are you trying to find some kind of hereditary insanity mental defect or something…?" Sylar paused or trailed off, thinking about his own question before muttering, "Probably a good place to look," before he took another pull of beer.

XXX

Peter didn't understand the 'with a trust fund' thing right away, but he figured it out and frowned. Actually, he'd been very interested in how Sylar placed the Petrellis in relation to himself. Then Peter blinked. '… any _parent_ with a trust fund.' _He still thinks they're his parents?_ But Sylar had moved on and Peter didn't want to interrupt. _He just skipped someone,_ Peter thought about Sylar's long pause before speaking of his uncle.

He smiled thinly in response to Sylar's questions. "No. It'd be a way different question if I was. I want to know about the people important to you." He assumed the topic was closed with Sylar's frustratingly vague and obviously incomplete answer, but he tried asking for more anyway. The worst Sylar could do was clam up. "Can you tell me more about your mom?"

XXX

"What do you want, her social security number and favorite color? She's _my_ mother, it's _my_ business to know, not _yours_." He realized his voice was defensive and he quieted. When Peter didn't say anything, just kept looking at him, Sylar caved, to get it over with. "Fine. Fine. She was short, thin, dark hair, brown eyes. I thought she was pretty, I guess. She was…" And then he hit the problem he always did when trying to describe his mother. Tell the truth, the partial truth or nothin' about the truth? Which did he want to tell? Which was appropriate, which was being asked after? Which was safe to say, which was he allowed to say? _And I'm half-way to drunk. Should I be talking?_ "Very devout. Socially conscious. Strict. Particular. Emotional." Sylar shook his head, shrugging. He realized he'd had to reference her more than he'd had to describe her all his life. _Am I talking too much?_ He glanced at his bottle, lifting it to try to read the label. Just his luck he'd get 'not marked for individual sale.' "Where did you find these, anyway? What's in 'em?"

XXX

_Wow. He's talking!_ Peter could hardly stifle his surprise at getting an answer, a series of cooperative utterances, and even if they weren't exactly what Peter wanted, they were close. He'd hit a vein, definitely. Ignoring the question about the beer (he hadn't really looked when he'd picked them up from the liquor store, although he remembered the brand from years before; they were strong and not legally 'beer'). "Tell me more about your uncle. Is he your mom's brother or your dad's?"

XXX

Sylar snorted. "Him. He was my father's brother. Never liked me at all, never pretended to, either. He knew I wasn't his kid and he didn't bother to treat me like I was. He got me into a lot of trouble, just because. He was….the one who taught me how to fix timepieces." Sylar shrugged. "It was a relief when he left but…he left…problems for me to deal with."

XXX

"And your dad?"

XXX

"You mean the few hours I spent with him? I should have asked him more questions when I had him but being threatened to get carved up like a taxidermy animal kind of ruined our bonding," Sylar allowed, sarcastically. "He looked like a hobo, completely filthy, bearded, dirt on him. Taller than my uncle. He looked…old, like he was old enough to be my grandfather but he wasn't that old. I could…see a resemblance, I looked like the younger, taller, darker version of him maybe. It's _so_ stupid, but that's what sold me – that we looked alike. Coming from…short parents with my features…I never..." Sylar shook his head. "Do you believe that? It's so…shallow. He was so pathetic and creepy, just…making the hair on the back of your neck stand up because yo- I knew what he could do but he was creepy before you know he has a power, before you know what he can do. You could just tell he knows…that he can see…things." Or perhaps that was their mutual power at work, allowing them to see inside things or the desire to. "Then it's ironic because he plays around with dead animals – father of the year award there," he took another drink.

XXX

Peter cocked his head, finding it immensely intriguing that Sylar's primary given reasons for disliking the guy were … yeah, shallow. What he looked like, what he did for a living (or maybe a hobby, Peter wasn't sure), his age. But he trusted Sylar's instincts, odd a statement as that was. He'd been there, met the guy. He had the Hunger. _Maybe there's something about the ability that makes a person creepy?_ He leaned forward even more, even more interested, because that might explain part of why Sylar wasn't as off-putting here, in this world, as he had been in reality.

XXX

"He understood…our ability but I think it drove him crazy. Or he was just a monster to begin with, I don't know. He's everything I thought he'd be but it was like looking at your own headstone." Sylar closed his eyes briefly, thinking back to Hiro's similar prophecy. It was like looking into an aged mirror alright and it still terrified him even as he practically lived that nightmare or prophecy now – isolated, forgotten, suffering forever until he died alone. "He gave me some advice even though he didn't really intend it that way, I don't think. I think he made the rest of it up," he admitted. "He didn't lie once…My dad…didn't lie once." Sylar looked at Peter, eyes narrowed with suspicion that wasn't aimed at the nurse, "That was the whole point of talking to him and I think he got around my ability somehow. I don't know how, I didn't even know you could do that. But I know he lied because he said he wasn't interested in more powers and he attacked me for one. Some of the other things he said didn't make a lot of sense, either, but he was the right amount of vague." After a pause to conclude, he asked, "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

"Truth." He didn't even think about it. Peter wanted the dialogue to continue. He remained leaning forward, elbows on the edge of the desk, very intent on Sylar. He'd been given so much more than he'd expected. He wasn't about to push it by digging further – one follow-up question per person and Peter had a lot to think about now.


	68. Strutting One's Stuff

Day 21, New Year's Eve, Evening

"Tell me honestly how much you hate me. And what you'd do to me if you didn't think you needed me," Sylar said bluntly.

XXX

Peter's mouth fell open and stayed there for a few seconds. His eyes dropped to the desk and his mouth shut as his gaze shifted off to the side. He swallowed; his throat was dry all of a sudden, stomach churning like he'd been sucker-punched. He looked up at Sylar under lowered brows – not a glare, but a short stare, surprised and confused by the change from an engaging topic to one he found repellant. _Emotional whiplash. He feels like he can ask that of me?_ There was a brief mental pause while the situation rotated and realigned in Peter's head, seeing it from a different perspective. Much less defensively, he thought, _He feels like he can ask that of me. That's something. Honest. And he wants me to be honest. Expects it. That's … that's how it should be. Right?_

Peter remembered Sylar's many comments about being lied to. He swallowed again and blinked, looking away. Sylar had been lied to a lot, far as Peter could tell, and about important things, like his own family. _That's two questions, not one. Not that it matters. It's just a technicality. And he answered all my questions about his family. Probably honestly._ Peter shifted in his seat guiltily. He didn't have any moral wiggle room – at least none he was willing to use. He tried to smile, twice. It came out feeble and turned into a grimace both times. He gave up. There was no way to put a good face on this. None.

_My emotions are on parade, but that's the point, isn't it? That's what he wants to know._ Peter ran his hand through his hair and straightened. Sylar deserved at least … eye contact, tough as it was to manage. "I … hate …" He cleared his throat, swiping his tongue around his mouth like it had a bad taste in it. "I hated you enough to try to kill you." Peter's lips tightened, pulling back against his teeth but not parting. It was difficult to say this sort of thing right to someone's face. It would have been easier if he'd been angry, yelling, and attacking with his words instead of finding himself laid bare by them – his motivations made naked and vulnerable. "I tried to get rid of you." He looked away, down and to the side. "Mostly I wanted Nathan back, but I didn't care what happened to … No. I wanted you gone in the process." He looked up at Sylar sullenly. "That," Peter cleared his throat again, very unhappy about admitting this, "that was a … a desired outcome." He took refuge briefly behind stilted, semi-medical language before owning it. "I wanted that." He sighed. "Didn't happen. That's … probably for the best." _Probably?_ some moral part of him was outraged that he was still ambivalent about whether or not it was okay to murder someone. But the ambivalence was there, whether he found it outrageous or not.

XXX

Sylar just…watched him. The honesty was a relief plain and simple, but the subject matter was painful, whether or not he liked Peter or wanted his approval. Being hated and wished dead was still a fresh agony he had to accept each time. How could hope exist facing that? Everyone he knew, save maybe two or three persons, agreed with Peter and felt the same way about him. Like he had a responsibility to off himself because he was inconvenient, unmanageable and dangerous and life was something he wasn't entitled to. His life was so worthless it didn't give people pause to take it. Sylar found it strange that Peter, who'd had his own memory carelessly erased, would equate that to painless, eternal death. Being 'gone' and being dead, Sylar knew, were not the same – being 'gone' was far, far worse.

'Probably.' That word ricocheted in his skull, hitting multiple emotions until he overloaded and couldn't react for the numbness. _Probably. My being alive is 'probably for the best.' Give or take._ He meant so little that even in his usefulness it was still a probability of odds that being alive was a 'good' thing. _That's it, isn't it? I'm only alive because I'm still useful._

XXX

"Now …" It was really, _really_ hard to keep his eyes on Sylar's face. It was like trying to force two magnets together, north pole to north pole. "Mostly, I just try not to think about it." He looked down in his lap, chastised by knowing the cowardice his words implied. "I'm really … still really angry at … I'm really angry." It wasn't just Sylar. Sometimes it wasn't Sylar at all, but that wasn't something Peter wanted to admit and luckily it wasn't what Sylar had asked. He picked briefly at the brace. "It just works better if I don't think about it."

"If I didn't need you …" he shut his eyes for several long seconds, "I don't know what I'd do." Peter's shoulders sagged. "I promised you I wouldn't leave without taking you with me. That means something to me." _Though I'd have to figure out how to put you in jail or a cell or something after we got out_. His lips pinched together. He didn't think he was obligated to explain that. Maybe rehabilitation was possible. He didn't know. "I … hope I wouldn't go against that. I gave my word." He looked up at Sylar. "If you're asking if I would try to kill you? No. There's no point. There's no one here. As long as I didn't think you were going to hurt me, then," he shrugged, "why would I? Revenge?" He snorted softly and waved a hand around the place. "Matt's beat me to it." Faintly, and with a resigned slump, he said, "Worse than what I was going to do."

Very quietly, Peter offered, "Truth or Dare." He hoped like hell Sylar didn't have any follow up questions for any of this.

XXX

"You didn't answer the question, Peter," Sylar intoned seriously. "If you didn't need me, you wouldn't be here. You know what you'd do if you saw me on the street somewhere – so what would you do?" He ignored the rest of Peter's placating attempt; that crap about not leaving him behind. The guy clearly thought Sylar should be here. (He doubted Peter's unnamed punishment would be easier than being here, apparently, which the nurse attributed to Matt.) Sylar didn't know what to think about Peter ignoring his anger, his issues and therein Sylar's existence because that's what it boiled down to.

XXX

Peter pressed his lips together and did an exasperated motion with his head. His voice was clipped, expression intent. "What? What are you talking about? Are you saying like, if I hadn't had the dream and none of that was going to happen, and then one day after a month or two I saw you on the street? Are you asking what I'd do then?" Would he do anything, at all? Sylar was a danger, a menace, but what if he was just standing there minding his own business buying a hot dog from a street vendor?

XXX

Sylar was equally annoyed. "Yes." _That's what I said._

XXX

"But … I'd …" Peter floundered. He'd only ever known Sylar as someone out to kill him or his, who needed to be opposed and stopped at all costs. What would he do if that didn't seem to be the case? "I'd want to know what you were doing, why you were doing it, if you were after someone. I don't know what it would take to convince me you weren't doing anything. And that's …" Peter shrugged. "If I was convinced, somehow, then ..." he shrugged again, feeling helpless and irritated by the feeling, "there wouldn't be anything to do." _I'd still hate you. Probably._

XXX

Sylar realized he'd not phrased his Truth question to get the answer he wanted and his lips thinned. As it was, unfortunately, Peter was answering the letter of the question and nothing more. The empath couldn't answer more with what he'd been given. It was his own fault and he couldn't change his question to gain the intended answer. He'd have to abide by the rules and settle for the limited answer he'd been given _. If I was harmless and a nobody you'd leave me be? You'd let me walk?_ Sylar didn't believe that for a second. _Yeah, you'd ignore me._ _I can't convince you._ "Yeah, sure, whatever," Sylar waved it away. After a moment, it was clear Peter was waiting on him. "Oh. Truth."

XXX

Peter sighed and took a long drag out of his beer, nearly emptying it. His impression was that Sylar didn't believe him. After a brief internal debate, he decided not to address it. Let Sylar believe what he wanted to believe. Trying to turn things to a better subject than hate, he asked, "What's the nicest thing you've ever done for anyone?

XXX

That was a painless question. "I died for them," Sylar said, not having to think about it. "For some people, I'd do it again."

XXX

Peter grimaced briefly at how tantalizingly incomplete that was. "I need more details than that. A story, a situation, something." He gestured across the desk. "An example. Tell me about one time you remember well."

XXX

"Pick one?" Sylar repeated. "Um…" His brain automatically tried to assemble the parameters of the question but the beer was remarkably inhibitory to that process. 'The one you remember well' stuck with him and that decided him. "I have a few," he said shyly, "but the one I remember, probably the first one actually. It was during the eclipse." /Hazy memories of a dark, heavy jungle, gunfire, worrying desperately about Peter, the slave girl, his family and his father's plans for the world filtered through him, bringing back memories of being a soldier./ "Uh…" he shook his head to clear it, enjoying and not enjoying the sensation of being buzzed and dizzy. "We were in California, on a mission from…/Dad/, from Arthur, to bring Claire back to Pinehearst. Bennet and I had tried to bag-and-tag this guy, Canfield, at his house – he made black holes…I saved Claire from getting sucked into one. Anyway, I knew Bennet would hide Claire there. Our powers were gone and ran into trouble, Claire got shot…Bennet left her to…Um…" Here he skipped over the sex Peter apparently already knew about. "It was one of those times when your life falls apart completely…" he trailed off. He'd lost a lot that day, parents, a friend, possibly a mate, certainly someone who knew him. "But long story shorter, my shoulder was dislocated and Elle was shot in the leg. We were both kind of concussed but we made it to a supermarket to get medical supplies then hid in the loading bay when Bennet showed up. We… _we_ weren't going to make it so I shoved her into the loading elevator, held the door down and pushed the button so she'd be away." The sound of Elle's voice calling his name, his real name, lingered hauntingly, jolting him and twisting his insides, 'Gabriel, no! Gabriel!' "And I attacked the guy with the gun. He won; I was just stalling." Sylar shrugged. "He cut my throat. No powers." It sounded so much more heroic than it had felt at the time. Even so, it was nothing compared to the daily heroisms of Peter Petrelli.

XXX

Peter listened raptly, leaning forward and very engaged just as he'd been when Sylar had talked about his family. He struggled with the timeline, though. When Sylar was done, Peter looked down, thinking it through. _They were on a mission to get Claire, but they stopped to bag and tag some guy? Who's 'we'? Noah and Sylar? But Noah hid Claire from Sylar and … oh!_ Peter pulled in air. _Elle. Sylar and Elle were on a mission to get Claire for Dad. That makes sense. The other stuff must have happened before. It's just how he knew where to look_. He gave a short nod to himself as he worked out what Sylar had said.

Now that he knew the context, the rest fell into place. He remembered the dream his (or Sylar's) subconscious had inflicted on him only a few weeks before. Sylar's shoulder pain made sense now. That Elle had had sex after being shot in the leg was hard to believe, but Peter wasn't sure he understood the sequence. There had been shooting at the end of the sex, he recalled. _Maybe she got shot then._

He remembered the tenderness and affection Sylar had shown Elle in the dream Peter had had. It had been so jarring, rattling around his view of Sylar as someone who didn't indulge in the softer side. He'd had the same paradigm shift after realizing Sylar had broken his fall from Pinehearst. Sylar had come back for him then, too, and been killed for it. Even though he had regenerated, he couldn't have been certain he'd have the chance. He'd known the risk he assumed by tangling in Arthur's plans and had done it anyway. Dying for Elle, during the eclipse, showed even more nobility.

Peter wanted to ask so much more that it ached. "Have you ever played Truth or Dare before?"

XXX

Locking eyes with Peter, he said, "No. But _he_ has. Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Peter's head pulled back, lips tightening and eyes narrowing. He shut them. The warmth he'd felt, the hope, the possibility, the surprise at seeing the good side of Sylar's soul was all doused by the reminder of his latest murder. Or at least, the latest one Peter happened to know about. Sylar had a habit of leaving a trail of bodies between him and whatever he wanted. That he treated life so carelessly diminished the worth of him sacrificing his own.

Peter opened his eyes, finished off his beer, and swished the flavor around. "Dare."

XXX

"Give me a lap dance," Sylar leered shamelessly.

XXX

"Uh … what?" They'd talked about shame, family, hate, and love, and now Sylar wanted a fucking lap dance?! Peter's mind didn't shift gears that fast.

XXX

"C'mon. I know you know how. I'll even let you keep your clothes on." Because he was magnanimous like that. Or more likely that he'd be uncomfortable with a naked man rubbing his naked junk all over him.

XXX

"You're really asking for that?" Peter made a nervous laugh of disbelief, glancing around the room. _No._ Before blurting anything out, he thought about it. This was a game. He didn't _have_ to do anything, but failing to accept a challenge was a loss of face. Peter didn't like to lose respect, especially Sylar's. He made an unhappy noise at his dilemma. "There's … there's no music. Do you know how hard it is to do a lap dance without music?" He tried to visualize what he'd do based on the few strip clubs he'd been in. The idea of Sylar's hyper-critical eyes on him while he tried to pretend to be sexy … "I don't know what you think you know, but I've never done that, aside from stripping for someone I was with, and that was as a joke." Well, sort of a joke. The sort of joke where the punch line involved happily tumbling into bed and making love. The punch line for what Sylar was asking for might be months or years of snickering. That was what decided Peter. Better a smaller loss of face now than a continued one forever.

"No. Pick something else."

XXX

Sylar huffed. "Fine. Take off your shirt, hand it to me and flex for me." Much more literal payback for that fucking teapot stunt. No way was Peter getting his shirt back.

XXX

Peter waited a long beat. _That's it? Um … okay. Guess I shouldn't have mentioned stripping. I kind of brought that one on myself._ He pushed his bottle towards Sylar. "Get us another round. I'm going to use the restroom." He stood up, testing his balance. The room seemed steady enough and it wasn't like he was going anywhere tonight, but he still figured the next drink should be his last.

XXX

_Is that a 'yes'?_ Sylar raised an eyebrow in general question – beer and bathroom were somehow necessary to the process? He wasn't even sure how being ordered around fit in either, but if it got the job done. Sylar rose and the world tilted. _Oh, good. Another beer. Let's do that, yeah. That'll be good._ He tried to keep it together in case Peter was watching (in case this was a test or his survival depended on balance and awareness); he thought he only did fairly at making it to the fridge and back without running into anything or swerving too badly. Sitting was a relief, even though the world was still jumping around and his head thumping internally.

XXX

His favorite roommate during college had been a body builder named Kevin. He'd shown Peter around the gym, helped him get a workout routine set up, and gave a lot of pointers on how to bulk up. Peter, at that point, had been hopelessly under-developed. There were fourteen-year-olds more mature looking than he was and his slender frame had attracted a predatory interest from certain people. Kevin had been a big help.

In the bathroom, Peter belched, urinated, worked his stomach and belched again. He washed his hands and gave his face a quick wipe down, then made one last effort to make sure he had all the gas out of his stomach he could get out. Thus satisfied, he walked out. Standing between the desk and couch, Peter set his feet a little more than shoulder width apart. He watched Sylar's face with a semi-resigned smile. Sylar wanted to look at him – Peter could handle that. This was very different for him, mentally, than doing something directly to arouse him. This was something Peter could accept.

He shifted his jeans on his hips and then pinched up the fabric of his shirt on either side. He tugged out one side, then the other, smiling as Sylar's eyes followed the motions. Peter remembered how eye-catching he'd found Sylar's peek-a-boo strip of exposed flesh a few days ago, when Sylar'd worn a shirt way too small for him. Peter's smile broadened at the memory of how silly Sylar had looked … and how much Peter had wanted to look. He pulled up the shirt in silence, the rasp of the cloth across his skin the only sound. He raised it on one side at a time, keeping it taut between his hands so as to see-saw it over his stomach, then his lower chest. He knew Sylar wanted him. He also knew Sylar wasn't getting what he wanted. Peter chuckled lightly.

He flexed, stomach tensing and rippling a little as he brought the shirt over his chest, and then in a steady motion, over his head and off. His left arm slid free of it; his right was next. He started to set it aside.

XXX

_Only stripped once, my ass_ , Sylar thought to himself. He didn't have to censor his thoughts, just his words. The world was dead quiet, the only noise came from breathing and his heart beating rhythmically. It left him nothing else to focus on but Peter's movements. He stared intently, not watching his expression as much as he should have been. _I'm drunk, I can stare, especially if he's doing that._ Peter's tummy came into view. Slowly. Firm and soft-looking. Sylar glanced at Peter's face, wondering if the stalling…the teasing, was on purpose. _Is he…making this sexual?_ That was both understandable (that's what one was supposed to do when stripping, right?) and confusing (there was no negative stimuli involved to make Peter pretend to be sexy, so why do it, for Sylar of all people?) He expected Peter to hide behind every technicality of the game and…

"No," he croaked, his voice drier than he thought. He leaned forward, gesturing. "Gimme the shirt."

XXX

Peter snorted, but he wadded up the garment and threw it in Sylar's face. _Okay. What else was I supposed to do? Oh yeah, flex. Hm._ He tried to remember the poses Kevin had shown him. Peter had been surprised at the time to learn there was some real showmanship in professional body building. It wasn't just a matter of standing there looking tense and while his current circumstances didn't allow him a chance to prep properly, he could at least strike the right poses to show himself off.

XXX

Sylar was slow to react. It was like his body had decided to mutiny or his brain had subconsciously done it on purpose (he didn't know which he found more disturbing), but Peter's shirt planted itself on his face, where it had been directed by Peter's throw when Sylar's hands had risen too late. _Christ_ , was all he could think. Peter's smell was soaked into the shirt and that shirt was draped over his face. _(He is not getting this back. Ever)_. He took his time dragging the shirt away, inhaling the seductive, masculine aroma as it passed. Yes, it was weird to be sniffing another man's clothes, but he couldn't help that it instinctively smelled good. His hindbrain was fuzzing out, separate from the effects of alcohol and he cursed himself for wanting to rub the damn shirt onto his skin. So much for it not being sexual…

XXX

Peter sucked in his stomach as much as he could with multiple beers working their way through him and brought up his arms for a double bicep. His feet ended up more correctly centered under him. With jeans on, he didn't have to bother with his legs aside from positioning. He flexed what was bare and didn't feel ashamed of it – Sylar's expression was like pure candy to Peter. He grinned. This was fun.

XXX

When the shirt finally fell to his lap (how convenient), Sylar's eyes were heavy, a little heated, still intent on the show. Half naked now, Peter's upper body was flawless as far as Sylar could tell, and that was saying something. Trained to look for flaws and fix-its, not a single blemish, hair or wrinkle marred Peter's form. It was all tight, smooth skin, defined, fit muscles, the odd mole or two. With a chest and arms like that, Peter was very capable at heroing and being a paramedic – images of Peter caring for the sick and injured and alternately thinking he was doing the right thing by beating and punching Sylar were distracting to say the least. Individually, one could dissect Peter – arms, chest, stomach, sides, neck, face, hair, hips, etc. Each part would be textbook, together they were…quite perfect, overwhelmingly so. Whether or not Sylar felt desire for men, his eyes didn't lie in telling him Peter Petrelli was a very fine specimen of masculinity. A healthy one, too. Peter's grin reminded him of his purpose with this. The medic was entirely too comfortable with this. Pointedly, Sylar looked the man over like the piece of meat he was. He then whistled that insulting, derogatory sound full of objectification - the wolf whistle. He remembered not appreciating it from his female shapeshifting adventures. "Yeah!" he called out, clapping briefly. Besides, maybe it was something one might do to strippers…

XXX

He wasn't that good on a front lat spread, so Peter gave the pose only a few seconds – fists on hips, shoulders down, chest tensed. He didn't have the flexibility to carry off the true upside-down triangle torso. He lingered more on the side chest pose, showing off his right side with his left hand holding his right wrist just above the brace. He laughed a little at Sylar's appreciation. He liked being looked at. It made him feel sexy. As he turned away to do the back double bicep, he tugged up the waistband of his pants and shifted his hips side to side, wagging his ass at Sylar and feeling the crotch of his pants ride up against himself. _Oh yeah. Bite me, asshole._ He put his arms up, flexing, wondering if Sylar was more an ass-man or a front-guy.

XXX

Peter working his brace into the posing was amusing. Then Peter did it…shaking his ass at Sylar. It was suggestive at the least, teasing, or inviting. Sylar's weakness was in interpreting those kinds of social cues. If they had come from anyone else, he might have considered the possibility that the person was interested, for sex. As it was, his mental faculties spasmed in confusion as his body reacted to the mere improbable possibility that that little wiggle in his direction meant something more when he knew intellectually that Peter couldn't mean it in any of those connotations. Sylar exhaled through his nose quickly, feeling his face and body heat up. It was such a well-formed butt and Peter's jeans were marvelously tight…Here he had Peter's shirt in his lap, the man himself half naked and acting…Did it matter how Peter intended it? "That's it…" slipped from his mouth. Even he didn't know how he meant that, either – mocking or interested.

XXX

Peter turned for the side triceps pose, leering over his shoulder at Sylar. His brain was trying to figure out which of the seven poses Kevin had taught him that he was missing. Not that it mattered much – what mattered more was earning more applause from his audience. The cheering made him feel fantastic, tingly and warm and maybe even aroused. He tucked his right arm behind him, reaching across the small of his back with his left to take his right wrist. He leaned back, his right leg crooked back to support him as he puffed out his chest and sucked in his stomach. This was a great pose for showing off the line of his body.

XXX

The last side angle of Peter was impressive to say the least, the lines of his body were classic. It was the arching that caught Sylar's eye. The raised chest led to twisted, brawny arms (looking wonderfully submissive in his pose, already behind his back, wrists together); Peter's tight ribs and waist, thin stomach, tempting illiacs, jeans…penis…Sylar stared. _That's his dick._ _He's hard. Is…is that the beer? No…Is it me? No, why would it be me? I'm looking at him and he's showing off and…/_ _Recollections of nannies and caretakers having a hell of a time keeping clothes on Peter as a child, then Ma telling him, Nathan, to give Peter a talk about waltzing around naked in the bedrooms and bathrooms of the Petrelli estate, being relieved the kid didn't make a habit of jerking off with the doors open; the swim team; Peter would have modeled if anyone asked him to…_ _/_

After what was surely staring for too long, Sylar raised his eyes to check Peter's reaction. Peter was giving him a look. Maybe it wasn't 'come hither' or outright sexy, but it was close enough. That look, and what the situation meant, was fantastic. Sylar began to chuckle. _Oh my God. Oh my God!_ "Oh…Oh, Peter." He didn't know if he was supposed to be embarrassed or flattered or what. There was a word for that, whatever was opposite of 'voyeur'… "Oh my God, that explains everything!" He leaned back, laughing now, genuinely amused. The things he could do with this! Molesting Peter was going to be that much easier now. The smile dropped from his face and he quieted, giving Peter his most penetratingly dark stare as he leaned forward, "Oh, you are a filthy little pervert, aren't you?"

XXX

Sylar's tone for 'Oh, Peter' was so drop-dead sexy that for a moment, Peter thought it was just more appreciation. Then the laughter started. Sylar's previous stare, which Peter had imagined was at his gut, his overly-alcohol-saturated brain now placed a bit lower. He straightened, realizing the fullness in his groin was making a visible bulge in his jeans. He thought about hiding in the bathroom again, as he had after Sylar had walked in on him jerking off, but that seemed cowardly and pointless. He'd been caught; the damage done. He retreated behind the desk instead, sitting and putting the solid bulk between them.

Peter blushed furiously as he rapidly phased through different emotions: anger and embarrassment at himself for getting a boner, and at Sylar for laughing at him, regret for accepting the stupid dare to start with, and dread that Sylar might take this as a signal of interest. It didn't have anything to do with him, as Peter well knew. He felt very exposed and not just in the physical sense, but he had to wait until Sylar quit guffawing to ask for his shirt back.

Peter's face screwed up in anger at Sylar's 'accusation'. He wanted so badly to defend himself, but what Sylar was saying wasn't really … an attack. He assumed Sylar meant it that way, that much was obvious, but Peter wasn't about to be defensive about possessing a sex drive, functioning genitals, or a proclivity to be aroused by adoring attention. It was normal! Or so he insisted to himself. He blew air out his nose and snapped, "Gimme my shirt, asshole."

XXX

_How am I the asshole, here?_ Sylar chuckled again briefly. "Nope. Nothing in the rules about that."

XXX

"What? It's _my_ shirt!"

XXX

"Not any more. You gave it to me." Simple rules, possession was nine-tenths.

XXX

Peter's chest was heaving a little, eyes darting between the denied article of clothing and Sylar's face. It didn't take but a few seconds to come to a decision – he wasn't going to pick a fight over a fucking shirt, or over being laughed at. He'd had worse, and Sylar wasn't taking any other action based on the now-entirely-faded hard-on. Peter slumped back in the chair suddenly, staring off at the ceiling to the left as he ignored Sylar for a few moments, arms crossed defensively over his chest and breathing slowing – long enough to calm down. Options of stealing one of Sylar's shirts or snagging a blanket from the nearby bed ran through his mind, but he wasn't actually cold and he felt that was admitting defeat somehow. He sighed into the quiet. "Truth or Dare?" he asked, finally looking back at Sylar.

XXX

Peter was…more upset about the loss of the shirt than anything else? _That's fucked up,_ Sylar thought blearily. The man literally gave him the cold-shoulder of ignoring, pouting or something so Sylar let him have that much (not sure of what else he'd be allowed). "Truth." No way was he inviting a reciprocated Dare of the body-comparing nature.

XXX

Peter was still very annoyed and that was what was responsible for his next question: "What's the question you most don't want me to ask?" Sylar had a lot of outs – he could never pick Truth again, he could quit the game if Peter asked it, or he could call the question off-limits. But Peter still wanted to know what the ultimate hot button topic was.

XXX

It was Sylar's turn for the wide-eyed look of shock. He'd been thoroughly suckered. There were so many ways Peter could (and likely would) abuse the confession, because that's what it was – a highlighted, spotlighted, signed confession of vulnerability and discomfort. Peter wanted a pressure point. Whether it was a fair exchange for the vulnerability of knowing the medic's little proclivity wasn't the point. Sylar felt it beyond the pale. The medic wasn't asking what subject he should most avoid, no way; not in this context and not with the previous Dare hanging in the air. When he recovered somewhat, he frowned deeply, his head reared back. _I don't want you to ask me if I'm gay. I don't want you to ask about what happened to my mom. I don't want you to ask me about Elle. I don't want you to ask why I kill people. I don't want you to ask how I got this way. I don't want you to ask anything about Nathan._ At some point, his head had dropped down as he panicked through his thoughts, working his way to thinking about his options.

"That's not fair," he hissed, eyeing Peter from underneath his brows. He could feed Peter some lesser 'disliked' answer but it wouldn't be the Truth; it wouldn't be following the rules and parameters of the game. He'd be cheating and he'd been holding his own thus far. Wasn't he just talking about 'rules-doctoring'? Hell, he'd gone for Truth because of Peter's reaction to his own damn fault of popping wood in the middle of an otherwise normal Dare. He doubly couldn't back out and ask for a Dare now! Now he had to pick the worst thing Peter could ask of him and reveal it. "You're going to ask it," Sylar managed to sum up. He didn't know how or when, but Peter would trap or force him to answer. (Or maybe, just Peter knowing was the worst part; the actual act of confession and admission itself and the knowledge that someone else knew something). "That has to be against the rules." The dodge was worth a try.

XXX

Peter gave the slightest exhalation at Sylar's point about fairness. He would have made more of a snort, but it was obvious that Sylar was considering his question very seriously. "It's not against the rules," Peter said, but that was an evasion. Basically, questions were allowable if they agreed they were allowable. That was it. Usually the game was held in a group and there was more of a consensus to leaven opinions that might otherwise seem purely self-serving. If Sylar rejected the question, then it was rejected. He didn't _seem_ to be rejecting it, but he didn't seem clear that he could, either. Peter could have explained that – it might have been a sign of fairness and honor and being a big man if he did. But he didn't, because he wanted to know – not the information itself (in fact, the question was idiotic because it ruled off an important area from any honest, future discussion), but whether Sylar trusted him that much. That was the real answer he was after. After humiliating himself, he wanted that ego stroke that he was okay and Sylar thought so, too. "I won't ask it in the game. I promise."

XXX

_But you'll ask it outside the game? Where I don't have to answer it. But what it you make my life hell until I answer? I know how that goes._ Were there any benefits to this disclosure? Keeping Peter Petrelli's interest, maybe. Sylar grit his teeth. Prioritizing the worst question was difficult. _I'm painting a red flag on something…_ He exhaled a sort of sigh. "I don't want you to ask…" The rest he mumbled quietly, looking away as he did.

XXX

Peter waited a beat, then said, "It only counts if I can hear you. I couldn't hear that."

XXX

Sylar looked straight at him, enunciating, "I said: I don't want you to ask where my mother is." That wasn't the most accurate phrase Peter could ask to inflict damage, but with what Peter knew (or rather, didn't know) this was the worst question he could ask. His face felt hot and loose and he realized he was angry, backed into a corner, humiliated whether or not that was the intention. And he was so, so nervous, like he was afraid of being caught over the body of someone he'd murdered all over again. Back when he used to care, back when prison might have meant something. He clenched his jaw rhythmically, breathing faster before hastily uttering, "Truth or Dare?"

XXX

Peter blinked a little, feeling the ridiculous but very human urge to immediately ask about the forbidden topic. He kept his mouth firmly shut, urge or no, and made a slight nod to respectfully acknowledge what had been said. He watched the range of emotional reaction Sylar was showing – very raw, very genuine, terrified that Peter was going to press him on this. _He told the truth. He trusts me - that much. Fuck!_ Peter was blown away by that, enough that it took him a few moments to register that Sylar had asked him a question.

"Um, Truth." He supposed he had to. He needed to give Sylar the opportunity to ask the same in return. Since the question wasn't immediately forthcoming, Peter offered, "There's two things I don't want to- well, three, actually, things I don't want to talk about, but my mother would have to be the top of that list. Kind of funny, or ironic or something, that we share that." His lips pressed together, thinning. He'd given that one to Sylar for free, intentionally, without making him use a turn to find it out. _That_ seemed only fair.

XXX

Sylar frowned at the unprompted 'admission' he supposed it was. That Angela was a no-fly zone was no surprise; Peter had said as much before. Sylar had ignored the seriousness of it because, well, it didn't seem on par with his own issues and Angela had done damage to him and Nathan, not just Peter. Therefor, he had some right to invoke her name and talk about her. _That's nice, but not what I was after._ "What's the worst thing you've ever done?"

XXX

"Um." Peter's face tried to look surprised and discomforted at the same time. He ended up doing it in sequence – brows alternating up and down a couple times, mouth gaping and then frowning. Caitlyn, not exactly innocent, but depending on him, relying on him – there was a crushing weight of unresolved feelings there. "The worst … I, um, I-" _can't figure out how to answer that. I want to, but he's going to want details._ He swallowed, shifting in his seat and drawing in on himself. _Simone. I could talk about Simone. But she wasn't the worst. And he didn't lie to me. I don't get to lie to him. Not that I should anyway, but …_ He shook his head, staring down at the desk _. If I keep thinking about it, I'm going to get upset, more upset, and-_ He shook his head again, the movement stiff with tension.

"I can't tell you that," he said roughly, coughing to clear his throat of the sudden difficulty he found in speaking. He wanted to answer. He knew he should. It wasn't like Sylar had had an easy time of it either, but he'd managed. "I mean I-" He winced and shrugged, but kept his eyes down. "I let someone down. B-betrayed them, maybe? I don't want to talk about it." He didn't think he _could_ talk about it. His chest was occupied by one huge, hard knot of tension that was starting to make it hard to breathe. _Early stages of a panic attack?_ some portion of his mind observed with detachment. _I can't let that happen._ "You have to ask something else. A dare maybe." With an effort, he pulled his gaze away from the desk to glance at Sylar, then away.

XXX

_No, you won't tell me that, you little prick._ Sylar's lips thinned at the lame cop-out in it's fantastic entirety. Mr. Conscience couldn't immediately list his worst deed? Of course, Peter probably thought he wasn't capable or that he got one of those 'free passes' because he was…pick a feature. _I answered your tough questions. Wuss._ It was time to up the ante. "Let me tie your hands behind your back." It wasn't a question.

XXX

Peter let his eyes drop slowly back to the desk. _Fuck_. He couldn't back out twice in a row. It would make it look like he'd asked his question with a spirit of vindictive manipulation and was now going to demand a pass from anything inconvenient Sylar wanted in return. Sylar probably didn't know how much being tied up would bother Peter – or hell, maybe he did and he was asking for that precise reason, because Peter had gone too far in what he'd asked, and so Sylar was turning it around on him. Peter had established, clearly, the rules they were playing by. Now he had to play by them. _I should have told him he didn't have to answer it. I should have told him he could have refused it just like I did. I should have, but I didn't, because I was so stuck on the idea of making him give me something I could hurt him with, so I'd be all 'big hero' when I didn't._ The self-serving nature of his question weighed him down. He sagged in his seat, demeanor shifting to guilty resignation. "Okay."


	69. Chain Reactions

Day 21, New Year's Eve, Evening

_Good_. Sylar got up and went about searching for a loose chain he'd had lying around. Literal chain. It was part of a clock's pendulum that he'd been repairing before Peter appeared. He located it and dug about in his desk drawers for wire to tie the chain ends around Peter. As he did, he wondered what, if anything, he should be feeling about this opportunity, this situation.

XXX

_He's going to untie me after a little bit, right? What's he going to do? Should I tell him what to do? But will that matter? Because once I'm tied up, it doesn't matter what he promised, and that's the whole point. He wants me to show him I trust him. Can I do that?_ Peter was breathing harder already, a little bit of sweat damping his brow. He got to his feet, uncomfortable and trying to squelch his desire to fight back or run away, by taking some other action. He moved around the desk to sit in Sylar's chair. He told himself he didn't want to be restrained in something that had wheels on the bottom, but mainly he was just doing something so he had some feeling of control.

Peter held his hands behind his back, letting Sylar position them however he saw fit. He sat up straighter at the sight of the chain – not that he would have been any more able to escape from rope, but the unforgiving metal was a reinforcement that he wasn't going to be going anywhere. He dipped his head and stared at his knees while Sylar restrained him, trying not to be nauseous.

XXX

"Take my chair, will you?" Sylar joked after the fact. The move made no sense. Aside from moving without permission or direction, it wasn't going to pose any problems to the plan. Sylar made to kneel, wobbling slightly, then went about wrapping the chains ( _clock_ chains, _how kinky_ ) around Peter's wrists. He slid the wire into the loops of chain, twisting and tying efficiently at the backs of Peter's hands – away from fingers and palms that could free the man. The nurse would have to work (or negotiate) his way out. He thought Peter's hands might have been shaking but he dismissed it as that pesky eye-motion of being drunk. All the same, he smoothed the man's hands out straight, just to feel them (a little clammy), before standing, lingering unseen behind him.

XXX

Thoughts of other bindings slipped through Peter's mind. The most parallel incident was being tied up in Ireland and then repeatedly beaten to a pulp by whatever degree of violence three very frustrated, hardened smugglers had wanted to visit on him. That was quite a bit of violence, as it turned out – broken bones in his face and jaw, no telling what else as he'd blacked out a few times and been rudely awakened. He would thank God for regeneration, but brown-haired Claire from the future had shown him how easy it was to torture someone who had that ability. He'd been tied down for that, too. Just like waking up powerless with his father, or handcuffed to the inside of that cargo container, or strapped down in level five, or helpless on a gurney as Mohinder came at him with a syringe. It had been Sylar who had released him then. He seized on that thought, turning to look at his captor with wide eyes and pale features that showed a lot more of his fear than he wanted them to. He tried not to think of all the reasons Sylar had to hurt him, but he still flinched back from him involuntarily, his expression shifting to an angry snarl to cover his anxiety.

XXX

"Stop that," Sylar said parent-like, patronizing the snarl, tapping Peter's cheek as he passed (assuming, testing that the man wouldn't try to bite him). Seeing Peter tied up and combative…well, it reminded him of more sadistic, necessary times. Like confining and torturing Agent Simmons, a probably-attractive man who made a similar expression, spitting and holding out…Sylar paced around his catch, admiring the angles, the helplessness. Silly Peter. Once again he failed to set limits on his own Dares. Sylar had purposefully made them vague as part of the test and Peter…took it wholesale. It was brave and stupid. He didn't speak, just circled. After a few rotations, he sat against his desk in front of Peter, looking at his face (it took extra effort not to cross his arms and lean like Nathan). He could smell the fear coming off Peter, who wasn't trying to hide it; at least, he wasn't doing a great job of hiding it. "Wo-ow…" Sylar slowly slurred facetiously before commanding seriously, "Relax." Of course, he said that after he'd let the guy sweat it out. It was like good imagination training for Peter, picturing all the ways Sylar owned him in this moment.

XXX

_Just shut up._ This was a spectacularly bad idea, on par with getting carried away showing himself off and getting turned on by it. Peter did not always make the best decisions sober. What he was beginning to regret even more than letting himself be tied up was getting drunk to start with. If Sylar kept this up, the regret would extend to ever trusting him in any capacity. He glared ferociously at Sylar, chest heaving more than he wanted it to be doing as he pulled in short, rapid breaths through his open mouth. He kept up near-constant eye contact, thoughts wavering uncertainly between Sylar taking the opportunity to beat the crap out of him or perhaps kill him, or just scaring him a little and then letting him go. That he wasn't getting any signals either way made him think Sylar probably hadn't made up his mind. The perception of Sylar having an ambivalence that wouldn't rule out murder or torture made Peter very, very jumpy.

XXX

"This is usually the part where I tell you everything I can do to you while you're helpless. It's _almost_ pointless now, huh? You never expected to be in this position, did you?" Sylar tilted his head to observe his companion. "Obviously not. You don't set any limits and tha-at…" he lilted his voice, canting his head the opposite direction now, "leads to temptation." The trust (or stupidity) was inviting trouble. Sylar didn't know whether to honor it because being trusted was a sacred event, something he yearned for as a rite of passage to being respected, worthwhile, treated normally…Or if he should abuse it and teach Peter a lesson that offering himself up like this would have consequences; the empath shouldn't presume upon Sylar's self-control.

XXX

_Are you honestly saying you haven't had the opportunity before now? And people say_ I'm _slow … I've been aware of how helpless I was the entire fucking time I've been here! Any night I want I could bash your brains out or poison the milk and you could do the same to me._ Peter would have intensified his glare if that were possible. As it was, his expression morphed into disgust. People were fragile – an elementary lesson Peter had figured out a very long time ago.

XXX

Sylar moved forward, straddling Peter's legs, fairly close until the chair blocked his knees. This put him face to face with the shorter man who inhaled and leaned back. Peter was sweating and that wouldn't do. Sylar's head slanted at that. "What are you trying to prove?" he asked, curious, reaching for Peter's confiscated shirt, bringing it up to dab away the sweat at Peter's hairline. Perfect. It was like an autographed shirt now.

XXX

Peter pressed backwards in the chair at Sylar's untelegraphed approach, startled a second time when the guy literally sat on him. He restrained himself from shifting his knees under Sylar's buttocks, carrying most of Sylar's weight now. Bucking him off, kicking him, head-butting him – Peter didn't feel as helpless as Sylar implied he was. It wasn't like he was tied to the chair, which left him a lot of mobility, should he need to use it. Peter was still placing his bets on Sylar not getting carried away. He twitched his head back from the shirt coming at his face, but it wasn't enough to evade Sylar's reach. It jogged his mind into replaying when Caitlyn had performed nearly the same function, showing him a kindness that he had seized with desperation.

"I'm trying to prove I wasn't wrong in coming here."

XXX

Sylar paused at everything but thinking for a moment. There was that expectation that Sylar had to meet to make it worth Peter's while. If he didn't play along, go along, do what was required of him, he'd have 'brought it on himself' and the effort to...find him (that was the best he could call it) would be worthless, the same as he would be. He would be responsible for Peter regretting finding him. It wasn't like there was a reason besides desperate need that Peter would come looking for him, as much as he caught himself wishing there was. "And I still don't like your reasons for doing it."

Finished with cleaning him, Sylar threw the shirt away for safekeeping, then dropped his hands to Peter's throat. His palms and fingers flat against the soft column, his thumbs idly traced circles into the flesh without pressure. Hell, even Nathan agreed this was an attractive feature of Peter's. Lazily, he sent a checking glance to the Italian's eyes, which avoided his. His captive was tense and unhappy. A pity. It angered him but he couldn't see a better, more mutual solution, so he ignored it with effort, but not after threatening by wrapping his hands lovingly around Peter's neck in a stranglehold. It was light; he just wanted to make a point and defuse his anger.

XXX

Peter might have said something in response to that, but then Sylar's hands were on his throat. Was the guy cold enough to calmly choke him to death, or until he passed out, simply because he could? Peter had little indication that he wasn't. That he was even hinting at it, given Sylar's record and Sylar knowing that Peter knew of that record, went beyond 'fucking with you' or 'scaring you a little' and well into sadistic. Although again, Peter had that impression that Sylar hadn't made up his mind yet. Kill Peter/Don't kill Peter – it was just an interesting question in the mind of a sociopath. One line in a story he'd read about sociopaths had stood out to him – a teen had drowned a neighbor child in the pool because he was curious about how long it would take him to die. Was that what was going on with Sylar? Abstract curiosity about how much he could abuse his companion?

Peter pulled his head back, looking away and continuing to look away. Sylar's face, utterly lacking in empathy, revolted him. Peter made a couple throat noises in protest, swallowing and starting to twist his neck one way and then the other in a vain attempt to evade the contact. Sylar had grabbed him there before – during the fight, wasn't it? Peter bared his teeth, face hard. His anger was starting to overwhelm his fear.

XXX

The reaction helped. Sylar wanted other reactions, more of…something – more protest or invitation, interaction, something. It would have to do. "Shh," was all he said, doing no more than flexing his fingers harmlessly before releasing and moving on. His hands slid down to the man's shoulders, testing them with familiar squeezes. This was an overtly Petrelli gesture, one he'd performed (successfully!) before. It was…comforting. Maybe it would help relax Peter as well. His hands traveled over clavicles to pectorals. These he pushed, not to shove Peter back into the chair, but to test…what, firmness? He didn't know; he just did, following his instincts. Peter's nipples were hard, his flesh prickly with goose bumps. Interesting… Sylar bent a little to view them better, circling the tight oval buds with his fingertips. He wasn't sure what to expect for this.

XXX

Sylar moved on from the dangerous grip on his throat. Peter let out a tense breath at the shoulder squeeze, wondering what that was all about. The normally-friendly motion stopped the upward spiral of his rage. His eyes went back to Sylar's face, but Peter still wasn't getting what he wanted there, or what he needed. The guy was back to being a pain in the ass and a problem, pawing Peter's chest now in a manner that was damnably stimulating. Peter gritted his teeth, feeling his skin prickle in involuntary response. Sylar stared at Peter's nipples like he'd only just noticed them. That look and presumptive touch that followed it made Peter want to punch him. He squirmed, flexing his arms against the chains. They were firm enough and unyielding, the metal pressing into his skin at the pressure. No easy way out there. He pulled his feet back, shifting his center of gravity.

Sylar didn't seem to notice, as he teased around Peter's nipples with exploring fingers, oblivious and inconsiderate of the desires of the owner of those sensitive parts. "Hey!" Peter barked to get his attention. " _ **No**_. The dare was you could tie me up, not molest me."

XXX

Sylar looked up, an eyebrow raised in question and curiosity. _This is molesting you?_ "You're the one who didn't put any limits on it in the first place." He didn't appreciate being given limits now, so he pinched the protrusions to be a jerk.

XXX

_Okay, that's it!_ "Get off of me!" Peter stood up, dumping Sylar on the floor. The guy had placed most of his weight on Peter's knees rather than any closer on his lap, so it wasn't that hard to get up and let gravity do its work on him. Peter had recovered a lot of mobility in the last week – he didn't limp at all anymore and he didn't need to use his arms to stand. As he stood over the man, he snarled at him, "I don't need to put limits on it! Unless you plan on _killing_ me, you're going to be dealing with me tomorrow, along with the consequences of what you do tonight." He said the last through bared teeth.

XXX

One minute his hands were on Peter, the next Sylar was up-ended on his ass. Mostly he was confused as to how he got there – Peter had lifted his whole weight using his knees? He certainly failed to predict any attack other than verbal from his supposed-captive. That captive was now upright, looming over him, bare-chested with his arms tied behind his back, looking extremely volatile. _I did not see this coming, didn't plan for it. Oh, crap._ Sylar could really only manage a stunned expression, staring up at Peter with wide eyes. He was going to be kicked, he didn't question that. It took him far too long to respond. "Then how do I know where the limits are?" Petrelli's logic made no sense. His tone perplexed, Sylar clarified, "So I need to kill you in pre-emptive self-defense?"

XXX

He crowded Sylar threateningly, discouraging him from getting up with the implication that he might kick him if he split his attention enough to attempt it. "You don't like my reasons for being here? Fine! Give me some better ones. Tell me why I should have dropped everything and flown across the country to set my brother's killer free so he could go on doing the same thing he's been doing for the last few years – ruining people's lives, or ending them, or maybe just tying them up and scaring the crap out of them – whatever happened to make you happy at the time. Tell me why I should care about someone like that."

XXX

Sylar found his back against the desk, his body way too close to Peter's boots. There was no space to stand up. He would have to move right and slither around the corner of the desk towards more space…Already, he was in motion to do just that, anything to get away, awkwardly lifting and backwards crawling his retreat. It was the words Peter hurled, more than the threat of violence, that angered him. "Well, then I guess your only reason is my usefulness! That's the only reason there ever is! I never asked you for anything!" Sylar spat his reply, making it clear that Peter was here of his own free will and that Sylar hadn't overstepped himself in requesting, demanding, pleading for something above his worth. He couldn't give Peter a better reason and he couldn't decide who to blame more, himself or Peter and the rest of the world. His eye line finally dropped from Peter's upper body, mostly his face, to target the man's legs, giving serious consideration to the idea of kicking, even maiming Peter with a kick or two as his expression lifted into a snarl. Impulsivity and reactive, unprocessed anger won out and he kicked at the floor near Peter's feet to make a statement that he wasn't taking this or any other shit; in doing so, purposefully swatting the bee's nest, pulling the tiger's tail, knowing that and doing it anyway. _Get away from me!_

He was around the desk now, so Peter would have to follow him. As it was, Sylar was managing to sit up and make it to hands and knees; feeling like his vision wasn't working right because the world was blurry. He was trying to hurry and having mixed results given his balance. If he could just stand, he'd have the advantage.

XXX

Peter stayed on top of Sylar as the man retreated, weathering a few flailing blows at him in the process. For a little while, he could keep to the side of Sylar's long legs, but when Sylar got around the desk and ran up against his bed, chair off to the side, Peter had no choice but to back off. He didn't want to hurt Sylar (he'd never so much as started to kick him), but he'd sure encouraged the impression of immediate danger. Now he lashed out verbally. "You want more! If you didn't want me to have other reasons, then you wouldn't resent the ones I have!" Backing up a little, he jerked his chin up challengingly and demanded, "Give me better reasons, Sylar."

XXX

As he stood, Peter stopped advancing, but he didn't stop talking. Sylar looked down and off to the side. 'Give me a reason to save you,' that's what Peter meant. The answer was still the same: his skills and scientific value were the only reasons for preserving his life, the only things keeping him alive. Petrelli knew it and insisted in rubbing his face in it. _What do you want me to say? I already basically admitted I'm worthless, barely useful for the moment._ The message he was getting was he couldn't wish for more out of this or any other situation; laid to rest was the idea of getting help. Accept it and be grateful even though it's wrong? That made him so hopelessly angry; he had no grounds for argument, no bargaining chips, no favorable history. He wanted to defend and advocate for himself, tell of his great, special worth he knew didn't exist; he wanted to beg for mercy so he could be accepted again because he had a feeling Peter was right but he was disgusted, loathing himself, feeling more anger for that cursed instinct. How had everything gotten so out of control? Peter was totally vulnerable and here he was making Sylar feel like this.

"Sit down," he croaked, separating the words as best he could. It was all he could think to say. He wanted Peter seated so he wasn't a threat, he wanted to regain control, and he still, stupidly, didn't want Peter to leave. The game had been fun, for the most part, until now. He didn't want to release Peter or change his behavior to suit the man in any way, but if the medic was going to be this mean and moody, Sylar would untie him, lest Peter inevitably find him at fault in yet another way. "It's not your turn yet," he snarled. Peter would have his chance soon enough.

XXX

Peter milled around the living room uneasily, keeping his eyes on Sylar nearly the whole time. Peter was still tied up; Sylar was on his feet now. Sylar looked awfully unsteady, but Peter had just chewed his head off. Sylar looked crushed, frustrated, and angry. One favorite way for people to deal with such emotions was to beat down the source of them. When would the retaliation come? Peter wasn't sure what he could do about it when it happened – running away wasn't a good option. Getting the front door open while being attacked would be impossible; counter-attacking was going to be pretty rough and his attempts so far to slip his bonds weren't going well. He'd obviously managed to get his bluff in on Sylar after dumping him on his ass, but it was a play he probably couldn't run twice. When he wasn't watching Sylar, he was glancing around the room, taking stock of his options. They didn't look good.

XXX

"Sit your ass down so I can untie you, you ungrateful punk," Sylar snapped, scraping his hair back with an agitated hand, waiting for compliance.

XXX

_You're going to untie me?_ Peter gave Sylar an uncertain, breath-holding look, waiting to see if a second shoe would fall. There didn't seem to be much combat advantage to Sylar getting him seated again – Peter felt just as easy to beat up on his feet as he would sitting. He moved to the chair slowly, sitting down sideways on it, facing away with his bound hands proffered hopefully.

XXX

When Peter sat, Sylar crouched down to see where the wire connected. "It's so convenient that you're the only one who gets to judge and you won't trust me or give me any chances to prove myself. Your system doesn't work; it never has and it doesn't work here," he sneered, freeing the man's hands and stepping back in anticipation of an altercation. "I suggest you stay put or I'm not going to take it well," he said as a warning. With that, he walked back to Peter's previous seat, the wheeled chair that belonged to the desk, keeping his distance from Peter as he did. He sat with his arms across his chest and a depressed, watch-your-step glower.

XXX

Aside from turning to sit properly in the chair, Peter stayed put. He regarded Sylar with curiosity, frankly surprised the episode was over. After a few seconds of silence, he started to speak. "I don't-"

XXX

Sylar turned to him and held up a hand, "Shut up. I don't care, I don't want to hear it. I pick Dare."

XXX

Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out. _I don't get to speak; don't get to explain myself. Okay._ He glanced down thoughtfully, rubbing at the impressions the chain had made on his wrists. _He's comfortable enough with me to tell me to stuff it and expect me to do it. Three weeks ago, I think he'd have gotten more upset, listened and reacted. We're … I think we're getting better with each other._ Peter shook his head. "I'm not going to play anymore," he said quietly. "I'm tired, we're both drunk, and this is getting really serious. Let's get some sleep." _Before something happens that we can't walk away from._

XXX

Sylar closed his eyes and pursed his lips in an effort to control his outburst of rage and frustration. He wanted to tear every hair from Peter's head, preferably in clumps. At that same time, nausea rose up in him, protesting his churning stomach and it's alcoholic contents. He turned green, breathed harder to keep things smooth…to no avail. Sylar dashed for the bathroom, making it in time to vomit into the toilet in misery. His mouth was sour, his stomach was sour, he was sure his soul was sour, too. Feeling brittle, bitter and embarrassed, he spit and swiped at his face, pushing his hair back with his other hand. What did any of it matter? He was worthless and in addition to wanting to die, he felt like he physically could now.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar's expression darken, then shift, right before the guy fled to the bathroom. The door was left open in his haste; the sound of emesis turning Peter's stomach a little in sympathy. He waited a beat before rising. He announced himself as he entered the small bathroom. "Sylar, I'm coming in. Stay put." He pulled down the hand towel next to the sink and wet it, crouching next to Sylar.

Peter balanced himself by his left shoulder against the door of the cabinet under the sink. He reached out with his right slowly towards Sylar's face, brushing the hair out of the way with his fingertips. He followed it with the dampened hand towel, repeating the motions Sylar had used on him only minutes earlier to dab away frightened sweat. In a calm, neutral tone, he said, "You proved yourself just now by untying me, and doing that _after_ I'd blown up at you. Someone who was mean and liked hurting people wouldn't have passed up the opportunity, especially with the excuse. But it's not your first instinct. I see that. You're giving me better reasons, Sylar, even when you don't think you are." He reached past Sylar to toggle the toilet, flushing away the foul.

XXX

Sylar sat still, caught between protesting and melting into the caring touches. He couldn't help the feeling; it felt good to be babied a little. He could help his reaction and that was what he had to control; he just wasn't sure what, if any, reaction was appropriate or expected. Surely being neutral about it wouldn't get him into too much hot water…Slowly Peter's words penetrated his mental fog. _Not my first instinct? How…? But…? It is, though._ The depressive wave drowned him again at the remembrance of his own nature _. I don't take care of things; I'm not nice; why would he think that?_ It felt wrong to let Peter walk away unscathed after making those comments and assumptions but Sylar rationalized it with his own unfit condition. _I'm…tired. I'll get him in the morning._ Stomach feeling somewhat purged, drowsiness was his next state of being. He wanted to cling to Peter with very little reason. _(I didn't mean to upset you, I just wanted…I don't know what I wanted, something stupid probably)._ His defensiveness demanded that he make a statement, "I'm drunk and drunk people do stupid things. Mercy is not…a permanent character flaw. The Dare was just…over." _That's all. (Don't excuse my behavior. If you give me an out, I'll take it and that's the problem. I'll pay for it later when you expect more of it or something)._

XXX

"Mercy is not a character flaw," Peter said softly. He glanced over Sylar, not seeing anything in particular that needed cleaning, but a cool cloth and a pleasant distraction could do more for nausea than most medicines. He wiped one side and then the other of Sylar's face, offering him the towel to see to his mouth. Peter sank to the floor, back against the cabinet, legs bent. He was tired and his stomach a little upset as well. They hadn't had anything to eat for a while – nothing to buffer the alcohol and the near-fight didn't help. "Let's get some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow."

XXX

Closing his eyes for a moment, allowing the terrycloth to dab at his face was soothing, his breath starting and stopping at the simple sensations. _God, you're pathetic._ No sooner had he thought it than Peter handed the towel off and made to move away. _Is he leaving? Nooo…_ Sylar reached out and caught his fingers in Peter's jeans (what little grip he could get in the tight, unyielding fabric). The other man sat to his relief. _Stay; yes._ "No, we won't," Sylar said grimly, self-assured. "We won't talk about it tomorrow or any other time. Even if we do, nothing changes tomorrow or the next day…It's just…nature and nature continues itself." He gestured, his elbow still propped against the rim of the toilet. Faking a brilliant smile for a few seconds, he slurred his way through, "Shh. It'll be our little secret." _Nothing has to change. Change is scary and you don't know what you're talking about._

XXX

Peter watched Sylar talk more than he listened to the words. _You look really sad that we won't talk about it. I wonder what it is he doesn't want to talk about?_ Peter smiled at Sylar's smile – even if inauthentic, it was still a nice smile. And the 'it's our little secret' …? He decided to take that one as a joke, even if Sylar seemed creepily serious about it. "Yeah, a secret no one else in the whole world knows about." Peter chuckled, looking away to stare ahead, which put the bathroom door as the only thing to see. Sylar was more interesting, so he looked back and rambled helpfully, "We can talk about whatever you want to talk about. You know. Pretty much. Within limits, I guess."

XXX

Drowsiness turned to sleepiness, his head feeling heavy, body lax and warm, Sylar had the random and ridiculous urge to slide into bed around Peter. He wasn't thinking that his bed was a cot, hardly big enough for the two of them and the fact that Peter wouldn't be caught dead sleeping close to him. _He'd make the perfect teddy bear – he's so soft._ "Come," he meant 'come on,' but he simply forgot the last word, his mouth wouldn't form it or something, and was too tired or lazy to include it. He indicated for Peter to rise and follow him as he stood. "Come," he took an unseeing, loose hold of some part of Peter, jeans, body, it didn't matter as he reached back, trying to lead his companion to the mattress.

XXX

Peter got to his feet, the rise from floor to standing more difficult to keep his balance through than the transition from chair to feet. He waited while Sylar passed him, getting tugged along by Sylar reaching back and gripping at his forearm. It was only a few steps to Sylar's bed and he'd made two of them before he realized Sylar wasn't trying to direct him to sit in the office chair or lead him over to look at something on the desk. Peter stopped, slipping free of Sylar's loose hold. A wash of wariness swept away some of the inebriated exhaustion that had started to fog his thinking. It wasn't nearly as fogged as it needed to be for _that_ to work on him. Peter would have been madder about being led to the guy's bed if he'd thought Sylar was more sober. He muttered something in the negative and went to the couch, picking at the folded blanket and sheet set off to the side at one end.

XXX

Peter moved away and left Sylar watching from his seat on the bed with a crushing loneliness as Peter set up his sleeping area on the couch. It was close, they were in the same room, but it wasn't close enough and he didn't want to let it drop. "Can I sleep with you?" he blurted, not intending to say that at all. It was truthful and sure to be shot down.

XXX

_That sounds so sad. And pathetic. And what would it hurt?_ Peter hesitated, blanket partly spread across the couch, mid-glance over at Sylar as a reaction to the words. Wordlessly leading him to bed got Peter's back up – it was presumptuous, irritating, and scary. But asking? His shoulders sagged and the edge of the blanket slithered out of his fingers. Asking worked. Sort of. "No, but-" Peter stepped over to him, gesturing at Sylar's bed. "Lie down. I'll … sit next to you for a little bit."

XXX

No. Of course it was 'no.' Despite it being time for bed and his tiredness, Sylar didn't want to sleep, not alone, not so far away. What he needed was so vague he couldn't label it; he just knew falling asleep near or against Peter would content him. The alternative was, just as vaguely, frightening; something about the lights going out and being alone and defenseless against what was coming. He glanced up hopefully at the second part of the sentence. _Really?_ It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but it would help. _What is wrong with me? Trusting Peter Petrelli to sit over me while I try to sleep? What good will that do?_ He turned, lying down and began to situate himself, looking up at the suddenly very tall medic. _I wonder if this is a bad idea_ , he ruminated blandly, unworried about the probability or even possibility. _Do parents do this? Is that…I don't know._

XXX

_I've seen futons wider than this._ Peter helped drape the blanket over Sylar and then nudged at his hip to get him to scoot over. It was barely enough space to sit on. He looked at the chair and considered rolling it close, but didn't. He could already feel a little of the warmth of Sylar's form through the thin blankets and he liked it. Peter was cool and still shirtless. He glanced around, but he'd missed wherever Sylar had put the shirt. He assumed it was on the other side of the desk, probably on top of the pile of board games. That seemed impossibly far away at the moment. It was easier to look at Sylar's face than consider where the shirt was. It was such a handsome face.

XXX

The assistance and nudging, the implied soon-to-be-reality contact caused Sylar to give a hum of pleasure. Peter wouldn't bother with all of this just to hurt him, so this was safe to feel. He could feel sleep creeping closer to him; for now he lazily watched Peter look around the room before focusing on Sylar again. Peter looked at him and Sylar looked back, enduring a welter of reactions, reasons and emotions about it. He felt warm and fuzzy as he enjoyed the attention; he would have been completely satisfied, fulfilled even, if Peter lay beside him. Perhaps that's what he was trying to convey with everything tonight.

XXX

The allure of lying down right here was strong. They'd managed to get through the evening without beating each other up; many truths had been exchanged, secrets shared, trust built. Sylar was right here, human, warm, trying to be friendly, and succeeding wildly at not being offensive or threatening. He was clothed; Peter was at least wearing jeans, so nothing would happen, right? Peter was about as drunk as he could be and still walk straight. Looked at soberly, the evening was a collection of increasingly poor decisions – telling things he probably shouldn't have, stripping and being turned on by it, asking invasive questions, and letting himself be tied up. But he wasn't sober.

Peter pulled his eyes away from Sylar's, looking vacantly in the direction of the couch. He was struggling to organize his reasoning as to why it was okay to sleep over there but not here, especially when he was already here, and there was someone who wanted him to be here. It was really hard to do. One location seemed very equal to the other and he felt so tired. His limbs felt leaden and the trek back to the couch looked so tedious. It had been a long time since he'd been slept next to someone. Well, other than that time a few days ago when he'd woke humping on Sylar.

He twitched at the memory, still embarrassed and angry about Sylar's intrusion. _Oh. Yeah. That. Yeah, okay, I need to go over to the couch then._ He patted Sylar's forearm in a friendly fashion and then stroked it in a fashion that was quite a bit more than friendly – because it felt good and he assumed Sylar would let him and he was sort of saying he was sorry he wouldn't sleep with him while copping a feel of his arm. It was complicated. Peter didn't try to make sense of it, nor of the surge of tingling warmth he could feel suffusing his entire hand. He just pulled himself to his feet and meandered over to the couch, having come only one stray thought from joining Sylar for the night in his tiny bed.

XXX

Still Peter lingered and still Sylar gazed back at him in a disgustingly besotted, seductive, relaxed way. _Don't leave. This is really nice. Apart from the taste in my mouth…_ The younger man began looking for escape as was inevitable. Sylar felt his face twist as a retroactive reaction to Peter patting his arm 'good bye/good night'. The budding protest he primed was swallowed upon feeling his arm being stroked. It tickled his brain it felt so good. His eyelids drooped and he felt high, aroused maybe, but not erect. The nurse pulled away and Sylar realized then that he'd stopped breathing _. I don't even care why he did it right now. Or ever, maybe._ It was enough to allow Peter to leave his side, even though he allowed his fingers to try to grip at him briefly, sliding over skin with reticent longing as Peter moved away. He was happily dozing before Peter settled into the couch.


	70. Hungover

Day 22, New Year's Day, Morning

_Oh … ow._ That was an understatement. Peter didn't happen to know any words to describe how he felt, not even the vulgar ones would do. There was a crushing pressure in his head, a roiling sensation in his bowels, and the thing that had woke him from the fitful, distressed sleep he'd been suffering through – an urgent need to relieve himself. _**NOW.**_ "Uff!" He was up and off the couch in record time, bare feet getting him to the bathroom while his sphincter made one last argument with his brain. _Why the fuck am I still wearing my jeans?_ He never slept in his pants, because doing so left him exactly as he was now – sweaty, clammy, and having to peel himself out of them. He struggled through it, weathering another surge of 'I have to go NOW' from his body. But he made it. That was all that mattered. A few moments later, he had the presence of mind to reach out a foot and nudge the bathroom door shut. Thankfully, Sylar hadn't made a peep.

Much later, literally drained, Peter washed up and then stumbled into the kitchen to rehydrate. Water and painkillers went down the hatch, prompting another hurried visit to the bathroom. After round two and Sylar still hadn't stirred, he went over to look the guy over. He was pale, definitely breathing, and smelled … sour. _That's reassuring somehow. I was starting to worry that he smelled good to me all the time. I think I'm just … really getting used to being around him._ Peter fetched a glass for Sylar along with a batch of pills, then retired to the couch with the feeling that his energy reserves had been completely depleted by the small tasks. He laid there in his underwear, the sheet flipped over him, vaguely considering past hangovers and the events of the previous night during the periods when his body deigned to allow him enough brain power to think.

XXX

A sense of throbbing pain invaded Sylar's sleep, increasing in awareness to the point where he could slumber no longer. With a gasp and a groan, Sylar felt himself enter the land of the living – supposedly. "Oh, God…" he moaned without thought, thinking he was alone, because surely Peter had left after…Oh, God, but the world was too bright and his creature comfort clocks were too loud; his head was too heavy and hurting, his gut and bladder… _I'mgoingto-!_ Followed by wordless images and sensations of what unpleasant, embarrassing bodily functions, plural, his body was going to perform with or without a bathroom. Yanking himself out of bed sent his brain once again sliding around in his skull. If he could have cried out or fussed in some way at that moment, he would have. As it was, he made the mad dash to the toilet to puke. This time it was worse, half-digested and stale (or maybe that's how he currently felt). He spat copiously to rid himself of everything about it – the idea, the memories, the taste, the impression it made on his senses.

XXX

Peter waited while the worst of the vomit noises passed. _Where the fuck are my jeans? I woke up in them earlier. … Shit. They must be in the bathroom. He better not be puking on them._ He got up, feeling seriously underdressed to be performing nurse duties. _This is like one of those weird_ _dreams_ _where I show up to work naked. Oh well._ He went in the bathroom anyway, the door still hanging open, and got down the hand towel to wet it. His jeans were on the other side of Sylar, wedged between him and the tub. He gave a resigned sigh to the situation and was thankful this hadn't been one of those days when he went commando, which was more often than not.

XXX

"Ah, fuck. You," Sylar's voice was so rough he made a drag down a gravel road sound inviting. This was Peter's fault. Dumb idiot had gotten him very drunk on top of the head trauma he was also accountable for. "What were you thinking," he croaked, "making us drink like that?"

XXX

"Right. 'Us'. Made us both do it." Peter squatted down and made to wipe Sylar's face like he had last night. The guy had to be feeling worse than warmed-over crap not to have taken the opportunity to remark on Peter's state of undress. But he was still complaining. As they said in EMT training, the louder the patient was, the less you needed to worry about their health. "I was just evening the score. You were the one trying to get me drunk, the way I figure it."

XXX

Sylar lifted his head away indignantly, very much like an infant refusing baby food on the spoon, but Peter followed with the cloth, wiping his face anyway. _Shit, go easy. My head feels like…Just go easy._ He clutched at Peter's arms as he worked, panting a little from waking up and standing up too quickly for distressing purposes and the tenderness of his head and eyes. His function may have improved, but his headache symptoms from the concussion weeks ago was still very present below his apparently self-induced issues. Peter went for his forehead and Sylar growled at him, tugging the man's hands away. What was with that continued pressure to touch his damn forehead? Did he think Sylar was that stupid? Right now he couldn't remember who was at fault for the resulting hangover (Peter was most definitely responsible for all concussion problems); were they both at fault? Did it matter right now? Right now Sylar badly wanted to blame Peter for his pain, blame him for anything, really. "Of course I did," he sneered bitter and sarcastic. _Blame the psychopath. Funny how I'm the one hunched over the toilet, puking up a lung, no matter who's fault it is._

XXX

Peter let Sylar's grip on his arms be his guide. Hanging onto him was fine and told him that the contortions of Sylar's face at the touch of the towel weren't anything to be worried about. When the grip tightened and pushed him back, though, Peter desisted. _Forehead._ His mind went back to the first head-to-toe exam he'd done on Sylar and how he'd been prickly about it then, too. _Wasn't last night, but he was drunk then._ Peter pulled away and stood to rinse out the towel, leaving Sylar to collect himself.

XXX

It was then, when Peter moved away, that Sylar noticed his state of undress _. Uuuh…_ his mind provided helpfully as he stared. The only other time he'd seen this much of Peter was during their medical exam, a week or so ago. _Not that I'm complaining_ _,_ _but didn't I leave him with his pants on? Did I…? What the hell happened last night?_ "You better not have pissed my couch, Petrelli. Where are your pants?"

XXX

"You wouldn't give me my shirt back last night and now you've got my pants." He gestured at the garment with his right hand while his left half-heartedly tried to wring out the towel by itself. He gave up with it still sodden and wiped his own face with it, forehead included. "I hope you're not married to that toilet, because I'm going to need it myself after a while." A trickle of water ran down his chest and his gut churned at the unexpected sensation. That one cold line down his front was too much to process with everything else – the smell, Sylar's proximity, his head, his stomach, the chill sweeping over his skin. He left the bathroom, needing the distance. "I'm going to borrow your pajamas."

XXX

_I have your…? Oh. There they are. Why are they here and why do I have them? I'm sitting on his pants so he can't get them, ha. He still didn't tell me why he's not wearing pants. Is this another showing-off thing? When we're sick and it makes no sense…_ Sylar gave him a weak glare about being married to the toilet. "Whatever," he muttered about his clothes being appropriated without permission. Truth be told, Sylar wasn't sure watching Peter prance around in only underwear was helping him feel better anyway. He stood, bracing through the wave of nausea and head-pains to do it, and kicked the door shut but not closed. It blocked the view and that was all Peter could bitch about, or not, while Sylar relieved himself. It was amazing how swollen one's bladder could get in one night, one of those freaky human body things of nature.

XXX

Peter adopted the new clothes – pjs with legs too long for him, a t-shirt that fit him okay – and sat on the couch. The thought of breakfast revolted him enough so that after Sylar vacated the bathroom, he used it again. On his way out, tired and wrung out, he offered the water and pills to Sylar. Painkillers on an empty stomach weren't a good idea, but his brain was too fogged to think of anything better. "You need to drink as much as you can keep down. Sip it slowly. Your stomach will handle it better that way. Take the pills. I know you must feel like shit. I do, too." With that, he laid on the couch with his forearm over his eyes, bare feet buried in the tangled sheet, and went back to letting his brain fuzz out.

XXX

"Thanks," Sylar managed when he was once again horizontal, sloppily spread over his cot with an eye towards Peter…if he chose to open it and do so. Only time would take away the roughness in his throat so his voice was still a croak. The water helped and he downed the pills without comment even though the drink caused his guts to roil. Unfortunately, he stayed mostly awake and his thoughts mostly avoided the previous night _. If I don't think about it, I don't have to…I don't know, expend energy and when Peter asks about it (which I know he will), I can answer honestly that I don't really know. I don't want to worry about it right now._ It actually worked in his favor that Peter felt just as bad. Sylar wondered if he should feel guilt for supposedly causing Peter's pain. It sucked to have his nurse and roommate out of commission (even though Peter was handling it better, so it seemed – was that due to past alcoholic experience which Sylar lacked?); but it was also nice, in a sick sort of way, to share something. It was a physical pain, self-induced, stupid, but it was an experience Peter certainly could relate to.

XXX

Peter wasn't sure how much time had passed before an idea popped into his head, one he didn't know why he hadn't thought of before: _Zofran_. It was followed quickly by: _IV fluids_. "Ehhhn." He levered himself up. "I got an idea. Be right back." He got to his feet and went out in the hallway, rummaging through the bags on the seat of the wheelchair. There were indeed two IV bags left, along with plenty of injectable nausea relief.

XXX

Sylar cranked an eye open to watch Peter…leave? _Wait…He's in no condition to…_ "Where are you going?" he rasped after his companion, considering levering himself up to follow. Seconds later, he heard noises in the hall that confirmed Peter's location. _Not another board game, you idiot. Maybe no more games in general._

XXX

Peter returned, arms full of IV bags, tubing, tape, syringes, and bottle. He set it all down on the desk and flopped into the office chair. "This will take care of all of our problems." He paused, looking at Sylar, then down at himself. "Most … um, some … a few of our problems." He shook his head as he separated the equipment out into two sets. "It'll make things better, I promise." He set it up first for himself, then found himself stymied. "I either have to do this with two fingers and a thumb on my right, or I have to do it left-handed." He frowned. "I never had much practice shooting up anyway." He'd done it once and hadn't enjoyed it at all, which was why it was a 'once' deal and never again. "Can you do this?" He looked at Sylar dubiously. Even people _with_ medical training often had trouble dropping a line. "Wait, never mind. Let me do you first. You watch what I do, then you'll feel better after – hands steadier, that sort of thing."

XXX

Immediately, the nurse's proximity was a comfort, even if it was a loud comfort. Sylar propped himself up on an elbow, then moved to sit on his cot, legs hanging off the side because it was easier on his stomach than sitting Indian style. At the mention of shooting up he thought about the time he'd had to 'shoot up.' It had been life-and-death, not a loser's pleasure cruise. He tried not to remember all the other needles in his life, ones used for torture, revenge and abuse. Sylar nodded yes to the question of his competence, "Yeah, I can." He nodded, "Okay." Sticking Sylar first made sense. _I've got steady hands anyway, one little- one big headache isn't going to screw up my aim that bad._ Peter installed the IV line, hooked the bag on the shelf above the head of his bed, and injected Zofran, presumably, into the port on the bag.

XXX

Peter watched the drip for several minutes, which was about as long as he could put up with. The idea that he'd have to wait most of an hour before getting his own relief was too much. He moved on to setting up his own situation – opening packaging, drawing up the Zofran, swabbing his arm. "I'm going to try this anyway." He did – try, that is, and missed. The all-encompassing headache and slightly shaking hands didn't help at all. "Fuck." He tried a second time – except instead of just having a slowly bleeding hole like the first time, he also managed to blow out the vein. It was now bleeding under the skin, giving him a swelling hematoma and making further attempts on that arm futile. "Fuck!" He set the syringe aside and covered his elbow with the alcohol swab, applying pressure as per procedure, even though what he wanted to do was fling it across the room and throw an undignified fit. Staring at the ceiling, he huffed. "Sometimes I feel like … the whole fucking world … every time I try to do something - shit blows up, people die, the future ..." He shook his head. "I can't even give myself a fucking IV!"

XXX

_But we just said…_ Sylar almost stopped him, because it seemed like a bad idea and they'd just agreed to do the opposite. He watched as Peter botched it. _I should find this hilarious after all the times he's handled needles for me and for patients. Maybe it's a good thing he has no practice doing it fucked up and hung over._ Understandably the failure quickly 'got under Peter's skin' and he began to fuss. Loudly. "Shh, shh, shush, Pete," Sylar said in a mix of reactions, part begging, part demanding, though he didn't do it to console his partner. He just wanted him to shut up. He reached out and patted the man's now-clothed shoulder and that was for Peter's comfort. "I know how to do it. It will be easier on someone else, actually. 'Kay?"

XXX

Peter gave him a sharp, narrow-eyed look for calling him 'Pete'. Was it intentionally mocking him for acting childish? Was it unintentional because Nathan often called him that? Was it just a common shortening of his name (although Sylar should have known better than to call him that)? Thinking through the possible motives hurt his head. Sylar patted his shoulder and Peter sighed, face relaxing. _You only get to call me that when we're both hung over,_ he thought grumpily. He nodded to Sylar's question and went about fixing the tourniquet to his other arm.

XXX

When Peter gave sign of assent, Sylar took the needle and Peter's undamaged left arm. "You make your job sound so hard," he mused, both as affectionate mockery and general observation. "I've had to do this after someone used me for a battering ram through a glass door after she shocked me like a wet finger in a wall socket after being powerless and sick for weeks after being stabbed through the chest with a samurai sword."

XXX

Peter grunted in acknowledgement, thinking he should have some questions or something to say about that sequence of events. All he could muster was something half-formed about having wondered what happened to Sylar after Kirby Plaza. He abandoned trying to finish the thought in favor of making a fist to make his veins more prominent. It was part of what had gone wrong on his right arm – unable to make a fist with his right, he'd been poking at ill-defined targets.

XXX

Sylar leaned in close to look for veins, or rather, a good large vein because they were plentiful on Peter's lovely arm. "Needless to say, this should be a walk in the park." He pulled the skin taut and slid the needle in at an angle so as not to go through the vein, and it had a better chance of getting in, as he understood it. Given the bloody feedback in the tube, he'd got it in one. "Hmm," he grunted his success, looking to see if he had impressed Peter.

XXX

Two things: Peter realized he should have given some advice, and the other was that even without it, Sylar had done the job perfectly, first try, with a hangover. That was amazing and Peter's pair of surprised blinks conveyed it. "Good. Hold it right there." He struggled to get past the cotton in his head to get the tape he'd laid out, fixing the plastic piece in place. "Now turn it a little and pull it out. The syringe - that thing there." He pointed helpfully and Sylar followed directions like a pro, detaching the needle to leave the plastic shunt in the vein. "Then I'll attach the line and tape that down, too." Peter managed the rest, shooing away Sylar's hands, which seemed determined to cradle his forearm now that they weren't engaged otherwise. Brushed off, Sylar watched for a moment, then laid down, head on his folded arm, looking up at Peter. Once set up, Peter sprawled in the chair, elevating his feet by way of propping them on the far corner of Sylar's tiny bed. In a half hour to an hour, the fluids should have done their trick of restoring hydration and knocking out the worst hangover symptoms. In the meantime, all there was to do was wait.

And think. Maybe it was just a placebo effect, or the continued, gradual waking, but he already felt like he was thinking better. The first thing he dwelled on was Sylar's steady, unhurried hands in finding the vein. Most people were afraid of hurting the person they were working with and that manifested as hesitation, second guessing, or hurrying – sometimes all three – which worked together to make them as lousy at the job as Peter had been on his attempt at his right arm. Sylar didn't have that. There was no 'I'm sorry I hurt you'. Even when he'd looked up after stabbing Peter in the arm, his expression hadn't been concern. It was more like approval-seeking, without regard for the possibility Peter might be upset about having a bit of metal poked into him.

That was … interesting. Kind of unsettling. Very practical, and it made sense given Sylar's past, Peter supposed. He'd been told that the best surgeons were really scary people precisely because they had no compunctions against slicing into folks. Sylar … well, compunctions against cutting into people seemed to be lacking. He glanced over at Sylar, who was spending his time staring at Peter. He wasn't sure what to make of that particular feature. Was it a deficit? Or just a trait? Was it something his ability and experiences had driven out of him? Or was it something that had never been there to start with? Certainly the lonely past Peter had been able to put together for him wasn't the sort of thing that would nurture normal responses to people.

_Does he even know how to be normal with someone? No roommates – he's already said that. No friends – said that. No siblings – said that. No father part of the time, hated him while he was there. Biological father – only knew him a few hours, hated him. Mother … there was something weird about the way he talked about her, the stuff he's said about her before, too, and now she's off-limits to ask about, assuming she's even alive. So … mother at most and I'm not sure how that relationship was. Has he ever been with anyone else for any length of time?_

_There's Elle. Something happened with her. He died for her, made love to her at least, and he really was making love to her. That wasn't just sex. He didn't die because he didn't care – if he had, he wouldn't have said that was the most noble thing he'd ever done. Then there was Luke. They were … friends? Yeah, friends. But it sounds like they only knew each other for a few days, maybe off and on for a few weeks. Hard to tell, because he really leaves a lot of gaps in his explanations. It's like … it's like he's never had to explain anything to anyone; he doesn't wait for directions and it's like he doesn't expect any. Fuck – I might be the most meaningful and long-term relationship he's ever had, and coming on the heels of three years alone, that's … it's an explanation for awkward. For him - no roommate Kevin, no Hesam at work, no brother Nathan, no girlfriend, no patients, no friends in high school and then different friends in college and different friends still in nursing school, all plus the kids of my parent's friends, or the maids. Not even a fucking dog._ Peter's mind boggled at how narrow that made the world.

A surge of wanting to be there for someone ran through him, hurrying Peter's breathing, making him swallow and look away as he tried to quash his feelings. _This is stupid. Sylar is a murderer. I'm not even sure if he understands, really, that what he did was wrong, or what was wrong about it. And Nathan …_ Peter shook his head, forcibly drawing his thoughts away from the subject. "What do you remember from last night?"

XXX

Sylar inhaled and let it out heavily, calming his stomach as it clenched, and to buy time. _What do you want me to say, 'I remember everything' or 'I remember nothing'?_ Licking his lips, he looked upwards but the light from the window was too much. "Um…I remember playing games. Truth or Dare." His eyes briefly roving over Peter's form said how much and what he remembered of the previous night. _I remember finding out just how naughty you are and getting to touch you._ It was then he took in the fact that Peter was dressed in his clothes. Sylar remembered feeling a strange proprietary surge at seeing Elle wearing his black button-up shirt after sex. It was probably not a good idea for Peter to have chosen of his own volition to don Sylar's clothes. _He'll smell like me a little, maybe._ The shirt was too long, but tighter and the pants were much too long _. (He's not sending a message_ _._ _) I don't care. He's wearing my clothes; not just my clothes, my fucking pajamas for God's sake. He's_ _responsible for himself, throwing his pants at me, giving me his shirt. He should have thought of that before he did it. I'm not responsible for what happens after._ Seeing Peter like this had little logical reason to be sexy, but there it was.

XXX

_Another non-answer._ Peter huffed at the annoying evasion. "What do you remember specifically?"

XXX

"Is there something I should be forgetting?" Sylar shot back. He didn't care for the implication that he should forget things when it was convenient for others. He'd had enough of that. "I remember all of it. You're a kinky little bastard," he smirked. _And a tricky one who got me to do things._

XXX

That was … warming. And not in a way Peter was really comfortable feeling at the moment, coming on the heels of other less-than-antagonistic thoughts about Sylar. The way the guy had looked him up and down just now hadn't gone unnoticed, either. Peter cast a quick look down. The fly of the pajamas wasn't gaping open or anything like that, but then again, Sylar's eyes hadn't stopped at any particular place, which Peter found even more flattering than if he'd focused on one thing. He felt a low-level excitement hum through him, which left him wordless for a moment.

He finally managed a defensive, "Well, I remember everything, too." Going on the offense, he added, "Should I go get you some _tea_?" He waved in the direction of the kitchen and shifted his feet a little on the end of the bed, but made no actual motion to get up. _If I have to deal with what I did, then you're not getting away with yours, either._

XXX

_Wh- oooh…_ Sylar glared as best he could, knowing it was weak. That was uncalled for. After his glare reached its expiration date, he thought up a reply through his overheated brain, "Sure, if you can do it in your underwear, Boner Boy." He chuckled, partly for effect. _And I thought I was the horny one._ "Maybe you should moonlight as a stripper. You have the paramedic uniform," Sylar chuckled some more. As good looking as Peter was, stripping was kind of waste of his talents. Something in him strongly disapproved of the mere idea, found it insulting, degrading and felt that Peter should be protected, if not for himself, then for…His laughter wound down and he cleared his throat. "Do you always do that with booze or…I mean, how does that work? Why does that do it for you?" he asked, genuinely curious. He had no information on it or Peter so…why not ask? The arousal clearly wasn't stimulated just from the average stare (because Sylar had stared Peter down plenty, granted, never with his shirt off; Nathan had had opportunities and never noticed any lower region action. Peter was good looking so he'd definitely been ogled before), so there was something to it, another factor he couldn't account for at first glance (no pun intended). It didn't make a whole lot of sense to him, you know, being looked at as a turn on? There was one potential reason he didn't mention, yet, because it was so unlikely it was quite impossible: Peter liked the source of the attention – Sylar.

XXX

Peter ran through a lot of reactions in short order – affront and anger at Sylar's comeback (accompanied by pushing the rolling chair half a foot away from Sylar's bed, but he didn't take his feet off the end), sneering disgust at the suggestion he disgrace his position as a paramedic by involving his uniform in a strip routine (a wrinkled nose and a glare served to convey his feelings while Sylar laughed), and then narrow-eyed suspicion at Sylar's semi-honest-seeming questions. He snorted strongly and frowned off in the direction of the kitchen.

_My head hurts too much for this. Is that an honest question with a bunch of defensive bull up front, or is that a sarcastic/rhetorical/fake question and the bull is how he really feels?_ Peter sighed, still looking away. _He didn't suggest anything all that bad, really – that he thinks I look good and he thinks other people would think so, too._ Peter breathed out heavily again, glancing back at Sylar with a sour expression on his face. _He likes how I look …_ Peter tried to ignore the pleasant, tingly way that made him feel.

"Are you serious?" He said it like a threat or a challenge, throwing it out with a matching forbidding expression on his face just in case Sylar was full of it. Peter watched him sharply for cues, or at least as sharply as he could with his head pounding and gut feeling queasy.

XXX

"Yes," Sylar prolonged the word slightly; narrowing his eyes a little because of the disbelieving look he was being given.

XXX

Peter tilted his head, eyes still narrow, but none of that helped him think. He was too keyed up for this and he hadn't had enough drip yet from the IV bag to endure it. He leaned back into the chair, relaxing a little in posture and face. "Booze doesn't have anything to do with it – just that I wouldn't be dumb enough to strip for you unless I was drunk, which I was." _So there._

Having established (he hoped) his disinterest, Peter moved on to the main question, his voice getting much smaller as he took a sudden apparent interest in the IV tube. "I like it. I like the attention." He opened his mouth to say more, but then shut it. He didn't know which words to use and didn't want to say something Sylar might use against him. _'It's my turn to be somebody now, Nathan!'_ Those words rang in his head instead, engraved there by having rehearsed them prior to Nathan's arrival and the adrenaline rush of the leap that followed. He toyed with the clear tube, rolling it pensively between his fingers, and looked over to see Sylar's reaction.

XXX

Sylar was surprised and happy to get an answer at all. At least it ruled some things out even if it wasn't descriptive. In a leading tone, Sylar probed deeper, "Attention…gets you off?" Again, it was obvious it wasn't that simple but it would be very nice if Peter was that easy. He frowned a little from confusion.

XXX

"It's just a thrill, you know?" He looked at Sylar, but wasn't getting any indication he did know. And besides, what was there to 'know' with what little Peter had said? He looked down at his lap and frowned, then shook his head in frustration. "It's the attention, yeah, but not just any attention. I'm not showing myself to strangers in the library, after all. You're into me. Or at least I think you are. That's the difference. People who think I'm hot looking at me … it's hot. Some people are turned on by looking at others. I'm not. At least not so much. It's why I was always out where other folks were instead of holed up in my bedroom with a porn mag. I wanted people looking at me." He gave a long pause, then added the more important point, "I wanted to matter. _That's_ what does it for me."

It was a lot bigger deal than just how it manifested in his sex life. Peter knew that even if he didn't like thinking about it. Feeling defensive and too vulnerable (pointless, extra, overshadowed by Nathan, ignored by his parents in favor of their golden child, always second-rate or also-ran no matter what he did), he shifted the focus. "This is not a weird kink. I'm sure you have ones of your own. Everyone does." Not that Peter had thought about what turned Sylar's crank. He looked over at him speculatively before pulling his thoughts away from that. _I do not care about what gets Sylar off._ It didn't take long for his subconscious desires to make an end run around his conscious mind, suggesting, _Actually, that's a much better topic than him asking more about what I like._ "So what are you into?"

XXX

Now came the descriptions. It was…a lot of information to process. Sylar listened intently, trying to make sense of it because it was obviously important to Peter for whatever reason. He was being given answers but he had to translate them – the answers themselves were key. Then Peter gave him gold; something resonated in him and he didn't know why, 'I want to matter.' That overwhelmed and eclipsed anything else Peter might say and everything he'd already said. Sylar understood that that was a very big deal. Before he could dissect it, Peter was busy making insinuations about him. _I don't like y-!_ It was halfway off his tongue before he stopped himself. Denying his interest would be shooting his chances with Peter in the metaphorical foot – the man wanted interest. _Let him think I like him. He doesn't care if I have feelings for him, or if he does, he's still wrong._ Then there was the rest of it: _I have kinks? Everyone does?_ As Sylar knew it, kinks were kinks because they were odd sexual obsessions – odd because not everyone shared them or they would be commonplace. Peter stopped everything in its tracks with his unforeseen, highly personal question. Sylar froze, stunned and probably showing it. _What do I like? You think…I can like things? Is that allowed? Well…shit, what do I say? What will work with him? (Do I say I like watching him? Why is he asking?)_ Once the immediate reactions were out of the way (for now), he began to formulate a response, hopefully one that would work.

"I'm into sex," he said simply, face dull and blank.

XXX

Peter waited a beat, but that was all Sylar apparently had to say. He noted the sudden loss of expression – a dead give-away that Peter had hit a button, probably an insecurity because Sylar was into something he didn't want to confess. Which was okay. Peter mostly just wanted to make the topic of conversation something other than himself. Still, his curiosity was piqued now. "Yeah…? What specifically?"

XXX

"Sex is sex," Sylar shrugged, desperate to blow this off and simultaneously convey the idea that he was easy, without complications or demands. "I'm more of an open-book; I'm not picky. I don't really have 'kinks.'" _Or if I do have them, they're not going to bother you, that's for sure. Why would he even ask that?_

XXX

_You either don't know what I'm talking about because you're inexperienced, or you're into something awful enough that you won't admit it._ Peter didn't have enough to go on to decide which was in play. Did Sylar genuinely not know himself? Surely even if he hadn't been around much he'd at least know his preferences for porn. Or did he know and wasn't telling, in which case why not just lie? Peter wouldn't know the difference, although he had to admit Sylar had shown an astonishingly surprising penchant for being truthful.

Truthful, but evasive – annoyingly so, and a lot of the time the evasion didn't even seem intentional. Crankily, Peter snapped, "If we're going to talk, then you need to give me better answers. If I'd answered you like you just answered me, you would have asked why that did it for me and if I were answering like you, then I'd only say 'booze didn't have anything to do with it' or 'guess you'll just have to find out on your own' or whatever and _nothing else_. It's really frustrating to try to have a conversation with you, Sylar!"

XXX

Sylar could feel his stress level ratcheting up at being cornered. _But I don't know…._ he mentally whined. More accurately, he didn't know what to communicate and what to leave unsaid. "I don't see what it matters, Peter," he managed to grate out. "You already said you don't like talking to me – whenever I do talk, you want me to stop. People don't ask and I don't tell, I already told you that." And he had; something to the effect of not involving himself with people for a host of reasons. "My 'kinks' weren't in question last night." That was even more of a provable outright lie than 'I don't have kinks': he'd practically fondled Peter in several places last night, mostly the guy's hair. With any luck, Peter wouldn't remember it in that light or he didn't notice at all.

XXX

"If I didn't want to talk to you, Sylar, I wouldn't." Peter started to go on in that argumentative vein, his mouth even open about to do so. Then he stopped. "'Whenever you do talk.'" Peter's head pulled back and his demeanor changed from irritably quarreling to paying close attention. Wonderingly, he said slowly, "We're not talking right now, are we? Not really. Not what you just meant. What is it I want you to stop ..." He looked away for a moment, thinking. "Nathan, the murders, my family. Are those the things you want to talk about that I stop you?" It hit Peter how much Sylar probably did, desperately, want to talk to someone about all of that. What Sylar had done was confusing, dehumanizing, frightening, and soul-wrenching. He'd almost certainly never had anyone he could talk to about it, and Peter had neatly declared every damn bit of it off-limits.

XXX

_What did I mean by that? I meant…uh…_ Peter continued, getting closer and closer to the thing making Sylar anxious to the point of an aneurysm. _(Do I need to talk about that? Do I need to talk about anything?) I have no idea what you're talking about._ Sylar swallowed roughly, needing relief and needing it fast. His voice wavered and caught, but he managed to demand, "How about that tea?" He was readying his acting chops to play the most needy patient Peter had ever seen. He wanted out, he was scared, not sure why, and ready to do whatever it took to get out of it and away from it. _No, clearly, I don't want to talk about it. Just some nice tea, calm my_ _nerves…calm_ _the_ _urge to puke, calm all these headaches you insist on giving me – this is perfectly normal, Peter._

XXX

Peter continued looking piercingly at Sylar, feeling like he was really seeing into the man for the first time, or perhaps simply seeing him as he was for the first time. _Tea? He doesn't want to answer. Doesn't want to talk about it. I don't think I should push him on this. I was just thinking about how honest he usually is. If I make talking a condition of … us, me, me being here … wait, does he think he has to do whatever I insist he does?_ That was mind-boggling. Peter nodded. "Tea. Sure." He got up out of the chair carefully, bringing his mostly drained IV bag with him, and headed off to the kitchen.

XXX

Sylar heaved a wavering breath, slumping as soon as Peter was out of sight, shutting his eyes for a moment. _Why am I so upset? I want to talk to him, don't I? He's the only person here; he has to listen to me._ _He's the one making all these rules…_ Then it dawned on him. Peter was indeed setting rules and setting precedents. What's more, if Sylar strayed onto any topic Peter didn't like, Peter would cave his skull in and punch him with little to no warning. The man was completely volatile. Not that Sylar had a glass jaw, low pain tolerance or aversion to pain, but he knew (and could guess) from experience what repeat offenders were punished with. Even the night before, when he'd been messing with Peter, the nurse had gone completely overboard without warning. That decided him – he did not want to talk about anything with Peter fucking Petrelli. _And they say I'm crazy?_ He covered his face with his forearm, chuckling to himself, but it had more than a touch of hysteria lacing it before he wound down. Sylar certainly had no need to talk anyway. There was no 'help' for him, as his last attempt had shown. He'd had to abandon the hope, the idea. _This is my life now and no kooky Petrelli is going to mess with my head._

XXX

Peter returned with a cup of plain tea, bag still steeping in it. He offered it quietly before sitting, fiddling with the IV bag to make sure the last of the fluid made its way into his veins. _I don't think I want to listen to him talk about any of that. But I'm going to have to eventually. This is like me for the last year … never able to tell Hesam or anyone else about abilities, not talking to anyone, just keeping it to myself._ He could see where this was going, but for the moment, he sat quietly and let sleeping dogs lie, not extending any invitation for Sylar to speak about the forbidden subjects and not revisiting the issue of kinks, either. He didn't think he was ready to be the sort of listener Sylar needed.


	71. Peter Petrelli's Nipples

Day 22, New Year's Day, Morning

"Thank you," Sylar whispered, taking the cup. He didn't know how his stomach would handle the new visitor but the warmth of the cup, the gesture, were comfort enough. Sylar didn't look at his nurse, he pretended to be engrossed in the tea, unable to engage in conversation and Peter…left it alone. After long enough, it became clear Peter wasn't going to say anything about it or say much of anything else. _Why does he ask all these questions? He's supposed to leave me alone._ When the silence settled and it was clear he could introduce another topic, probably another undesired question for Peter to deny and disallow. "Why did you ask about the worst question you could ask last night?" Sylar assumed Peter felt the need to have dirt on him, some vulnerability to exploit, or try to, but he didn't put words in the empath's mouth. Peter's questions seemed focused on his mother and he wanted to know if the content was coincidence or planned (though how Peter could do that with such supposedly limited information was beyond him). _Does he know something and he's not telling? Is he looking for a confession? He said he didn't want to talk about the murders, though._

XXX

Peter looked over at him from squeezing pointlessly at the now-empty IV bag. _I thought I wasn't supposed to talk about that? That's not what he's asking of me, though. He wants motivations, not for me to ask about it._ He started detaching the IV, considering what angle to take in answering. "I wanted to scare you," he said quietly. "I wanted you to think I could have been asking worse stuff than I was." He pulled the tube from his vein and put his thumb over it for pressure. "I wanted to see if you'd trust me with something like that. I won't ask. I wouldn't have last night and I won't now."

XXX

_Trust? It has nothing to do with trust. Well, I trusted his promise. Shit. I did trust him a little. I was…drunk._ The creases around his eyes crinkled, Sylar's way of showing amusement without smiling as his mouth twitched at one anyway. _He won't ask now? He can, does he know that? I know something you don't know. Let him think that – he might behave better if he thinks I trust him._ "It was a game and you suckered me into that one. If I chose Truth again, without your promise – the one you didn't include – you'd have asked it next. If I chose Dare, you could have made them so horrible that I'd have to chose Truth or risk losing. Even now, I doubt you'd tie me up and beat it out of me. It's not that important." While some of that was leading, hinting to see if Peter really had no clue he could ask (but Sylar might not answer or do it truthfully), the rest of it was pointed and deceptive – Peter had a history of beating him up (and talk of his mother was important, at least to Sylar. He couldn't follow how something important to him mattered to someone else). The phrasing was close enough to something he'd rasped before, mid-fight, when he was laid flat on a plywood table in a dusty, reconstructed hospital room: _/'What are you gonna do; beat him out of me? Do it! Kill me!'/ Ah!_ Sylar grimaced and made a move to touch his head as more pain twisted inside it.

XXX

Peter stood in concern at Sylar's groan, setting aside his tubing and bag, but then catching himself before moving to Sylar. Something about Sylar's posture and choice of words stopped him. _I'm not dealing with a standard patient here. I'm dealing with a guy who is violent, traumatized, and he and I have a history. Be gentle._ Peter put his hands out to the sides, palms toward Sylar. In a calm, even, and honest tone of voice, he said, "You thought all that through, huh? That's better than I did. You got me. But you know what? I'm still not going to ask unless you tell me it's okay, and if that's never, that's okay, too. No beatings. No nothing." _It's obviously important or you wouldn't be so desperate to tell me it isn't. Which just reinforces that you told me the truth and there is no way I'm breaking that._

Peter made a slow motion towards the hook for the IV bag on the shelf above Sylar's bed, taking it down and setting it aside on the chair. "Let me see your arm and I'll take that out for you." He gestured, but didn't move closer.

XXX

An exhale that wanted to be a sigh followed his spasm. Peter had confirmed it, on his own. _He really won't ask. (Why do I feel a little…disappointed?) We're not talking_. Sylar puffed a few amused breaths as he settled back, "Sure, right," he intoned, voice heavy with disbelief, but light enough to keep the current mood. _You would have let me walk right into that trap in the game if I hadn't made you promise. But he's not asking now so…I don't know what that means._ "Hmm? Oh, is it…? Yeah." Sylar looked partially behind himself to see the empty IV bag and proffered his arm, watching his partner-slash-nurse with low-lidded interest. The pats on his arm were wonderful and far too brief. _Didn't he…didn't he do that last night, too? Yeah, put me right to sleep._ Peter set the used equipment on his chair, immediately striking Sylar as a bad place to put it – sitting on a used needle? _I could always band-aid his butt, no problem._ Without permission, he reached out, gathered it up and tossed it onto the desk.

XXX

Peter glanced over at the rearrangement of stuff, taking it as unusual politeness on Sylar's part, and an unspoken desire for Peter to sit down and hang around. He took the seat, but kept his attention on Sylar, trying to figure out what had just caused the display of pain. "Is your head still hurting you?"

XXX

"Always."

XXX

Peter frowned briefly. "Must be the concussion, not the hangover. How bad is it?"

XXX

"Bad enough to still be a problem. I suppose I'll live." _I wonder how he feels about that…_

XXX

Peter exhaled heavily, eyes tracking over Sylar's forehead, then to his pupils, which looked fine. They were, in turn, fixed on Peter himself. "Far as I know, there's nothing much I can do about that except make sure you take painkillers, stay hydrated, and try to hold down the stress." Before he could dwell too much on the miserable failure he was at achieving that last condition, Peter moved on. "Are you still feeling nauseous?"

XXX

"It's better," Sylar shrugged.

XXX

"Okay. I'm gonna go make some breakfast for us." Peter rose, heading off to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he asked, "Toast sound good?"

XXX

Sylar made a hum, barely loud enough to be heard over Peter's departure. Again, even that much separation made him…anxious. He sat up, toying with an edge of his sheet. "How are you…doing?" was his awkwardly thought, awkwardly voiced question because he'd though three different variations to the question and mixed them up a little when he spoke. Plus, it was unfamiliar for him to have to ask about someone else's well being, usually he got only as far as 'you okay?' but he wanted specifics since Peter had been specific, nurse or no. On top of that, his voice was still rough, dried from the alcohol and sleep so it didn't carry as well as it should have.

XXX

Peter got out the bread, picking off and eating a bit of crust because no one was in there watching him, then stuck the slices in the toaster. He moved the dial over to very dark. _Burnt toast is better for nausea, right? Wish I remembered … but meal prep was never part of the paramedic stuff and not really hospice, either._ "Oh, I'm … " He double-checked the toaster setting and went to get plates out, the sound of his own voice seeming to echo around the room more than he liked. "I'm okay. My electrolyte balance is probably off. You lost everything out the top; I lost it out the end. Getting fluids helps, but it doesn't make up for that. I think I should take it easy today." _Not that I've been getting the level of exercise I should be getting, but whatever._ He still had a few lingering sore spots from their fights and of course his hand was still broken, but functionally he thought he was fine, although Peter had a track record of over-estimating his body's endurance. The hangover's worst effects were already mitigated by fluids and medication – headache faded, nausea vastly reduced, the cotton-headed, nasty-mouthed sensation was gone. Well, actually the nasty-mouthed feeling was still there. _I need to brush my teeth._ He settled for rinsing his mouth at the kitchen sink.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar grunted again. "Why did you freak out when I pinched you?" he called out, leaving it for Peter to figure out what he meant. "Is that another one of those…Uh, I don't know, sex things?"

XXX

_Pinched me? Wait, what?_ Peter went over to look out at Sylar, but Sylar was coming to the kitchen already, and what he meant was clear from the rest of what he had to say. _You're asking about that? Now? What, are we gonna have a debriefing of everything?_ "Last night?" Peter scoffed, leaning backwards against the counter next to the toaster, facing Sylar. "Maybe you were too drunk to notice, but I was freaking out before that, too." He lifted his right hand to stab a finger once at Sylar. "By the way, drunk or not, I don't buy that 'I don't know where the limits are' bullshit you tried to pull. You knew damned well where the limits were because _I told you_ and you understood what I said. You repeated it back to me – something about it being too late for me to set limits, which means _you knew_ what I was doing. Remember that?" Peter tipped his head down, brows rising, skewering Sylar with his gaze and calling him to answer for being an ass. _You do not get to bitch about 'freak-outs' you caused._ Considering all the bad stuff he had in his past involving restraints, Peter thought he'd been pretty mild in his reaction.

He glanced over at the toast that had just popped out. "Get the butter. We probably shouldn't put anything else on it."

XXX

Sylar stopped short when the finger aimed at him. _What did I do now?_ The body language alerted him before the words specified his crime; one he apparently didn't know he'd committed. _Of course it's bullshit. You don't even know but it's bullshit. Of course. Wait, what did he tell me? But he didn't set any limits! He had plenty of chances!_ "You-…The…That was…?" _That was molesting you? (Yeah, remember normal people? Remember how much they looove being touched by me?) Fuck. I didn't mean to, I didn't even know…That's why he should have said-!_ Sylar contemplated an apology for something that was, as usual, only half his fault, a question he'd probably tried to communicate and had failed, then screwed it up true to form. "Are they like-" he began a clarifying question despite Peter's ball-breaking stare. The sudden, sharp, grating pop and twang of the toaster signaling completion startled him badly and hurt his tender senses, "Ah!" he hissed, moving away before Peter gave him a command. _Butter again. This just isn't my day_ , he thought, setting the butter dish near Peter and the toast station at arm's length then clearing out. His face, not that Peter could see it, was one of distaste. "Fine. Have it your way: no more questions." _This is exactly what I was talking about earlier._

He got glasses of water (because Peter mentioned fluids but disagreed with flavors) and sat at the table, waiting patiently. _Bread and water, too, how fitting._

XXX

_No more questions? You get called on your behavior and that ends the conversation, huh? Must be nice to just_ _bail whenever it's inconvenient to you!_ Peter's blood was up and the desire to pitch this minor thing into a full-scale conflict simmered in the background as he buttered the two slices. Sylar, quite wisely, left him the hell alone so that by the time Peter brought their very simple breakfast to the table, he was at least calm enough not to immediately snap at the man.

_Calm down. He got the water. He got the butter. He's right there. You were just talking about how you needed to keep the stress level down … but damnit, I don't want to let this drop!_ He slid Sylar's plate over with the untouched piece of toast, keeping for himself the one that he'd already torn the top crust off of. Deciding not to reiterate the point about limits, he went to what Sylar had started stammering out before he'd stifled himself. "Are they like what?"

XXX

Sylar's nerve to ask was gone. Besides, the question sounded bad and it was sure to insult and get him into more hot water than he was already in. _Just ease the frog into the boiling water – the frog is very used to it,_ Sylar thought bitterly. He shook his head.

XXX

Peter took a few small bites of toast, mostly due to uncertainty about his stomach, but a little because his jaw still hurt him sometimes. Especially if he was prone to clenching it, which at the moment he was having to resist. The chewing helped. _If he thinks he has to do what I tell him to do …_ "Answer me."

XXX

"Nah. It was another stupid question, guaranteed to piss you off, so…" With that, he occupied his mouth with food.

XXX

"I'm already pissed off and this is what you get." Peter gestured at himself, pale but with anger-spawned rosy spots on this cheeks and across his nose, hair unkempt, dressed in Sylar's pajamas. He didn't think he could possibly be intimidating like this, not that he was trying. "I'm good at stupid questions. Tell me what you meant."

XXX

"Al-right…" Sylar exhaled the word dramatically, petulantly, "Are they like a woman's? Did it hurt or something?" Maybe that was why it was unacceptable, molesting behavior for Peter.

XXX

Peter blinked at him. That … wasn't what he'd been expecting. He took another bite of toast and calmed down a little. "You're asking about pinching me?"

XXX

_Either that's good or he's going to give me his real reaction in a minute…_ "Yeah."

XXX

Peter thought back through the conversation. "You're back to asking why I freaked out." He put his toast down and reached up to scratch at his left temple, chewing his lips a little as he looked down for a moment. He was internalizing the possibility that Sylar really was clueless here. "You don't get it. Okay." Peter sighed and ran his hand through his hair, realizing too late that it might have had toast crumbs on it. He glanced at it surreptitiously (clean-looking now, but that didn't mean anything), then focused on Sylar. A few crumbs in his hair was not important. "I _tol-_ " Peter cut himself off, took a deep breath, held it, let it out. His tone of voice had started to come out harsh. It wasn't what he wanted. In an even voice, he started again. "Okay. Here's the sequence: I was already upset about being tied up. You were teasing me, circling me, telling me how helpless I was. _I don't like hearing that_." Peter tried to lock eyes with Sylar for a moment. "That's the reason you were saying it – to upset me. You succeeded; I was upset. Then you sat on me. I didn't like that either. When you started touching me … sexually … I told you to stop. You knew I was telling you to stop. You repeated it back to me and told me, essentially, that no, you weren't going to stop. That told me that defending myself verbally was off the table – you wouldn't negotiate or discuss things. Then you pinched me, taking things a step further, continuing what I'd already told you to stop, and daring me to do something about it. So I did. That's why I 'freaked out'."

He cocked his head a little and asked, "How far were you going to take that, anyway?"

XXX

Sylar just looked back at Peter while he spoke. _And you tell me how worthless I am; I don't like hearing that either._ Okay, he'd kind of known he was upsetting Peter just by sitting on him. That was intentional, inebriated or not. _That was…sexual to him?_ Sylar's brows furrowed a little in a muted frown as he thought back to his own intentions for the act(s) in question. It was…skin – soft and so warm; it was a human being; it was a captive, enduring, emotionally wired human being and people were by nature objects of revulsive fascination for him. He'd wanted to see how Peter worked, explore, and that included sexuality as just one topic of many he had interest in. Peter didn't look like he was in an understanding mood, no matter what he said about therapeutic communication – Sylar felt he had an explanation, at least, a possible valid reason for ignoring Peter's supposed cry of foul play. He wasn't going to bother with it. Instead, he looked mournfully down at his toast, all the better to keep his nose out of trouble and keep it intact.

He glanced up at the return query. "What do you mean? If our positions had been reversed – you were here for three years and I needed your help and couldn't get it and I was the one tied up – what the hell do you think you would have done? No, that's-" He waved his hand to negate the question portion. "If you had me tied up after being alone for three years, you would expect _me_ not to be upset by what I did to you." Sylar gave a checking look to see if he'd followed along. When Peter made a face, any face other than comprehension, Sylar sighed and spoke plain English, "I wasn't going to do anything, not…anything real bad, nothing intentional." He had been drunk, after all. There was only so much he could account for.

XXX

Peter couldn't stop himself from visualizing what he'd do if their roles and positions had been reversed: he'd have fallen on his knees in front of Sylar in grateful appreciation for his presence, and wept. Then he would have untied him, because a reversed-position Peter would have no need of a tied up Sylar. He would have never frightened or molested him, precisely for fear of offending the object of his attraction (assuming he were attracted – he wasn't sure how much the hypothetical role reversal encompassed, but attracted or not, he would be appeasing, not annoying).

This wasn't an entirely unfounded speculation. Peter had had the experience of having strangers break him out of a cargo container after weeks alone and tortured by deprivation of all kinds. Despite all manner of powers at his unconscious disposal, he'd defended himself only out of reflex and allowed them to brutally and methodically beat him nearly to death, because he would not dare alienate the only people he knew. He fell in love at the first sign of kindness and pledged to join their gang despite how they'd treated him and knowing they were just using him. He hadn't cared. If their roles were reversed, Peter was pretty sure he'd see Sylar as an agent of God. Three years alone, instead of three weeks? Yeah, totally divine. He'd be on his knees in supplication and he wasn't embarrassed to admit that to himself. _Assuming I were even sane._

Peter stared at the table, knowing he wasn't getting Sylar's exact meaning, but thinking he had it well enough to follow the gist. _We're really different. I wouldn't lay an unwelcome finger on him._ He lifted his gaze at the end of Sylar's words. "'Nothing intentional'? What do you consider what you did? Are you trying to say you weren't in control of what you were doing?"

XXX

Sylar paused in guiding his toast to his mouth. Then his face fell. He'd slipped up and Peter caught him, highlighting and hyper focusing on his mistakes, drilling him on it now. He'd talked himself into a corner. "Does it matter?" he snipped, dropping his toast to the plate. Part of him really wanted to know the answer to that. "I mean, what do you wa-" he began, stopping himself short to take a breath, release it and shake his head. 'What do you want me to say?' he'd almost said aloud but that was an unforgivable admission. Control made him better; control was power. "I have plenty of control. I have more control than you." Only after his angry reaction and his usual claim of control could he relax enough to lighten up and tell the truth. Something of it anyway, "I meant the beer, alright? I don't…I told you I never really drank much." _I never played Truth or Dare before, either_. "Does that work for you?" he asked it with sarcasm and a bit of taunting.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and pulled it back, an intent expression forming on his face. "No. No, I don't think it does. I made a lot of stupid decisions last night, but _I_ was the one making them. It sounds like you're telling me the beer was making some of yours. If that's the case, no more beer for us." He eyed Sylar judgmentally, not appreciating whatsoever the attempt to brush off bad behavior on the alcohol. _Is that how he deals with having killed people? 'It was the ability that made me do it?'_

Thoughts of murdering Nathan in the future, driven by his newly acquired ability from Sylar (well, actually, Gabriel) floated through his mind. Peter grimaced and frowned, releasing his body language and going back to eating. _It matters, and control is something he thinks he doesn't have. Asshole._ Peter rubbed at the soreness behind his temple.

XXX

Sylar glared. Once again he had either trapped himself or been trapped. "Then what is going to cut it for you, Peter? You gave a very crazy person a lot of beer last night and that was after you tried to cave his skull in. Maybe I am kinky after all." He went back to his toast for a moment before thinking it over, discovering something more to add, "You have this thing..." Sylar waved his hand, "where you think that people play by the same rules as you. Do you know that? You jump headfirst into seriously dangerous shit and you...expect or hope it will all just turn out okay. You don't even consider shit hitting the fan. If you agree to something, you'd better know what you're getting into or stuff comes back to bite you. Since you won't trust me, this is what you have to deal with - a deranged psycho who likes tying up drunk idiots. Interested in round two, baby?" he purred over his toast, "I'll be nice and spare your sensitive nipples."

XXX

"Sylar, I _was_ trusting you last night. Don't you realize that's what was going on there? You were the one who pointed out I was trusting you back when you taped up my finger." Peter made a small wave with his left hand, displaying the digit in question. It still featured a reddish line of forming scar tissue where the force of some punch had split the skin. It was okay though as long as he didn't punch anything with it until it was fully healed. Sometimes that seemed less possible than others. "We've already established you're not crazy," _or at least that I'm not to treat you that way,_ "so you're not going to get anywhere with me now by pretending you are. If we're not playing by the same rules, then you'd better clue me in on them. Tell me what I'm getting into." He put his elbows on the table and took a casual bite of toast, settling in and being comfortable with the conversation despite the subject and the person he was having it with.

XXX

Sylar's head canted at that. _That makes a lot more sense, if he was trusting me. But why would he do that? I mean, I just said he sort of shouldn't trust me and he did and I…He was upset just to do it he said. That's the point, isn't it? He did it anyway. No, Peter, that obviously wasn't obvious._ Sylar frowned and his lips pursed next. "So I'm…normal, then, if I'm not crazy, right? You're saying _I'm_ normal. _And who the fuck said I was pretending?!_ " he barked because yelling would use his headache to kill him. A pointed finger locked onto Peter, "Keep that bullshit up and I really will tie you up again. Quit with the psych evaluation." Sylar chuffed a sigh, poking at his toast. He knew he was contradicting himself, demanding to be treated like he wasn't crazy, probably or apparently acting crazy, Peter saying he wasn't crazy when he obviously thought Sylar was. So Sylar was…trying to convince Peter, or himself? Insanity wasn't a defense because it excused him nothing – clearly; insanity was instead an explanation for his actions and it was the only one that had ever fit. The accusation of being a pretender bothered him. How could he pretend to be something he felt, something he acted on, something he'd been labeled? The evidence was all there except…sometimes he didn't feel the largest crushing pressure of insanity – of course it was easier now, without the Hunger, but in other ways the emptiness of his world was just as bad. Now Peter was here and everything shifted on its head. With more than one person in his head, Sylar felt sanity was a distant memory, something Peter couldn't understand. If he was going to be insane, he felt it should work as a defense some of the time; there had to be a perk in there somewhere, if not, he'd make one.

XXX

_Okay. Talking about sanity_ _ **at all**_ _sets him off. Check._ Peter exhaled evenly and continued eating, watching while Sylar worked through his reaction. He wasn't pleased with the threat of restraint, but as intimidations went, it didn't hold much power over him. For Sylar to do it without Peter's cooperation would be quite the fight. What Peter registered instead was that mental health was something Sylar found very triggering. _So, don't talk about it – not something I was burning to discuss with him anyway, but I wonder where he got this strong of a reaction? I need to make sure that in future, I talk about the concussion in purely physical terms, not so much mental._

XXX

More sedately, Sylar explained, "Those are the rules, Peter: you think things through. You don't plan so you get into things then you blame me for not…I don't know, holding your hand and walking you through everything? No, you either expect the worst or you get the crash course. You act like-like I should pull my punches when you clearly won't." His voice grated some, "You keep reminding me how I'm the unpredictable one, how I'm not your brother, not your friend, not your anything, so why should I give you the cheat sheet?"

XXX

"Sometimes we all need a little hand-holding," Peter said so quietly it was almost a murmur. He regretted it immediately, getting up from the table and going to refill his only half-empty glass of water. It implied both a weakness he didn't want to show and an awareness that Sylar got less help than he needed. It wasn't where Peter wanted the conversation to go. He turned and shot Sylar an unpleasant look, the sort of expression that usually preceded angry conversation. Instead, he frowned, sighed, and looked away, sipping at his water as he cooled down a little.

XXX

Sylar's lip turned up at the far less than joyous expression aimed at him. _Some of us more than others_ , he thought but didn't speak, considering how…toothless it was as a bitchy retort.

XXX

"Well, I'm pulling my punches right now. I don't want to expect the worst from you all the time, Sylar, and I _don't_ , or else I wouldn't even be in the same room with you. I expect _better_." He sounded petulant and he probably was. His tone evened out a little as he looked back at Sylar and went on, "Regardless of what you've been before, we're here together. I'm not buying the 'you get to do anything you want' thing, especially with the 'it's Peter's fault if he's not smart enough to figure me out ahead of time' part. That's not fair. Those aren't rules I'm willing to play by."

XXX

Sylar had since folded his arms across his chest, an eyebrow steadily creeping upwards in disbelief. ' _I expect better,_ ' he internally mocked – God, that was so familiar. _You_ demand _better, you think I owe it to you because…I'm me and you're you._ That was the extent of the reasoning Sylar had ever understood about it – other people were better, sometimes special, at least more productive, useful, often times others were good sons and daughters…In any case, Peter's statements left a lot to be desired and already he was digging his heels in against cooperating. _Funny, now we're together, when you want to make a point of it._ A brief frown crossed his face, _How does that work, 'I get to do anything I want'?...It goes that way because it IS your fault, Peter! Stupid little asswipe – he thinks he can 'opt out.' He thinks he's too good for the rules._ Frustrated now, Sylar exhaled with some force, "See, this is wh- It's not just me. You do it for everything, Peter. You don't figure it out. I don't understand how you expect me to know something you haven't communicated. It's not my fault if you didn't think something through. You didn't even ask questions. You agreed to a Dare and you didn't set any limits," Sylar raised a hand to forestall any comeback, "for whatever your reason. Besides, you freaked out enough and got your way anyway." It didn't sound like Peter's trust was too broken. He couldn't remember the point (if there was any) of the conversation or what his argument was so he shut his mouth, filling it with now-cold, bland toast.

XXX

Peter glowered at him and retook his seat. He felt, not for the first time, that he and Sylar were having very different conversations.

XXX

Several chews later, it came to him. Looking up, Sylar added, "Those rules are the same for everyone, for the most part, Peter. So why do you think you deserve some kind of cheat sheet? I've earned what I know – you haven't." His head was still killing him, in fact, becoming more of a permanent fixture; the light and sound sensitivities of hangover remained but the nausea had gone down. Inner torment roiled in him when he felt the urge to play sick or manipulate a rather short-sighted, somewhat stupid Peter into cuddling until his headache felt better.

XXX

"What rules? That I have to figure things out without any help? I know how the world works, Sylar. I also know it doesn't work the way you're implying it does, without anyone helping anyone else. That's seeing only what you expect to see. People _do_ help each other; they _should_ help each other more." He sighed and stared at the table, shoulders sagging in resignation. "I've had this argument before with …" _Nathan, my dad_ , "a lot of other people. Really, Sylar," he looked up with a concerned, imploring expression, "you're just making it clear to me this is a one way street and you have no intention of … reciprocating." He shook his head and pursed his lips, trying to think of a better way to put this. "Even from a completely mercenary standpoint, if you do not give me a 'cheat sheet' and help me sometimes, then I'm not going to be very motivated to help you."

_But maybe he doesn't think I've done anything to help him._ Peter snorted softly and took another bite, hunching over his plate. _Maybe he doesn't recognize any of the things I've done as me going out of my way for him. I haven't done anything that a decent person shouldn't have done anyway – nothing special, nothing heroic, nothing he should be grateful for. Is that what I want, after all? Him to thank me? (It would be a nice start.) Seems kind of self-centered._ Depressed suddenly by the anticipated rejection, frowning, and eyes going anywhere but at Sylar, Peter finished his toast and stood up, snagging his plate to put next to the sink.

"I'm going out." He felt lousy, tired, and emotionally shut out. The physical wasn't nearly as important as the social. _He doesn't want me here. I should leave. It's not safe here anyway. I gave him a limit last night and he ignored it. Now he's telling me he's going to keep ignoring them. I should move back to my apartment. He doesn't need me anymore. Maybe that's what this is all about._ Peter headed off to the bathroom to swap Sylar's pajama bottoms for his own jeans. He could get a new shirt at home.

XXX

_No. No. No._ Peter pulled away and announced that he would be leaving; possibly not coming back for all the certainty his declaration gave. Sylar felt the flood of red anger then the low tide of despair and creeping loneliness. All he wanted to do was claw and grab Peter back, hold him until he stayed (and maybe after that). The fact that they'd just been arguing (or something) was obliterated with disgusting, uncomfortable ease at the mere idea of being abandoned. So he waited outside his own bathroom for Peter to show his face. When the door opened, Sylar pounced, "No. You said you want to talk, that it's okay for me to talk, then I want you to answer my questions: what makes you so special that you get inside information when I have to work for it?" Apparently Peter really needed this spelled out. "How on earth could I be 'normal'?" He exhaled; feeling smaller now he'd stood up to the giant, so to speak, expelled the words and said his piece. "And…" he hesitated, uncommitted, "what kind of stuff would you want to know?" Sylar was not promising anything – he didn't know what little self-secrets he was being asked to provide – and what's more, he wasn't sure he knew himself that well or knew how to disclose those things. Doing it at all was massively dangerous; it was the reason he didn't ever do it. One hair out of place, one indecent preference, one I'd-rather-not and his life was hell. Or, more Hell, in this case.

XXX

Peter opened the bathroom door and pulled up short. Sylar was blocking his way, arms crossed, feet shoulder-width apart, looking imposing. Peter's eyes darted around the room alertly, not so much in alarm, but definitely checking to see if there was anything more to the ambush than Sylar. Not that Sylar couldn't be enough of an ambush all by himself. Peter looked back at him as he started speaking, his attention staying there throughout the speech.

When Sylar was done, Peter tilted his head and said sullenly, "I didn't get 'inside information', Sylar. My mom, my dad, my brother – all had abilities. Not _one_ of them talked to me about it." He swallowed roughly, leaning against the bathroom doorframe for support, because that familial betrayal was a hard thing for Peter to talk about. "Nathan denied it to my face. Even when I threatened to jump, he _still_ denied it." Peter's brows climbed and he tilted his head down, looking up at Sylar. "I had to _fall_ before he flew." He waited a beat for that to sink in – that only Peter's imminent death had caused Nathan to use his ability. "And even then, when I woke up, he still lied about it. My mom ..." Peter shook his head and changed the subject, because that was too painful altogether to talk about. "I didn't get any 'inside information'. I ran into Claude by accident when I was on my way out of town to live in the freaking desert for the rest of my life," he made an angry gesture with his left hand, "to keep people safe from me blowing up. He acted like he had some answers, but all he did was beat me up over and over and then throw me off a thirty-story building, when I didn't know how to fly or heal or do anything on purpose." Peter straightened again, heart pounding at the memory, breathing speeding up, angry now. That had been a murder attempt – Peter was sure of it.

XXX

Sylar's eyes widened a little at first. _He's only talking about abilities? We…weren't talking about them before…He still wants my hard-earned knowledge for free but it's about something I can actually talk about even though he said he didn't want to talk about abilities._ Their situations were vastly different – Peter was surrounded by specials who could have (but didn't) share their knowledge; Sylar had access (sometimes) to geneticists and had been on the receiving end of what brain surgeons looked and tested for. Of course Sylar never pretended to be 'normal,' except briefly, to get close to a target.

What Sylar couldn't wholly understand Peter's situation in 'coming out' as a special – Peter had been stone-walled and treated, quite literally, like a crazed person by his own family. /Nathan had ignored his own ability so thoroughly it had taken a scene like Peter almost killing himself for him to use it – out of necessity. That didn't mean they had to talk about it and bond over it as Peter had wanted. Of course Nathan had denied it – because how the hell was he going to explain to their mother how his baby brother had tried to jump thirty stories and had somehow _lived_? How could he tell Heidi how he'd walked away, nearly unscathed from the accident that crippled her? It had still torn at Nathan's identity to live one life and have Peter know or strongly suspect otherwise, knowing and digging at the secrets of his life and encourage or demand he be open. Peter's life was simple, Peter's life was open, he had that luxury, but Peter would never understand the role and responsibility of the eldest son /. Sylar experienced assault when he'd tried to tell his mother about his powers, and he'd killed her. There was no more deception, anxiety, no more void of acceptance to fill with efforts to please and belong – he just ran away, leaving home, mother, corpse and a sick scene of depravity.

XXX

"Get out of my way." Peter pushed Sylar aside firmly and went to sit on the couch, over his shoes. He looked at them briefly, then pushed them aside and looked back to Sylar. "What I said was that you weren't crazy. And you're not. There's not that many days go by as a paramedic where we're not picking someone up for psych reasons. I've seen crazy. Whatever you've-" _I'm going to get into trouble with him about this. I know it. But I've got to say it._ "Whatever you've done, horrible as maybe it was, is not a sign of insanity. Who knows? My dad's maybe done the same thing, maybe even worse. People in war … Just because you've killed people doesn't mean you're insane."

_I don't know what I want to know. I just want to be … safe? Okay? Understand you some so I'm not thinking I need to take a knife to bed with me? I don't 'get' you._ He looked up at Sylar, brows drawing together, and said nothing for the moment, giving Sylar time to respond to what he had said.

XXX

Peter set his shoes aside and Sylar's nervous hovering eased. He felt like he took a breath finally. The stress came right back with Peter's words. _You don't know what I've done, you say so yourself. So how can you judge?_ "You know no one agrees with you on that. I'm a psychopath. Why should I believe you? You think I don't know what kind of head-games you people play – tell me one thing, do another? I don't think you know anything or you wouldn't be asking questions. I thought you didn't want to talk about abilities." Sylar pointedly dodged the subject of murder. For one thing, it sounded like Peter might be excusing it and he didn't know why, couldn't see why or how that was even possible. If it wasn't insane…then what was it? What was he – something better, something worse? Where did he fit? Why would the collective heroes define him incorrectly – what did that serve? Should homicide be excused? /Nathan remembered Peter specifically, firmly stating that he didn't want to know about Nathan's missions in the military. Peter was a gentle pacifist and couldn't handle the idea of death – what an odd career move, then, to watch old people die/.


	72. A Mile in Sylar's Shoes

Day 22, New Year's Day, Morning

Peter leaned back, groaned, and shut his eyes, face tilted towards the ceiling. _I don't want to argue about this. Not this. There's no way I can win on any of this and there's no point to winning on it, anyway. All I'm going to do is piss him off._ A moment later, he reached up and rubbed at his forehead. _Go. Just go_. He sighed, straightened, and reached down for the socks hanging out of the side of his shoes. He hiked one foot across a knee and brushed the dust off with his hand. "You're right, Sylar. I don't know anything. That's my point." He put on his sock, shaking his head slightly as he did it. "I'm not a psychologist. I'm not a therapist. All I have is a bunch of college courses and having watched people. You're less crazy than a lot of people who are considered perfectly sane."

XXX

_Uh-huh, there it is. LESS crazy._ He didn't know if that angered or relieved him. Sylar felt bipolar, torn in different directions, what he wanted, what he was, and what he had to be (then the whole Nathan thing…) Perhaps if he could pick one, stick with it and make it work…He knew the trouble with that would be slaughtering and repressing the other instincts, whichever those were.

XXX

"And I _don't_ want to talk about abilities," Peter snapped as he swapped feet, brushing off the next one more vigorously than the first as his mood coiled in an ugly direction. "You want to talk about how you got yours?" Peter snorted, thinking briefly about his sudden attack and murder of his brother in the future. "I'll bet your initiation makes jumping off a building look tame." If Sylar's ability could move Peter to attack his own brother, then the reason why Sylar didn't want Peter asking about his mother seemed pretty fucking clear. Peter reached for a shoe. He wasn't here to address Sylar's problems or his past or any of those things Sylar wanted to talk about that Peter didn't want to hear. It was the future that mattered and Sylar clearly wasn't going to help in that.

XXX

Sylar gaped. Peter was leaving, that was a concern, but he still focused on the words being spoken. _Killing someone is…tame? That's not_ _right_ _. I think he's just…upset._ That upset transferred to Sylar, who didn't know if he was the cause or reason for it in the first place; upset was around him and Peter Trouble Petrelli was definitely readying to leave which was Sylar's cause for upset. He was so helpless to stop it – if there were only words or deeds to bind and bond and keep someone close…

XXX

"I _don't_ want to talk about it. I don't want to _think_ about it." His voice picked up speed and roughness, frustration coloring his tone. "I want to get out, get away, and not have to worry about things, like you and your fucking rules and how you don't act like I've done anything worthwhile for you." He stomped down his foot, having worked himself to a head of steam one shoe too early. He was at the point, emotionally and in his diatribe, where he wanted to storm off angrily, but doing it with only one shoe on would be ridiculous. He yanked up the other – a thick-soled, black leather, ankle-high, medium-duty work shoe – and started putting it on in silent fury.

XXX

Storm clouds gathered over Sylar, the helplessness washing away as he matched Peter's mood. "You're the one who brought them up! You are nothing but a spoiled, pretty boy if you think 'my fucking rules' don't apply to you." He stopped short, running out of words but also surprised. _He thinks I owe him something?_ The first shoe was on and it looked every bit like an act of cruel, rude defiance aimed directly at him, Peter thumbing his nose at him, thinking he could walk away and get away with it without consequences… _No_. Driven to acts of spite (and possibly to keep Peter here longer and show he was serious), Sylar darted in, sat beside Peter on the couch and snatched the irksome, remaining shoe, holding it at arm's length on the other side of his body where Peter couldn't reach it. "That's another thing about 'my fucking rules,' Petrelli: I didn't ask you for anything. Maybe I'd do a better job bowing and scraping if you hadn't concussed me in the first place!"

XXX

_Pretty boy?_ Peter had no idea why his mind arrested on that, but a moment later, Sylar was sitting next to him and stealing his shoe, playing keep-away with it in a bout of supreme childishness. _I'm being ridiculous_ , flashed through his mind with the instant understanding that his own bout of temper had caused Sylar's, his mood infecting another just as theirs so often affected him. Ridiculous or not, realization or not, he was still pissed and Sylar, sitting to the right of him, still had his shoe.

"Hey!" Peter shoved at him with his right and punched him in the shoulder with his left fist. All things considered, it was a rather light blow delivered without leverage, across his body. He scooted back and away from Sylar's efforts to fend him off and possibly grab him. He retreated to the corner of the couch nearest him, coiling his body somewhat by raising his foot as if to kick … but Sylar wasn't pursuing. He lowered it and switched to venting, voice raised. "Your fucking rules _only_ apply to me, Sylar! And I don't give a shit what you asked for! That doesn't have anything to do with it!" He knew it did, but he didn't care.

XXX

Sylar took the mostly unexpected blow without a sound, maintaining his prize. Peter could blow wind chimes out his ass for all the talk of peace and do-good-unto-others and non-violence he preached but a simple act, like taking his shoe for God's sake, had Peter throwing punches. _And he calls me violent and unpredictable?_ He frowned when Peter thought he'd attack. He probably should, but it was so stupid it would be serious overkill. It wasn't like Peter wasn't asking for it, either. _He picks fights and blames me._

XXX

His eyes darted past Sylar's face to his shoe. His shoes were really important to him. As far as material items went, given the world he was in with Sylar, his shoes were the firmly in the top five valuable items category (and maybe the top of those). There wasn't much here he considered 'his', but the things he'd showed up with were among them. Plus he needed them. The idea of hobbling around town in the freezing weather looking for a decent shoe store was not appealing. _He's trying to keep me here_ , came another flash of insight. "If you don't want my help, then give me my shoe back and I'll leave."

XXX

"Yeah, I know you don't give a shit what I asked for but it does matter," Sylar addressed first, exasperated with his reactionary companion. Peter was eyeballing him (or rather, his shoe) which meant he had the man's attention. For now, he ignored the stupidity of the logic Peter displayed – ungratefully, he wanted Peter to leave, so he took his shoe to…aid the process of leaving. Right. ( _Is this like one of those primitive cultures where 'I hold the shoe, I'm king of the mountain, I get to speak and make the rules'?_ Somehow that was hilarious to him: that they'd both devolved so quickly to caveman). How Peter jumped to the harebrained conclusion that Sylar was ungrateful and disinterested in fucking _help_ was beyond him. How it wasn't obvious that he needed help, in any sense of the word, was equally incomprehensible. "The rules apply to everyone – everyone, Peter. What's the first thing to drive people crazy, do you think? All that stupid crap you want to know about. I mean, look around you…" Sylar gestured. _I'm such a crazy/not-crazy mess because the rules apply to me. (And I try to make them not apply). He needs to get with the program – he's not exempt. (He won't do it). Fuck what he wants._ "Why are you leaving anyway? You said you wouldn't." That was…a shot in the dark. He didn't know, with certainty, how Peter intended that promise of sorts. It would be better, easier on him if he could get Peter tied down to that, or anything, really.

XXX

Peter looked around the apartment when directed to do so, then back to Sylar. His anger faded to puzzlement. _What the hell is he talking about?_ "I'm not … I am getting out of here to take a walk, cool down, and get away from you. And I'm going to do that whether you give me my shoe back or not." He huffed and straightened on the couch, putting both feet on the floor in an orderly fashion as though he might actually get up and leave. The toes of his merely sock-clad foot scrunched up a couple times with nervousness, but he kept talking instead. "I never said I'd stay in your line of sight at all times. That's ridiculous." He batted his hair back, turning his torso to face Sylar. "Half of what you say doesn't make sense to me. What do you mean, 'what's the first thing to drive people crazy?'" He shifted his weight uneasily, blurting out, "All that stupid crap I want to know about is _you_!"

XXX

At first Sylar's eyes narrowed at 'get away from you,' then Peter called him and his desire/preference/whatever 'ridiculous' and his mouth pursed. He still held the shoe and now had to consider if Peter was bluffing or not, and, if so, what he'd do about it. _Keep him talking._ "Exactly." He was prepared to leave it at that. It made perfect sense to Sylar but it was immediately clear Peter didn't get it, any of it most likely, so he elaborated, "The first thing to drive people crazy is all the stupid crap about themselves. If you want to know about abilities that's pretty harmless because we don't have any; but you want to know about _that_. There's nothing there – you know that. You spend all your time trying to get rid of me…" his voice trailed off as he thought about it. Peter had more interest in him now then he had when Sylar had been his brother how many times. "Is that what this is about? Trying to find some way to get rid of me and bring _him_ back?" Sylar was horrified and betrayed despite knowing better. It left him in shock a little, to this day. It was the definition of personal, his personality, his mind and memories, and that was Peter's target; it had to be, it was the perfect motive. Some part of him still couldn't handle the idea that someone could or would torture and hate him to that extent.

XXX

Peter's face became stony at the mention of Nathan – brows lowered, eyes narrowed a little, lips tighter, otherwise impassive. What he was getting from the rest was that Sylar didn't consider his ability the reason why he'd killed people – he blamed … something else: his life, himself, whatever 'there's nothing there' meant. Either that, or perhaps Sylar was talking about 'crazy' in regards to something other than killing people. Peter wasn't sure which he meant, so for now he pushed it aside and stayed focused on Sylar.

XXX

Shakily Sylar stood up. "It doesn't work like that," he managed to get out, feeling like he was arguing for his life, reasoning or pleading with Peter to keep his mind and prevent it from being taken away, his body used as cheap housing for someone just as worthless. "Maybe you didn't have to deal with it because you're so fucking special but using the little stuff doesn't work either!" his voice rose with his terror, giving him cold sweat, rapid heartbeat, tight chest and throat and tunnel vision. His only weapon was Peter's own shoe, which he clutched hard. He felt abandoned and cornered in his own apartment, sick at the thought of becoming nothing or someone else again at Peter's whim.

XXX

Peter got to his feet, his expression shifting to resentful and angry at the mention of him being the recipient of extraordinary favoritism (again). He felt uneven in more ways than one, but primarily he didn't like standing there with only one shoe on. It made him feel like an idiot for letting Sylar grab it out of his hands, and there right in front of him was Sylar clinging to what Peter needed to be balanced. Peter wanted to throw down, get his shoe back, and beat the crap out of Sylar for having the … the … whatever he had for taking it in the first place. _Oh yeah, he's afraid that I'm going to leave and he'll be all by himself for … forever._ Someone being afraid wasn't an acceptable reason to start a fight with them, shoe or no shoe. The anger drained off Peter's face, leaving him merely unhappy looking.

As Peter saw it, he had two clear choices with Sylar: 1) talk him down, calm him down, take care of him, or 2) blow him off, walk away and leave him to his own devices. The fear was baseless and the best way for Sylar to figure that out was for Peter to … talk him down, calm him down, and take care of him. _That's not much of a choice. Fuck_. It certainly wasn't the choice he wanted to make, but contrary to Sylar's take on things, Peter didn't feel his life had, or even _should_ , hand him good options to pick between. Most of it sucked and it was his job to do his best even when he didn't like it, like now. He exhaled slowly and sat back down, curling his lips into his mouth and chewing at both of them as he bit back his anger. With an effort, Peter arranged himself on the couch, leaning back, the shoeless foot crossed at the ankle over the knee of his other leg and defiantly sticking up in the air as if to call attention to itself.

Foot twitching a little, speaking in a low but clipped voice, Peter said, "I'm not trying to get rid of you; I didn't come here to get rid of you; that's not how I'm spending my time." He sighed. "I'm trying to get to know you because you're the only one here and I'm … _lonely_." He wasn't sure whether to admit that. He wasn't sure how true it was. He hadn't been able to be away from Sylar long enough to get stir crazy, if you didn't count the first couple days. The guy was clingy, which made it hard to be 'lonely' and was part of why Peter was currently jonesing for some time apart. A more accurate description of Peter's motives would have been curiosity or even just basic sociability. The first might be taken as threatening if Peter were digging for information to harm him; the second seemed unlikely to be understandable to a life-long loner. But Peter expected him to relate to loneliness, so he used that.

XXX

_(If he came to get rid of you, he'd be doing a much better job,_ he helpfully pointed out to himself) _. He's lonely? Peter's lonely?_ Sylar supposed that if Peter was (fairly) normal and normal people got lonely, it shouldn't come as such a surprise. Peter hadn't answered /his/ - Nathan's – phone calls, still lived in that rat-hole apartment. Now here he was, cut off from all his friends and family, including his girlfriend – Peter, who wasn't used to being alone. Sylar didn't know what to say. On the one hand, he was being offered a great opportunity, a bond, a connection he otherwise wouldn't have. But it wasn't much of a choice for Peter, who had no other options, the bonding was mandatory, random, forced, he wasn't…special (but at the same time, he was, in a way). Sylar could love or hate the circumstances that brought them together and made interaction possible, but he couldn't make Peter _choose_ to be with him. "I'm all you have," he said slowly, lilting the words almost as a question. _He needs me, not just for his girlfriend. He needs me alive and in decent health._ That gave Sylar leverage, it made him feel better, too. It was almost like being cared for, looked after, sought out. "Then why are you leaving?" _It's those things he does after saying stuff like that, 'I need you' then he tries to kill me; 'I'm lonely' then he leaves. How can I believe him?_

XXX

Peter tilted his head in quiet agreement to Sylar's first statement. Sylar was the one he'd seen in the dream. Angela's implication (and she was presumably much better at reading precognitions than he) was that _only_ Sylar could do it. He was, yes, all Peter had and yet Peter didn't have him at all because Sylar refused to help. It left Peter in a frustrating holding pattern. As for Sylar's implication that Peter needed him on a more personal level – it was probably true, but Peter didn't want to think about it more than necessary. Instead, he addressed the question, "Sylar, I'm _trying_ to be friendly, but some of what you say comes off really insulting and I don't like it. It doesn't matter how lonely I am – there's going to be times when I need some space."

XXX

_I don't like some of what you say, either, but that's just tough luck for me, isn't it? (I want my cake and eat it, too)._ It struck him that he wasn't okay with either/or, that he wanted both and it wasn't possible to have both polite conversation and walk away to send a message if Peter said something he didn't like yet still keep the man's company. It was that same struggle for…respect; he'd never managed it, he was too extreme. "What did I say that was insulting?" That was news to him. _No wonder I can't understand people. I don't even see where I insulted him? Or he just…thinks I insulted him or feels that I did? (Maybe he made it up?) I mean, who decides if I actually insulted him? Does intent matter?_ "You never needed personal space /bef-ore/…" the word tripped from his mouth, realizing he was referencing Nathan's life and Peter's childhood. /Peter had been a tag-along, small shadow, a darling little stalker; clingy, if he dared use the word, ever hopeful and needy and it had boosted Nathan's ego like none other (those big hazel eyes offering up love, hope and forgiveness at every turn), so much so that it continued to work even into their adult years/.

XXX

Peter gave another head tilt at the personal space bit, deciding consciously to leave alone the question of why Sylar felt entitled to comment on Peter's past habits. And besides, he'd been living estranged from most everyone for years now, not that Sylar (or even Nathan) had known or cared. "A couple things you keep saying that I find insulting – that I had it good. Or I had it better than you and that makes you better than me." He waved his left hand demonstratively before clasping his knee with it, the one that went with the shoeless foot, "Or that I _am_ better than you." He drew in his chin. "None of that matters. I'm not better than you; you're not better than me. Maybe I had it good compared to you – how the hell can I know that with what little you've said? But what I do know is that what I had sucked. And I'm pretty unhappy about it. So you telling me that I got off easy pisses me off. Kind of like how I figure you'd be pissed off if I took the attitude of, 'Well, you know, you're here now, so it couldn't have been too bad, just get over it already' and just dismissed everything that's ever happened to you." Peter frowned up at Sylar, trying to will the message to sink in.

"And for another thing – I told you why I was upset last night, why I 'freaked out' as you put it, and all you've done since is argue about it. I don't need your arguments, Sylar. I know how I felt; I told you how I felt. You can be unhappy about that, but I'm not going to agree it was okay. Nothing excuses it. I'm angry you keep trying to convince me there's something that makes it right for you to do things to me I don't want." Peter rubbed at his knee restlessly as he watched Sylar, glowering a bit with his foot still twitching back and forth. His tense body language probably wasn't helping anything (and certainly not his head, which was starting to give him a full-fledged headache), but he was at least sitting and not escalating things.

XXX

Sylar was quiet, wide-eyed and listening. The whole talking thing was so strange – he could ask questions and get actual answers, Peter didn't blow him off or make him feel like crap just for asking. He almost didn't know what to do with the information; it was so shocking to have in and of itself. It was a relief as well, like Peter could…see and hear him. That was how he came to stand there and drink in the sound of someone else's voice, deigning to form words for him, almost regardless of their content.

When Peter finished, Sylar took a handful of seconds to absorb it. "Don't you think you're better than me? You don't ask to come in, you treat my things like crap and you don't know if I'm a good houseguest because I've never been to your place. And that's just the recent stuff, Peter. I am…I was your brother – do you remember what you did? It's not just…you; it's your whole family on that count. You think I'm scum for lots of reasons, don't you? So whatever you do to me is okay. But that's not the point. I'm not talking about abilities right now – because /I didn't even/- _he_ didn't even know some of the stuff you've told me here. I'm talking about your home life – about _you_ – because you say that's what you want to know about me, right? You _do_ have it good, or…had it good, whatever. I _know_ because I was _there_." He knew he was digging himself a very deep hole, but Peter wanted to paint them as equals yet refused to adhere to basic fairness and that, more than anything, pissed him off to argue and keep arguing. Peter thinking he could just bounce in and out of his life, his apartment at will, heedless of what it did to a severely fucked up person like Sylar…

XXX

_What the hell is he talking about?_ That was the repeated refrain as Sylar talked. Peter's foot dropped to the floor at the 'I was your brother' bit until his brain pointed out Sylar was probably talking about when Angela and Arthur had declared him their son. It wasn't about Nathan, so he kept his seat. But then a few sentences later, Sylar was speaking unmistakably _as_ Nathan. Peter wanted to be outraged by that, but the rest was coming too fast as he was trying to remember what exactly he'd said, when, and what time and place Sylar was referencing. He was left staring, both feet on the floor, hands on his knees, gaping a little. Something his father had liked to say (and occasionally repeated by Nathan) came to him: 'If you can't convince them, confuse them.' If Sylar wanted to be understood, then he was perfectly capable of being understandable. So it followed that this was just another tactic. Baffled, frustrated, and depressed, Peter leaned forward, put his head in his hands, and looked fixedly at the floor.

XXX

Sylar snorted a breath, "'Just get over it,' isn't that what you're here to tell me? Isn't that what you always say? You don't need my arguments, you don't need my excuses – well what about yours?! Where do you think I learned it, huh?! Just keep convincing me you have a really good reason for doing things _I_ don't like. I am _not_ always at fault. You play fair or you don't play. So if I have to get over it, so do you. Of the two of us," Sylar gestured betwixt them before pointing to himself, "I never said I was a good person."

XXX

_I don't say that. I don't say any of that. He wants me to argue with him. He's goading me, on purpose. I'm done here – I can't help._ Mentally numb from the verbal assault, Peter stood up and walked over to the closet. His coat was inside of it, but he ignored that, bending to retrieve Sylar's shoes. From rough visual assessment, Sylar wore a size or two bigger. They'd probably fit. Even if they didn't, he'd have Sylar's shoes, which was mean of him and petty, but he was going to take them anyway.

XXX

"Oh, what? You don't like that I talk now? Does my voice insult you now, too?" Sylar followed Peter around, staying within arm's reach but far enough back that he couldn't easily be hit with much force. "You don't like hearing a list of your faults either, Petrelli? I know how much you heroes hate having your own bullshit thrown back at you. Well, some of us don't get to walk away! You've got normal life to go back to but what have you left for the rest of us, huh?" Sylar could feel the horde of negative emotions rising up to choke him but he reacted with anger because…that was all he could do. Feeling them made him angry, knowing the regret, loneliness and helplessness would return made him this way. Once talking, he couldn't stop. "Now you're stealing," he said of the shoes, "Don't you dare try to judge me for the same shit you do!" /'And don't come back! If I find you again…I'll kill you,' he'd snarled through his unbidden tears at a powerless, special teenage, motherless boy for daring to spy on and speak to him/. Desperate and out of words, he expelled, "You're just proving my point."

XXX

Peter opened the door and walked out, having not so much as looked at Sylar since he stood from the couch.

XXX

Then Peter was gone, probably for good and Sylar was alone with his feelings again. He felt gutted but still wound up and so angry – not all of it about Peter but the guy worked as an excellent trigger for who knew what else. Sylar wanted to flop on the bed dramatically and mope; he could take a shower; he could do all sorts of things Peter wouldn't approve of (or care about if he found out, most likely); Sylar wanted to pound the shit out of something with his fists, he wanted a reaction, pain, something! But as usual, just like before, like always, there was nothing: empty quiet. _He took my shoes! How dare he? Everything he says is a lie. And he gets so upset with me? I was 'insulting,' saying he was better, had it better than me, but he expects me to grovel and act like scum anyway which means he's still better than me! What the hell does he expect? What does he want from me? (An apology?)_ That would require knowing what specifically he'd said or done and understanding it even though he didn't technically have to mean it if it was just to keep the peace. _Doesn't he have it better than me? He said it himself, how would he know? He said he's…lonely and I'm partly crazy. He stays and…treats me at least because he's lonely aside from everything else. So how can I use that?_

Sylar milled about his apartment, anxious and ultimately quite pointless. He nibbled on some saltines but didn't feel up for much more. Fretting about Peter's return came on faster than he thought. He dug out Peter's shirt, desirous to either molest it or shred it out of spite. _He was real, then, if his clothes are still here – well, a shoe and a shirt._ He did nothing with the shirt other than stare at it on his desk. The shirt was a hostage, less so than the shoe, but he didn't want to enrage Peter further if he could help it, unless he had to. He then fussed about trying to talk to Peter because it never ended well with anyone _. I should…just let him talk. He likes to talk. I like for him to talk. It's…nice._ Of course, he would have to ignore how good it had felt just to 'vent' about something, at least, that was the common word for what he thought he'd done. _But…I guess he's insulting, too. Neither of us…know what we need to know yet. What he wants to know is total bullshit! It's not important. I haven't done a damn thing to him and he acts like I'm going to fly off my hinges at the drop of a hat! He's the one who does that! Why do I have to put up with it? He…acknowledges it and then doesn't change it._ Sylar sighed and gave up thinking, resolving to be on better behavior next time (if there was a next time) and keep his mouth shut even about the bullshit because that was the only thing that worked. He gave up not thinking about thinking and eventually read a history book.

XXX

Limping unevenly, Peter nonetheless took the greater number of steps that the stairs involved, ears pricked to hear if Sylar's door opened again. There seemed to be no pursuit, but he took precautions anyway. When he came to the landing for the second floor, he walked well out of sight from the upper floors of the stairwell and sat down to try out Sylar's sneakers. He took off his own shoe and put the others on. They were tight across the bridge, but Peter knew he had a slightly wider than average foot. They had no arch support and the soles were thin, leaving him literally a half inch shorter. _No room to stretch, unsupported, feeling small – metaphor much?_ He tightened up the laces as much as possible because they were a little long for his feet. _Bad metaphor or not, let's go walk a few blocks in Sylar's shoes. They'll get me home and after that … I have no idea._ His head hurt too much to contemplate and he wasn't much at planning anyway. Picking up his lone, unmatched shoe, he snuck out the back way, glad of the quirk of the world that left doors unlocked by default (and more importantly, the fire alarms didn't go off when the door was triggered).

Peter spent the rest of his day lazing around, recovering from the hangover and being weirded out by the silence. There was no ticking, no soft snoring or sounds of Sylar stirring around, no expectations or reasons to keep track of the time. He toyed with his non-functioning watch, trying to figure out what it meant to be timeless in Sylar's world. _I wonder if I should have him look at this some day? Ah, fuck him and his shit. I'm not asking him for anything. He's too busy being hurt and feeling sorry for himself. He's a pain in the ass. What's that word Hesam used? Obstinate. Sylar's an obstinate fucking patient._

_'Some of us don't get to walk away.'_ Peter mulled that over that evening as he ate a very bachelor meal of jelly on crackers (he'd lost track of the last time he had food in his apartment). _What does he mean by that? That he's stuck here no matter what, that I'm the one with the option to leave? Even if I can't, from his point of view, it probably looks that way. Maybe that's what he's afraid of. Because he's really scared. He's pissed at me, too, but there's a lot of fear there. What is he afraid of, exactly? It's something he's more afraid of than driving me off. Maybe it's being made to answer for what he's done? Being in a place with no people should be heaven then. He wouldn't even agree he'd done something wrong last night. He kind of implied before that all his killings were self-defense. Hitting me in the head with a shard of glass wasn't self-defense. Killing some cheerleader in a stadium wasn't self-defense. Killing Nathan wasn't, either. Ted was tied up in that police van, still chained to the ceil- floor, from what I was able to read out of that cop's mind. The ones I know about … those weren't self-defense. He knows he did wrong, but he can't face it. Can't even face a little thing like, 'I told you not to do something and you did it anyway.' Asshole._

Day 23, January 2

The next morning, Peter felt better and didn't bother himself thinking about Sylar nearly so much. As far as he was concerned, the hangover was cured. He made it to his usual workout, enjoying losing himself in the hour-long routine he'd settled into – pumping iron, doing resistance exercises, and running on the treadmill, something he was finally well enough to do. After that, he scoured the apartment building for shoes, eventually turning up some sandals that fit him fine. Wearing them with a thick pair of socks and a heavy coat he'd found in his search, he explored the streets until he found the sporting goods store he'd seen the first few days he'd been in this world, thinking they might have a selection of athletic shoes. They did not, but he did pick up some dumbbells and a baseball bat. He snagged a couple baseballs while he was at it, though that was hardly his main interest in the bat.

His rumbling stomach sent him on to the grocery store after he dropped off his finds in the weight room. It was then that his thoughts finally returned to his uncompanionable companion. _The main danger with concussion sufferers is … well, after the acute period, which he's out of, is self-care. Is he feeding himself? Can he keep a routine? Is he self-motivating?_ Peter sighed. _I don't know, but I can't just check out on him._ And so he went about the task of assembling a meal for someone he didn't like, who had stolen his fucking shoe, and had yelled at him yesterday about so many things Peter didn't even know where to start. He took a long moment outside of Sylar's apartment to pull himself together and try to find his center before extending his hand to knock firmly five times. _You know, he might not be here. That would be a relief-_

XXX

Sylar woke up feeling extremely alone. He bathed and groomed in case…in case Peter arrived or in the event Sylar had to go looking for him. His headache felt worse, even after a few painkillers and he cursed Peter for leaving him like this, for causing additional pain. He dithered around, unsure to start a project or a book, stay or leave, eat or wait, all the while growing more worried. It was two o'clock, well past lunch when Peter might have shown up and Sylar was more seriously considering a search party for someone who probably didn't want to be found, planning where to look, when the knock came. He jerked to his feet and froze, stuck between action and moods. _(What do I say?) Nothing._ He was sure his voice itself was insulting to Peter so where that left him, he didn't know. Was Peter armed? Did he have a gun waiting to fire through the door or a bat ready to brain him as he opened the door? Hesitantly, with growing dread, Sylar moved to the door and peered out, seeing…no weapons. He opened the door with something of a confused frown, waiting for Peter to light into him in turn.

XXX

"Hey." Sylar was home after all, dammit. Peter gave the briefest glance down, staying focused mostly on his face. Sylar's expression was a close reflection of his own – wary and cautious, unhappy by default. "Can I come in?" He hefted the canvas shopping bag he was carrying, not going so far as to explain that he'd brought food and hoping that would be clear by reference.

XXX

Sylar moved with the door to allow Peter passage, eyeing him a bit…warily or wonderingly. He wondered what was in the bag.

XXX

Peter slipped by, turning his head to keep Sylar in his peripheral vision as he headed to the kitchen. He set the sack on the table, circling it immediately so that Sylar, following him in, was on the other side of the table from him. "Have you had lunch?" he asked in a carefully neutral tone. Peter cast a quick look over the counters, seeing nothing out of place – no dirty dishes or moved pans that might indicate a meal, but on the other hand, Sylar kept the kitchen clean normally as far as Peter could tell.

XXX

Sylar followed Peter further into the apartment, drawn by his presence and several mysteries. He shook his head at first but Peter couldn't see, "No." _I waited for…Because…Fuck, I don't know._ Hovering uncertainly, as much as he might want to be close to be helpful, he didn't know if either would be tolerated.

XXX

"I picked up some stuff at the store." He reached into the bag and took out a couple plastic cases, black on the bottom and clear on top. "They had some sushi. It's just California rolls and other stuff so if you don't like raw fish, you don't have to worry about it." He paused and eyed Sylar, lips set together as he looked the guy over. He was waiting to see how Sylar was going to play this – if things were going to be normal between them, or if Sylar wasn't done yet with chewing on him. After his moment of wary examination, Peter went on, pulling out two heat-and-serve cans of clam chowder. "If you didn't like that, we could cook this for you and I'll eat the other. Otherwise, I thought we'd split it." He gave another stiff pause before asking, "Which do you want to eat?"

XXX

He tensed when Peter's hand disappeared in the bag because the accompanying statement was so vague. His eyebrows went up when he heard (and saw) what it was. _S-sushi? /_ _'You were the one you had a craving for yellowtail'_ _/._ Sylar inhaled. _Dinner with mom, dinner with Peter…They're so alike and that was when…And she said…He's not going to…?_ Shit, he was making Peter nervous now, ever the monster, it was his punishment for raising his voice the day before. "I- No, sushi's," _A really odd choice, slimy; I'm trying not to think of sex metaphors here,_ "fine. Whichever you want is fine." _I don't have chopsticks…_ Whatever, Peter would have to deal. Sylar moved into the kitchen, slowly, getting out utensils while Peter got water for two. _He's really not going to talk about it. He wants to talk about everything else under the sun, why is he not…I don't know, tearing me a new one?_ Peter Petrelli was the biggest mystery of all.

XXX

Peter didn't have much to say as they got ready for the meal. He slowly eased down from his subdued alert so that by the time they were sitting down to eat, there had been several moments when he wasn't keeping half an eye on Sylar. Sending his thoughts back to the matter of Sylar's health – Peter's reason for being here - he tried to remember what Sylar had been wearing the day before. His eyes skimmed over Sylar's shirt and pants. Had he changed clothes? Peter thought he had. He looked clean and he had definitely shaved – a glance over his face and hair assured Peter of that. _He's okay. I just need to make sure he eats._ "What time is it, anyway?"

XXX

With as much tension in the room as they had going on, Sylar could feel Peter's eyes on him the second it happened. _What does he want?_ "Um…two-twenty, give or take…" his tone was a giant question, 'why do you ask?'

XXX

Peter nodded and went back to eating in an unhurried manner, using a fork to scoop out the individual sushi pieces. It was late for lunch, early for dinner, which put him in mind of considering the later meal. "Do you have anything in particular you want to eat for dinner later?"

XXX

No answer, no explanation. _He's…ridiculously infuriating!_ Peter had barely done anything other than show up with food. "Me?" tripped from him. _That has to be a trick question – his answer is 'a knuckle sandwich; rat poison; humble pie'?_ When he couldn't get his brain to cooperate, he finally said, "I…hadn't really thought about it." He went back to trying to eat and simultaneously wonder what kind of fish he was eating.

XXX

"'Kay. How's your head feel? Have you been keeping up with your painkillers?" _I should look around for a pharmacy with one of those pill counters with a morning, noon, and night divider._

XXX

Sylar was squirming by that point, certainty and dread of what was coming but hadn't come yet. No one ever passed up the opportunity to rub his face in a mistake so what was all this small talk? He couldn't handle it, the gestures, the relative quiet…"Peter," he burst out before calming himself, "I appreciate you…being here and bringing…sushi," Sylar gave it a glance. "But you like to talk, you're compulsive with it and obviously I need to keep my mouth shut, I know that, but…" he rushed through that difficult, uncomfortable admission, "why…What…" Wonderful. After all that and he couldn't formulate the question. "What are you doing here, like…this? You're not going to…?"


	73. Pocketful of Change

Day 23, January 2, Afternoon

Sylar was squirming by that point, certainty and dread of what was coming but hadn't come yet. No one ever passed up the opportunity to rub his face in a mistake so what was all this small talk? He couldn't handle it, the gestures, the relative quiet…"Peter," he burst out before calming himself, "I appreciate you…being here and bringing…sushi," Sylar gave it a glance. "But you like to talk, you're compulsive with it and obviously I need to keep my mouth shut, I know that, but…" he rushed through that difficult, uncomfortable admission, "why…What…" Wonderful. After all that and he couldn't formulate the question. "What are you doing here, like…this? You're not going to…?"

XXX

At his name being said forcefully, Peter pulled back a little, but then brightened. _You appreciate something I did? Really? Oh, wait … that's just a figure of speech, right? Or does he …_ _O_ _h, I'm a compulsive talker?_ He frowned and eased back down in disappointment, putting down his fork and listening as Sylar stumbled on.

Peter cocked his head. "I'm bringing you lunch because you need it." After a moment to consider the many ways Sylar might have concluded his last question ( _Not going to take my shoe back? Not going to leave forever after all?, Not going to talk your ear off because apparently I'm compulsive about it and you don't want to hear me?_ ), he continued, "I'm not going to what?"

XXX

"I don't know, tear me a new one about it? You're just going to…let it pass? I mean…you left."

XXX

Peter crossed his arms over his chest and sat up straighter in his chair, continuing to frown at Sylar. "Yeah, I left," he said, voice short. "And no, I'm not ignoring it. I'm just not doing anything about it at the moment."

XXX

' _At the moment'? So something is coming and it's an action, '_ do _something about it'._ His head still hurt, from trauma not drinking, but his mentally faculties were picking up with alacrity. "Why not?"

XXX

"Sylar ..." Peter uncrossed his arms with a huff. He rolled his eyes. "No, there is not some secret ninja attack going to happen to you. I don't save up grudges about arguments that get out of hand." He forked another piece of sushi. "I'm going to do my job and take care of you, we're not drinking together anymore, and I want my shoe back." He put the piece of food in his mouth, thoroughly displeased with how the conversation had already gone. He could feel his anger rising and tried to manage his breathing, making an effort to consciously relax. _This stuff would taste a lot better with some soy sauce._

XXX

_That's it?!_ Insult and relief were both present in his reaction. All the response told him was that Peter would handle it face-to-face and Sylar was likely to see it coming. "What happens when you are going to do something about it?" There was no way Peter was going to let him mouth off like that without repercussion – no more drinking and giving his shoe back hardly felt like punishment. With any luck, this would be his last question to annoy Peter with. He didn't know what to think about being someone's 'job', at least not one that involved the word 'care' in the way Peter meant it.

XXX

"What? Then we'll talk about it. It was just an argument. I'm sure we'll have more of them." Peter frowned at his food, chewing slowly and succeeding for the most part in calming down that temporary spike of anger.

XXX

"Okay," Sylar intoned, though it was probably clear he didn't find that answer explicit enough to actually answer his question. He ducked his head, letting it go rather than upset Peter further, turning back to his food. It was a strange texture, mostly it was just tasteless and that was helpful to his stomach – it didn't smell much, either. He felt like he was forgetting something…Ah, yes. He piped up, trying his own version of 'small talk,' "My head is still concussed, it still hurts and I haven't taken any pills." A pause and another squirm led up to, "Is sushi good for…certain things, medically? Is that why…? Or did…you just want sushi?" an awkward chuckle preceded that.

XXX

Peter perked up at the suggestion of something else he could do, looking around the counters for the spot where they'd been keeping the pills. _There they are._ He got up to fetch them and rattled out Sylar's dose, handing the pills over as he realized Sylar could have just as well done it himself. _He's not an invalid. He's perfectly able to take his own pills. All he needs is the reminder._ Grimacing in a little embarrassment, Peter turned to Sylar's question. "No, not especially. I just picked sushi because I was tired of cooking and wanted something different. Plus, it's good for you in a general way and I thought," he shrugged and gestured at it, not meeting Sylar's eyes for the rest of the sentence, "I thought that if I was just dropping it off then it was something you could just open and eat without having to prepare." _Then you wouldn't have to deal with me_. He shrugged another time, making glancing eye contact again. "The vegetarian rolls would still be good if you left them out for a while. Probably the other stuff, too. I thought it was something you'd be okay with even if you didn't like raw food normally."

_I'm saying too much. But he asked …_ Peter huffed softly and went back to more normal eye contact to ask in as neutral a tone as he could manage, "So … do you think I talk too much? Or … just that I can't keep myself from talking?" He didn't think either was true in a general sense, but maybe he'd been talking too much for Sylar's taste. That seemed bizarre since it often felt like Sylar was prompting him, but the only way to know was to talk even more by asking.

XXX

_So…he wasn't going to stay? Just drop the food off and run? Did I…scare him yesterday? Another reason to shut the fuck up as if I needed another reason._ Sylar nodded about the food, he understood and wanted to show that. He downed the pills without hesitation. _I guess I did say that…_ he thought of the new topic. "I meant that you're…direct," he said, looking at Peter in turn because directness was a good thing, complimentary, and for the most part it worked in Sylar's favor, having a communication style he understood at least. "You don't…You talk about the things you think…are important instead of…not talking about them." _I'm such a pansy; this isn't working._ "So…no, I don't think you can help that anymore than you can help…being a hero." _And I'm not a hero so I shouldn't talk, right?_ Sylar then alternated looking at his food and glancing at Peter. "I…really wouldn't know about talking too much. It's not…annoying, if that's what you're asking. I don't mind it." _He didn't ask._ "Sometimes it's…difficult with what you ask. You talk…differently than almost everyone else I know. I know one other empath and she's still…not like you. Some people talk _at_ you and others talk _to_ you, you mostly talk to me," Sylar shrugged, aware he'd given far more verbiage to a likely simple question, feeling like he'd gushed about Peter enough.

XXX

_Oh. Oh … okay._ Peter straightened at the realization that perhaps Sylar hadn't intended 'compulsive' in the insulting manner Peter had taken it. It seemed to him that Sylar was trying to be extra-careful with his words. _He didn't like the argument yesterday either. Maybe he's trying to figure out how not to have those._ Sylar's comment about being spoken to rather than at reminded Peter of the way Sylar had said people spoke his name – as a label rather than who he was, if they even used it at all. _But wait, what did he just say?_ "Another empath? You mean someone with a power like mine? Or like mine was? Where was this?"

XXX

"Lydia. At the Carnival?" Sylar frowned before remembering that Peter had never been there. "She…could see some of the future, your feelings using tattoos and…sex." That wasn't quite accurate, but it was a slight technicality. "It sounds weird but it's actually a really cool ability." _God, if only it worked here._ Sylar salivated a little at the idea of using it on Peter: knowing some of the future, the man's innermost feelings in a way he'd otherwise never share…having to kiss and get close, skin-to-skin to do it…

XXX

Peter blinked a few times, watching Sylar. If the guy's expressions were any indication, he was fantasizing right in front of Peter and apparently about something fairly lurid. He hoped like hell that Lydia was still alive and well and in full possession of her brain. _Well … um … do I really need to be here? I guess not. Maybe I should just finish eating and go._ Peter looked down and finished off the last of his food, minding his own business.

Peter cleared his throat and stood, gathering his plastic tray and taking it to the trash. An alternative explanation occurred to him for Sylar's lusting expression – it didn't have to be bloodlust to be lust. _Oh, wait, maybe ..._ "So would Lydia get people's powers by having sex with them? Was that a borrowing like mine or a … well, permanent like my dad's?"

XXX

Sylar's eyes widened as he oriented them on Peter. Then he chuckled with gleeful irony. "By that reasoning she'd have my power," he breathed around his chuckling which he couldn't seem to stop. _That might be kinda hot…Like a perfect mate. Hmm, no. Then I'd have to share. But Peter's had it before…_ That finally sobered him. "No, she doesn't get anyone's power. She just…touches your skin and kind of understands your motives and a bit of your future and it appears on her body by way of tattoos. It was kind of fun," Sylar raised an evil eyebrow, "like connect-the-dots or follow-the-ink."

XXX

_You had a girlfriend at the carnival? I guess that explains why you kept going back to it and why they aren't all dead. That's cool._ He watched Sylar's chuckles with a friendly smile, leaning against the counter and idly wondering which of several possible reasons for Sylar's humor were true – there was the 'at some point in the past, I got laid!' glee, which Peter knew a lot of guys had even when married with kids; there was the darker humor of a second person running around the world with Sylar's hunger; or maybe the nihilistic view that if she'd stolen his power that way, it would have been some manner of cosmic justice. Peter was still musing over it when Sylar stopped laughing to explain about her ability. "Why do you call her an empath then? What does that mean, anyway?"

XXX

Sylar paused to consider that. Letting on that he had mystical empath powers himself and had Lydia and Elle's abilities would only open up the 'why' question in regards to murder, as much as he might want to share that fact and his knowledge therein. He literally didn't understand how Lydia's power worked directly because of how he'd gained the ability in the first place. It didn't make much sense logically, either. Like Elle's power, he'd had to learn it. How did he know Lydia was an empath? "The others…Because she reads you." He looked up at Peter with a confused frown. "It's difficult to explain. She needs the contact for the emotional stuff. It's different from yours but I guess I thought…Well, I don't know a whole lot about your ability." That was better than 'I don't understand either ability and I have one of them.' "I tho- I assumed yours was some kind of emotional thing, given the name and…you," Sylar ducked his head a little. "But I guess it could mean 'understanding to copy' which is what yours actually does."

XXX

_The others? The others what?_ But he nodded and didn't grill Sylar about every unexplained thing he said. "No, that makes sense to me. I don't understand an ability that I copy – I just copy it. With my power as it is now, I need physical contact. Emotional-" he paused, a hitch in his speech as the self-preservation part of his brain worried over what dangerous use Sylar could put this information to, then gave it a very grudging pass, "contact isn't enough. Like, I knew Claire, I'd had her power before, but I couldn't borrow it from her until she touched me. I don't have to have any emotional contact at all, really. And I never did, but that 'reading' someone is what makes sense to me. For my first ability, it took recognition and proximity. I had to know someone was there and actually notice them, plus be … I don't know, five or ten feet away from them at some point? I'm not saying I had to know who they were, but I had to … yeah, read them. Like scanning maybe? There was something that I did, auto … there was a word Claude used, it wasn't 'automatic' but I think it meant the same thing." He exhaled, peering at the floor briefly before looking up at Sylar. "Am I talking too much?"

XXX

_He never needed emotional contact? For the ability at least,_ Sylar mentally sniggered a bit. _I find that a little hard to believe, all this time I thought he needed it. In theory, he could require sex to get abilities. And how many abilities do I have? And he needs constant access because he's a one-hit-wonder now, hmm…_ Sylar couldn't help his thoughtful smirk that smoothed out as he shook his head negative, "No." This was…beyond refreshing, talking like this, or listening mostly in his case, about abilities. _Uh-oh. Is he going to blame me and make a racket that we're talking about this?_

XXX

"For example, there were a couple people I didn't really meet at Kirby Plaza; they had abilities, but I was too distracted by everything to even look at them. I didn't get their powers and they were close enough, I think. I assume there were other people I just walked past and didn't pay attention to … the thing is, I never turned up with an ability I couldn't trace to someone. Like, of all the ones I should have from gotten from you at Odessa, the only one I could use later was telekinesis." He shrugged a shoulder. "Not that I was … you know, all that good with knowing what abilities I had."

XXX

Sylar blinked, at first wondering or explaining aloud, "You got telekinesis because that's what I was using at the time…Wait, so you might have a dozen powers you don't even know about? Your- you're not even conscious of it?" Sylar's voice and face were aghast. The idea of a dozen or even one unknown ability from a random stranger (if he could trace it back and identify it at all), without any of the understanding Sylar knew from his ability…It was staggering, horrifying, dangerous - beautiful, he supposed, because of the discovery, but…it was so stunted and ignorant. Was it possible, then, that Peter could understand what it was like not to…completely know one's own self? To have things going on inside, seen or unseen, but not understand the who or the why? "But you can feel your original ability consciously, right?" then he turned hopeful, guessing, daring to believe. "I mean…jumping off rooftops…You knew, didn't you? You could _feel_ it." When he finished, his voice was impassioned, eyes narrowed for a moment as he leaned forward, intent and engrossed.

XXX

"I have no idea what I had. It was just a feeling, like when you know you have some change in your pocket but that doesn't mean you know exactly whether it's quarters or pennies. I knew I had … something, originally." Peter pushed off from the counter and came over to slide into his chair, putting his elbows on the table and carefully, tentatively, opening up. His voice softened and his posture relaxed. "Yeah, I felt it. I didn't know _what_ I was feeling, though, or what it meant. But I knew it was important enough to risk my life for it."

XXX

Sylar hummed. _Important enough to risk_ everything _for_ _,_ he corrected. _A pocketful of change; change and chance_ _._ "One of us got quarters, the other got pennies," he said ruefully. Sylar said genuinely, relieved, "I guess it's a good thing you haven't taken my power yet, with all our…altercations." _Although an emotional connection would be fantastic; a different kind of physical contact would be great, too…_

XXX

"I had quarters, too, at first," Peter said mildly. _Half dollars, really, because I didn't have to kill anyone to do it._ "And I did have your ability for a little while - from you in the future. But I didn't just go and take it. You had to show me, guide me on how to tap into it. It wasn't something I could pick up and use on my own." Peter sighed and leaned back a little, looking past Sylar at the archway into the other room. "Though once I had it, I couldn't turn it off." He frowned, a mix of emotions crossing his face, but the one that remained was regret. He shook it off and asked, "Tell me about when you first realized you had an ability, if you can."

XXX

_I meant I had pennies and you had…He thinks I had quarters?_ He was a little flattered his ability wasn't so easy, a good thing it wasn't, but it was special because it was different. It was like he was the only one who understood it – maybe that's why it had come to him. Sylar didn't know what to say, what face to make about that. It was very much the nature of the beast, a double-sided coin. He'd been referring to here, this place; he was glad Peter didn't have any part of Sylar's ability here, not just because he'd make one hell of a meal, but because it was so much worse when the special was alone (or nearly alone). Sylar didn't think he'd make that great an addiction counselor or mentor either.

The words 'if you can' stuck with him. He was…being given a convenient out if he so much as didn't feel like talking or sharing this particular story. It wasn't a demand or a requirement. He scanned Peter's face for a moment, deciding and then thinking. _No one's ever asked me that. My…origin wasn't important_. "I was always good with watches and anything I could tear apart and fix and put back together. My...parents never got it but I knew no one else, not even my….father, could do what I did so it- I thought it was…special. It wasn't flashy or impressive but…." Sylar shifted gears, away from his motive for murder. "About seven months before the first eclipse, the…election," he hesitated to put that in, but it was Peter's primary frame of reference. He sent several checking glances before continuing. "I started looking at things and being able to…tell; I knew if it was broken and why. I could see how it worked." Only then did it occur to him that he shouldn't be sharing this, giving up the secrets of his ability to…this person. This person who hated him and his ability, who, despite his words, still wanted him dead or changed over into his brother. How many new ways could his brain now be abused for it's creative output? He hoped hadn't said to much or been tricked. Nervously, he cleared his throat, wrapping up the story before it became too personal or detailed, "I didn't know it was an ability until someone told me. The rest is history."

XXX

Peter's only reaction to the election reference was a glance down and to the side, then back to Sylar, his face reflecting a steady interest in what he had to say. The election was a shameful power-grab and he was glad Sylar wasn't talking about that itself. When he was done, Peter's brows pulled together slightly. "Sylar, fixing things _is_ impressive. It's way harder than tearing things up to start with – that's the easy part and even if it's flashy, it's usually not good." He started, "How did-" _that lead to killing people?_ but cut it off before he got more than a couple words into it. The conversation was going good; Peter didn't want to torpedo it with the topic of death. _Maybe Sylar took people apart because they were broken and then couldn't figure out how to reassemble them?_ He swallowed and tried a different approach, "Who told you it was an ability? And … how did they know?" He made a small gesture with his right hand. "For me, it took flight before I realized what was going on and I'm pretty sure, no, I'm sure, that wasn't the first thing." He huffed. "It was just that flying was the one that couldn't be denied. Or at least, I didn't _think_ it would be." He gave a single laugh and a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

XXX

At first Sylar chuckled about flight and denial – because it was true. Nathan had been buried in denial to the point that he covered his ass by sacrificing his little brother to…many people, many plots. Sylar leaned away at his own slightly hysterical amusement having no idea how Peter would take it, but again, he couldn't help it. Again, he cleared his throat and refocused when he was through. "Chandra told me." Sylar smiled a little and quirked an eyebrow, "He wrote the book. I was his Patient Zero. Mohinder's, too, kind of. Do you know about the list? I was…there for it when you came into Mohinder's apartment, looking for him." Peter had arrived and spoiled absolutely everything and Sylar had killed him without much thought, distracted from his various goals. He wondered if he should feel bad for that now, or if bringing it up so candidly was low class and socially awkward for Peter. "Anyway, I was on the list Chandra made, I have genes for being predisposed to having abilities. I was the first one he talked to, met with, tested. I guess I was lucky," Sylar ruminated aloud, realizing as he thought, "I had him as a kind of mentor. For a while."

XXX

_Chandra. You murdered him._ Peter's face … saddened. It wasn't grieving over someone he'd hardly met, or anger about an immoral killing. It was sadness at the senselessness of it, like if Peter had reflected on the loss of life in an auto accident. Not that Sylar's actions were accidental or that Peter tried telling himself that. It was just that the death was far away from where they were at the moment and he'd learned a lot of pieces of what made Sylar the person he was. Chandra, too, was easier to deal with than certain other victims – Peter had never met him and had no personal connection, plus if he were anything like his son Mohinder, then Peter could see how things could so easily go wrong. He'd ended up at odds with Mohinder a few times himself.

"Yeah, I knew about the list," he said softly. "Mohinder … I ran into him earlier when I was looking for Chandra." He looked up at Sylar with a small sigh. "He told me you'd killed him." Peter leaned back until his spine was in full contact with the ladderback of the unyielding wooden chair, one finger restlessly tapping on the surface of the table where his hands still rested on it. He had a moment where his instincts were telling him to get away from this murderer, leave the apartment, shun the person who'd ended the elder Suresh's life. _It might not have been his mother who was his first victim._ That, too, was sad – that Sylar had started down a path of killing, a path he seemed to regret at times, a path that had brought him here to an eternal hell in his own mind – and perhaps done it by killing the man who had shown him what made him so special. Peter drew in a deep breath and leaned forward again, elbows and then forearms resting on the table. He would see this through, at least for another round of conversation, and find out where it went.

"So," Peter said with a small tilt to his head and steady, nonjudgmental eye contact, "did he help you? My mentor … I don't think he knew what he was doing. I've wondered what it would have been like if I could have worked with someone who did."

XXX

Sylar went still and his face prepared a scowl. It made him feel so damn hunted. It didn't matter, had never mattered, that he had his untold side of the story – it amounted to an excuse. He'd done what he was accused of, there was no disputing that, but his reason, his motive was inconsequential and tossed aside. Peter wouldn't understand and didn't want to. He absentmindedly counted the taps Peter's finger made – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…No attack came. Sylar blinked in confusion, feeling like the rug had been snatched from under his feet. His face was still blustery when Peter looked at him, trying to be prepared, defensive, more focused on his eyes than he was on the words spoken… _Did…did he help me?_ It was such a non sequitur.

He inhaled after what felt like an age and considered the question. There was a lot to track down, dig up and reexamine. It took him a moment to say, "I haven't thought about it, about him in a long time." Peter was hitting on a similarly sore murder as his mother, the now 'forbidden' topic. Sylar didn't know how to talk about it or even what to feel. "He was a geneticist, looking for…a cure for his dead daughter, a reason why she died. I was…" _Convenient. An answer that didn't work out for him._ "He answered my questions about abilities, as best he could at the time. He didn't know much, just had theories he needed to prove. Other than that, we're going to differ in our opinion – you'll say he helped me too much and I'll say he didn't help me enough." The last sentence was bitter and barbed, his reactions were torn raw again at the reminders.

He stood abruptly, pacing restlessly around the kitchen. _Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut…_ he chanted, not wanting a repeat of last night. Sylar went so far as to tense his lips to create a physical barrier to speaking but it bubbled up anyway. "You know how I am with help," he sneered in general, at Chandra, himself, at Peter and anyone else who'd wound up dead or hurt because of it. "Anyone who tries will end up dead, is that what you want to hear? He didn't know what he was doing or if he did, he didn't care – he did the same thing to Mohinder! His own son! That should be your clue, you know?" _You had Nathan – he eventually came around to seeing how special you were, saving you, flying with you. I wonder what it would have been like if I had someone like that, if Chandra had been like anything close to that and changed…everything…_

XXX

Peter followed Sylar's pacing without stressing over it. Emoting didn't usually bother him and he wasn't getting any indication he needed to be worried for his safety. _What did he do to Mohinder? Wait, no, better question:_ "What did he do to _you_? Did he … give you your ability?" Peter blinked at that possibility, his mind putting together an unsettling scenario where Chandra, like Drs. Moreau or Frankenstein, was murdered by the monster he'd created, rather than just one he'd been unfortunate enough to be in the path of. Peter leaned forward quickly, remembering how Nathan's ability had supposedly been granted and how Mohinder had come at him with a syringe to test the very same thing. "Did you get an injection of something right before your ability manifested?"

XXX

Sylar rounded on Peter quickly. "It's _mine_!" He would have yelled but his headache cut him off to more of a bark. He then growled, "No one gave it to me, I was born with it; it's real; it's _mine_." Danko asked him a similar question years ago and now Peter was…confusing him with Nathan, having synthetic abilities – no wonder the man could hardly accept and treasure it. It was understandable Sylar was defensive and petulant. Everyone was out to discredit or explain away, hide, cut out or erase him or his ability. "Is that so hard to believe?" he asked with hurt incredulity. Doubt even after he'd told Peter about Samson's power, as if anyone could disbelieve that lineage.

XXX

"No," Peter answered calmly. "No, it's not. It's yours, it's a part of you, and no one's going to _take_ it from you." Peter tilted his head, one finger rubbing back and forth on the table as his imagination idly provided him with a scenario where Arthur saved the day by taking away Sylar's ability instead of Peter's. But no, that hadn't happened. Arthur, Peter's own father, had preferred to employ Sylar and ground Peter. It stung, but the man had played favorites all of Peter's life. He steered the subject away from the memory of having what made him special so pointlessly amputated from him. "What do you wish he'd done – Chandra, that is?" He couldn't have an opinion on too much or not enough if he didn't even know what Chandra had done. Since he'd asked that and not received much in the way of an answer, he moved it to the hypothetical. He knew what he wished Claude had done and that would have created a very different future. What about Sylar?

XXX

Sylar hadn't given it much conscious thought – his 'wants' had been far more instinctive. Unsure where he wanted to be, he hovered and tried to fix himself somewhat in place, hands on the back of his chair somewhat across from Peter. To buy a little time but also out of curiosity, he asked softly, "Do you mean in hindsight what I wish now or what I wished then?" There might be a difference, there might not – but if Peter intended it one way or other that was important.

XXX

_They're different? Well … they're different for me and Claude, so probably for him and Chandra, too._ "In hindsight, what you wish now, that he'd done then."

XXX

_It's the same answer_ , he realized quickly. _I wished he hadn't pushed me and tried to abandon me…_ Sylar inhaled. There was so much complexity there he himself could barely touch it let alone analyze or put words to it. Feeling lost, he said, a touch bitter but nearly as soft as he'd spoken before, "You wouldn't understand."

XXX

Peter pursed his lips and reached up to scratch at one ear, looking up at Sylar with an unamused, long-suffering look. _I can't possibly understand if you won't_ tell _me._ But what was there to say if Sylar wouldn't speak?

XXX

After a few seconds, an angle occurred to him. "Or maybe you can, a little. I'm sure you blame me in whatever future where I gave you my ability. You killed someone and you don't want to talk about it, but if I'd done something different…your life would be different. It's like that stupid saying about stepping on butterflies but with us it's actually true. So…don't ask me those what-if questions."

XXX

Peter's expression pulled into a heavy frown. He spoke snappishly. "I didn't blame you. I asked for it. You didn't want to give it to me; I had to convince you." He shook his head and pushed away from the table, the conversation having gone sour for him with thoughts of first his father's robbery of him and now the reminder of what he'd done to Nathan in the future. "And 'convince' isn't a euphemism for anything. We talked. I told you to paint the future to see what it was I was trying to prevent. You did; you showed me how to use your ability." He had stood as he was speaking. He stopped behind his chair, mirroring Sylar. Mentally, he stepped around the accusation of murder entirely. He didn't recall confessing to that, but … it wasn't that hard a conclusion to reach given what Peter _did_ remember saying. He moved on to the last statement. "I wasn't asking you a what-if question. I was asking you wanted from someone. You talk about how bad you are with people helping you – I want to know what sort of help you're looking for."

He gave Sylar a steady, stony glare, then a small, negative head-shake and an abbreviated roll of his eyes. _Never mind. This isn't working_. In an apparent non-sequitur, he asked, "Where's my shoe?"

XXX

Sylar slid back into his seat. "That is a what-if question, Peter. It always is," he said, his voice sounding a little lost. Help wasn't reliable when he needed it from his enemies because unlike Peter, he wasn't even on the same team as the heroes. The part where Peter wanted to know what kind of help Sylar was looking for threw him harder than the Chandra question had. What was there to be helped at this point? The mere mention of help was a cruel twist of the knife, a short-lived hope. "I'm not fixable. The only 'help' you can give is a bullet to the back of my head," he stated even though Peter's attention was fractured as he said it. _It sounds like the perfect job for you, Peter._ Sylar sighed. "It's around here somewhere." He waved a hand towards the living room.

XXX

Peter huffed, a lot of his bad mood dissipated by Sylar's genuine depression. He went off to find his shoe, wanting to argue about Sylar's words, but agreeing with them too much to speak. He wasn't going to give some insincere palliative.

XXX

Sylar stood after Peter, noticing now his odd footwear choice. _Guess that was all he could find._ He went after Peter out of curiosity and paranoia that the empath would touch, steal or destroy more of his property. He was put-out that the important-to-him discussion was so easily sidelined for the sake of Peter's shoe, but there was nothing to be done about it. In the grand scale of things, a talk about his needs and feelings was in fact outweighed by a fucking shoe. Sylar was overcome with worry that Peter would find and take the shirt that sort-of belonged to him. He couldn't recall if he'd hid it very well, if at all. "It's there-" he began to point to his desk where the shoe perched, not finishing because Peter had already seen it and moved in. _Just take that and go._ Sylar slumped in the doorway, miserable at the immanent loneliness that followed Peter's shoe-hunt. "What did I say this time?" he asked tonelessly, because there was a reason for Peter's departure. _I need to start lying_ , that much was clear. Peter asked questions and expected certain answers that Sylar was obviously not giving.

XXX

The shoe was obvious, sitting out on the desk. Next to it, spread across the desk like a worked puzzle or one of their board games from days before, was his t-shirt. Peter hesitated, looking at the shirt, thinking. _Is he collecting my clothes? What does he want with my shirt? Or was he just stacking both of my things here so I could get them at the same time?_ He looked up at Sylar's direction, seeing the man point and following the gesture by moving over and picking up the shoe. The shirt he gave another look and a glance back at Sylar, who looked more down than ever. _This wasn't convenience for me. He was looking at my clothes … because I wasn't here. And now he thinks I'm going to take them._ He sighed and left the shirt there, walking closer to Sylar. But he took the shoe because he couldn't stand to lose it. The shirt, though, he could sacrifice.

"I can't understand things you won't tell me." He leaned his thigh against the arm of the couch, folding his arms loosely. "What you're telling me is that I'm either too stupid to follow what happened to you, or too naïve to accept it, or too unsympathetic to care. I _do_ care, Sylar." _And I'll probably care more as I understand you more._ He hesitated for a long moment before adding, "There was a time when I thought getting a bullet in the back of the head was the answer, too." He tilted his head in a slow, slantways nod. "It didn't turn out that way. A bullet's not going to be the answer here, either."

XXX

Sylar shuffled his foot against the floor, occasionally looking down at it while Peter spoke. As much as he looked to shift the blame and make the miscommunication (or whatever the hell it was) Peter's deficiency…it was clear it was his own…somehow. _Well, yeah, Peter. Although naïve isn't the word I'd use._ Sylar squirmed again. Yeah, on the off chance maybe Peter did care a little in some way, but Sylar was greedy and wanted the guy to care…differently or more. It was just so strange being separated when he was so accustomed to, well, owning Peter's attention. There'd been no boundaries before, even when he'd been a fucked-up hybrid of Nathan and himself. Sylar clenched his jaw tight over saying something that would definitely send Peter packing, _A bullet's not the answer but erasing me was apparently good enough._ He did not entertain the empath's rather optimistic reply because to do so was just stupid. Peter was being Peter, thoughtless, if well-intentioned, with rose-tinted glasses. _A wing and a prayer isn't going to fix me, bring Nathan back or 'get you out of here.' Not that I'd wish for Nathan back or for you to be elsewhere_ , he concluded ruefully.

XXX

He moved past Sylar, reaching for the door. "Your shoes are in the bag in the kitchen. I'll be back tonight. Maybe we can have ice cream or something."

XXX

Sylar blinked. He'd given his shoes up as casualties of interacting with other people. _Did he wait until he had his shoe back to give them back-? No. Huh._ Without much knowing why (aside from being cared for, getting his shoes back, talking about something sort of important, the fact that Peter would return and soon at a rather specific time or even the offer of ice cream) but feeling it was natural and expected of him, Sylar said as Peter passed by him, "Hey." When the other man turned, he neared and raised his arms until he had Peter's scrawny neck in a familiar bear hug. While Peter was mostly engulfed, Sylar was assaulted by the smaller man's smell, exhaling a little fast to turn his head closer and inhale it again. It was still that stupid double-vision awareness, distracting him like his mind was being bisected – the hug and Peter and his scent all being comforting and brotherly on one hand and on the other…he realized he was pressed as close as he could be against the man he was trying to seduce and smelling him. Hell if he knew which one he wanted more.

XXX

Peter stiffened and made a choked throat noise when hugged, instinctively trying to grow taller and more intimidating through sheer will. A number of things flashed through his mind – getting clobbered and/or being forced over the arm of the couch onto the furniture (whether sexual or combative) among them. Also, there was the memory of Gabriel from the future hugging him in front of his kid, whose presence had limited Peter's options (and it had helped that the guy had telegraphed it more than Sylar had this time). Peter let his pent-up breath out, relaxing. It was just a hug; not an attack. It had been a few seconds now, long enough for Sylar to have done something harmful if that was what he was about. Peter found himself resenting that Sylar was taller than him, making it too easy for him to get top-rung position for his arms. But resentment wasn't going to change that. Peter hugged back awkwardly and without enthusiasm, using a brief pressure from his forearms mostly as he took the opportunity to shift the shoe into his right hand. With his left, he gave three quick pats. It was the usual 'we're done here' signal.

XXX

Sylar moved closer still, inhaling Peter's stronger scent the closer he got – both his hair products and his skin. The tip of his nose was just brushing the farthest strands of Peter's hair, tickling. Every breath was full of him, a warm, alluring…appetizing scent, his chest pushing against Peter's, eyes closed and possibly losing himself.

XXX

_What is he doing?!_ Hair fondling, making passes at him, unexpected kisses, keeping his shirt, leaving the bathroom door open, invading his space, Peter smelling Sylar on the pillow just as he could smell him now – all rushed through his mind at once. And now Sylar was sniffing _him_. It was way too much intimacy and entirely undesired. "Get- No!" Peter got his arms and hands between them, hunkering down and shoving Sylar hard.

"Get away from me; stay away!" A lot of other more complicated things occurred to him to say – not coming back for ice cream, anatomically difficult things Sylar could go do to himself, various threats or condemnations or insults … Peter finally just shook his head, exhaling heavily through clenched teeth. Barely taking his eyes off Sylar, he reached out for the doorknob, turned it, and left.


	74. Couched

Day 23, January 2, Evening

Since Peter came for lunch so late, it made sense that his dinner visit was late also. But ten thirty-four was quite a bit late. Sylar had had time to consider that maybe Peter's random questions – the ones that were about Sylar – were in fact rhetorical somehow, not meant to be answered. That would explain a lot of the empath's upset. Being shoved away after trying to hug him was…well, it hurt and the hurt grew to resentment and that turned to plotting. The knock came and Sylar answered the door, letting a wary, surly Petrelli inside without comment. Sylar backed off but didn't look happy about it. _And here I thought hugs were good. Just not from me._

XXX

Peter had not appreciated having a casual hug subverted into an opportunity to perv on him, or whatever it was Sylar had been doing with his sniffing and ignoring of signals to cut it out. It was … insulting. That was a term Peter felt he'd been using a lot lately, but it seemed to fit. Disrespectful might have been better – his boundaries, desires, personal space, preferences, possession of his own clothing – disrespected. He was tired of it, angry about it, and although the emotion had faded in the hours since he'd seen Sylar for lunch, Peter had still needed to work himself up to returning. It was the encroachment of definite drowsiness that finally pushed him into making the trip, not wanting to fall asleep and render it impossible.

He felt he had to come back. Sylar hadn't taken his pills when alone and Peter had his suspicions about how much the guy had (or had not) eaten while unaccompanied. Then there was the matter of Peter having said he'd come back – that was important, as was his awareness that Sylar had some very understandable issues about being left. Whether the right term was 'insult' or 'disrespect', Peter wasn't going to torment Sylar by disappearing on him.

He wasn't happy about it though. He walked in like he expected Sylar to act inappropriately at any time, which to a large extent, was Peter's expectation. He stayed as far away from the man as he could and kept his eyes on him as much as possible. Peter gave the living room only a brief glance, then headed for the kitchen to carry out his purpose. "I'm going to get the ice cream."

XXX

_Why, so you can give me a brain freeze?_ Sylar malingered in the doorway of the kitchen. His mouth wanted to run again and the sole thing keeping him from doing it was his headache and grumbling stomach…And the fact that he didn't have any words to hurl at Peter. It was clear he was on thin ice already, but, Jesus, he hated being looked at like that, like some kind of… _thing_ or vicious, unattractive animal. _He's just come for my feeding. He'll throw the food in and run. That's what he wanted to do earlier._ "Okay," he said of his non-choice, his tone treading just this side of resentful and disrespectful. He'd had a lot of practice with that one.

XXX

Peter traded sullen glares with Sylar, pointed enough that in a different frame of mind, it would have been hilarious in how overdone it was. Right now the looks were simply more irritation to an already aggravated situation, but one thing that had evolved between them was that neither of them seemed too intimidated by the other. He gave Sylar's passive-aggressive tone a put-out, long-suffering look as he put the ice cream carton on the counter. He went looking for the scoop.

XXX

Sylar approached, Peter's disposition be damned, standing a normal distance (such as he understood it) away to get out bowls before he saw that Peter was going to have difficulty scooping with one hand and a brace. He didn't say anything; it was better not to. Instead he held out his hand (daringly within Peter's limited personal space bubble) for the scoop.

XXX

Peter bristled at what he initially took as an incomprehensible gesture, some manner of pointing at him or the ice cream, or perhaps the scoop he'd just retrieved from the drawer. _I'm getting it, okay? I'm not doing it wrong, am I?_ "What?"

XXX

"Give me the scoop." His voice implied that much was obvious and he was getting a little impatient.

XXX

_Why does he want the scoop?_ Peter wondered. Sylar was closer to the sink. Perhaps he was going to put it in hot water? _I could do that._ Peter swallowed, weighing how much of his ego was wrapped up in being the wielder-of-the-ice-cream-scoop. As it turned out, not very much - even when dealing with an annoyingly unapologetic Sylar who wanted the odd privilege but not enough to lower himself to ask for it.

"Okay," Peter said in as neutral a voice as he could muster (which was: not especially), stepping backwards and then following that by turning and looking around the kitchen for the painkillers. _I can do that while he heats the scoop or whatever. Just … stay away from him._

Peter returned to watch Sylar filling the second bowl, prying at the frozen confection with determination – and a dexterity that Peter lacked. _Oh. I_ can't _do that. That's why he wanted it! He's … helping._ Peter blinked and moved back in, much closer than he'd previously gotten, reaching out cautiously to take the ice cream carton as Sylar finished with it. He returned the box to the fridge, not quite finding it within himself to verbally acknowledge the assist.

It was a very quiet meal. Plain vanilla ice cream, unadorned and unaugmented, wasn't really Peter's speed, but it was what was there. He scraped off the melted skein from the lumps, eating slowly. Sylar looked steadily more depressed and less confrontational as they shared space without meaningful interaction. _This isn't working - being angry at each other_. Peter sighed, poking at the last bits of ice cream in the bottom of his bowl, hurrying them in melting by dividing them. "I was thinking that tomorrow I'd go look at the piano again, maybe after breakfast. Would you like to come with me?" Actually, he'd been thinking no such thing, but he felt like he needed to offer something to get them out of the ugly silence that was building between them. Fiddling with the piano sounded like a good activity. The only other thing on his mental to-do list, such as it was, was to clean up the smashed storefront and there was still a dusting of snow under some of the eaves – he'd rather wait until it dried out completely.

XXX

_Ice cream for dinner_ , Sylar pondered after downing the pills. _And I thought he was the responsible, adult nurse._ A small voice reminded him of his last self-prepared meal – saltines. _It's just the dessert before din- well, dessert as dinner. Somehow I doubt that if I eat like him, I'll get muscles like his._ Sylar snuck glances at his companion, who, while he didn't look thrilled, didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave and equally wasn't chatty. _What is there to say after someone…sniffs you during a hug? 'So…smelled anyone good recently?' I'd even find that weird._ When Peter didn't speak and didn't look inviting, Sylar eventually got a clue and focused on his food despite the urge to just do anything for attention. It felt strange, bereft of sound except the contented clinking of spoons in bowls (comforting in that there were two sets of sounds which meant he wasn't alone, though pathetic in that he was reduced to enjoying cutlery sounds). It was French vanilla, his favorite, the best ice cream there was; even if Peter was making faces at it (that was amusing all by itself). He savored the flecks of spice over his taste buds until Peter spoke.

Sylar did a slight double-take. _Maybe keeping my mouth shut works after_ _all_. Peter also phrased it in terms of like and dislike, as if that factored in. He'd fallen asleep on Peter last time and effectively trapped them in a place Peter hadn't wanted to be. But they'd also slept together. Sylar wondered if he could will the weather to trap them again. The offer was suspiciously too good to be true, delivered so openly. _He's lonely. Maybe he wants to keep an eye on me? Or is this a test? Rhetorical?_ Sylar didn't see what use he'd be, especially if he just fell asleep again. "Sure," he finally said in a tone that was neither yes nor no. It didn't sound that exciting (not much did in the lifeless world) but it wouldn't do to sound excited anyway.

XXX

Peter nodded, taking the agreement as more definite than Sylar's tone implied. It wasn't like Peter would be all that hurt if Sylar declined. He was trying to be social and friendly because he'd feel like a bad person if he didn't. At the same time, there was a part of him that felt he was a bad person for even tolerating Sylar, much less allowing his company. There was just no winning. He finished his ice cream and headed off to the sink to rinse the bowl.

XXX

Sylar looked up at the 'I'm done' clanking of utensils. He sped up his own consumption. _How is he always done before me? We weren't even talking._ _Is my_ _concussion making me slow?_ Once finished, he slid his dishes beside Peter's to be cleaned; hovering close, but not too close, as he waited uncertainly.

XXX

"I'm going to head back to my place tonight," Peter volunteered, not that Sylar had asked, but Peter wanted to make it clear the sleepovers were finished.

XXX

Sylar inhaled at the news. It was obvious Peter was already out the door in every other way but physically. Was he that easy to dismiss even as the last person alive? "Do you have to?" he muttered as the man passed by him, a little hopeful and quiet enough that Peter might miss it because…he wasn't sure he wanted it to be heard and answered.

XXX

Peter glanced over at Sylar with one brow briefly arched. "I'm _going_ to," he said in a tone that sounded like half challenge, half question.

XXX

"You know you can stay here." Peter did know that, didn't he? Even if he was something of an ill-mannered houseguest.

XXX

Peter tensed, shoulders pulling together and his head pulling back, breath coming a little harder as his nostrils flared. Keeping and using his own apartment shouldn't even be an issue, but Sylar was clearly going to make it one. "Why should I?" He glared fiercely for a moment, then let his expression soften a little. "Should I stay here until we get on each other's nerves again and we start fighting? Sylar, I need some space. Seriously." He tilted his head down as much as he could and still see Sylar's face, moving closer to reach out an uncertain left hand to Sylar's right shoulder. With clenched teeth and a clipped voice, he said, "You killed my brother. For you it's been a while and maybe you didn't care about what you did. _**I care**_." He stared, his right eye twitching a little, his fingers digging into Sylar's deltoid. He swallowed, grip easing a little as he struggled to put the howling monster of vengeance back in its box. Somehow he managed, eyes dulling a little in the process as he lost eye contact and spoke in the direction of Sylar's right ear. "I'm glad you're doing better. I'm trying to be your nurse, not Nathan's brother. So I'll be by in the morning to make sure you eat, to make sure you take your medicine, and then we'll go out because …" His voice faltered and he looked off further to the side, partially deflating. "Because I don't know what else to do."

XXX

Sylar had nothing. That was all so very, painfully direct about everything. It…made him twinge a little, inside. Peter wasn't happy and there was probably something he could do about it. Moreover, he didn't know what to make of the admission that Peter didn't know what he was doing. If Sylar had to follow him and Peter was clueless…where did that leave them? He stared, shocked or offline, nonresponsive or something. All he could muster was a small nod. _Okay_. And then Peter left, taking the space he claimed to need. _(But I don't need space)._

XXX

Day 24, January 3, morning

Peter surveyed the street as they left Sylar's apartment, breakfast having been quiet, polite, and stand-offish for both of them. The sky was cloudy, but previous days of sun had cleared the ice and snow from the main part of the pavement. It still lingered in the shadows on the north side of buildings. Fortunately Sylar's apartment building faced south, but even without immediate danger from slick footing, Sylar was still wobbly on his feet. "Do you need some help?" He offered his left hand, motioning with it towards Sylar's right elbow or forearm.

XXX

Sylar threw Peter a glare for that one. It was bad enough without turning his pain into a running joke but in all likelihood, that's what it was to Peter. He amended his expression. _If he's offering 'help,' I'm going to make him put out. It's the least he can do._ "Hmm hmm," he nodded, uncaring if he looked crippled or unsteady enough to need the assistance because Peter was going to aid him anyway. Sylar took Peter's arm as they began to cross. "It's been a long time since someone wanted to hold my hand to cross the street," smugly implying Peter was doing more than helping him cross the street just to get under his skin for that nurse-not-brother comment from the previous night.

XXX

Peter grunted in inarticulate, displeased acknowledgment. _It's probably been a while since someone beat the crap out of you so bad that you were still walking funny weeks later._ His mind took an unexpected turn to the dirty: _Huh, I pounded him so hard he was walking funny for weeks … ha! Um, yeah, let's think about something else, okay? Thank God I'm the one with telepathy here._ Clearing his throat, he asked conversationally, "In all that … stuff you did after you got your ability, did you ever have anyone … did you ever get any medical care? And I don't mean the Company stuff. I mean actual help."

XXX

Peter didn't bat an eye about it and that was annoying. Before he could try harder, Peter was trying to ask him something. _Did I ever have anyone…? Oh, please finish that sentence with something interesting!_ What Pete really wanted to know was sure to be ridiculously unimportant and strange. Sure enough, it was. Sylar turned to stare at the man as much as he could while walking on potentially treacherous ground (and this time that was no metaphor). He couldn't believe what he was hearing. His chuckle sounded more like an insane giggle, "Hell of a time to talk about my annual check-up, Doctor Petrelli."

XXX

Peter chuckled in return, glad Sylar seemed to be in good humor. He'd been worried the exchange the night before would sour things. Peter saw it as an announcement that living together was at an end, and a clarification that just because he'd been friendly and supportive while Sylar was too messed up to reliably feed himself didn't mean they were best buddies. But then again, maybe getting that out on the table was cause for Sylar to loosen up a little. It had to be weird for him to have Peter taking care of him. "Thanks for the promotion, but what I really want to know is if you've ever had anything more than a check-up before."

XXX

Fine, if he had to answer. "Not really," he simplified. What was the point? Being a patient involved paperwork and it wasn't as if he had insurance; going to a hospital was out of the question; clinics were possible but he was mostly healthy when he wasn't being killed. Deep down, he wasn't sure he cared enough if he was healthy, in pain or sick. If he lived, he'd go on; if he died, well, there were plenty of people to dance on his grave. It wasn't like anyone cared for him so why should he? That wasn't included in his goals. Another part of him detested the human frailty and dependence. "Why?"

XXX

Peter snorted softly at the challenging question. "Because you don't seem to know what to do with me doing this for you." He exhaled deeply as they mounted the far curb and turned down the sidewalk. He kept Sylar to the outside edge even if that meant he was on his right (and holding his arm, not his hand), where the sun had more reliably cleared the ice. He saw now that it would have been wiser to stay on the other side of the street, but he hadn't been thinking. So instead of crazily recrossing, he just put Sylar on the safest part of the sidewalk and kept his eyes on his footing.

"To me, this is pretty normal - other than the part about our pasts – for someone to help someone else out when they need it. That was my job. I liked it." Considering that he was technically still employed as a paramedic, if they ever got out of here, Peter added, "Since it's not like I quit, I guess it's still my job. This," Peter gave Sylar's hand a pat where it rested on his forearm and then pointed out a spot where melting ice wetted the sidewalk, crossing their path and draining to the gutter. It looked like water but might be slick. He said as an aside, "Watch out for that," before resuming his previous thread, "is something I'd hope you'd do for me if our positions were reversed. You know, if you want to keep me around? People need … assistance sometimes. You know, things from you? Support, effort maybe."

For Peter, there was a seamless spectrum from people who needed constant care, to those with occasional needs, to friends who asked for and lent support, to casual acquaintances or strangers with whom he was polite. His mind skipped over 'enemies he was supposed to oppose', because Sylar wasn't doing anything to be oppositional about. But with the other categories, there was always reciprocation, a network of providing for others and to a lesser extent on his part, being provided for. It was a basic social contact, but Peter didn't take it for granted that Sylar was on board with it. The guy killed people, after all. It would be nice, though, to be able to nudge Sylar over into the 'casual acquaintance' group so he didn't feel so on edge with him.

XXX

Sylar casually eyeballed his rambling nurse. Peter's meaning was quite clear, but it wasn't in as many words that Sylar could pin him down to. "Things like what from me?" His voice was innocent. _Be specific, Peter. I want to hear you say it._ Peter ensuring his future care – of _Sylar_ \- was so ironically disgusting it was practically a joke; it just made him angry. Peter would inevitably need it, but it was like he was trying to secure his next 'big brother' since Nathan was dead, all the while holding Sylar, the potential applicant, at arm's length, wanting nothing to do with him except when Peter wished it. And he mentioned it now, as he was helping Sylar cross the street. The implication that Sylar would beat Peter to the point of serious injury, like his own current injuries, was inaccurate and offensive.

XXX

Peter grumbled something so inarticulate even he didn't know what he was trying to say, before working himself up to forming the words, "I just want to know that if something happens to me here, you'll be here for me." He didn't like having said that. He didn't like how it made him feel to say it or the feelings that had led to him saying it. Sylar's concussion and his own broken hand were proof that injuries here were real and serious. He thought he shouldn't even have to be asking this – would the guy act like a decent human being if Peter fell down a flight of stairs or caught a fist wrong and was badly laid up? Sylar would open sleeves of crackers for him, true, but he wouldn't touch the idea of saving Emma or anyone else. In this, though, Peter thought he had some leverage – he clearly mattered to Sylar. Hopefully that was enough, but he was still wound up tightly that he even had to ask. He didn't like having to face that he was this uncertain of Sylar. His jaw worked and he added stiffly, "There's no one else who can be." His steps were shorter, grip tighter, as he shot occasional narrow-eyed glances at his companion.

XXX

"Hmm…" Sylar replied, appearing to think it over, ignoring the change in body language to his left. The medic hadn't used a question, hadn't asked for help or the promise of future help. Internally he was rolling his eyes at the sappiness of the phrasing. How could Peter possibly romanticize that? That Peter thought he needed to cover this was insulting, like Sylar was too stupid or incapable of recognizing his companion was hurt and in need of help and what's more unwilling to give it. It seemed…ungrateful for all the other times he'd saved Peter's life with very little prompting. But that was Peter's stance here: Sylar was evil and not to be trusted. "I just have to savor this moment, Peter Petrelli wants _me_ to 'be there for him.'" Sylar chuckled and nudged at Peter's ribs with his elbow though his tone was sarcastic. "That is what you meant, right? I wonder what that entails," he teased, seductive and merciless. But more seriously he asked the more important question that needed answering, "Would you let me help you if it came to it? You'd be doing it my way or not at all - no balloons and flowers," that was his way of warning Peter it would be tough love all the way and he wasn't going to be Peter's slave for the duration of healing.

XXX

Peter literally growled at the ribbing, bristling even further but the display went nowhere. He wanted to shove Sylar off the sidewalk and into the street, but the possibility Sylar might stumble, fall, and be physically hurt by it neutered him. The rest of the teasing was over the top enough to function to calm him down rather than rev him up. He gave a roll of his eyes and looked away in disgust at Sylar taking it that far, pulling in a few deep breaths of the crisp morning air. Then there was the question – a question Peter hadn't thought of and was really just as much of a barrier as his uncertainty about Sylar. He looked up at Sylar with a moment of surprise before shuttering it and looking back down at the pavement. He didn't answer for more than half a block, walking along in quiet as he gave the question his full attention.

He recalled Sylar taping his hand and Peter having a strangely pleasant experience of it even though he'd argued and jerked his hand around. It was pleasant because Sylar, for a few moments there, had played along the way Peter wanted and expected him to. Then it had turned bad, but the moment before the change kept replaying, along with Sylar's very true statement that Peter was clearly already trusting him. Just like, he realized, he was clearly already letting Sylar help him.

"Yes," he finally said, decisive and clear, looking up to give Sylar a determined, unwavering look, like it was a promise or a pledge and it was. In Peter's mind, he was agreeing to something very important. He pulled to a stop at the curb, one street and a half block away from their destination. His voice a little softer, he said, "I want to hear you say it, that you'll help me if it does come to it."

XXX

Sylar raised an ambiguous eyebrow at the affirmation. Of course it was easy to agree now, but when the time came Peter would surely find something to freak out over. Since his attention was elsewhere, he didn't see or anticipate Peter stopping. Sylar took an additional step forward into the street, leaving the man behind on the curb but caught by Peter's grip on him and his grip on Peter. The Petrelli was almost equal his height this way though still being linked wasn't the most comfortable.

XXX

Peter felt that surprising, pleasant jolt when someone previously taller was suddenly on his level. Not that Peter went around feeling small – he was plenty tall enough – but Sylar was _taller_ and it made Peter feel bigger to see him eye to eye for a change. He stood straighter, features smoothing as he waited for Sylar's reply.

XXX

Sylar's attention refocused quickly. "Or you'll what? Leave me on the sidewalk?" he sassed because he could. Being hounded for a verbal answer was both annoying and warming: Peter thought he was trying to dodge (which, for once, he wasn't) and also that Peter thought his word meant something; it was binding. Carefully, he worded his reply, "I'll help you, Peter, with medical and medical-related care, if it comes to that." A tilt of his head and a raise of both brows this time was his 'is that acceptable?' glance. "Now come on," he tugged on Peter's arm, "You always pick bad times for discussions, standing in the cold is just the latest one. I'm sick, you're supposed to take care of me," he reminded, half-serious.

XXX

Peter smiled just a little on the outside, quite a bit more on the inside. He was happy, thrilled in fact. He took that statement as not only help if he needed it, but by implication a statement that Sylar wouldn't kill him. That was big. _He agreed!_ "Oh, I'll 'take care of you', all right," he said in mock threat. As he stepped down off the curb, he made sure he had a good grip on Sylar and then bumped him playfully with his shoulder, not quite hard enough to challenge the guy's balance, if he was gaging it right. Just in case Sylar thought he was merely being clumsy as he left the curb, Peter flashed him a bigger, joking grin and started them across the street.

XXX

Sylar swallowed and checked his companion once more. _How am I supposed to take that? (I wish he would 'take care of me'_ , he thought nastily). Sylar swerved a little, making him dizzy but he wasn't close to falling since the ground beneath him wasn't slick at the moment. It was, however, one of those confusing human interaction gestures that he'd always struggled with. _Or he'll take care of me 'bumping' me off a cliff?_ Sylar frowned but Peter was grinning and /his memories told him Peter usually used his stoic or tearful face to pull one over on him in the past./ Peter appeared to be waiting for something so Sylar bumped him right back. _Since when is touching okay?_ he wondered. It went over well enough and Peter let it drop after that, laughing and walking with a pep in his step. _Was that…flirting? (No. He's probably thrilled he got away with bumping you without getting maimed. I can't very well maim him for bumping my shoulder if I want him to ever touch me)._

XXX

As they walked into the building, Peter interrupted Sylar from heading into the rec room. "Hey. Now that we're here, I thought I'd tell you the _real_ reason why I wanted you along." He waggled his brows, still smiling. "I need your help moving some furniture. Come on."

XXX

Sylar froze and turned slowly, catching an evil/mischievous expression on Peter's face. Before an abundance of suspicion and worry could build, everything relaxed when Peter mentioned furniture; in fact, everything relaxed right into an annoyed affection. _Of course. To a Petrelli, I'm just the help._

XXX

Peter led the way into the office for the apartment building, blocking the door open and moving the end table away from the couch. "I want to move this into the rec room," he said as way of explanation when Sylar came to the door.

XXX

The couch was a three cushioned, leather affair. Sylar let Peter get the first grip in front since his primary hand was broken and pulling would be easier than pushing (or so he surmised). The leaning down shifted pressure in his brain and made it throb twice as bad, but he didn't complain. He didn't question why they were expending the effort to move the couch across the lobby when there were padded chairs already available – the reason being he thought he could sit on the couch himself while Peter mangled the piano in one way or other. A couch would do much better for his headache (and even though he'd slept okay, about as well as he ever could, he still felt the numbing urge to sleep more). If he wasn't allowed to sit on the couch for whatever reason, then he would wonder and protest bringing Peter an oversized butt-pillow he clearly didn't need. Having correct feng-shui wasn't that important.

XXX

They got it through the door and muscled it into the rec room. Peter felt like he did most of the muscling while Sylar took the lighter end. Sylar gave good advice, balanced it as they tilted it through the doorways, and steered it. Light end or not, Sylar's input made the job much easier than if Peter had had to struggle with it himself. But of course, he wouldn't have bothered if Sylar wasn't here. The couch was for Sylar's benefit, not his own, even if Peter wouldn't say that out loud. Once it was in position to the left of the piano and midway between the chairs along the wall and the musical instrument, he did say, "Well, there you go!" and patted the arm of it like it was one big chair for Sylar. Peter walked over to the piano, stretching his fingers and picking at his brace, hoping to avoid giving himself a blister this time.

XXX

Sylar gave Peter's back a look as the other man turned away. _Does he think I'm an invalid who_ needs _a couch? Or is it like a gift, something all for me?_ That's the way Sylar was going to claim it. He put his feet on the arm (because he wouldn't fit) and flopped down crossways, facing Peter. He crossed his arms and settled in to listen and watch.

XXX

Peter spent the morning playing slowly. He did Christmas carols for a while (including Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, with several glances over at Sylar and a few smiles to himself) and wondered if he could sound out the teapot song. He didn't try that one – it would sour things and he didn't want that. He was appreciating the lack of hostility between them. He moved on to semi-random chords for a while as he tried to recall a few popular songs he'd learned years before. 'I Believe I Can Fly' was one he could hear in his head, but couldn't get the keys even remotely right. Green Day's 'J.A.R.' was another he worked at, getting closer with it. The song recounted the loss of a friend and the singer's intent to continue on … it was too parallel to how he felt about Nathan. When he realized that, he stopped playing mid-tune, letting his head hang for a while as he massaged his hands. _What was that about no hostility? Don't make any. Stick to neutral stuff._

XXX

Sylar caught his chin bobbing towards his chest in attempts to doze. Not that it wasn't pleasant, having company and human sound, it was the exact opposite – it was too pleasant. It was comforting. He only knew half the songs Peter played but it didn't matter, anything new was literally novel. Instead of falling asleep on Peter again, Sylar got up to search the building for reading material, not thinking that it might cause just as much drowsiness as sitting still and listening to music. He went door to door, assuming also that Peter wouldn't notice his absence, and had limited success. Finally, he found a dictionary, old faithful, and returned with his prize. He already had one at his apartment, of course, but he could leave this one here or perhaps start another collection just to keep busy with the gathering and reading. Sylar entered and sat quietly. _Did he even notice? I am his audience after all._ It didn't seem like Peter noticed but it wasn't like there was telltale signs aside from being interrogated. The music was mostly familiar now, the Beatles if he was not mistaken. His mother hadn't approved of them but they had a certain charm and the music devoid of lyrics was undeniably catchy. Sylar propped the book on his chest despite its weight and opened the book at random – N, right in the middle.

XXX

Nothing was done in perfect form – Peter was no professional pianist or accomplished prodigy. He'd had a few years of lessons, several years of band class, and been part of a garage band. He was doing well when the song was recognizable and he didn't hit too many wrong notes. Still wearing the brace, he couldn't manage the higher chords at all, nor some of the combinations. Having to finger over the notes clumsily threw the timing off a lot. When Sylar took a walk, Peter took it as a judgment against his lousy playing. For several minutes after the elevator dinged shut following Sylar's departure, Peter sat silently at the instrument as though there was no point in continuing without an audience. He stretched, got up and walked around the room, then returned to the piano. _Maybe I should do my practicing alone and just play the things I'm better at when he's around?_

He hadn't realized how there was nothing else of consequence to hear in the world but Sylar's voice and his own … and now, a little bit of music. He transitioned to the Beatles, a band he'd practiced on a lot when he was home. He was somewhere in the middle of 'Hello, Goodbye' when Sylar returned to the room with a thick book. Peter repeated it a few times, along with a few other tunes. This time, Sylar stayed, although that might have been because he fell asleep. He was certainly being very still over there on the couch. Peter smiled softly to himself as he finished one last reprieve of 'Carry That Weight' before turning to face Sylar, finished, for now, with the piano. He wasn't hungry for lunch yet. Conversation came to mind, but … yeah, Sylar looked asleep. Then with the cessation of the music, he roused. Peter waited until he had Sylar's attention before asking, "What would you like to talk about?"

XXX

Sylar's eyes snapped open. _Nepotism: favoritism based on kinship. Huh?_ The music had stopped. He rubbed over his eyes once in what he hoped was a casual manner. _I wasn't sleeping. Did he stop because of me?_ Sylar straightened up, blinking with a small, growing frown. "That's a trick question. What do you want to talk about?"

XXX

Peter scoffed. "It's not a trick question. Maybe we should talk about what we should talk about?" Sylar's point about them not really talking, or at least Sylar not being allowed to talk about the things that were important to him, was nagging at Peter's conscience. It would be healthy to get things out in the open between them. Assuming he could manage it without trying to break his other hand on Sylar's head.

XXX

Sylar's face was a forcefully wary, confused frown that epitomized '…what?' Peter's words made little sense to him so he kept his mouth shut.

XXX

Peter's lips pressed together in a displeased line when Sylar didn't answer. He folded down the guard for the keys and leaned his elbow against it, settling in to wait Sylar out. It wasn't like it was all that bad a view.

XXX

When it was clear Peter wasn't going to budge, Sylar gave him an annoyed look, crossing his arms in defiance. He was not going to be outlasted even by one so stubborn. Several minutes passed and Petrelli didn't break. Sylar sighed, waited more with no success. "I had some time to think about it." Sylar paused and licked his lips, glancing off to the side. "I don't think that kid you found was mine." He searched for the words, "But why would I raise someone else's kid? Who would let me raise their kid?" That was asked rhetorically because he didn't want to hear any of Peter's biting comments about it. He couldn't imagine circumstances that would leave him saddled with a kid, as a Petrelli, which implied that the family knew about the kid in his care. As much as his curiosity burned him up from the inside, he knew he shouldn't and couldn't get attached to what was essentially a figment of Peter's imagination, the child. He didn't dare ask about his supposed offspring. _The kid is dead anyway_ , he told himself. Most importantly, Sylar wanted to know the other half of the equation. Peter said that was the three or more years in the future, that time had come and gone with no mate and no kid named _Noah_. _Did-did I screw it up?_ His gut felt like stone; regret, horror and pain building up already and he didn't know if Peter would take this seriously as the defining, important moment it was. Looking directly at Peter, he stated, "I...I want to know who the mother was."

XXX

"That's a good question." Peter drew in a deep breath. "The 'kid' was named _Noah_." He waited a moment, wondering if there was some reason why Sylar kept referring to his own son (even if only in an alternate timeline) so disrespectfully. He went on, "I don't know if the boy was biologically yours, but he called you Daddy. He knew you. He was comfortable with you. He," Peter swallowed and looked down, "went to you when he was afraid." He looked back up at Sylar. "You weren't just a babysitter to him." Lightening the mood with a single laugh and a smile, he said, "Not to the dog, either. He was up on a stool – Mr. Muggles – and you gave him … a piece of waffle or pancake, I think. Then you petted him and you really cared about him – both of them." Peter smiled softly, warmly. "It was cute."

XXX

Sylar felt his throat gulp. This is exactly what he did and did not want to hear. _I was a good parent?_ At least, that's what he gathered from the kid going to him when he was afraid. He felt…relieved, even if it wasn't really real, at some point he'd succeeded at something and done right by someone.

XXX

Shaking off the memory, Peter went back to Sylar's area of interest. "I don't know who the mother was. I would assume it was someone Caucasian, given how Noah looked. He was fair, with light brown hair, maybe dark blond. I don't remember his eye color." He raised a hand indicating the child's height. "He was about this tall. Good-looking kid. Healthy." Peter shrugged, thinking Sylar probably didn't want an EMT run sheet of height, weight, and physical abnormalities, but he sure didn't have the artistic ability to convey someone's looks. "I don't think there was anyone else in the house while I was there. I had the impression it was just the two of you right then, but if someone was living with you and gone somewhere … I wouldn't know."

XXX

A flush of cold went through him. _Dark blonde, eye color…No one else._ The mother must have left the kid with him. That was the missing circumstance or reason that resulted in him raising the kid at all, because no one else would take care of him. Did the mother, whoever she was, know about Sylar's own problems, did she know how risky it was to leave a potentially special kid with him? (Had she abandoned one or both of them? Was there a reason?) But history had not repeated itself and he'd broken the cycle. Sylar still remembered how hopeful he'd been when Peter told him he'd managed to control his ability: 'Just believing it's a possibility gives me hope.' 'I don't want hope, I want it _gone_!' How stupid he was to think that was to be his future. Lydia had dark brownish-blonde hair and Elle had been blonde… Claire was a disturbing option. Or had it been someone else entirely? None of his questions were being answered. His head jerked in a single nod, "I see," he said even though he didn't. Peter wouldn't hold back information or lie, would he? The thought that tortured him was Elle's death, if she'd been…when he… He felt sick, very physically ill. "Does it make any sense to ask why you killed him?" Sylar knew that's what Peter had avoided saying. "I thought you said you didn't threaten him, that you got what you wanted." _I didn't kill Nathan yet so…?_


	75. Pulse I

Day 24, January 3, morning

"Huh?" Peter's thoughts were immediately fixed on Nathan and while it seemed like a possible leap for someone of Sherlockian brilliance, Sylar was supposedly concussed and mentally impaired here. Plus he looked shaken and pale – not the appearance of cool, calm, and calculating. Still, the possibility that he'd guessed about Nathan's murder rattled Peter. He put his right hand down to pick rapidly and nervously at the top of the guard for the keyboard. Words tumbled out without taking the time to sort them first. "I never said who I … who I … I mean, Claire regenerated and I didn't even … that wasn't me. What are you talking about? _Who_ are you talking about?"

XXX

"The kid – Noah," Sylar enunciated. He didn't care about whatever was upsetting Peter; it was only getting in the way right now. The supposed hero's nervousness was a sure sign of guilt. That was something at least.

XXX

"Oh." Peter's relief was clearer than he wanted it to be. After all, there was still someone dead. Two someones. No, several hundred thousand someones. Sort of, in the future, a future that wasn't going to happen. He reached up with his left hand and rubbed at his eyes. He wasn't crying; the gesture was more subconscious than anything else. Nathan's death and how cavalierly he'd carried it out still bothered him, deeply. No matter that the future had been averted – it was still Peter's past. Sylar giving him the evil eye was no help. He sighed. "I didn't kill _Noah_." Then it hit him what Sylar was implying. Peter gave him an undisguised nasty look at the insinuation he'd killed an innocent child and for what reason? Peter blinked and shook his head. Sylar didn't know; he hadn't been there. _I must not have … I think I must have edited that part when I talked about it._

He sighed and looked at Sylar, giving him the straight dope. _He should know._ "I got your ability. We were talking. Then we heard Noah call for you from the other room. We went in and there were people there – Knox, Claire, and that blonde speedster." He waited for a moment, connecting a few things in his head. "Daphne! That was Daphne." He tilted his head with a mildly surprised expression as he realized where he'd run across her before, or at least mention of her and a description. She'd been at the crash site, according to Matt, but Peter had gone in a different direction and by the time he rejoined the group, she'd been shot and taken away by Homeland Security. _Matt was looking for her. I wonder if he ever found her?_ "Huh." _Didn't he have a wife and boy when I showed up to his house?_ "Anyway, those three. They," he exhaled heavily, because the whole thing was his fault, "wanted me to go with them."

XXX

_So it was your fault,_ Sylar surmised quickly. Peter was taking his time, dragging out the story for the sake of having some useless personal revelation about a girl they'd never met. He was getting angry and frustrated and it was starting to show in the storm clouds brewing over his head. _Just spit it out._

XXX

Peter shrugged and straightened, making an ambivalent, frustrated gesture. "We didn't even get to the part where I agreed, not that I was planning to. Things just escalated. Claire had a gun and she was pointing it at Noah and then at you, so since it wasn't pointed at me, and I figured you'd be okay if she fired, I lunged for her. I got her, but then Daphne was on me. You and Knox mixed it up. I think you got his power. I don't mean you cut his head open, either. You were just fighting him, and then you had it. It was Knox," he finished softly. "He kicked or shoved or threw – I don't remember how exactly – a table … Noah was in the way. Everything stopped for a moment as you went to him." He waited a few moments in silent respect. Soto voce, he said, "It was too late." He resumed with a tone that was more normal but still clipped. "You took down Knox. Claire tried to shoot you. I was calling to you. But you blew up." He wondered if Daphne had managed to get away.

XXX

Sylar was a little at a loss to see how a mere gun posed a threat to him or anyone he considered his duty to protect (apparently in that situation, Peter counted as such). With him, his son should have been as safe as could be. _He died because…Peter was causing trouble, brought it to my house and then I was…too distracted to protect him? Someone hit my kid with a table or…crushed him with it._ Sylar felt his face pinch inwards for a moment. Picturing that was horrible and he was an uncaring monster and the kid never existed in his plane so what did it matter? Why did it matter anyway? _What am I supposed to do now?_ It wasn't like he had overmuch experience with grief of the loss of a 'loved one.' Sylar didn't know how much attachment was allowed or required. Peter being involved with the death of his son and now, being here to surely crush every other hope Sylar possessed was no coincidence. _And that was before I killed Nathan,_ he kept coming back to that. So what else was Peter capable of now that blow had been struck? Peter was still watching him too closely and finally Sylar looked up to him, uncaring what the other man saw on his face. "I see," he said again but this time he didn't want to see. Out of curiosity, he wanted to know how Peter handled that, so he asked, "What did you do after that?" _I bet you got out of Dodge._

XXX

"Well, I died." Peter sighed. From the expression on Sylar's face, he wanted to know more than that obvious fact. "I tried to get to you. Or … to … Gabriel. You, sort of. I could have teleported out, but ..." He hesitated, trying to recall his motivations in that second or two of action. He didn't know, so he guessed, knowing his own mind well enough to make an educated one. "I stayed. I didn't want you to kill so many other people. So maybe like Nathan did for me …? But I burned up first." Peter looked down, thinking surely there was something better he could have done, something to have prevented all of that. He'd come back and made sure it didn't happen, so there was that, but it was cold comfort when he'd seen the misery firsthand.

XXX

Sylar jerked at that memory, /waves of agony from his fried nerves, burnt from holding and carrying his brother to the last. For months, his world was nothing but unadulterated pain. He'd been heavily medicated, in and out of delirium and consciousness, seeing his mother and Heidi come and go, but no Peter. Where was Peter? He remembered finally sitting up, against Ma's wishes, to see what he'd feared – his face a charred wreck/. Sylar came back to himself with relief, more so that Peter hadn't noticed. He took a few deep breaths to combat the returning nausea.

XXX

When Peter looked up again, Sylar looked shaken. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of the cause, then went on with the information he thought Sylar wanted. "I woke up somewhere else. In a lab. Or a morgue. Maybe both." He was silent for a few moments, staring fixedly at the floor. "You weren't there." His words came out softly. There was nothing else about the scene he wanted to discuss – at least not from that point onward. None of it concerned Sylar anyway.

He'd watched Sylar's expressions as Peter had told the story. He'd seen sorrow when he got to Noah's death. That Sylar even wanted to know told Peter a lot. He'd had a family in that future. He'd had _people,_ which the nature of this hell informed Peter the lack of which was the worst thing Sylar could imagine. Of the two choices – to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all – Peter would always choose love and loss. He believed Sylar would join him in that choice, which must have made it additionally bitter to hear that it had ended badly. _He must envy that other him._ Peter swallowed and said respectfully, "That other you … was a good person."

He cleared his throat quietly. "What else did you want to know?"

XXX

"Shut up," Sylar snapped and growled, his eyes daring Peter to say another word about it. He was prepared to beat the message into Peter if necessary because he was not going to listen or fall prey to another Petrelli's bedeviled whispers. Exhaling hard, he tried to forget the damage done by Mama Petrelli. "I don't know," Sylar finally answered. He was touchy and angry in general, more upset than anything else and not knowing what to do about it. His distress must be obvious to Peter and he couldn't focus to think up a distracting question for him. "I don't know…Why did you come back and kill me, in the holding cell?" Sylar waved a hand then rubbed at his orbital socket, remembering to breathe.

XXX

Peter started to smile at what he thought was a good-natured jibe under a veneer of anger, but quickly realized there was no veneer. His smile disappeared. _What did I say? It must have been something I said. That Gabriel was a good person?_ Peter sighed. _Sylar can't see himself that way – 'I'm not the savior type.' That sucks. But at least he's willing to help me if something happens to me here. That's something_. He waited in silence as Sylar struggled through trying to decide what to ask.

Sylar's question about the holding cell bounced around in his head, reminding him of the rest of that day, the portion he'd been working at not thinking about. He still didn't want to think about it. His face took a sullen, uncooperative turn. "I wasn't thinking right. I ..." He straightened a little, face clearing as he saw a way to divert the subject to things Sylar already knew. "It wasn't about you. I tried to kill my mother too, remember?" Peter shook his head. "I was … I couldn't stop killing." His voice was a whisper for that last, eyes falling to his hands. His fingers twitched a little, remembering that peculiar, semi-instinctive gesture they'd adopted to channel the ability. He wondered what Sylar made of his last statement and what any right-minded, impartial person of wisdom would make of the actions that had spawned it. Guilty with extenuating circumstances was what Peter had settled on, not that the circumstances erased the guilt. It just transmuted his sentence from … whatever it would have been to … whatever it turned out to be. With no judge or confession, Peter had never been able to expiate that sin. It just festered inside of him, a weight he carried.

Willing to take the risk of broaching the topic, Peter looked back at Sylar and asked, "Is that what it's like for you?"

XXX

The lack of understanding or reason, Sylar could actually understand even without understanding. The Hunger wasn't personal; neither was killing a target, threat or obstacle. It was difficult for him to grasp when people took it personally and blamed him like more choice was involved. He was silent. It was a respect thing; he assumed that was evident. He wondered if, perhaps, Peter might make a leap of abstraction and see the connection between them through that ability. Peter got it then voiced it. Sylar simply gazed at him for a long time, caught off guard and uncertain of how Peter intended the question. _Does it matter? Why does he ask? He just said that's how it was or does he think mine is somehow different? This is going to come back to bite me in the ass, I know it._

"I suppose," he began slowly, feeling his way through everything and choosing his words carefully. Every time he had tried to stop, he'd been tempted by someone involved with the Company and had fallen back into his old ways regardless of his desires. Peter had reasons not to kill, things, goals or people to anchor him. It didn't excuse him when Sylar knew he should have dug deeper and triumphed where Peter, with all his advantages, had failed – because he was stronger and more driven than Peter ever was and he _had_ to succeed. "It's not…simple." The Hunger didn't want to be denied or cured, killing was a means to an end and it represented mentally orgasmic success. Therefor it was a positive achievement, the same as ridding the world of unworthy power-holders? How was anyone supposed to ignore that? How did his flimsy mortal feelings, morals, and other needs compare against that?

"It depends if you killed someone or not. I imagine it's different living a day or two with it when you haven't gotten your fingers wet. It depends if you felt you had control or a choice or a reason to care either way." With that, he turned the question back to Peter with an expectant look.

XXX

"I didn't ..." _get my fingers wet. With blood, you mean? Like someone's brains?_ He looked down at his fingers, rubbing them together uneasily. His voice was suddenly raspy, chest tight. "I mean, I did ..." _kill someone … Nathan._ He didn't think enough of his words were getting out to make sense to Sylar, so he tried again. "I killed ..." _Nathan_ , "but I didn't take ..." _his brain, his ability?_ The mental image of cutting Nathan apart and plunging his fingers into the still-hot brain was too easy to imagine. He knew just how it would feel. The outer layers of the brain were stiff, like a firm sponge, and slick on the outside with a thin layer of sclera. It had a smell unique to the nervous system. It was faintly like that internal organ smell of blood and viscera, but without any of the digestive system undertones that you had in the abdominal cavity.

The air felt too thin and he couldn't get a decent breath – not that he wanted to. He feared it would smell like that - that close, humid, faintly ammonia-like smell of damaged brain matter. (The things EMTs experienced in the course of their jobs were sometimes things no person with any degree of empathy wanted to know.) He felt dizzy, confused, losing his grip on whether he was here with Sylar or freezing up over Nathan's corpse, aghast at what he had done, his mind breaking as his heart thudded way too strong and fast in his chest.

"Ugk," he said, swallowing and turning to face the opposite direction on the piano bench. He hunched, feeling like he was choking on what little air he was getting. He kept seeing, over and over as if it was happening right now, his hand rising to cut into Nathan's forehead, or his mother's. His right hand was paralyzed by blinding pain like some divine punishment was being inflicted on him for those sins. A strangely lucid thought drifted through his head, _Oh, I'm having a panic attack._ It wasn't the first time. He was prone to his chest heaving and near-hyperventilation when he was severely stressed and though those weren't panic attacks, what he was having now was an extreme version of the same.

XXX

"Peter?" Something wasn't right but Sylar wasn't sure it was necessarily, unintentionally wrong either.

XXX

Peter's fingers curled into fists and then his arms folded over his midsection. He leaned over, making himself small and trying to focus on his breathing. Knowing what was happening gave him something to think about other than the memory of murdering his brother for no decent reason (sad to say, Peter had had experiences in his life that led him to think there were, at times, good reasons for killing family members). It gave him a problem to fix, something immediate and physical he could _do_. He shifted his grip from balled-up fists to holding his arms, relaxing his right hand enough that it wasn't stressing the broken bones and putting him in agony. Slowly, very slowly, he managed to get deeper breaths. His body shook, but he was getting it back together. _Fuck - what the fuck is Sylar doing? No, stop thinking about him. He won't hurt me. Just ignore him. Get under control. Breathe._

XXX

Receiving no answer, Sylar was left to listen to Peter's ragged, stunted breathing and watch his back shudder. He got that 'hair on the back of his neck' feeling just looking at the man's posture. It seemed familiar, like something he'd wanted to do in a moment of lonely emotional chaos but had never actually done it. "Peter?" his voice rose and he sat up, deciding quickly to go to him. Leaning over he started by touching Peter's shoulder with no answer. "Pete?" he asked more softly in case he was being ignored. His hand slid along Peter's back then returned as Sylar crouched, wincing about his own toes but it allowed him to see Peter's pale, sweaty, unfocused face. _What is this? A cop out, a joke? Is he sick, like a seizure or something?_

The younger man still tried to look away, making a disturbing sound in his throat and Sylar would have none of it, gently taking hold of Peter's chin then his cheek to bring him back. "Hey," that was the traditional Italian opening line. Peter was breathing deep yet very shaky then turned, seemed to snap out of himself a little and rested his forehead against Sylar's, to his great shock. _Did he pass out? No, still breathing. What…?_ "Peter, can you hear me? I need you to tell me what's going on." The hand attached to Peter's skin drifted over his clammy face, neck and shoulder, uncertain what he was doing other than reassuring himself that Peter was still warm and breathing and praying this wasn't a medical emergency he was so unprepared for.

XXX

Peter felt like an idiot – small, stupid, and helpless for having a freak-out right in front of Sylar. He could feel the shame spiraling his tension right back up. _No help for it. Just relax._ Sylar's hand over his face and shoulder was reassuring in the surfeit of gentle contact. He nodded in response to the man's question, still having trouble getting his throat to work right for anything more complicated than sucking air, but it was at least doing that much now. He reached out and grabbed Sylar's shirt some inches below the right armpit, pulling him around just a little, positioning him for Peter to move his head to Sylar's shoulder. _Oh fuck, this sucks. Not him! Why him? Why would I freak out in front of_ him _? (Relax. It's okay. He was there for me after that nightmare. He just promised today he'd be there for anything else. It'll be okay.)_

XXX

"Okay, that's good," Sylar said in relief. Now that he knew Peter was listening and somewhat conscious he didn't know what to say or ask about. Sylar only knew about abilities and a lot (but not everything) about brains – this was the human body; easily trillions of things could go wrong with it. Peter moved or slumped further into him to Sylar's sick delight and continued worry. Peter felt warm, not feverishly so but even the warmth didn't feel right when he was touching the guy's skin. He continued petting the man's hair and neck while he thought about what could be going wrong (and something was obviously wrong – Peter was touching him of his own volition and allowing Sylar's touch moreover). _Heart attack? Seizure? It's not liver failure. Alcohol poisoning? Does he have allergies I don't know about? We just had breakfast…_ Not bothering with polite or subtle, Sylar pressed two fingers to his shoulder angel's pulse. It was very fast from what he could tell. _Adrenaline rush? But I didn't say anything threatening…_

XXX

Peter's breathing deepened fast. His heart was still pounding in his chest, but the pressure was lifting so rapidly that he felt dizzy and euphoric for a moment. Swaying a little, Peter tightened his one-handed grip on Sylar's shirt, pressing the side of his face against his shoulder for stability.

XXX

Unable to see Peter's face, Sylar had no idea what the desperate clutching meant. "It's okay, it's going to be okay," Sylar placated quickly, feeling the man nearly gasping for air, unsteady even as he sat somewhat supported against Sylar. He lifted a hand around Peter's right side so he wouldn't slip off that way.

XXX

"I'm okay," he whispered hoarsely as the wave passed, but he didn't let go quite yet. Eyes shut, his breathing was slowing now, heading back towards normal along with his heart rate and blood pressure. His left hand released, cupping to press flat-palmed to Sylar's side for a moment. His right hand was still aching from whatever he'd done to it in the first phase of the panic attack. He held it protectively in his lap. With a last deep breath, Peter sat up, pulling away, eyes rising to hold Sylar's. _So, um, what now?_

XXX

Sylar hardly blinked as they stared at one another. That was…unexpected. _His eyes are okay_ , he noted distantly. "Of course you are," he bullshitted right back. _I don't believe a word out of your mouth but at least words are coming out. Even Peter said something to that effect about nursing, didn't he?_ He was nervous and trying to focus on Peter's health rather than the fact that their hands were literally all over each other and he could smell Peter again and feel his body heat. "I'm going to put you on the couch, okay? Put your legs up and…" _Whatever else. I just know that's a good position for a lot of problems. Dehydration! Water, I'll find some water._ "Come on." Sylar slid his arm underneath Peter's, helping him stand without asking if he needed the assist because it seemed like he did and this is what Peter did when Sylar didn't necessarily need help, and what's more, he'd still do this even if Peter lied again.

XXX

_Couch, yeah, good idea._ He got to his feet, feeling able to manage the few feet of distance himself but not refusing the help. The contact was soothing. He wrapped his arm around Sylar in return, wishing this was Nathan or … His chest spasmed like his heart had just skipped a beat. It would never be Nathan. It never could be. _Fuck_. He knew the symptoms often came in waves. He knew it was exacerbated by thinking the wrong things. They were already the few steps to the couch. He sank into it heavily at one end, struggling to bring his thoughts back to something neutral like breathing.

He wanted to curl up. He wanted to get away. He wanted to hold someone or be held. To his disappointment, unrealistic though his desires were, Sylar had released him when he sat. Asking anything of him was childish. What Sylar was already doing for him was above and beyond the call of duty. Now the man was plucking at Peter's legs, trying to encourage him to turn sideways and put his feet up. "I'm alright," Peter said grumpily, voice strained. "It's no big deal," he said, covering his face with his right hand in embarrassment. He was feeling tense and upset again, very aware that the world was closing in. Sylar gave up on trying to shift him and sat right next to him, a presence that was both comforting and worrying by turns.

XXX

"Do you know what's going on? Should I get you anything?" Sylar pressed, hovering and trying to sound like he was capable and prepared for this, like he already knew what was going on but really; this was Peter's domain and Peter was the one with medical training. What happened if Peter got hurt so bad he couldn't talk or direct? _I need to get some medical books and study alright. Peter's definitely stupid enough that I'm going to need to know some of that._

XXX

"It's … I ..." Peter felt his head swimming again. He put his left hand on his chest, noticing his hand was trembling. _Was it doing that earlier? He's asking too many questions. I wish he'd stop. Let me be. I'll be okay._ The air felt hot. He moved his hand up to his throat and massaged it, intent on getting enough words out to shut Sylar up, at least for the time being. "Panic attack." Two words were apparently doable. Despite his victory, he hunched over again, this time worked up at himself because he couldn't calm down. It took a couple seconds for the irrationality of that to get through his head. _Damnit. Breathe! Just breathe_. He struggled through a gagging swallow and reached out to his left, putting his hand on Sylar's knee and gripping it. Peter shut his eyes. People calmed him down; in a lot of cases, physical contact calmed him down. So did purpose. _My goal right now is to breathe. Deep, slow. Just breathe._

XXX

_Ah…Okay._ That wasn't something that immediately occurred to Sylar but it made enough sense, fitting the symptoms as he saw them. _Why is he having a panic attack?_ He stared Peter and the hand on his knee, wondering what was the purpose or message behind it. "Just…take it easy." _He needs air and…time, I guess, but he'll be fine_. Sylar made to move to stand and get water, thinking time alone might help until Peter gripped and pushed down on the knee in his possession, halting Sylar in place, still seated. _Stay here then._

XXX

Peter waited until he had it mostly together – all systems functioning … if not normally, then at least functioning. _He needs to know what just happened._ Speaking low and soft, Peter said, "I killed someone, yeah. Someone I cared about." Tired now from the emotional stress, Peter lifted his hand away from Sylar's knee. "Your wording," he said, turning his left hand palm up, fingers drawn together, "I didn't get my 'fingers wet'," he said with a slight curl of his lip. "I couldn't stop myself, so I came back and killed you instead, in the holding cell." Peter felt his internal pressure ease suddenly, his eyes widening a little as he realized he might not have been so out of control as he'd thought. "I … I think I was picking my victim. I couldn't have stopped myself if I'd stayed there, but I had enough control to leave before I ..." He shrugged, repeating his earlier 'fingers wet' gesture. _Maybe I knew Sylar would have regenerated? Was that why I went back for him? Claire survived it._

"Does that make a difference?"

XXX

_Haven't we all_ , Sylar thought bitterly of killing loved ones. _At least you didn't play around in their blood afterward; you didn't touch it at all apparently so why do you get to have a fucking panic attack and get help dealing with it?_ The rest of it was Peter saying that Sylar was an acceptable victim, no surprise. He was not going to accept the blame for Peter freaking out like this over something he'd said either. As soon as Peter's hand lifted away (and if he hadn't done it voluntarily, Sylar would have batted it off himself), Sylar was making space between them. Petrelli's question was broad. "Yeah," he snipped shortly and rose to his feet. He could leave Peter alone for a few minutes in a search for water.

XXX

Peter sensed the hostility from Sylar. A one-word answer, clipped tone, and immediate, stiff departure? Yeah, hostility. Peter slumped and then, after a moment, pulled his knees up, leaned against the arm of the couch, and curled into himself like a troubled child might. He would have never clung to Nathan as much as he did or followed him so loyally, if he'd had anyone else to support him. He watched the doorway, more of a vacant stare really, and tried to turn himself off. It didn't work.

_I miss you, Nathan. I wish you were here. I wish that was you just a few minutes ago and maybe I could have told you about what happened in the future and you would have listened and even if you told me to wake up and quit being an idiot, I'd know you still loved me and would be there for me if I needed it. Maybe._ Peter shut his eyes and then put a hand over them, pressing slightly, willing himself not to cry. _Maybe. He wasn't always there for me. But I always wished he was and now he never will be again._

Sylar's departure changed the tenor of how Peter saw the consolation. It went from a true exchange of concern and comfort to a mere animal thing – 'it was warm and human and I needed that', rather than 'Sylar saw I was afraid and tried to help me.' He knew he was suffering from emotional whiplash, jet lag, whatever, but the effects of a panic attack were very clearly not merely physical. Peter curled himself a little tighter and tried not to think about how fucked up and pointless his whole mission was. _There has to be something worthwhile in what I'm doing here – even if asking Sylar to save those people was a dumb idea, it was better than doing nothing, right? If I fail, it still means something … right?_

_Hopefully something other than 'Here lies Peter Petrelli – He tried.'_

XXX

Sylar returned after a while with a pair of water bottles, tossing one next to Peter on the couch, feeling magnanimous for not having chucked it at Peter himself, forcing him to catch it with his dominant and broken hand. He cracked his own bottle and took a large gulp after seating himself on the piano bench, stewing quietly.

XXX

Peter straightened immediately when Sylar walked in the room, putting his feet on the floor and sitting normally. He rubbed at his face, worried that his skin might be inappropriately flushed even though he hadn't been crying. An energetic scrub of the rest of his face would at least equalize the coloration. He didn't see the bottle of water tossed at him and jumped when it hit the cushion beside him. He looked wide-eyed at Sylar for a moment, trying to figure out if the guy had missed him or hit his target of the cushion. Sylar looked pissed, but not pissed because he'd missed. Whatever had made him leave the room in a snit was still at work. Peter sniffed and picked up the bottle, twisting the cap off slowly. "Thanks."

There was no answer. Peter sighed about that. He'd gotten some things out and it had helped him understand why he'd done what he'd done. Maybe talking would help Sylar. And if it didn't, it would be another thing for Peter to be depressed and broody about. "Tell me why you're angry."

XXX

Sylar merely looked at him. "You didn't even take the ability. You don't know what it's like so you don't get to act like some martyr just for thinking about it. But I'm so horrible: I kill people for a reason. What do you do? You kill people for no reason. How convenient. 'Picking my victim' my ass. You killed someone and wanted to pick my available, renewable brain so you killed me because, well, I'm not like other people."

XXX

Peter listened woodenly, the accusations coming as blows. They were all true, but Sylar slamming him over a failure to inflict additional harm was incomprehensible at first. He swallowed and took another sip of water to wet his suddenly dry mouth. _I think he's jealous. Angry that I didn't fuck up as bad as he did. That I found a way out maybe. That way out being him. That had to hurt – that I used him just like he's complained about everyone else doing._ "You … you thought I was your brother then, and I showed up and killed you." Peter frowned. "That was wrong. I'm sorry for it. I guess I was making for every living member of my family that day." He froze. That did kind of make it obvious who he'd killed in the future. He relaxed a little as he supposed Arthur was unaccounted for, along with Uncle Tim and whoever else wanted to be counted. He scanned Sylar's face for evidence that he'd guessed. But did Sylar even care who knocked who off among the Petrellis? He seemed a little wrapped up in himself at the moment, something Peter was grateful for.

XXX

"Don't insult me," Sylar sneered of the 'apology.' The standards he was held to would not allow for grief, panic attacks, mourning, regret or apologies because naturally he'd made a decision to kill each and every one of his victims, even the ones who were rather accidental in nature, hadn't he? The same was true for Peter. "You thought I was your brother then, too."

XXX

Peter pulled a brief frown and glanced away, then back. _I didn't know what to think. Everything was crazy enough for that to be true._

XXX

Sylar looked away for a moment, then back. "Your mother is mostly to blame. She only pretended to be my mother so I'd save your ass a thousand times in a few days. And possibly kill Arthur for her, also to save you, I'm sure. You're so lucky to have such a devoted mother." The last sentence was multi-layered with sarcasm, heat, and jealousy.

XXX

"She sent me to kill my dad, too," Peter objected defensively, pulling up his left knee and hugging it, leaning his body weight towards the arm of the couch. If there was a subject even more emotionally charged for him than killing Nathan, it was his complicated feelings towards Angela Petrelli. He looked down. _Did she know we'd end up killing Arthur together? Or was she just doubling her odds of having it done? She didn't mind having me kill a few million people for Nathan's career, so why would she mind having me kill my own father?_ He sighed, but his face was hard, drawn up in bitterness and pain. Like so many of the decisions in his life since he'd had abilities, he felt like there was a better solution to the situation that he hadn't thought of at the time.

XXX

"Congratulations," Sylar intoned in a drier-than-a-desert way. It hadn't been difficult to kill Arthur so he was hardly scrambling to take credit, but he knew that when blame time came around, Peter would dodge and blame him. In Angela's eyes, one of them had to be a back-up plan.

XXX

Peter didn't want to talk about his mother, even though and because Sylar had a lot of legitimate objections to air regarding her. _My family's supposed to be off-limits anyway._ **His** _mother is_ , Peter thought begrudgingly. But Peter recognized it was a mutual subject and Sylar hadn't gone looking for it. He looked for something else to address in what Sylar had said. ' _So I'd save your ass a thousand times' – he did save me a few times that day, but he doesn't accept any of my gratitude. He mocked me for it a few days ago._ Peter was more confused by that than anything else. He adored gratitude and positive attention; Sylar seemed to scorn it. "When I try to thank you, or apologize to you, you reject it. Why is that?"

XXX

_Why do I feel like this is some kind of emotional therapy session: 'sit back and tell me about your feelings'?_ It earned Peter yet another look. "Lots of reasons." _Or am I not allowed to have those?_

XXX

Peter lowered his head so his mouth was against the lowest part of his thigh, nose on the knee he still hugged. He shifted just slightly, feeling the hamstring stretch. It felt good, a nice sensation to oppose the tension ache he still felt lingering in his chest. He stared evenly across the short distance at Sylar, noting the lack of a real answer. _He doesn't want to accept anything from me – not help, not thanks. Well, he wants my company. There's that. We're getting somewhere … just slowly._ Unsatisfied by that, Peter lifted his face enough to say, "Tell me some of them," before going back to hiding part of his face behind his knee.

XXX

Sylar inhaled with the intent to let out a sigh but caught the breath and let it out slowly, like some attempt to control something, anything right now – Peter having proven himself to be highly annoying as if he needed the reminder. "I'm told having your life saved is one of those things you remember to thank your…" _savior? hero?_ "the person who saved you, without much thought or debate or years worth of _delay_." Really, when Peter said thank you or sorry it looked like he had to think about it, like he'd never thought about it before. Sylar was confused – for someone so evil to do what was, even in Peter's book, a very good deed, possibly the best thing he could ever accomplish…shouldn't it stand out that much more for going against his 'nature'? "So you either rate your own life strangely or you rate my 'good deeds' very strangely and I'm not sure which it is, maybe both."

"People only apologize or thank me to change my behavior. I'm not some trained dog who does things for pats on the head and you wouldn't thank a dog for retrieving a stick for you. Now you're afraid I might leap up and attack you at any minute you want to try to 'scratch behind my ears' or something." Even if he did perform for a reaction or gratitude, he'd ever received it in the past. Hell, sometimes he didn't even know why he did some things, sometimes 'just because whichever Mom wanted it,' and…yes, sometimes saving Peter or sparing him seemed stupid in hindsight. _(Because he was my brother and I wanted to save him)._

"And you really need to think if you can or should apologize for killing someone with my ability," Sylar snorted a breath in depressed irony. Okay, that was really _all_ of his reasons.

XXX

"Do you mean killing someone by using your ability, or killing someone who happens to have it?"

XXX

"Killing someone using my ability; the target is irrelevant." _Right? Or does he mean to imply someone with my ability should be killed?_

XXX

"Oh." Peter let his face sink again, but this time ended with his chin resting on his knee. He felt not at all guilty for not thanking Sylar in whatever timetable Sylar desired, but one thing it told Peter was that Sylar genuinely wanted thanks. Since he hadn't gotten them when and how he wanted, Peter surmised Sylar was now immaturely refusing to accept them at all – a posture that hurt him as much as anyone else, poisoning the relationship and making it difficult to move forward.

"Most of the people who save my life haven't killed me a few times before. It's something I have to think about." He sat for a long pause, chin on knee, soulful eyes looking over at Sylar, all attention on him. He was calm, and grateful that he could be calm in Sylar's presence, and even talk about very personal murder. "I'm not afraid you're going to attack me anymore. Not unless I do something to you."

XXX

Sylar shrugged. "I didn't ask for thanks or an apology," he retorted, making his lack of involvement clear. He didn't like the way Peter was looking at him. There was no way of knowing what would spring from his mouth next and that look said 'I'm curious and you're a puzzle.'

XXX

His gaze dropped to Sylar's shoes as he thought. Slowly he said, "If I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated something you'd done, or apologize for something I did, how should I do that in a way that won't leave you feeling like I'm trying to manipulate you?" He looked up, meeting Sylar's eyes.

XXX

His exhaled breath, a single chuckle of sorts, spoke of his amusement. Sylar looked away, shaking his head a little at the joke. _Why is that…funny?_ When his eyes returned to Peter's he saw that those piercing dark hazel orbs had been fixated on him the whole time. His amusement faded as his eyebrows quirked up slightly as if to say 'you're serious?' _That's the punch line: that there is no punch line. Why would he show appreciation for something I did or apologize for something he did? Do I look stupid to him?_ "You can't. I wouldn't bother if I were you," he dismissed.


	76. Soul Subjects

Day 24, January 3, morning

"You don't have to accept an apology from me," Peter said evenly. "Or my gratitude. Not even for little things. But that doesn't mean I won't stop offering it." He was irked by the implication Sylar would never forgive any trespasses or appreciate anything Peter might do (or might have done) for him. It left him feeling deficient and insufficient, which he assumed was Sylar's intention. Striking back indirectly, Peter said, "About your ability and apologies - I thought an apology was for hurting someone, regardless of whether you did it intentionally or not. What do you think?"

XXX

"Ah. I get it. I need to apologize for something, right? Probably a lot of somethings. You'd have me apologize for breathing," Sylar guessed where this was headed and beat Peter to the punch. "Why are you asking what I think?" he shot back angrily. "I'm not the one who nearly puked about it just now or the one trying to apologize for…things. This isn't about me. If you did it, then you meant it. That includes accidents, self-defense, and 'the ability made me do it' excuses. Get used to the hot seat, Petrelli." _God knows I've had to._

XXX

Peter folded his leg down so he was sitting with one foot on the floor, the other foot resting against that knee. He held his ankle with his left hand – still holding himself after the panic attack and aware of what he was doing. But it worked and he doubted Sylar knew. Even if he did, so what? Anger was stirring in him, a more effective purgative for fear than anything else. Jerking his head up, he countered with a sharp voice, "I'm asking you because you were the one who said I couldn't apologize for something I did with your ability. So which is it? 'The ability made me do it' or I decided to do it? Intention matters to me; it matters to _everyone_."

XXX

Sylar crossed his arms. "How the hell would I know, Peter? You're the one who did it and you're the one who knows why you did it. There is a difference between motive and intent – you ought to know that." He avoided whatever trap Peter was trying to lay but he still couldn't think his way out of a paper bag.

XXX

Peter got to his feet and paced away restlessly. _He's not getting the point! The point is …_ It took him a moment to pull that together from his disparate feelings and thoughts. It was no wonder Sylar wasn't going where Peter was so indirectly directing the conversation. _The point is I fucked up and I didn't mean to and I wish someone could recognize that. It's not like anyone else can, because I've never told anyone else._ Peter sighed, shot Sylar an unhappy look, and then went over to the pool table where he started racking up billiard balls. He didn't want to admit any of that to Sylar, which meant there was nothing else to say.

XXX

After huffing an annoyed/relieved breath, he realized why Peter wasn't going back to the piano – Sylar was hogging the bench. _I wanted to sit on the couch anyway_. Sylar slunk back over to the vacated couch, palming his book. Perhaps it was the former topic of forgiveness (or lack thereof), talk about abilities and gratitude or Peter shutting down…it was distressing. _He expects_ _me_ _to hold_ _his_ _hand, figuratively, when he gets upset. Like a Nathan-shaped crutch._ Knowing he was aggravating things but needing to know, Sylar asked in wondering tone, "Do- do you confuse me with him?" Peter certainly offered many second chances and apologies to Nathan over the years, far more than Sylar thought was necessary or deserved but…that was Peter and it would explain his behavior of late. He clutched the thick dictionary to his chest and thighs, adrift about what to feel about that possibility.

XXX

Peter snorted, glanced over at Sylar for a long second, then went back to lining up his shot on the 6-ball. He hit it with a decisive crack and the dark green ball went in the right direction, but overshot the pocket and bounced off the bumper. He grimaced at it. He was still unfamiliar with the table (but getting better) and his brace made his fingering difficult. It was something to pass the time. He turned his mind to Sylar's question as he chalked the tip of his cue stick. Talking was a more interesting way to pass the time. It was interesting that Sylar would even ask that question. He leaned his hip on the pool table and faced his companion. "No. I don't. You're the one who's here with me, though." Peter looked down, face shifting to sadness with a frown and a moment of furrowed, in-drawn brows. _Nathan will never be with me again._ It was hard to think, to accept. He spun the cue stick idly on the butt, the carpeted floor making the action slow, but it gave him something to do while he tried to struggle out of his feelings and focus on Sylar.

XXX

_That makes sense, too. He really does need me. And want me, to some degree. I can use that._ It perked Sylar up.

XXX

"I'm telling you things I never told him. I don't think I ever would have, either." He swallowed. "We – you and me – in a lot of ways we have more in common than I did with Nathan." His voice became quiet at the end, but it was still audible. "He never stopped judging me. I always wanted to live up to his standards. With you," Peter gave a small shrug, voice and body language still low-key, "I know you're judging me, too, but, you know, it doesn't matter as much when it's not coming from your big brother." Plus there was the not-insignificant factor of Sylar being in no position to cast judgment on others, but pointing such out was rude. Peter stuck to the equally true reason that Sylar wasn't a father-figure to him. He gave a wan smile.

After a few moments, Peter asked carefully, "Do you? Confuse yourself with him?"

XXX

Sylar made a face about the not-so-subtle message, lips thinning and his chin going up. It was disrespectful even if it was very true. The balls involved to lay it out there like that… _Then why do you act like what I think about you matters?_ Sylar could safely call a fair amount of bullshit on that. The rest, the majority of what Peter said puffed his pride and almost made him feel warm inside. He got stuck on the return question, another ballsy thing to ask, though Sylar didn't quibble about re-stating the rather obvious. Resentfully, he replied, "Unfortunately. You've made it impossible not to." He didn't tell him it was nice in some ways, too; it was the kind of bold statement Peter wouldn't care for.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and drew in a breath. This wasn't the first time he'd asked Sylar if Nathan's identity still lingered, but it was a subject Peter didn't feel was done yet and so he kept coming back to it. Sylar had been defensive and curt about it before. Now, he was saying a bit more. Peter wanted to explore that. "'You' – do you mean me personally, or is this one of those times where you're using 'you' to refer to everyone who worked against you?" His tone was not challenging or sarcastic. He simply wanted to know.

XXX

Hefting his book, Sylar glanced up over it meaningfully, "Both." His mouth worked as he thought how Peter…came to the conclusion – and action – that obliterating Sylar's mind was…good, acceptable or beneficial beyond the pale of his usual morals and care for the 'human spirit.' Then he eyed the large stick Peter still held. "You really like to talk with weapons in hand, don't you? Does that make you feel powerful?"

XXX

Peter regarded the cue stick, then looked at Sylar with a jibe right back at him, "You're easily intimidated by me having a weapon, aren't you?" _Is that because you feel powerless here?_ But Peter only thought that last question, not comfortable enough to diss Sylar so directly. He set the stick down on the table carelessly, knocking the 11-ball out of the way as he did. _Not like I was keeping score anyway._

XXX

"Oh, please." Sylar scoffed and rolled his eyes to back up his point. Maybe there was a granule of fact there, but the main concern was Peter's stability or predictability with said weapon.

XXX

"Both, you say." He pondered that. It was the more important topic than trading quips about who had the bigger stick. "You said before that I was … familiar, and that made it harder for you to keep it straight." He didn't want Sylar to be Nathan. He'd considered it (obviously) at Mercy Heights, but that had been an act of denial and of desperation. _How did Sylar see that? What did being Nathan mean to him?_ Peter's brows knit together and he looked up, about to speak. For a second, he was distracted by the huge book Sylar was cradling. _What the hell is that? A dictionary? Is he reading a dictionary?_ He made a small shake of his head. He was too far away to read the spine and anyway, his next question was more pressing to him than the identity of Sylar's reading material. "What do you believe about the human soul?"

XXX

"What about the human soul?"

XXX

"Do you think it exists? And if it does, do you think it exists apart from the body?" Peter waited a long pause, wanting to know Sylar's beliefs without cluttering it up with Peter's own. Sylar's skeptical expression was clear enough of what he thought: _He doesn't think so_. This was hardly the first time Peter had believed in the supernatural in the face of doubt. _But he's seen this stuff. Maybe he just doesn't see it the same way I do_. Hopeful and earnest, he walked to the nearer end of the couch, gesturing as he tried to explain the inexplicable. "We - we have these abilities. I think I talked to a telepath after he was dead. I think he visited me in a dream. I possessed a different guy once, sort of. We co-existed in the same body, at least." Peter exhaled heavily. "Do you think certain abilities give people souls?"

XXX

Sylar frowned out of confusion and uncertainty. One thing was sure: _We're not talking about my soul here._ That left only one 'soul' to speak of, one that obviously meant more than all of Sylar combined. He didn't know whether to feel insulted or not, which was a strange feeling considering. This was important to Peter yet it was so far outside anything Sylar knew. He was damned after all. "I guess. Yes, it must," he said as if just realizing that in a very non-religious way. He was thinking about the last time he'd mentioned his own soul or lack thereof to Samuel; /'It would be a crisis for a lesser man, having their soul ripped from them, but not for me.'/ He didn't wonder what happened after death because he was soulless and he didn't care what happened to other people's souls. _He talked to Matt?_ _Matt's not dead…At least, I didn't kill him. Funny, no one noticed that._ "Why would any ability, let alone a specific one, give a person a soul? That would mean normal people don't have souls and you don't believe that. You wouldn't say my ability gives me more 'soul.' Yours does, maybe."

XXX

"No, I don't believe that, but maybe souls are … I don't know, different. Different like abilities – everyone's is unique?" Peter's brows knit as he realized the existence of a soul was an insolvable as any question of faith – at some point, logic and reality became irrelevant - you either believed or you didn't. But Sylar had said something else that caught his attention. "Why would my ability give me more of a soul?"

XXX

Sylar explained, "If your ability is part of you, then copying it involves some...contact." His eyes flicked over Peter's body briefly, so close and intense as it was. "For some empaths it's sex, maybe for you it's touching souls," Sylar's voice was a false, and rather sarcastic, sense of grandiosity about 'touching souls,' shrugging it off with, "Without the sex. You know."

XXX

Peter watched Sylar closely for a moment, not sure how to take that. He chuckled nervously. "I touch people's souls?" Sylar might intend that as an insult and it might sound like it had dirty or at least weird connotations, but Peter ended up smiling shyly. He chuckled again, softer and out of happiness. His eyes crinkled around the corners of his lids as his face softened. "Really? Thanks." He chewed on his lower lip briefly, thinking, _It would be so cool if that were true – if I was copying people's abilities because my soul saw something in theirs that was similar, that clicked. That would be so great. Sex isn't that different – connecting with someone, intimacy … yeah, it's sort of all the same thing._ He pulled out of his reverie to look at Sylar, much more willing to be inclusive with him. "You want to come play pool?"

XXX

Peter looked pleased as punch about that and upon review, Sylar realized his words sounded like…well, they'd had something intimate in whatever crazy (probably imagined) future Peter had been to, when the empath got his ability. It also highly implied that Sylar had a soul to touch. _Maybe I do. It's just dark and stained._ He didn't see where the compliment lay but Peter was happy with whatever he'd said. _Does that make him like some abilities pervert – also 'rubbing' up against people without their consent?_ He narrowed his eyes at his companion, adopting a more normal gaze when the man turned to him. "Um…sure." This was more Peter's kind of game, more physical, and, of course, involving what equated to weapons – heavy balls and large sticks. _Or…is that really gay and he wants me to play?_

XXX

Peter racked the balls and rolled the white, nicked, and well-used cue ball towards the other end. He asked, "You know how to play?" Peter was not all that good at it, but he'd played dozens or maybe scores of times in smoky bars while in college and at Bretty-Brett's parent's house when they were in high school. He knew the rules and he'd seen some amazing trick shots demonstrated, but he personally was doing good to get the ball to do anything more sophisticated than roll in a straight line. He'd never put much effort into it, always more interested in the people he was playing with than the game itself. Just like now.

XXX

Sylar stood and selected a cue stick, the darkest of the bunch, from the wall rack. "Yeah." It was a simple game and he could have figured it out even if he didn't know how to play, but Nathan sure knew how. Briefly chalking his cue, Sylar looked over at the racked balls. This was to be an informal game, then, and it looked like Peter was going first.

XXX

Peter waited for a long moment, but Sylar had finished with chalking and was looking at him expectantly. Under the loose house rules Peter had mainly played with, the guy who racked the balls was not supposed to be the one who went first, for reasons of potentially arranging the minor spacing between the balls and thus affecting the break. But whatever – they were no bets riding on the game, so it didn't really matter. Peter just went around the table to do the break himself. He was much more engaged in finding out if Sylar thought Nathan's soul had survived the death of Nathan's body, regardless of how winding the conversational route turned out to be. "How do you tell what's a soul and what's not?" A single, long stroke with the stick sent the cue ball to impact against the massed triangle of targets. Disappointingly, the center ones stayed roughly in place, with only the two rear corner trios of balls spinning off across the table. None went in, though a few bounced off the bumpers.

XXX

"I never looked for evidence of a soul. Why would I?" he asked rhetorically. Sylar looked up as he thought about it. If his goal was killing people (or if that was somewhat unintentional result) why would he search or feel any better if his target/victim had a soul? Wouldn't that make things worse? "You're not one of those nuts who think everything has a soul, are you? Is it so questionable that you have to ask?" Pious Peter had turned into Doubting Thomas and it was so uncharacteristic, even from what Sylar knew of him, that it was shocking. Sylar made a shot, pausing to look smug before remembering it was still his turn. He missed the next one.

XXX

"No, I don't. People have souls, nothing else does. At least … well, I don't know for sure." Peter took his turn, calling his shot and pocketing a ball neatly and easily. They were always easier at the start, when there were more choices. "As far as animals go, and what exactly goes to heaven – dogs, pets, that sort of thing – I don't know. What happens after I'm dead isn't really the point of faith anyway, not for me. The reason I'm asking is because abilities change so much about how we see the world. And yeah, they change things like whether I can fly or heal, but there's other changes, too, that I'm trying to figure out – the whole time travel thing, and destiny, and … stuff." He trailed off there, wanting to add 'identity' but suspecting that might torpedo the conversation, it being insensitive in the extreme. So he went back to the metaphysical. "If you did look for a soul or something like it, would you be able to … tell? Did you ever have an ability that let you sense … that?"

XXX

Sylar looked up. "No. Maybe some abilities help with that more than others…I've never had those abilities. Why would you want to be able to tell? Either they exist and most people have one, or they don't – pick a side and operate with that assumption." He watched Peter in the process of making his move.

XXX

Peter huffed quietly. He couldn't get the information he wanted, about Nathan's identity or Sylar's sense of Nathan's identity, by 'picking a side and operating with that assumption.' He was hoping and assuming there was some evidence for one take over the other, but the only person available to him who might have that information was Sylar. He couldn't see how to ask about it without being more explicit about what he was aiming at. 'Explicit' didn't feel right yet between them.

But Peter was not one to give up easily. _Maybe I can try a different angle._ He put the same philosophy into play on the pool table, picking a different shot than the one he'd been working on, trying and failing to get the right position. He pointed at a different ball and then the pocket he was now targeting rather than calling it out verbally. "The thing we were talking about earlier – that day in the future? - well, before that happened, a future version of me … kidnapped me and … put me inside a guy on Level Five. You were there, on Level Five – not inside a cell, but you fought with Elle." He missed his shot, but he didn't worry about it. His unhappy pause was due to remembering his death threats to Sylar over the attack on Elle. _Is this likely to upset him, too?_

XXX

"I know. I was there. /Ma// told me. One of the bank thieves,," Sylar interrupted and waved the story (or whatever the fuck it was) onward. He was getting annoyed but maybe there was something new he hadn't heard or maybe Peter's point was finally about to be made.

XXX

"Don't-" Peter cut himself off with a scowl and a shake of his head. _She's not your mother! You don't get to call her that!_ But she also wasn't some innocent who needed Peter's protection, particularly if the relationship Sylar was intimating was one she'd asserted herself. He sighed and rolled his eyes, looking away and visibly conceding Sylar's right to use the word 'Ma' in relation to her. It was a big deal for Peter to do even that.

Testily, he changed the subject away from wanting to argue about Angela and back to the previous thread about souls. "What … what was going on there with him and me? Do you think that was me as a soul or just … me … somehow? Because that other me from the future came back while we were robbing a bank, stopped time, and pulled me out of there. Then we went to the future." Peter made another introspective frown. _H_ _e was a real asshole. I should be better than that. Am I that much of an asshole already?_

XXX

Sylar shrugged, calming now that some (more) sensible questions were coming to light after so much useless buildup. "We never found your body. I'd assume it was everything about you in him." ' _In him' I can't believe we both just said that without laughing… 'He put me IN him.'_ Sylar licked his lips to avoid chuckling. He was sobered by the comprehension that his own…'transference' was not a full and complete one, and he considered what that meant for what was left of his soul. _I had a body and a mind wandering around in two different bodies._

XXX

Peter circled the table, eyeing the balls until he found a shot he thought he could take. He stooped, touching the table with the middle finger of his right hand, balancing the slender end of the stick on his forefinger and thumb. The bulkiness of the brace limited the angles he could choose from and had a lot to do with why his break had sucked (and likewise, why he'd hoped Sylar would do that duty). This time it went well – the called ball went in the labeled pocket. He had three balls of his seven in the hole now.

_'Everything about you' – is that the soul, more or less? But in that case my body was along for the ride. Is that different than what happened to Sylar? What did Matt do to him? Was it just a mental command, or can Matt manipulate people's souls? Is that what we're doing here? Is this really Purgatory? Or Hell? Didn't Sylar say it was Hell?_ Peter rubbed at the bridge of his nose, the mess of questions giving him a headache. _Beating around the bush isn't getting me the answer. Maybe it's time to take the plunge._

He drew in a deep breath and let it out. "You … have more insight, more personal experience with this sort of thing, abilities, and this soul stuff in particular, than anyone else I've been able to talk to." He swallowed, leaning against the pool stick, taking the final step. "When Nathan and I went to that hospital room in Odessa, Matt said you were inside of him. And that if Nathan- if you," Peter shut his eyes painfully for a second, "if whoever I was with touched Matt's hand, it would let you out. When that other me from the future touched Jesse, I came out." He looked aside uncomfortably. "Of course, time was stopped, so maybe that doesn't matter." He looked back to Sylar searchingly. "I just want to know what happened."

XXX

Sylar's face soured. Not only was Peter asking about sensitive things, he didn't even have the decency to…to what? There was no nice, polite way to phrase any of this. What bothered him more was that Peter couldn't…tell who he'd been standing with. How could he not know? Didn't Peter care or was he trying to be politically correct? Gripping his cue with both hands, he stared back at Peter for a moment. "No, you want to know what happened to Nathan." Sylar could, and did, say it. Nathan was dead and feeling no pain but Sylar, still alive, was in agony, living with a source of abrasion and danger how many times over. Yet still what held Peter's interest? The dead guy.

XXX

Peter's lips made a tight line and he grimaced. "I want to know what happened to _both_ of you - if there was even any 'both' involved or if that was just you, alone."

XXX

"Nice save," Sylar snarked bitterly. "Your interest has always been for him, there's no need to pretend otherwise and placate the crazy person you admit wishing had died instead." Sylar lined up a shot and took it, mostly missing and skidding the ball aside without much force. Angrily, he straightened and grasped the stick again. Peter knowing what happened didn't change anything. "What I want to know, since I am the one still alive, is what would you have done if I showed up on your doorstep, looking like _him_ ," he spat, "asking for help, and you knew Nathan was dead or that I'd killed him?" It was so morally laden and Sylar knew it; knew it and didn't care. He wanted to know that if he could have fooled everyone including himself into believing he was that scumbag, that he could have been welcomed somewhere, had a home; if he, as whatever apparition and abomination he'd been, could have been enough for Peter that way.

XXX

"He's my _**brother**_ , Sylar. Of course I care more about him than the guy who _murdered_ him!" There was nothing to apologize for in that and it confused Peter that Sylar didn't see that. But to the rest of what Sylar had said, he responded, voice raised in anger, "And you _did_ – showed up on my doorstep, looking like him, asking for help. And maybe I thought it was him, didn't know you'd killed him yet, but I knew it that night." Peter pointed at him, growling, "You slept safe in my bed, all night long, Sylar, so drunk you couldn't have fought me off if you'd wanted to." He tilted his head and took a step closer. "I knew … we both did." That had been a long, sleepless night for Peter, confused, horrified, and helpless, trying to find something sane in an insane situation, drinking in the bitter dregs of how awful his mother was. He'd forgotten entirely the national holiday that was to come with the dawn. His mother hadn't, though. What would have happened if she hadn't come by?

XXX

Of course he'd been safe, whoever he'd been at the time – Peter would spare Sylar to help Nathan (only to kill Sylar later to completely save Nathan). It was a very dumb question, one without an answer. Sylar wondered if Peter knew how convoluted this was for him; nothing about his situation could be separated from a corpse, they were intertwined _still_. It was things like this that made him wish to be mortal, made him wish he'd been the one to give up if living his own life was going to be like this, leave the two obviously loving brothers together and forfeit his own body. That would have been the decent thing to do. Peter's words reflected the hopelessness and complexity of the situation – he'd been welcomed in and cared for but the care and love wasn't intended for him and it never would be. He wanted to cry from overwhelming stress and frustration, he could feel it begin to bubble up as the silence grew and he had nothing to say or do.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar crumpled – no answer, no rebuttal, just the silence. Peter was still wound up though, still agitated by Sylar's outrage that he wouldn't have helped him. Had he known Sylar had just killed Nathan, then he certainly wouldn't have and it was bizarre that Sylar even thought he might. It didn't make any sense. He reviewed Sylar's words again and asked sharply, "What you mean by 'you're the one still alive'? You say that like something happened to both of you and you just happened to survive. Didn't you _kill_ him?"

XXX

That caught Sylar's attention. He'd been stupid to engage in this conversation with this man, holding a weapon with plenty of projectiles around and Peter was between him and the door. The hostility Peter was leveling at him made it seem like the casual game of pool was over, one way or another. An image kept running through his head, that if he answered wrong somehow, Peter would break that pool stick in half and jam the sharp edges into his hands again, pinning him to the table and… _Of course, I killed him_ , he nearly blurted. _It's not that simple. Is he going to sit and listen to what really happened or…? Why do I get penalized for defending myself?_ Sylar turned around and returned his cue to the wall rack, moving towards the couch slowly. "I meant that I'm alive and he's not. It's complicated," his tone sounded needy, begging and he hated himself for it, but he did not want to talk about and relive this. He sat and raked his hair back with a hand he hoped wasn't shaking. "It's complicated," he said again, almost to himself, feeling his headache roaring to explode his brain with throbbing.

XXX

Peter laid the pool stick across the nearer corner of the table, following Sylar slowly and at an increasing distance. When Sylar sat, Peter stopped. Hands at his side, Peter's voice was back to near-normal as he said, "Simplify it for me."

XXX

"I don't want to talk about it," Sylar nearly whispered his voice was so soft. It was a request; one he didn't expect would be understood or granted. At the same time, he was aware Peter might…snap if he didn't answer, and answer well. He didn't look at Peter and wondered if he, too, would have a panic attack. It felt like Nathan's stupid ghost was hovering over his shoulder, ready to take control of his body at any minute and Peter was goading him, tricking him until it happened so he could pounce. Peter didn't understand, he'd had a part in this, and here he was interrogating him like Sylar was required to divulge this, with no thought of how painful it was. It didn't make sense on multiple levels, though Peter's motive made sense. Perhaps inflicting pain was the purpose. He touched his book and wanted to sink into the couch, hide, and be safe.

XXX

Peter rocked back on his heels, brows pulled together and an expression of great concentration on his face. He crossed his arms as he regarded Sylar. _What if he_ can't _talk about it? Did he really kill Nathan? Why isn't he saying he did? (Maybe he did and thinks I'll take him out.) Yeah, true, but what if he didn't do it? If Matt can make him think he_ is _Nathan, then he could make him think he killed Nathan, too. What if Nathan isn't dead? (What about that corpse?) Well, what about it? I saw Sylar's corpse, too, and here he is. Nathan thought I was dead while I was in Ireland. Ma must have known I wasn't and she still let him believe I was._ Peter drew in a very deep breath and let it out slowly, cogitating. _If she'd do that, she'd be willing to let me think Nathan was dead, too. But then what about Sylar telling me that Nathan's dead? Well, how would Sylar know? Maybe that's what he's been told happened. Maybe he's got implanted memories along with all the other memories. Is there any way for me to find out?_ Much as Peter wanted to pin Sylar to some flat object and bludgeon the truth out of him, he knew that wouldn't work. There might not be any truth there to get and pressuring Sylar for it was just … cruel. The guy looked like he desperately wanted to crawl off and hide under a rock at the moment. _What I need is trust and collaboration. I'm not going to get that if I'm beating him up, physically or emotionally. I need to know what his side of the story is. I'm only going to get that when he's ready to tell me._

Peter walked forward slowly, going to one knee in front of Sylar and putting his left hand on one of Sylar's knees. He looked up at him and spoke in a low, steady voice. "Sylar," Peter swallowed, "I know what I've been _**told**_ you did, to Nathan and to other people. And I know what I've _**seen**_ you do, in the past. I **knew** those things before I came here to get you and I didn't show up here to hurt you." He paused for a moment, feeling his way through what he had to say as he was going along. "I know it's complicated, maybe even more complicated than I thought. We don't have to talk about it, but I won't understand until we do - _ **if**_ we do." Peter gave Sylar's knee a pat and shifted his weight back, changing the subject and raising his voice back to normal. "I'm going to go scare up lunch for us, okay? I'll go by your apartment and get your pills while I'm out."

XXX

So Peter left the obvious weapon behind, it didn't mean anything; he was a hands-on guy. Sylar went still and stayed that way even through the shock of being touched. For once he didn't want to be touched. _Um…What?_ He stuttered and stared at Peter but not _at_ him. That tactic usually kept him out of trouble. _He keeps saying that._ There was no combination of factors in which Sylar came out unscathed. _Wait, what does that mean, 'but I won't understand until we talk'? 'Scare up some…'_ Sylar made a jerky nod, watching as Peter left. He sat there, listening intently for minutes after the doors shut behind Peter, waiting to see if he came back.

Time seemed to both slow down and speed up now he was alone. Sylar covered his face and finally remembered to breathe. What if Peter had pushed him to talk? Thinking about it, talking about it, let alone explaining it or informing the guy's brother of all people…it was almost unthinkable. He resented Peter for wanting to know, like he lived to provide Peter with information about Nathan. What he had to say would sound stupid, it wasn't believable, he didn't have all the damn answers and it was literally the most personal thing he could talk about, his mind. When his hands moved away, the palms were wet, his nose was runny and clogged. Sylar didn't know what was happening to him aside from some stress, he didn't know what was going to happen to him and there was nothing he could do. Eventually he lay on his side and let the moisture tickle the bridge of his nose and his temple, staring at the door still until, after a quiet forever, he felt better and dozed.

XXX

Peter returned after an hour, give or take. He arrived back with the aforementioned painkillers and their lunches in the canvas carry-sack. He came to the entrance of the rec room and lifted the bag. "Sylar?"

XXX

Sylar jerked and opened his eyes with difficulty, lifting his hands on instinct. The voice wasn't close but it was loud enough. "Huh?" He saw it was Peter, in the doorway with a bag and he relaxed. Remembering what led up to now, he wiped at his face and sat up as his headache allowed.

XXX

"I picked up some frozen dinners. Let's go up to the penthouse again to warm them up." He forced a laugh and turned to lead the way to the elevator. "I'm starting to understand what you said early on that you spent a lot of time cooking. I'm getting tired of what little I know how to fix. You think you could take over cooking in the evenings? You could tell me what to get from the store and I'd come back with it."

XXX

The request sounded awfully domestic. _That makes me the woman doing the cooking and him the man, bread-winning and picking up groceries? Should I be insulted by that or flattered that he trusts me not to poison him and cook better than him?_ At least this was harmless to talk about. "Sure," he answered after a few second's thought. "Cooking's easy. You have to be precise and you'll know if it doesn't turn out right. You won't starve if you fail but you can do it over and over again and…not get bored. The results are fun." He shrugged, hoping he'd made it sound more like an acceptably masculine hobby.

When they got to the suite, Peter offered him a choice of frozen dinner; he chose spinach artichoke ravioli. He let Peter warm his own up first because he wasn't feeling hunger as much as the other man probably was. Belatedly he hovered around to make sure Peter didn't need help opening something or lifting the trays, otherwise he got them water and utensils. There wasn't much to say on his part but it felt like the pressure storm from earlier had passed.


	77. Death Story

Day 26, January 5, morning

It was a peculiar sort of mental torture to want to ask about something desperately, but have to restrain yourself from doing it. Doubly so when Peter suspected Sylar felt obligated or required to answer, if the question was put to him. It was his regard for Sylar's mental integrity and a sense of empathy that constrained Peter more firmly than any order imposed from outside might have. The subject of Nathan's soul, his death, or Sylar's experience of either was of such immediate importance to Peter that forcing himself to pass up the opportunity to learn more about it was like slowly twisting a dinner fork into his own leg. But he did it, for a while anyway. He left it strictly alone for the rest of the day. He even managed to leave it alone the following day, despite repeatedly fantasizing about how he'd open such a conversation. He waited until the third day's breakfast of pancakes was cleared away before bringing it up, and even then, he wasn't bringing up the subject per se.

He took a seat behind the desk, resisting the urge to fiddle with the puzzle pieces in front of him, an incomplete work from the day before. He swallowed, exhaled slowly, and said, "I want to talk about which topics are off-limits and which aren't. To have that kind of a list was dumb of me. There are things we should be able to talk about, if you want to talk about them. I just … wanted to say that. There's … there's no list."

XXX

Sylar just looked at him. "There's always going to be a list, Peter. I'm used to them…even if I don't always…follow them." He noted the irony about the use of the word 'list,' although it was clear Peter wasn't referring to the other type of record. In fact, the 'no fly' list was helpful – it gave him boundaries and vulnerabilities to exploit.

XXX

"You …" _Me? Because I'm the one who wants to know stuff here. Selfish._ "Shouldn't be limited in what you want to talk about. If you want to talk about it." Peter glanced away guiltily, then back. He knew he was making this sound like a concession to Sylar when it was furthering his own ends. _But Sylar said we weren't really talking …_ _This is important to him, too, right?_ "There are things I want to ask about, but if I don't allow you the same opportunity, it's not right. Like Truth or Dare where only one of us has to answer." Peter made a small frown. "You don't _have_ to answer me. But that doesn't mean I don't want to know." Peter gave a short, bitter laugh. "It's just that me getting what I want … that doesn't have to happen."

XXX

Peter was babbling and that meant he had an agenda, but it was likely the most obvious choice. "You don't want to hear your own voice that badly, so what happens if I don't want to talk about it, hypothetically?" he tacked on the last word with pure sarcasm.

XXX

Peter sighed. _Yeah. I'm that obvious. (It's not like I was trying to be something else, after all.)_ "Nothing will happen to you. And nothing will change for me, either – I'll still _want_ to know, and I still won't."

XXX

Sylar's lips exercised themselves as he pretended to think, not like he had much choice. Peter thought that by poor attempts at flattery he'd appease Sylar into…therapy for…Peter about Nathan, somehow. _Wait…the crap about me is obviously false so he just wants to know about Nathan. Is there any way this can backfire on me? I could disappear…He'd only see me as a portal to Nathanville and Nostalgia City. Or does he really just want or…even need to know this? If someone killed…my mom, I'd…yeah, I'd just want to know._ "It sounds like I really want to talk about this whether I want to or not." Before Peter could butt in, he went on, "Peter, the thing is, you're not…going to like what you hear." _And you're going to get upset and when you get upset, around me, there's only one person you can tear apart, the guy who's making you sad and upset even though he's just doing what you wanted in the first place. I don't trust you to 'talk' about this unless I'm behind a bullet-proof barrier. This can't end well, not for me anyway._ With more consideration in his voice, he asked, "I just…answer some questions? And you'll leave me alone after?"

XXX

Peter gazed at him steadily over the puzzle-strewn desk. "Yes."

XXX

"Fine. But you sit across the room from me," Sylar pointed to back up his demand.

XXX

Peter looked at him blankly at first. _What? Why?_ But the answer was clear: _He thinks I'll punch him in the face. He doesn't even know what I'm going to ask!_ He frowned, unhappy that Sylar thought such precautions were necessary. Sylar raised a brow, just as pointedly as his finger had been. If Peter wanted his answers, then he needed to move. With an abbreviated roll of his eyes, Peter got up, rolling the chair around the desk to the space before the front door, while Sylar moved to his bed, putting the desk and distance between them. Peter sat down, both feet on the floor, both hands on his knees.

XXX

Once Peter had done it, Sylar uncoiled some. "What do you want to know?"

XXX

This was easy enough to say. Harder, he knew, to hear the answer. "I want to know how Nathan died. I want to know why you killed him." He carefully didn't put it as a question itself, nor as a demand – 'tell me how Nathan died' or 'how did Nathan die?' It was just a statement of what he wanted.

XXX

_This is going to be fun._ He knew it wasn't going to be pleasant but there less complicated and graphic things Peter could have asked. Sylar licked his lips and looked away. _He's not doing this to put me in the hot seat._ That thought helped immensely. "I cut his throat. He died quickly in a chair." Sylar and Nathan had both seen enough deaths to know when one was good and quick.

XXX

_A chair? Why a chair? Was he sitting down?_ Peter leaned forward, eyes narrowing. It _was_ a hard thing to hear, even though he knew it had happened (or at least knew that as much as he could know something in this world of changeable reality). Even the smallest detail gave him something to hang onto in the face of the emptiness he felt inside when he thought about his brother.

XXX

"He'd crash-landed in the suite and was…standing up to re-engage me." He wasn't stupid – that self-defense card was thinner than air when he had his powers, including regeneration. He could have easily held Nathan off without even being touched or breathed on. They both knew that. Nathan never stood a chance and Peter had little more of one but he hadn't been there at the end. The senator had chosen to be defenseless, aside from Peter.

XXX

"You," Peter paused to take a deep breath and swallow. His emotions were starting to rage inside him despite his intention to learn as much as he could. "You used telekinesis. Why didn't you just … hold him, choke him or whatever, like you did to me at," Peter tried to clear his throat. It was getting tight. "At Kirby Plaza?"

XXX

Ever the pacifist, Peter was obviously aware of that contradiction. "Killing him became…part of my plan and…he'd hunted us, all of us." _It didn't have anything to do with you! I swear. If anything, I did it for you and Claire and everyone._ It felt like walking on his own grave to speak of this, choking, sorrowful, but it wasn't regret over killing the man, but that he had, in a way, killed himself.

XXX

"Was that how it was for all the people you killed? Were they 'part of your plan' and that made it okay?" His ability to speak was fine, apparently, if he was using his voice as a weapon against Sylar. Now it was raised and vicious. Peter started to get to his feet, aborting the idea before he finished rising so instead he just lurched in the chair. He was restless. It was a damn good thing Sylar was on the other side of the room and if he didn't want this to descend into violence, he'd better keep his ass in the chair. "Did he ever hunt _you_? Was it personal somehow?" Like that would help – Peter didn't know if it would, but he wanted to know anyway. He wasn't abreast of what Nathan had been up to with Homeland Security – for all he knew, he'd had Sylar trapped in a cell and personally tormented in … no, Peter couldn't, wouldn't think that of Nathan. Not Nathan. Teeth slightly bared, he looked to Sylar for an answer.

XXX

Sylar ignored Peter's angry spitting, including things that weren't involved with the topic. "He never took up a gun or a syringe against me in person, but he went after all of us: me, Luke and his mother, Micah, my dad – not that I'd mind seeing him carted away – Claire, you. It was the same thing you always do: stop the bad guy from whatever threat and save all the innocents." Sylar tilted his head at Peter to make his point about their similar views/goals then shrugged. "Nathan had to pay for what pointless shit he'd already done and…he needed to keep his head down until…Well, he didn't take his chance to keep his head down."

XXX

"He-" Heat and chill passed over and through Peter. He wanted to point out that he didn't kill the bad guys he stopped, but Arthur's body lay between them, metaphorically. _Nathan was not a 'bad guy' …_ but that, too, was weak. Peter himself had sworn to stop Nathan in any way possible. They had reconciled less than a day prior to his actual death. Depending on how you judged the reconciliation, it was only minutes before that terminal event. It really wasn't Sylar's fault that he hadn't gotten the memo that Nathan had reformed. Peter drew in a shaky breath, remembering how a future version of him had seemed to have few compunctions against shooting at his brother with murderous intent. He swallowed, confused by the murky morality, surprised by how such a black and white subject had suddenly become so grey. He'd almost missed the rest of what Sylar had to say, jerking his head up to seize on part of it. "What chance?" His voice had lost much of the righteous fury it had held only moments before. His words sounded as off balance as he felt.

XXX

_I guess I forgot he doesn't know this._ "I worked with Danko." He let that sink in. It should have been obvious he had his own agenda, one that had nothing to do with supporting or aiding Nathan's stupidity. "I was around Nathan sometimes, but he didn't know who I was. I never met him until the night before Stanton, in his office in D.C. Danko drugged him and saved his ass when I needed him awake." He snorted with disgusted bitterness, "I needed his memories then. I left him and later he showed up at Stanton with you." _So really, if you'd just stayed away, the only person who probably would have died was the President and a few secret service._

XXX

"I found him in his office ..." Peter said, mostly to himself. Looking searchingly at Sylar, head slightly tilted, he asked, "Why did you leave him alive only to kill him later?"

XXX

Sylar wondered if Peter merely didn't understand or was focused elsewhere or if he was supposed to have some more complex master plan when the nurse asked something he already knew. Patiently (though who knew who long that would last), he restated, "I needed him awake so I could get his memories."

XXX

That wasn't the answer Peter was looking for. He frowned, then snapped, "And now you've got them." Lip curled in disgust at the turn of events, he asked, "Was that you, or Matt?"

XXX

"Matt…somehow." Sylar made that very clear, emphasizing the name. "He gave me more than…what I was looking for. I only needed his career information." That was weak. There was a lot more to Nathan, even he knew that now.

XXX

Peter made a long, slow intake of breath. That verified it was Matt. Good – he wanted to know that. He wasn't sure whether or not to be offended that Sylar only wanted to use Nathan's experiences and as a result had no need for the rest of the human being he was interacting with, but it was hardly surprising. It wasn't like he'd used his other victims as anything aside from abilities on legs. He shook his head slowly. It was actually to the benefit of Peter's regard for Sylar that he'd killed people for so straightforward of reasons. Peter moved on to another lingering curiosity. "Why did he die in a chair if he was trying to re-engage you?"

XXX

Okay, that had been a weird detail to give. "He fell back into it after…" Sylar made a waving 'you know' gesture since the phrase 'get your fingers wet' had sent Peter into a panic attack earlier. It was a slight kindness and, well, he didn't want to remind Peter overmuch as it was counterproductive.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said quietly enough to be a near-whisper. His mind flashed over his memory of the wound on the neck of Nathan's corpse. The medic in him wondered how deep it was, how instantaneous the effect. Did he have time to stagger? Did it sever both carotid and jugular? If it was just the jugular, then Nathan's brain would have continued to get fresh blood until he bled to death, which even though that would have been within a minute or two, cutting the carotid would have blacked him out within seconds. Peter blinked and covered his eyes with his left hand. _I don't want to think about this._ The details were nauseating. Swallowing roughly, clearing his throat and sniffing, he reached for the most complicated mystery he'd entertained recently, one that had little or nothing to do with Nathan. "Do you remember any discrepancies between the time you left the room with me and the time I met you in the president's limo? How much time passed? Are there any blackout moments?"

XXX

Sylar tilted his head, confused. Peter must have no idea when the switch occurred. Come to think of it, neither did he, not truly. "No…" he said slowly, still thinking. "The last thing I remember is seeing you in the limo. You must have…brought me to them and…" Here his eyes narrowed. "I'll assume you weren't there to witness what they did to me." That was partly what it sounded like – an accusation. There was no way Peter had known – he'd been surprised and devastated to learn of Nathan's death. _What would he have done if he'd been there?_ Sylar couldn't wrap his mind around the image of Peter standing there, allowing Sylar's mind to be raped and obliterated while helpless under the influence of drugs or abilities. _Would he have…protected me or…preserved Nathan?_ He felt his throat clench at the thought of that kind of deliverance, but a thought was all it was.

XXX

"No," Peter responded. "I had no idea." He exhaled heavily, remembering that night. "We drove the car around, got you out of it, and turned it back over to the Secret Service. I gave you to Noah. He was the one who gave me the tranquilizer. He said it would work on you." It had not been Peter's expectation that Sylar would die from the shot or even necessarily that they (Noah, the Company, his mother, whoever) would kill him later. But Peter had felt his part was done – he was neither judge, jury, nor executioner. Sylar was stopped; Sylar was turned over to what amounted to the authorities; next thing Peter knew, he was invited to Sylar's cremation, where he got to reflect on how betrayed he felt by the whole turn of events.

He didn't think any of that would be comforting for Sylar to know. Saying he hadn't expected an execution wasn't much of a defense because he'd done nothing to prevent it and several things to make it possible. He doubted Sylar would understand that Peter's following isolation from his family and even what passed as friends was the result of how morally void he'd found the whole thing to be. Disaffected, he'd turned away from everyone. What had really transpired behind the layered veils of secrecy? "Did you wake up as Nathan or were you still you? Where were you? Who was there? What happened?"

XXX

"I…" he began but his voice failed him and he was quiet for a long time. Once more Sylar considered Peter playing an angle because of the lack of focus on anything Sylar could deem to be Nathan-related. This…sounded like Peter was asking about _Sylar_. He couldn't see why the other man would even be curious. The Petrelli almost came across as understanding but that was the placating nature to squeeze his source, in the event the answer had something to do with his brother. Sylar forcibly ignored the desire to feel…comforted because it wasn't for his comfort at all. The only thing that pushed him to continue and get it out was his sort-of agreement to answer Peter's questions. "My body…adopted…Nathan. I…found the Carnival. You know how it went. My mind…got stuck with Parkman and the rest is ancient history." Sylar skipped over his own story since it was hardly the focus and he hadn't agreed to talk about that.

XXX

_I know how it went? Actually, I don't._ Peter's brows lowered. Every sentence spawned new questions. First, though, he wanted to rule something out: "Can you get rid of Nathan's memories? Do you want to?"

XXX

Sylar blinked and his head came up in surprise. "What?!" Had he ever tried to get rid of them? No…but he'd never given it serious thought because how would that even be possible? He'd gotten memories returned to him from Damien at the Carnival but that was different. He'd gone to Matt to get his powers suppressed and that was as close as he'd gotten to anyone who could (or already had) fuck with his brain. The part that stunned him was the tiniest hint that he didn't want to get rid of Nathan's memories, all of them. How could he not want the multitude of violating, disgusting images and feelings gone? For the most part, they were nicer than his own, everyone thought Nathan was better than Sylar had ever been and Nathan had things – love, a career and prestige and family (sort of). Of more importance right now…Nathan had had _Peter_. Without the memories, Sylar knew he'd be sunk with the empath. It was advantageous to have and keep them and…Sylar had always liked playing pretend until he was made to do it to survive or feel safe. How sick was he that he'd even consider keeping them? How could he want that? After all that had flown chaotically around through his brain, it struck to him what Peter was either offering or threatening along the lines of his questions.

Sylar knew his eyes got wider and he got to his feet with shaky brevity. _Shit and he's by the door…_ With as much menace and dead-seriousness as he could exude, Sylar pointed at the other man. "I'm only going to say this once. If you try that, I will kill you." _If I even think you're trying to Haitian me again, I'll kill you._

XXX

_Then I won't. I didn't intend to try it._ Or so Peter thought initially, almost blurting out something of that sort before his brain for once moved faster than his tongue. _Wait … he_ wants _Nathan's memories? They're not his! He has no right to them!_ Peter's face hardened, lips pressing together and eyes narrowing. He turned his head a little to the side without taking his eyes off Sylar. _If I could, would I take them from him?_ Peter's eyes dropped a fraction, staring vacantly at Sylar's chest. _He didn't ask for them. But he did want them. I'd take them if I could have them, but just to lose them? No. Even in his hands, it leaves something of Nathan still … alive._ He looked back up, eyes more present, reading Sylar's features.

_Fear. He's afraid of that, of losing Nathan's memories. They mean something to him. But not as a trophy – as something else. If I try to remove those memories, there's not going to be any 'try', I'm going to 'do'. I don't want a stand-off with him about this, though. Not until I understand what it means to him._ "I have your memories. I don't think about them much. What do you want me to do with them?" Peter asked simply enough, his expression having cleared and shifted to more empathetic and open, honestly wanting to know Sylar's thoughts on that. It would give Peter insight on what Sylar felt towards Nathan's memories and perhaps some ideas about what to do with the undesired and unintentional mental baggage Peter had picked up during their battle at Mercy Heights.

XXX

Peter didn't respond to his very serious statement, instead he answered with something worse. Sylar couldn't tell if it was a riposte threat or a continuation of the conversation, either way it wasn't pleasant. _Oh, God,_ was all he could think. _He_ _has_ _them all. That's how he knew...that stuff earlier. I don't believe him that he doesn't think about them often; how could he not? Why wouldn't he want to?_ So Sylar was left with a weakened, powerless hand pointing uselessly at the other man, standing with nothing to do and nowhere to go, though he looked around for something to occupy himself with, arm dropping in the process. His throat felt scratchy and raw and he hadn't spoke yet, the violation and vulnerability Peter had was incomparable to what he had in Nathan's memories. For one thing, Nathan was dead and gone, a third party at that. But Peter had life ammunition, everything he could ever want to twist Sylar any way he wished. He had no way to hide or even lie.

Dumbly, he stood there, working up a response. "I'd tell you to destroy them but I know you can't. And why would you?" That was said hopelessly, with slight acknowledgment of the irony. Once more, he searched for an escape and found none. Voice ragged, he finally answered, "Just ignore them. They're not…I...I don't remember things correctly…a lot. Whatever you see, it's probably just…It's all screwed up." _He already knows that. Jesus, how can he stand to look at me? Talk to me?_ He felt filthy. Sylar sat gracelessly, still reeling. One thing became clear: "That's what it's like for you, with Nathan's…No one knows you better than he does and so do I and now you have those from me," Sylar gestured with a finger, the hand itself not leaving his thigh. "At least we're even," he said with humor he didn't feel. _He knows me better than anyone else ever has. That…must be just as horrifying for him as it is useful._

"How did you get them?" That would give him a timeline of some kind. _He said he ignores them…why? If I ask it, though, he'll get ideas._

XXX

That was a good question. Not that Peter didn't know – he did – but he had already been entertaining a level of uncertainty about reality-as-he-knew-it. Was there any other possibility? _When I got the ability from Rene maybe? What about later, when I met Matt? Is it something about being here – is telepathy feeding me the information and I'm just thinking I had it from Mercy Heights?_ His brow knit slightly and he frowned – that last one was really hard to disprove. "I think I got them at Mercy Heights, using … when I took all of your ..." He shrugged loosely, eyes falling sightlessly as he realized how that must have been to Sylar, not that Peter had cared too much at the time. Even now, being ambivalent about it, he knew it was murder. Or an attempted murder. Or maybe a successful one that Sylar came back from. Peter wasn't sure what it was, but one look at Sylar's face made it clear he wasn't discussing something easy for the other man to hear.

Peter's voice softened. His brother's killer or not, Sylar was a human being who seemed deeply affected by that event. Gently, making eye contact, he said, "When you wouldn't give me Nathan, and I took everything out of you that wasn't him – I think that's when I got your memories. I'm not positive because I didn't start seeing things until I was here with you, but … there wasn't as much triggering them until I was here, either."

It occurred to him Rene must have Peter's life story from that assault Peter had endured in the cargo container, before the torturous trip to Ireland. He sighed slightly. The thought didn't bother him much. The idea of people knowing things about him, by itself, wasn't distressing. A little embarrassing maybe, but he hardly saw Rene, he was a family friend (rather than enemy), and it seemed like he had some good intention in what he'd done, painful as Peter had found it. As opposed to Sylar wanting Nathan's memories to help assassinate the president, and having them forced on him later so he could perpetrate some demented, possibly grief-fueled plan of Peter's mother. Peter could have been talked into giving Rene the same information, whereas he would have fought Sylar possessing it.

XXX

Sylar got the intended feeling that Peter really didn't care much for even thinking about this _. (He said 'your' not 'you'). He hasn't acted…violated or put-out except when he jumped me with accusations. But that still doesn't make sense._ "Then why do you keep asking me questions you already know the answers to?" _Is it a test? Another one of those medical ones or…just seeing if I know my own story?_

XXX

Peter looked at him blankly for a moment, Sylar's previous words now making sense, asking him to pretend the memories were false. That was only relevant if Peter had delved into them. _He must think I … know, remember, have paid attention to? those memories._ He shook his head. "They're not mine. I don't …" Peter huffed, shoulders rising and lowering as he tried to find words to explain something so purely mental. "It's like when I dream. If I have a dream about someone cutting me off in traffic and then getting out of the car and turning into a dinosaur, stomping down the street stepping on cars, and I get out of my car to stop him but my only power is shooting lasers out my fingers, and they're really narrow, needle-like beams that go forever, shooting through the dinosaur and anything behind it, like buildings and people and I can't figure out how to stop it without slicing up everyone near-" Peter cut himself off. One, Sylar probably didn't give a fig for Peter's weird, vivid dreams. Two, it said way too much about Peter's insecurities and he was getting anxious just thinking about it. And three, the dream's details were irrelevant to the current discussion.

XXX

_Right. And I'm the crazy one who needs to sleep alone._ Sylar could only stare, forcefully keeping his expression blank instead of…anything else. At first he'd thought Peter was pulling things at random to make a point but…not so. Sylar grasped Peter's underlying fear regarding his abilities. The difference was where Peter feared, Sylar had lived them – any evil thing he could have done, he had already done, intentionally or not.

XXX

"Well, when I wake up, I know that was a dream. It didn't happen. That wasn't really me. That's how it is with your memories." Peter looked off to the side. "I don't … think about them. They aren't part of me," he said, looking back. "It's something I've … I've got, but I don't see it unless I think about it. Like, maybe, opening a book. Or concentrating. I have to actually think about it and I don't do that." He gestured at his head in frustration. "I don't want this. I don't think you want me to have it. I don't want _you_ having Nathan's memories. So if I don't want you knowing what he knows, then I can't be using the information I have about _you_. It's … cheating. It's wrong. I _do_ ignore them, as much as I can."

XXX

"I don't believe you, but that's beside the point," really it was. He would never believe or even know if Peter 'focused' on the memories (the most evidence he would have is Peter saying, knowing or asking about strange things).

"But you looked before, when you said you knew it was foreign…matter." Sylar pointed out. "You were curious then, what's to stop you from being curious later? I'm not going to tell you anything; you know that. The only way you'll get an answer is by searching or 'focusing,' whatever the hell you want to call it. So when you don't get your way, you'll…start looking. You won't be any different from me, except you have a choice, or so you say."

XXX

"I didn't look _on purpose_. At first I thought you were … projecting thoughts into my head. Or dreams or something, but I couldn't figure out why you'd show me that." He grimaced, not upset at the idea of seeing Sylar being sexual, but at the confusion he'd felt at the time about why Sylar might elect to reveal something so personal. It had been too tender to strike Peter as boasting. His grimace faded, remembering the way Sylar had thought Elle was so beautiful at that moment she nearly glowed. Seeing her through Sylar's eyes, she'd looked so lovely and heartbreakingly sweet, that something good had happened … Peter shook his head and palmed his forehead, trying to block the memories he hadn't intended to re-explore. "I- that's-" He made a low grunt of frustration.

XXX

Sylar glared, trying to see through Peter to get to the truth. "How could I 'project' anything at you? You're the one with telepathy! It happened more than once; you didn't control it; you _chose_ to look. I thought you cared about intent," Sylar sneered. One way or other, he was going to get a better answer out of Peter.

XXX

Peter lifted his head enough to glare back at Sylar. He didn't like the man's tone – words even less so. He was getting the impression Sylar was deliberately calling him a liar, on something that was akin to a point of honor for Peter. Teeth slightly bared, he bit the words out: "I did _not_ choose to look." Peter straightened in his seat, making what was hopefully his last defense. "I was asleep the first time. I didn't have any choice and I didn't have any control. I didn't know what was happening. Since then I've left it alone."

XXX

"Really? How many times have you successfully ignored it? Does it build up? Does it disturb you if you don't take a peek?" Sylar couldn't help the feeling of betrayal he had. Peter had known something about him, regardless of what he thought it was or how it got there, and he hadn't informed the owner, 'hey, I've got something of yours. It was this moment. Did you mean for me to have that?' The more rational part of him, the colder part, decided he didn't want to know every thing Peter saw about him, at least that way he wouldn't have to chase down and deal with a dozen new demons as Peter saw into his past. _Why do I care if he sees it? (Because…I changed to get away from everything that happened. No one can know. And he'll use it against me)._ If he didn't know, it wouldn't hurt him…until Peter ambushed him with whatever ghost from his closet at whim.

XXX

Peter shifted restlessly in the chair, the wheels making slight noises with the motion. His body was tensing. Defense was not going to get him anywhere. "Just like you asked me - why would I keep asking you things if I already knew the answers?" he burst out. "Do you think I'm that bored that I'd play that kind of a game with you?" It flashed through Peter's head that whatever machinations Sylar had been subjected to made this a poor line to use with him. People had, after all, pretended to be his family. It wasn't so odd to imagine Peter might pretend to be ignorant for a few weeks. Shaking his head, Peter got to his feet. He would not be cast as the same sort of fucked up manipulator as his parents. Also, Sylar needed some perspective. His personal crisis had nothing to do with why Peter was here – to save lives, a mission to which Sylar was being a frustrating obstacle. Drawing himself up, he spat, "It's not that hard to ignore, Sylar. Despite what you might think, you and your fucking memories are not the center of my universe. I just shut it out and focus on what's important! You should try it!" The last was a challenge, complete with a jerk upward of his chin.

XXX

Sitting on his cot, Sylar stayed where he was, aiming at contrary to upset Peter more. He was stung and angry at being dismissed so easily (but he doubted it was that easy in for Peter to do in reality). It was intentionally disrespectful but Sylar had ammunition of his own. Giving plenty of attitude, he fired back, both barrels, "You're right, Peter. The next time 'your fucking brother' decides to make an appearance, I expect you to shut it out and focus on what's important. After all, he's dead and I'm very much alive." Well aware of the glove he'd just slapped Peter with (and he was escalating the situation), Sylar fully expected things to get violent. So much the better because it would show the empath's true colors: the holier-than-thou and hypocrite routines.

XXX

Peter took a step closer to Sylar, which still left them most of the living room apart. "Like you had nothing to do with that? You _murdered_ him! Just because it was 'part of your fucking plan' or whatever!" He made a wave of his hand and arm that managed to be both dismissive and disparaging at the same time (the two weren't much different, anyway). "Your ' _plan'_ to kill the bad guy, right? Your ' _plan_ ' was to murder someone! That's what you set out to do! And anyone else who got in your way, I'll bet." Peter pointed, unnecessary though the emphasis was. His raised voice and snarling tone conveyed his bitter intent just fine. "If it weren't for what you did, I'd have _him_ to go to instead of _you_!" Peter looked away to grimace and wince from a stabbing ache from his jaw, reaching up to rub under his ear. He looked back up at Sylar with visible loathing, lip curled and eyes dark.

XXX

Sylar's look was incredulous. "Is that supposed to hurt my feelings? Make me feel guilty?" Peter's 'attack' was a real miss as far as he was concerned, taking the easy out Sylar supposed he'd unintentionally presented. He wanted Peter riled up, angry, swinging even. "Boo hoo, your big brother is dead. Shit happens and life sucks. You're not special that way. It sounds-"

XXX

Whatever Sylar had intended to say beyond that was lost to Peter. He was on his way across the room at 'shit happens', concepts flashing through his mind at that interesting lightning speed the mind manages when fight-or-flight is triggered. People often referred to it by saying everything seemed to slow down. Peter had never had that sense, but he didn't doubt it worked that way for some. For him, there was an instant awareness that hitting Sylar with his right hand was dumb; hitting Sylar in the head, at all, was dumb; and Sylar had a low enough opinion of him to think he'd do it. It added up to the perfect feint, because all Peter really wanted to do was get his hand on Sylar's throat and shut him the hell up. He came in with his right hand high and pulling back for a punch. His left was lower, ready to strike forward but he was hoping Sylar's attention stayed on the more obvious threat.

XXX

Mission accomplished, Peter was approaching him with a crazed look of rage. For the moment, it made Sylar feel satisfaction. And it was familiar; he knew what was coming, he knew the motions. _His right…?_ He wondered at the choice of raised fist. ' _Oh, well; this will be funny'_ was his abbreviated realization. To ensure Peter maximized his own stupidity and pain, Sylar stayed put, neither bracing nor flinching from the oncoming blow, watching as it drew closer and larger in his vision.

XXX

Peter's punch whiffed and he grunted, missing the front of Sylar's face by at least a half inch. Managing not to hit the guy took more focus and attention than he'd expected. What he _had_ expected was for Sylar to help him out by blocking. That the guy would just sit there instead and let it happen? Bizarre. But Peter carried through with using his left hand to seize him by the throat and shove him backward as far as he'd go on the narrow bed.

XXX

Sylar's shock – _how could he have missed?_ – lasted only seconds. _Whoa!_ His eyes went wide as he felt but didn't see the grip that propelled him backwards by main force. As their lower halves mindlessly settled themselves, Sylar laughed aloud, gleeful and smug at Petrelli's reaction. _(I made him do that! That's power!)_ Being strangled in his bed was ironic in a not-amusing way. Being strangled by this man had promise. Being in his bed with Peter, in this vague position (as near as he could tell) was…Okay, Peter seemed a little intent with the whole throat-crushing thing. Sylar could feel his body reacting before his mind caught on to the threat. Equally angry at being disrespected and certainly not going to take… _this_ lying down, he jabbed his own dominant fist into Peter's side, the other hand tangling in the empath's hair and yanking it back to hurt and discomfit.

XXX

Peter tried to foil Sylar's body blows from the left by having his right forearm run interference. Most of his attention was on adjusting his left-handed, one-handed grip on Sylar's neck. Pressure poorly applied would take a lot more strength and (more importantly) time to have the desired effect, but if he got it right, then Sylar would have mere seconds to take potshots at him. _Medical training is good for something_ , he thought as his fingers dug in. _Lau_ _gh at this, you son of a bitch!_ He snarled into Sylar's face, a bestial noise emerging rather than words as all of his rage played out in his wild-eyed face. He ignored the hand in his hair as much as he could. Losing some hair was not nearly so important to Peter as losing blood flow to the brain was to Sylar.

XXX

_I can breathe…I'm not hitting him…I'm not…_ From there any action and thought weakened. Peter wasn't messing around. Sylar could feel his strength and cognition fading with every heartbeat and it left him with the primary emotion of powerless, phobic terror. _**(He's going to Haitian me!)**_ That much was understood. Panicking hands gripped at Peter where he could as his body felt weightless, his veins hollow yet burning; he thought he was moving his legs but he couldn't be sure. His vision narrowed and blackened frighteningly fast. _(It's quick, it's quick…)_ Death would be quick, lonely as promised.


	78. Pulse II

Day 26, January 5, morning

Peter pulled in a few breaths, feeling Sylar's pulse reassuringly present under his left hand, which was still in place but no longer bearing down. He waited as the man roused enough to hear him. Teeth clenched and jaw aching with a constant pain, Peter leaned close to growl, "Yeah, life sucks - real funny. You know that thing you said earlier about killing me if I tried to take Nathan's memories from you? Well, I've got something I care about that strongly myself. As long as I'm alive, you will show some _respect_ for what you did to him and what that means to me." Peter wasn't sure what he'd do if Sylar refused – kill him, torture him, get inventive, break his word and abandon Sylar entirely? Not knowing, he left the consequence unstated, but there was no way in this hell he was going to allow Sylar to mock his brother's memory – that he was sure of.

XXX

Sylar inhaled deeply. His esophagus and trachea felt fine, if a little pinched or bruised around the edges in a couple spots. He kept gasping; panting just to get his heart to keep up even though Peter's hand was nowhere near his forehead. That was good. Thoughts were fuzzy, his body felt drugged, sluggish, also fuzzy until the blood began to pound through his skull at massive rates. The reverberation had to be audible to the other man, and God, it was painful. Sylar groaned, not recalling how he got here but happy he was in bed and that Peter was comfort- The angry Italian's words slowly penetrated his mental fog. _What is he- what were we talking about? Is he checking my pulse?_ Sylar blinked languidly, melting in place despite his bitch of a headache. He could feel his legs splayed around Peter, smelled Peter's breath on his face, but the intent look he was getting was far from sexual (in fact, it looked pretty berserk). He lifted watery hands and wrapped his fingers lightly around the other man's wrist, clasping and stroking it sensually. Loopy as hell, he grinned, "Bet you say that to all the boys you choke in bed." _Choke?_ Where had that come from? It fit the facts and the scenario and it sounded a lot more like Peter behavior than whatever this was. It didn't overly concern him. "Whatever you say, Petey," he purred and slid a few fingers up underneath Peter's shirtsleeve to caress his forearm.

XXX

_What? Did he not hear me? Or … did he not understand it?_ Peter hesitated, caught between being outraged at the inappropriateness of Sylar's behavior and confused by it. People often had wacky, disoriented reactions to coming out from under anesthesia. Although he hadn't choked that many people out in his life, he suspected the mechanism worked the same, meaning Sylar's behavior wasn't a continuation of some kind of death wish and Peter's instinctive desire to hit him until he made sense was wrong on several levels. Peter went from fire-breathing righteousness to befuddled helplessness fast enough that it made his head spin. No longer shunting away inconvenient sensory input, Peter's awareness of the ache in his jaw increased and he winced. He looked down at where Sylar was touching him ( _that's nice, though_ ), at a complete loss as to what to do.

XXX

Peter was warm and so close, not reacting to being petted. That acceptance sent a jolt through Sylar, it felt like his breath left him again, this time from arousal. He felt a noise bubble up but it didn't make it to the surface yet, his desire an overwhelming drug. Since that had gone so well, he wanted more; he wanted everything. _Yes, bed. Do it here._ Sylar wrapped his legs around the back of Peter's thighs, one hand sliding up his arm to bury itself in the empath's beautiful hair, sending the free hand down and around his side, aiming to pull Peter atop him and grope him if it was allowed (and maybe even if it wasn't). Sylar shifted his hips back and forth in anticipation but Peter wasn't close enough to make contact.

XXX

_Um, uh … wow … no?_ Peter swallowed, apprehension and unwanted pleasure washing through him. "No!" He said in a strangled voice of his own, putting out his hands to either side to lift himself up and prevent Sylar from pulling him down again. He hadn't expected that, or any of this, really. A few moments ago, he'd been trying to get his angry point across as forcefully as possible. Now he was trying to be gentle with someone who maybe didn't know what was going on? At the very least, Sylar wasn't being insulting, disrespectful, or threatening, which removed violence as an option.

Peter tried to extract himself, but Sylar was not cooperative with it. "Sylar, let me go," he said with an attempt at a calmness he didn't feel. Anxiety and other things coiled in his stomach. His body and certain parts of his mind liked what Sylar was doing way more than he wanted them to. "We were just fighting. I'm still pissed. Let me _go_." His voice rose a little with alarm at the end as he realized Sylar was really into this, slow humping included. _Does he have an erection?_

XXX

By the time Peter reacted, their groins were pressed flush together; Sylar slowly ground against him, every full shift of motion dragging his dick against another live person – this person – was nirvana, pure and simple. He couldn't think, could barely speak, he just needed and needed it very badly. "Shh, Peter…" he grated out when he was able. He felt weak and heavy with heat.

XXX

There was no doubt Sylar had an erection and if this continued, Peter wouldn't be far behind. As it was, it felt like his hair was standing on end with tension and excitement. He shuddered and some traitorous part of his brain reminded him of how long it had been since he'd had an intentional and completed sexual moment, even purely masturbatory. That length of time probably wasn't healthy. Sylar looked good, smelled good, sounded good, and Peter's brain was overloading with tangled emotions and desires so complicated it made the Gordian knot look like cat's cradle. Panting, he shifted his weight to his left hand, using his right to push Sylar down and away from him. "No," he said firmly, hand still on the other man's shoulder. Voice softening just a little, he added, "Let go of me. This isn't happening. We are about to have a fight, in your bed, in your apartment. Things will be broken."

Peter sounded, and was, genuinely unhappy about that prospect. He didn't want to fight in Sylar's bed, nor his apartment. If he hadn't said something to Sylar about beds being a truce area back when they were snowed in at the penthouse, he had meant to (even if sitting on it and provoking him wasn't part of the deal, Peter regarded _now_ , when he wasn't blind with rage, to count). Then there was Sylar's apartment – he was clear that its contents mattered to Sylar and somewhere along the way, that had began to matter to Peter. He didn't want to wreck the place or the things in it. Some of them might be truly irreplaceable – just like his reputation in Sylar's eyes. He didn't want to be known as the guy who destroyed what few personal possessions Sylar had left in the world.

XXX

Again, Peter remained motionless (or close enough to it), allowing Sylar to act on his desires and touch the other man. His hand ghosted over the back of Peter's waistband and petted and stroked in his hair; he was seconds away from lifting himself up to attack Peter's neck when the spell was interrupted. Sylar was more swollen and stiff than he'd been in years, panting and flooded with sex, resisting being pulled back, pushed away and told 'no,' like he was hearing now, as if he could be turned on and off like an inanimate switch. He made some kind of protesting, hyper-reluctant noise that sounded entirely too needy but he didn't move away. _He doesn't sound threatening but I know he doesn't care if he breaks things…He's giving me an out, I think. Why do we have to fight?_ Letting go was contrary to Sylar's urges, contrary to his experience with success, too. Taking things got him what he wanted; a simple 'no' wouldn't stand in his way. Why did he have to stop because someone else said so? _Because we'll fight and break stuff at the very least. And he still won't fuck me._ It was more than a shame, because Peter looked so ready.

XXX

_Fuck._ Peter was getting hard despite himself. His breathing had deepened, his skin felt warmer, and Sylar was looking so sexy it was absurd. He could barely connect the person he was looking at with the person who had, moments ago, been laughing about Peter's dead brother. Thoughts of any kind were getting difficult to string together sequentially, but he knew he'd have no problem at all in enacting something sexual if he gave himself permission to do it. Which he wasn't doing, even if he couldn't have told anyone why at the moment. It took him longer than it should have to realize Sylar wasn't holding him back anymore – no, that was Peter doing it now. He lifted himself away slowly, very aware of how his leverage to rise came from pressing his knee into the mattress right under Sylar's groin, the heat of Sylar's body riding his thigh and making his pants unbearably tight.

XXX

Sylar could feel the cold and loneliness rushing back over his skin when Peter moved away, teasing him pointlessly with his knee in the process. He inhaled and held his breath to prevent making a reactionary sound to that, not wanting Peter to know how it affected him. He couldn't even look at Peter, ashamed and enraged in the wake of the sadness. _(I can't throw myself at him any more clearly than that and he still doesn't want it)._ He realized Peter had been looking at him throughout most of…it. _(Oh. No wonder; my face turns him off…Just like everyone else)_. Obviously they weren't in the proper position to engage in anything more. _(And I'm hard, I'm turned on and that's…not arousing._ After all, Peter had that no kissing rule). All he knew was that he wasn't good enough and he disgusted his only companion. God, he felt low and he couldn't remember why taking this treatment was required, hence his anger. So he lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling, uncaring of what, if anything, Peter did. He couldn't move or speak until he had himself more under control, ignoring that reflex to clutch, hold and seek comfort in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

XXX

He shuddered again, more coherent thought becoming possible now that he had some distance. Peter raked his well-mussed hair out of his face, gave Sylar's wantonly displayed form a thorough and hungry once-over with his eyes, and walked stiffly over to the chair next to the door. He stood there silently, hands loose at his sides, letting his breathing slow down and his erection fade. He listened to Sylar's movements as Peter tried to sort out what had just happened, fixing the chronology in his mind. Because he definitely needed to remember all this for later. He was pretty sure there was something about morals and scruples he should be thinking about as well, but that wasn't nearly as important at the moment as remembering every action and touch.

XXX

More in uncomfortable shock than anything else, he acted out the steps anyway, not as interested in them as he'd been before. His stupid kink(s) couldn't ever be met and that killed a lot of it for him yet he kept on with the script. Quietly, he rasped, "We don't have to fight. I thought that was the point…" _I'm not the one being difficult._ His dick didn't get the time-out message; it was still throbbing away in his tight-as-hell jeans. After rubbing up against some _one_ , he could have rubbed up against some _t_ _hing_ , hell, anything would do, but it lacked appeal. Lewdly, and before he knew if Peter was even looking his way, Sylar was rubbing his hands over his denim bulge, giving himself some kind of stimulation. He was so keyed up it still felt better than it had in a long time. "I know you're hard, Peter. You've been looking to burst ever since you got here. I saw you in that suite and you were happy to fuck against me in bed," this was said in the voice of temptation, intentionally seductive.

XXX

Peter looked back over his shoulder, the words 'Fuck off,' dying in his throat and never making it out. Sylar's voice was a sex-god's purr and what he was doing to himself ... Peter's breath caught, eyes following first one hand (moving up and down across Sylar's groin), then the other (circling lazily on his chest). If there was a conscious thought in his head, it didn't make itself known. He just stood there and stared, the animal part of his brain locked in mortal combat with his morals.

XXX

Sylar managed a lazy smirk, feeling another's eyes on him before he confirmed it himself, looking into Peter's face. _Now that I have your attention…_ He sent a glance to Peter's groin, spying the erection he'd hoped to see. Having a better idea of what Peter wanted was helpful and recent; otherwise, Sylar had little idea how to go about seducing a man other than…well, everything he'd already done – bluntly and physically offering sex. Mostly he was recalling some of the things others in the past had tried to ply on him. Acting interested wasn't too hard at the moment. He gripped his shaft and arched his back slightly, making a calculated writhe, "Hmm. You're hard now; that made you hard? Finish it." _Finish me!_

XXX

Peter made a pained growl and looked away, wanting to leave but finding himself confused by the wheeled chair in front of the door. It didn't belong over here. It belonged over at the desk, right next to where Sylar was. _Maybe I should put it back?_ He had the feeling he was looking for an excuse and that was wrong. He knew he needed to sort that out before doing anything – figure out what he wanted to do, what he needed to be doing. _I need to get out of here. I_ have _to get out of here before I forget what's important. What's important? What started this?_ With embarrassing difficulty, he dredged up thoughts of Emma, fingers bloody in the dream; and of Nathan, though the image that came to Peter's mind was actually Sylar in Nathan's guise, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and nailed to the stack of plywood at Mercy Heights, right after the change and before Peter had released him. That _felt_ like the last time he'd seen his brother, even if he knew it wasn't.

XXX

"How long has it been for you? I'm sure we can…work something out," Sylar fished for more information, if he was doing something Peter didn't like or if Peter wasn't getting something he needed. By now his brain had awoken enough to remember that he had been choked out and came to only to get an erection and sort of jump his attacker. That was more than a little awkward – it didn't say great things about him but choices and options he was short on. It invited…worse things, things he wasn't a stranger to but he would prefer another approach, another theme. _Whatever works with him_ , he reminded himself.

XXX

The memories Peter had pulled up had had the intended effect. His desire ebbed fast – it was like a cold shower to remember how much this man hated him, laughed at his pain, and shrugged off the needs of others. It made all of Sylar's enticements right now look so insincere, so hollow – so much easier to dismiss. Glancing back over his shoulder again, he said heavily, "Don't mock Nathan's death." He pushed the office chair out of his way and reached for the door.

XXX

Talk about another shoe to drop, a bomb in the conversation. It went a long way towards killing Sylar's southern blood flow, nearly the epitome of boner killers. It made him more angry or upset than sad. Peter acted like Sylar and Nathan were completely divorced from each other, having no interlocking or overlapping areas even now. "I think Nathan would want you to get laid," he shot back because what did Peter know about Nathan's mind? It wasn't the best (or smartest) he could come up with but it was what came out. If it was 'mocking' again, maybe Peter would come back and try it again.

XXX

_Well, that makes it easy to leave._ Peter walked out, not even dignifying Sylar with a response. _We started talking about how Nathan died, got some good information (sort of), he made fun of me being upset he died, I choked him out, then he woke up and … yeah. That was not going to work. At all. Asshole._ Peter shrugged, trying to loosen his shoulders and ignore how close Sylar's come-on had been to 'working' no matter how much he tried to tell himself there hadn't been a chance in hell. A good long walk sounded like a great idea. Hopefully he'd think of a way to pretend none of this morning had happened.

XXX

No such luck. Peter's resistance was stronger than he expected. How many people could face something they obviously found sexually arousing at close range and turn away from it? It inspired respect and resentment in Sylar at the same time; of course, his own body's demands were winning. He still wanted to hit something, maybe scream just to let off the tension. Stuck between anger and the blues, his erection wavered as he tried to decide what to do about it and how to cope. _He still thinks he's better than me; thinks I'll be here, waiting for him and only his touch._ Sylar sneered around the room at nothing in particular. It was true, sick and true. _What's that like – to have someone…wait for you, eagerly? (I'm not eager, I'm just…) Horny. Deprived. Instead of stroking his dick, I'm stroking his ego._ With those depressing considerations, his dick finally made up its mind and faded from its upright state. Sniffing, he told himself _,_ _I don't feel like it right now._

_('Not right now, honey; I have a headache'). Fuck!_ Sylar did snap this time, burying his fist in his own pillow like he couldn't seem to strike back effectively against Peter, not even to be treated like everyone else in the empath's eyes, not even for acknowledgement or a tiny bit of respect. It felt good though he felt a twinge of something unpleasant when he realized he'd struck his own property, an object that had been as close to a comfort as he'd had the past four years. That pillow had seen and heard things, felt his tears, intentional or otherwise, all that time. _I'm losing my mind. It's a goddamn pillow and Peter fucking Petrelli got a fucking hard-on from_ me _._

XXX

Hours later, sometime around noon, Peter knocked, wondering idly if they should talk to each other about a messaging system – some way to tell the other when they were out and planned to be back. One of these days, he'd come back to find Sylar was off on his own errands and it would be … worrying (was he really worried about Sylar? Yeah, he was, a little) not to know where the guy was. Such was the tone of Peter's thoughts that showed he'd fully compartmentalized the events of the morning, cutting out the parts he didn't want to think about (again, ever) and retaining the rest. He would have never made it growing up in the Petrelli household if he hadn't developed a strong ability to ignore unpleasant words and actions directed against himself and continue on like nothing important had happened.

XXX

Sylar blinked at the sound. He hadn't thought Peter would come back, not today at least. _Is he getting…used to me?_ He was annoyed, relieved and curious. He couldn't deny it made him feel better that Peter had returned to him or…come back for more…Narrowed eyes greeted Peter upon opening his door – because he wanted to control _some_ part of his environment. A brief check showed the other man wasn't interested in that way.

XXX

Peter walked in, lifting a plastic bag containing a carton of eggs and a squat, green bottle. He glanced over Sylar, checking his reaction as much as he could under the guise of being casual. "I thought I'd make some egg salad for lunch, or maybe egg salad sandwiches." They were soft and wouldn't aggravate Peter's still-tender jaw. "You okay with that?"

XXX

"Come in," Sylar remarked with dry sarcasm after Peter had let himself in. _He really thinks he owns everything doesn't he? No wonder he's jealous when I can do things he can't._ The next part lacked conviction or heat, _such a spoiled brat_. Eggs were the topic of choice. _I- We- Eggs? That's how he wants to…? (It's a dodge). Yeah._ Rather than answer a straightforward, preference-laden question, Sylar retorted with subtle revenge, not minding his tone, "Don't you have to refrigerate them first?" Peter might be king of ignoring things he didn't like but Sylar wasn't about to let him get away with it, not entirely and certainly not for long.

XXX

Peter looked back at him, perplexed. "Boiled eggs, you mean?" Sylar's body language was a vague affirmation. Peter shrugged. "If you want them cold, yeah. They're better warm." Hot, fresh, done right – they were perfect with the albumen cleaving apart easily and the yolk flaky and yellow all the way through.

XXX

Virginia had always served them cold and quite flavorless, high in protein. They'd been a fun snack as a child, the textures entertaining. Sylar lifted his chin to say 'oh' in as many words or gestures. Peter's presence took a lot of wrath from him; sparking Peter up again could lead to loneliness for the rest of the day if he wasn't careful. _I'll…play along_ , he thought as his stomach rumbled. _Let him think it's okay. He was horny and close, so ready. I just need to…warm him up and play his game a little, that's what he wants, what he's trying to train me to do._ Besides the kitchen was hardly the place to fuck. Any upset about disrespect, treatment or identity was unfortunately nothing new; Peter would continue as he was, doing what he did and Sylar couldn't change.

XXX

Peter nodded and turned into the kitchen, setting about getting the eggs on to boil. "Could you set the table?" he asked softly when Sylar joined him. So maybe he wasn't _completely_ ignoring what had happened earlier. He just didn't know how to deal with it.

XXX

Sylar's eyes slid to the side, looking at Peter that way. _Yess, he remembers. I notice he didn't tell me not to do that again, just not to 'mock Nathan.' Just no kissing._ Playing Peter's game wasn't even that painful, all choking aside. "Of course," he murmured in reply. He made sure to brush too close to Peter on his way to get plates.

XXX

Peter gave no more than a cursory glance to Sylar's close pass. It wasn't invading his space and he was trying to shut thoughts of Sylar out of his head. Pan filled with water, burner on, he was now worrying over when to add the eggs. _Have I ever boiled eggs? Surely I have._ If he had, his memory was unhelpfully blank on the subject. He was good at cooking eggs all kinds of other ways – scrambled, fried, omelets, even quiche and poached if he had the right equipment. But boiled was a mystery at the moment. _Um, it's just like pasta, right? I wait until the water boils, then add the eggs. How long do they boil for? Seven, eight minutes like noodles? I guess that's right. They're a lot bigger than noodles, though. Bigger things take longer to cook. But how much longer?_ With a sinking feeling, he remembered hearing something about cooks priding themselves on a perfectly boiled egg, implying it was easy to do them wrong. He frowned into the pan of still, empty water. _There was a class held just off the college campus that we made fun of – 'How to Boil Water 101'. Is there a right way and a wrong way to boil water, too?_ Trying to shrug off the negative thoughts, he rolled his shoulders and looked over at Sylar. Peter gave him a small smile, maybe friendly, maybe just hoping he didn't botch the cooking too badly. He went back to watching the pan fixedly because there was nothing else to do.

XXX

_He likes the attention_ _. L_ _ook at him, soaking it up._ Sylar didn't hurry with the plates – for one thing, water and then eggs had to boil first. He turned with them in hand and eyed Peter with interest, uncaring if he was caught or if it bothered the other man. _Sometimes I think he doesn't understand how much he could have, then…_ He swallowed reflexively, recalling the man's relentless grip around his throat – dangerous and driven and quite precise. That much was sexy about the attack. _He likes to play rough, too._ Sylar continued scanning the profile of Peter's body until he couldn't justify standing there with a pair of plates in hand; then he moved to deposit them on the table.

XXX

Peter glanced back after Sylar moved, having been aware of the look (how could he not be?), but not doing anything about it. He went back to trying to disprove the adage about watched pots and boiling. He didn't mind being looked at – it was the intent behind the gaze that made him uncertain. It was hard to think anything about it without thinking about the events of the morning, so he avoided the subject entirely.

XXX

Cups and silverware were next then Sylar decided to try something. Peter was at the stove; the table and chair restricted the passage behind him; the goal of the fridge was beyond both. So he squeezed in behind the man, acting up that the chair was immobile and the light body-brush was necessary, groin to ass. It made him flush warm that Peter would tolerate this and his dick felt good against Peter once more.

XXX

Peter twitched forward at the contact, light was it was, hips against the stove in a polite attempt to create space. He twisted and looked back because there should have been enough room – and there was. Sylar could have moved the chair, which Peter now reached out with his foot to rudely and pointedly shove into place at the table. _He did that on purpose._ Peter gave him a nasty look, a 'what is wrong with you/I'm onto you' look and then back at the pan on the stove. Since nothing was happening there, he changed position to one more common for him in Sylar's kitchen – butt leaned against the counter, hands on the edge of the counter on either side. He took the corner with the stove on his left and sink to his right. It gave him an unobstructed view of the entire kitchen and more importantly, of whatever Sylar was up to. He hunched in on himself ever so slightly. Peter eyed Sylar's faux innocent act for a moment before picking up the egg carton and examining it instead, wanting to have his hands in front of him rather than at his sides. Despite taking these obviously defensive precautions, his conscious thoughts remained firmly in denial mode, trying to ignore the implications of what Sylar was doing. _Maybe there are directions for how to cook the eggs printed on the carton, like there are for pasta?_

XXX

A glare was all he received, hell; the chair got more action than he did in a retaliatory act. Other than that, Sylar was ignored, at least partially. Peter oriented on him and literally covered his ass, keeping an eye on Sylar as he pretended to read about eggs. Casually, he decided to snoop. He approached and got close alongside Peter, his focus on the pan of water (not yet hot and unlikely to burn him if used as a weapon) but to look in, it brought his shoulder against Peter's, as well as the sides of their hips and arms. It was a snug fit between them, if not very sexual…for a moment. There were no eggs in the water yet and the next thing he knew, the world was spinning and Peter stood, arm extended from a shove as he glared some more with Sylar now a few feet away. "What the hell?"

XXX

Peter had nothing to say. His teeth were bared, eyes fixed on his antagonist, waiting for a reason to escalate – any reason. He'd switched the eggs to his right hand, the carton held precariously between thumb and forefinger. His left arm, the side Sylar had been on, was coiling for another … whatever he needed to do. Dousing the guy with water sounded like a good idea. So far he'd only shoved rather than slugged. In Peter's opinion, he was being the very model of restraint.

XXX

"Seriously, Petrelli? The silent treatment? That's mature." Sylar rolled his eyes, completely dismissing the aggressive vibes that were rolling off Peter. "If you need help boiling _eggs_ , let me know." To test the empath further, Sylar walked closer to him than he should have, though they didn't touch per se, under the guise of getting a drink of water.

XXX

"Stay the fuck away from me!" Peter shoved him again, putting the eggs down roughly to free up his right hand. He regretted not having much room to maneuver now, but it sure gave him great leverage to push the guy away. Sylar had him boxed in and kept crowding close, like he didn't have the whole rest of the apartment to be in. "I know what you're doing and it's not cool. Cut it the fuck out!"

XXX

The second shove didn't totally come from behind but it was a near thing; it came as Sylar was passing by, almost sending him into the table and chair, overshooting the sink and stumbling. "What the hell? I was checking the water," Sylar frowned. He had a legitimate curiosity and since Peter was close by, contact was a natural factor. Right? "You can't walk around with a five foot perimeter, Peter. It's just not going to work." _For one thing, I'm not good at keeping my hands to myself, as you already know._ "You get in my space all the time and you never ask and sometimes you don't even have a reason. And this is my kitchen," _but it's his food,_ "but I'm sure that means nothing to you. So don't expect me to roll over and let you do whatever you want." He did have some limits after all.

XXX

"So that's what this is about?" Peter grabbed onto Sylar's last statement with a verbal attack. "You think I'm going to …" Peter lifted his brows in mock question before supplying the answer, "roll you over and have my way with you?"

XXX

_Um…yeah. How else could it possibly go?_ Sylar thought.

XXX

" _ **No**_ , Sylar. What happened earlier was _you_ , from the beginning. You sat there and egged me on," his voice was accusatory, though he wasn't following it up with his usual pointing. They were too close. Sylar might grab a limb extended too close to him and Peter didn't want to be short on appendages to hit the guy with if it came to that.

XXX

_Oh. No, it still stands. Of course it does. He just wants to blame me. I wasn't even talking about that part_. Whatever. He's going to talk about whatever he wants. Sylar's face was annoyed, barely holding back the eye-roll he wished to make.

XXX

"That's why you wanted me on the other side of the room, so you could taunt me and get away with it!" That was pure supposition on Peter's part and probably unfair. He didn't really believe it even, he was just saying vicious things because he felt restrained from expressing his ire physically.

XXX

"What?!" As he protested, Sylar knew that's exactly how it looked and only his testimony said otherwise.

XXX

Peter made another verbal leap, hoping and guessing he actually had said to Sylar that he considered their beds to be zones safe from ambush or assault. "The thing about being safe in your bed doesn't apply if you sit there and intentionally provoke me. It's not some childish 'I'm on base, you can't touch me' safe zone." Peter's voice went briefly sing-song-y for the nyah-nyah part. From Sylar's lack of confusion, Peter gathered he was understood – that was helpful, because otherwise explaining it would be weird. "I offered that in good faith – now you're destroying it."

XXX

Anger and shock were only just held in check, leaking through Sylar's attempt at calm explanation, "You demanded answers. You know how you get when anyone talks about Nathan. I was cooperating until you got rude and insulting. It had nothing to do with sitting on my own bed, you know, where I was sitting before you wanted to ask me questions. I'm not going to move off it if you're going to….attack me in my own apartment. That was what I was saying: it's my apartment and none of it is safe, obviously," he spat the last word. Peter was getting progressively worse, escalating from an unseen punch, to unsettling and handling his things without permission, licking food and now what looked like a murder attempt. _I don't think he has a line where he stops at. That's what I've been saying all along. He's going to kill me and he'll think it was an accident after I'm dead. 'Oops. You shouldn't have talked back to me._ ' "I'm not destroying anything. How was I supposed to know you were serious about the bed thing? You can be safe in yours but mine is a free-for-all?"

XXX

_I didn't 'demand' anything!_ Peter bristled, if such a thing was possible given how worked up he was already. But he let Sylar finish ranting back at him and even tried to listen – tough to do with the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. What made an impression was the 'obviously' and Sylar not feeling safe. It made Peter feel two inches tall, because Sylar was right. Peter _did_ want to beat the crap out of him. For both the mocking things he'd said recently and murderous things he'd done only months ago. Peter wanted to fuck the guy up so bad it hurt (as his jaw was quick to indicate). So yeah, Sylar wasn't feeling safe? It was a realistic observation. With an effort, Peter tore his eyes away from Sylar, looking at the floor to his left. He was panting, a big part of his brain rebelling against even taking his eyes off his enemy. Peter moved his feet restlessly, then turned and looked at the egg carton on his right, managing not to look at Sylar as he turned. He poked it, displacing it a few inches because he could. He still wanted to be pushing Sylar around. It hadn't really occurred to Peter how much of a detriment that lack of balance would be if they fought. But to take advantage of an injured man would be wrong – especially one who was supposedly his patient.

He huffed and griped, "It's not when 'anyone' talks about Nathan. It's when _you_ do." Nathan's murderer, talking blithely about him, was disrespectful and offensive on the face of it. _But you_ _ **were**_ _cooperating earlier. You were answering my questions._ Peter put his left hand over his eyes, unwinding a little and sagging against the counter. He shook very slightly from adrenaline. "I was serious about the bed thing," he said, voice dull.

He dropped his hand, resting it on the counter top next to him. Sylar wouldn't feel so damn unsafe if he wouldn't start shit in his own place. Peter said testily, "Just because it's your apartment doesn't mean you get to make fun of Nathan's death or rub up against my ass. Or any other part of me. Stop crowding me." He glared at Sylar briefly, then looked at the water on the stove for a long moment, seeing it had bubbles forming on the bottom of the pan.

XXX

_Okay, big deal – you were serious about the bed thing. It's not like that's much use now. I can't use it as 'home base.'_ It came as no surprise that he and he alone was barred from mentioning Nathan Petrelli (though Sylar had a feeling Peter was equally uptight when others mentioned him, too). The point was, Sylar was the only one who suffered ill consequences from it and it was all pointless because Sylar was the only person around to mention Nathan. The logic was circular and biased. "It doesn't matter where we are, it doesn't mean you get to make fun of what happened to me, attack me or abuse my things." Even as he said it, he knew he may as well have been talking to a brick wall. Sylar didn't know why he bothered except that it made him feel a little better to verbalize it. Peter's assumptions were bringing only trouble. Unlike Peter, Sylar was unable to change his reputation, pattern, past or origin. "If you're going to ignore that, you should leave," he stated bluntly, looking to instill the significance of the offenses onto the empath. Far be it from Sylar to declare that anything was over, let alone…almost desire it to be over. But Peter was done taking care of him, tolerating him, and talking wasn't going well even when he was getting explanations and answers about things he did not want to discuss.

XXX

Peter was trying to work out when he'd made fun of Sylar, and if Sylar was referring to some recent 'abuse' of his things, when Sylar moved on to ordering him out. Or rather, implying he should go if he wasn't going to perform to Sylar's satisfaction. _Is that what this is? I won't fuck him so he's throwing me out?_ He raised his brows, his body language loosening a bit in surprise that Sylar would go that far.

XXX

Sylar gestured at the door when Peter looked at him incredulously.

XXX

"You're serious?" Peter squawked out, simultaneously offended and thrilled. _I get to leave? I'm done? That's all?_ If Sylar refused his help (despite how much that stung by itself), then it freed Peter of the continual moral dilemma of taking care of him.

XXX

"I'm serious. Go find someone else to play with." Sylar waved him away. "When you don't find anyone else, maybe you'll…play nice with me." That was treading the line of insulting, parental in tone yet hopeful at the same time.

XXX

Peter hesitated, unsure of Sylar's intent – was this a punishment, or was Sylar seriously thinking it would change Peter's mind about anything between them? He remained incredulous. "You think absence is going to make the heart grow fonder, is that it?" Hardly. Being away from Sylar made him ignorable. Peter didn't expect to forget him, but what regard he'd gained for Sylar's humanity had been through association, not separation.

XXX

"Something like that." If Peter grew fonder in the absence of his presence, great, however Sylar's goal was different from that. He didn't know if he should feel some kind of way because Peter either wasn't getting it (still) or because Peter was purposefully not getting it (still). What made it worse was the ridiculous degrees of respect and care Peter willingly handed out without cost to every other human and non-human being regardless of their worth and deservingness. The medic was clearly capable. Unfortunately for Sylar, just as clear was the reason basic respect of property was being withheld. At the end, he was annoyed, looking to bother Peter right back. "I'd be a lot more inclined to believe you meant that if you hadn't sat still and let me rub on you," his voice and body language slid back into deep and deliciously dark again, subtle but present. "I thought you liked that kind of thing, attention and contact." There was no way Sylar was being Peter's act. He'd felt and heard the panted breaths, heard the frustrated noises, held the man's thigh and knee between his legs for a few precious seconds, seen the dilated eyes and straining erection. Yeah, it was all just hot air, living knee-deep in De Nile.

XXX

Anger surged back to the surface and Peter took a half-step towards Sylar, as close as he was likely to get without provoking an attack. Voice raised and eyes glittering, Peter spat out, "I am _**not**_ interested in you!" _Am I?_ Peter snarled, his left hand making a fist, his frustration at being misinterpreted and his appreciation of Sylar's form, if not the person he was, made violence look better and better as a way to hammer his point home – both to Sylar and himself.

XXX

Voice lowered with seriousness, he told the truth as he saw and understood it, "It's just that you're escalating, Peter. You're not going to stop at choking me next time. I might be used to it but I recognize the pattern. You're…overt with it." _Which is both refreshing and disturbing at the same time. How difficult is it for him, Mr. World Peace, to see I have a problem with being strangled in my apartment when he's a guest here and he thought 'beds were off-limits'? He's the one violating everything, not me._

XXX

Peter shuddered. There was nothing he could say to something so patently true. Choking Sylar out had not accomplished anything Peter wanted, so it wasn't likely he'd do it again. Next time … next time he'd do something else. And yes, he'd probably escalate, because he was getting desperate. He was desperate to figure out how to get things moving in a direction he wanted, just to be able to hang out without things going to blows or blow jobs, depending on whether it was Peter's demons or Sylar's who got to pick their agenda. There had to be a way to get a better pattern going.

He backed up, reversing that half-step closer to Sylar he'd taken only moments before. There was nothing else here that was his, so he headed to the door. If he couldn't make things better, then he could at least leave. He passed through the doorway, shutting it carefully behind him.


	79. It's Fun To Stay At The

Day 26, January 4, afternoon

Sylar would admit he was a little surprised when Peter turned on his heel without another word, leaving his stupid eggs behind just to provide further mockery. The Petrelli was nothing if not contradictory, bipolar, something. Sylar wondered if he'd pushed too far. Telling off one's imaginary companion wasn't the best way to determine sanity or to keep said companion around. Only time would give that answer. _(What if he doesn't come back?) He'll come back. He can't stay away. He probably won't do anything different, though – still doesn't think he's doing anything wrong._

So Sylar sat and stared into space replaying the argument, twisting it around in his mind to spot any flaws (on either side), including the contextual moments and managing to focus on the less arousing parts. He maintained his position that Peter was being psychotic, unfair and unkind while Sylar felt he'd at least tried to extend olive branches and be welcoming, taming down his own inherent craziness. When the water boiled, he was forced into action, boiling the eggs with the idea of being spiteful, as if Peter could somehow see him or care, but he really wanted to hold onto them and make useful missiles out of them when next he saw Peter or throw the damn things out. Let them get old and rotten. Or boil them and make them solid for throwing.

He ate a few of the eggs, warm just to try them that way, assuming the protein would do well for him. With nothing to keep him awake (except maybe the returning threat of more violence in his apartment home), Sylar napped hard but disturbed and lonely on the couch until it was dark. Once in bed, he curled up, feeling cold and remembering the night Peter had tucked him in so gently.

XXX

Peter was not broken up about their parting of the ways. It was clearly for the best if things had deteriorated to where they were shouting and shoving over lunch, about to get into a fight he didn't want to have. He wasn't happy about the rejection, but Sylar was (probably) able to take care of himself now. He was at least well enough to pick fights and be provocative. The best thing Peter could do for the guy was to get himself away from him so as not to violently and negatively impinge on Sylar's health. And, as it had occurred to him before, this let him off the hook, morally, for caretaking duties. He no longer had to stifle his enmity and render medical aid to someone he'd sooner let rot.

He walked off down the street with a fairly clear conscience, putting the matter behind him quickly. He didn't feel like lunch (his jaw was aching enough that even a sandwich sounded like too much), so he crossed to the building with the piano and entertained himself playing love songs – because he liked them, and finally Sylar wasn't there to hear them and perhaps take them wrong. After that, he wandered around checking restaurants until he found one that could make a milk shake. Thus satisfied, he made an early night of it, already thinking about the different things he might do when freed from the constraints of playing nursemaid.

XXX

Day 27, January 5

The first day, Sylar waited impatiently. How long was this going to take? Peter was so needy and people-friendly even Sylar was a good option to spend (or waste) time with after all. What could be more important or more entertaining than the only other person alive (especially when that person was offering Peter's favorite past times: nursing, saving people and/or fucking them). Since he was bored, Sylar now had the time and reason to replay the memory of Peter stalking across the room to choke him out in a sudden rage, then linger over his body and allow himself to be pulled atop Sylar, all the while panting, not resisting, and eventually getting hard over it. That Peter was hot for it was hot. Desire was involved and it didn't matter too much what the desire was for, just that it was aimed and associated with Sylar, who would reap the benefits. _If he's going to choke me out every time, that might cause some problems._ His head was still a horrible mess of pain. He took some of the painkillers that Peter had left, resentful of the fact that he was forced to care for himself now _. Isn't he supposed to be here and babysit me? All that guilty care but he didn't want to be here._ Doubt entered his mind then, that maybe giving Peter an easy out was going to backfire.

He stayed home, not up for a search in the gloomy grey yet somehow brightly sunshined between the clouds outdoors, not with his headache. Besides, he had to wait here for Peter. His time was spent reading and puttering around, annoying because he couldn't fully engage in something while waiting, lest he be interrupted. He thought that's what he did primarily but sleep was a large part of his day, blissful for being alone yet haunted for that same reason.

XXX

Peter rose from sleep with something of an erection and managed, just barely, to get it down enough to urinate. It stubbornly returned to full salute while he was brushing his teeth. Snagging a washcloth and some lotion, he walked into his bedroom. At least Sylar could not interrupt him _here_. Reveling in the freedom of having the whole day to himself, without obligation or responsibility, Peter let himself relax and took the opportunity to entertain himself. It had been far too long.

He stood before the foot of his bed, looking down on the rumpled covers and trying to decide what to fantasize about. _Who would I want to see there? Hm?_ _What would really work for me?_ His left hand stroked slowly at his firm flesh. _Who would I want to see in my bed?_ He spread his legs a little, kneading at himself as he tried to bring to mind the faces he most frequently used as his focus. But faces, here, were in short supply. For all the time he'd been here, he'd seen only one other than his own.

That one face was clearest, especially coupled with what they'd (almost) done so recently. _Sylar? Ha. Get real._ He tried to think of others, but the features were blurred. And anyway, his rebellious mind kept darting back to the one thing he was trying not to think about – Sylar's face, looming over him in the hallway a few weeks ago, or under him just the day before, the man's body wriggling so provocatively against Peter's. _Fine, Sylar then. It's just a fantasy, anyway. It doesn't have to mean anything._

Peter's eyes narrowed at the bed and he shook his head, turning sideways to it. _I don't want Sylar in my bed. I want him on his knees. I want him on his knees in front of me, where I can come on his face._ Peter lathered his hand with the lotion and started stroking harder with long, slow pulls from bottom to top _. I would love to see his face dripping with my come. I'd love to make him taste it, that arrogant prick. Maybe when he wiped it off, he'd wipe off some of that smugness, too._

He tried to think about degrading Sylar, or abusing him sexually, but it wasn't doing it for him so he changed the fantasy. _I know, I'd have him suck me. He'd want to do it. I'd let him. He'd still be angry, though. I'd look down on that gorgeously handsome face and he'd be glaring up at me with my cock in his mouth. He'd never bite me - he wouldn't - but I wouldn't know that for sure. That would be part of the danger, not knowing, but letting him do me anyway._

Peter's breathing sped up – a willing participant did it for him way more than otherwise. His rapid pumping changed tempo as he rolled his palm around the head of his cock, imagining Sylar's tongue laving him, exploring the ridge of his corona and teasing the very tip of his tongue into Peter's slit. He groaned, arching back just a little as his hips jutted forward involuntarily. _Oh yeah._ He looked down with narrowed eyes, conjuring Sylar's face licking over him, lips puckered around his penis while those incredible, piercing dark eyes smoldered up, meeting Peter's own and promising to drown him in desire.

_Oh yeah. I'd be fucking his mouth and he'd be staring up at me, never letting me look away, totally focused on me. And he'd be good at it. You gotta know someone with lips like his is going to be good at it. Those lips would be wrapped around my dick, sucking and pulling, like he was fucking milking me. Oh yeah._

He shifted back to stroking, but this time in shorter jerks near the head of his dick, rubbing his index finger up and down against the frenulum. _And he'd want me so much. He'd want me to come. He'd be all into it, really enthusiastic. Angry, yeah, maybe, but really into it, really going to town, letting me in deep, then taking me shallow, then deep again - just whatever he needed to do to get me off. And he'd put his hands on my ass and spread it. Oh!_ Peter's legs shifted further apart as his hips moved in sync with his left hand. His right, damnably trapped in the brace, still managed to stroke his and tease his buttocks.

_He'd spread me. He's got such big hands. Long fingers. Oh God, yeah! He'd brush just his fingertips across me._ Peter ran his thumb up and down his crack, imagining Sylar's fingers probing so much deeper. His dick throbbed and he felt the beginning of his peak forming as a twist of glowing sensation in his gut, spreading fast through his veins. His breath was coming in short pants and he let loose brief whines that punctuated the wet sound of his lotioned hand pistoning up and down on his cockhead.

_His fingers would be playing with my ass while he sucked at my dick. His tongue would be all over it, his lips tight against me, just a little bit of teeth because he'd be trying so hard … oh my God … I'm so close … and then … I'd put my hands in his hair … and I'd stroke it. He's got such great hair and I think he likes mine. Oh God, baby … baby … I love this … please … I love it. I love yo- Wait, what?_ Peter teetered on the edge of release, the knowledge of what he'd almost thought/said to Sylar, even as a fantasy, thoroughly fucking with his head.

_What the fuck?_ Peter's fantasies nearly always included him crooning endearments to his partners, usually much more coherently than he ever managed in real life (such being the essence of 'fantasy'), but to find himself dreaming of saying _**those**_ words to Sylar threw him so badly that he found himself holding a spongy, fast-shrinking package. It scared him. There were too many things it could mean - nearly all of them being things he didn't want to think about. What he most didn't want to think about was Sylar's words refuting Peter's stated lack of interest in him: 'I'd be a lot more inclined to believe you if you hadn't sat still and let me rub on you.' A part of Peter had enjoyed the hell out of that, and _ **that**_ was no meaningless, easily dismissed fantasy.

With a loud, frustrated groan, he threw himself on the bed, landing face up, arms spread to the sides, penis wilted between his legs. _God-dammit!_ He huffed. His balls hurt now. He wasn't about to try to rub one out again - not until he got his head on straight. One thing was certain, his erection problem was taken care of, though it had done nothing for his frustration.

Lying on the bed moping wasn't Peter's style. After a brief, pointless period of fuming at himself, he got dressed and headed out. When he left, he wasn't sure where he was going, but he soon picked a goal – anything to distract himself and the more engaging and physical the better. He stopped at a few clothing stores for warmer gear, because it was frigid if sunny. After that, he made an expedition out to the hospital, restocking supplies like IV fluids, Zofran, a new trauma kit, and other things. He dug around in doctor's offices until he found some books to read – general anatomy, head trauma, broken bones, and the DSM-5. The hefty tomes were about all he thought he could comfortably pack through the cold, when combined with the supplies he'd already set by the door.

He lugged his new things to the building across the street from his apartment, opting to stash them in the rec room rather than clutter up his place with them. He lounged for an hour while he laid on the couch and read up on the structure of the hand, attempting briefly to meditate his own into healing faster. It didn't seem to work, but that had never stopped Peter in the past. _Maybe I just need to focus on it more. Won't hurt to keep my mind off of other things, like Sylar._

XXX

Day 28, January 6

Sylar didn't want to get up. He knew it was childish and pointless – no one was around to see or care and it had no effect on his day, such as it was. He was stuck at home, by reason of his condition or because he was waiting for Peter. The little punk thought it was funny to make him wait. But he would do just that because…that was the implied command, whether he liked it or not. The second day he worked on the clocks to make a point that he wasn't being controlled or made to do anything. It didn't go so well. His neck and back hurt in a dozen different places, mostly all related to Peter's rough handling, and his headache grew worse when he leaned over. Still, Sylar kept at it as long as he could with sanity and any measure of precision. It didn't feel right to try to fix something when he couldn't do a good job at it. He made himself a sandwich (peanut butter and jelly) and ate some crackers, otherwise lounging, trying to focus and read and stay awake.

XXX

Peter was disappointed by the lack of food in his apartment. For the previous few weeks, he'd been eating at Sylar's all the time, so his own cupboard was bare. The night before, he'd had to scavenge through neighboring apartments for dinner. He was done with that now. In the morning, he bundled up and went to the grocery store, filling a cart with everything he thought he'd need to handle a small siege, or getting snowed in again. It was cloudy and windy, still bitterly cold, but he didn't see any precipitation. Peter was glad to get inside, put everything away, and make himself a nice hot lunch of canned soup.

Despite the forbidding temperatures, he headed back out in the afternoon. The wind had settled down, which was good. His goal now was to learn the neighborhood. He'd seen and become familiar with storefronts as he'd walked past them on his many trips from Sylar's apartment to the grocery store, as well as his two trips to the hospital (although one of those was in blowing snow and hardly counted). But now he was going to make a systematic effort of it. When he wanted a hot chocolate or a certain type of bandage, he wanted to know off-hand where the nearest coffee shop or pharmacy was. He explored at ground level, not going into higher floors or individual offices. Not yet, anyway. This wasn't the same as his apartment search early on, when Sylar had accompanied him. Then, he hadn't known what he was looking for. Now he did – he wanted the lay of the land and aside from the chilly weather, this was the perfect time to get it.

XXX

Day 29, January 7

Waking up was miserable by himself. The weather was chilly with the promise of getting colder still. Peter didn't appear at all. And Sylar listened very carefully. _He just…left me? (Can he do that?) Of course he can, he will and he did. If it's a choice between you and the people-less world, he's taking the world. (What if he's already gone? What if I can't find him? What if I'm all alone again?)_ _I wonder if I should move…_ About lunch time, Sylar could take no more. Groomed and jacketed and fed, he left his apartment to look for Peter. He went first to the man's apartment building of choice, standing outside and looking up at the windows to see if, by chance, he could spot Peter's floor at the very least. The smooth, mirrored face of the building seemed to be mocking him; 'Peter isn't here. He never was.' It was intimidating and frightening, the idea that he was abandoned and alone. Sylar was frantic and worried, hasty yet hesitant to enter the medic's building. _(He won't like me stalking him…He wanted space…Has he_ _booby_ _-trapped the place?)_ So he tried to move quickly and carefully to the stairs – less likely to result in convenient elevator accidents that way – but he knew he wouldn't make it very far, his toes were beginning to recover, but stairs made hard use of his blood-pressure and headache and spine.

When he got to the second floor, he gingerly stuck his head inside the door. These were nicer apartments, bigger, too, than Sylar's. That was a goddamn annoying, obvious, 'I'm better than you.' "Peter?" he called out, several times in varying volumes, still shouting the question, never an angry demand. _This was a stupid idea. All he has to do is ignore me. Unless I start breaking down doors…_ It was so tempting, and karmic – breaking in Peter's door, attacking him…choking him out and rubbing on him some more in his own apartment…It made him fucking tingle but he would save it for a last resort, once he'd gone around Crazy Bend, if he still hadn't found Peter.

Sylar repeated the process for three more floors with no success, not that he expected any at that point. He had to rest before going down the stairs, not wanting to slip and bash his own brains out on some stupid mission, only to have Peter find him there weeks later and have a good laugh. He went home before dark, huddled against the weather, miserably munched more crackers and put himself to bed with less hope than he'd had in the morning.

XXX

Peter spent the entire day out roaming around. About halfway through, he'd stumbled across his greatest find yet – a YMCA, just a block and a half from his apartment. It had everything – a pool, an indoor track, racquetball and basketball courts, and all the equipment and machines he could dream of. This was one of the few buildings he went inside of to check it out (the other places he'd entered had been for warmth or food, but this was for pleasure). Despite the temptation to give up on his exploration and remain here, he eventually pushed on, reminding himself that getting out and looking around was exactly how he would find more places like this.

XXX

Day 30, January 8

Sylar woke up in a blurry funk. He didn't hurry per se, his mood and dread wouldn't allow it despite his worry, but once ready, he left once the sun was up. It was still cold with no indication if it would warm up later in the day. Sylar went to the other man's apartment and checked the lobby, peering up the stairwell to no avail. _Where is he? I didn't check anything above the fourth floor…He likes to be out, though. Check the hospital? Library? Porn shop?_ (Yes, he knew where several were). _Maybe that pool…_ Sylar walked around the immediate vicinity until afternoon. He found Peter coming out of the building across the street, the one with the piano, where they'd stayed in the penthouse previously. Relief filled him and tension fled. He knew when Peter had seen him, giving him another of those up-and-down checking looks, maybe it meant something but most likely it didn't. Sylar approached him, wanted to grab him, hug him, touch him again, if only to make sure Peter was still real, or for darker reasons. "Peter!" he said when the other man seemed ready to walk past him like nothing strange had been going on, like walking by him was normal. When the nurse gave no answer, slowing to a halt to engage him and that was promising, Sylar lamely greeted him, "Hey."

XXX

Well, there was Sylar. That was good to know – that he was alive, up and around. Peter looked him over carefully, trying to assess how Sylar was moving, his posture, his skin tone, his expression, and from that, his general health. Peter didn't think the guy was doing very well – he was a little slow, hunched, pale, with dark circles under his eyes and not as alert as Peter had seen him in the past – but Peter didn't see anything that truly alarmed him. Sylar looked mobile, oriented, clean, properly dressed, and together. It was more than some people managed. Peter tried to move on and ignore him, because seeing Sylar didn't require interacting with him, but Sylar apparently didn't see things that way. After being called, Peter stopped, regarding Sylar coolly to find out what he wanted.

XXX

"What are you doing out here?"

XXX

Peter reached up and scratched at one eyebrow with a gloved hand, glancing away as he did. "Just making the rounds." When that didn't seem to satisfy, he added, "Exploring."

XXX

"What are you looking for?" Sylar tried to ask this politely, friendly because Peter didn't have to answer. Or talk to him at all, that much was clear. The nurse looked like he'd rather get back to his exploration and walk by without exchange. Sylar knew that and stubbornly wanted the opposite, if only to get on Peter's nerves and prove he wouldn't be easy to ignore.

XXX

_Places you can't kick me out of_. Peter snorted softly and looked away with half a smile. "Ways to spend the time." Sylar was still looking at him. The man was not going to be brushed off by Peter's cold shoulder, short responses, or inconsistent eye contact. He shrugged his shoulders and gestured down the street in the direction he'd been intending to go anyway, "I found a YMCA just up the street. Did you know that was there?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar hummed an affirmative, nodding. He hoped that wasn't an accusation, like he'd been holding out information for some unknown reason.

XXX

"I got some free weights and stuff from there. They have a pool, too. I was going to go back and see if there was anything else I wanted. Extras, you know? Duplicates. It's a nice place." That said, Peter had still decided that for his morning workout, he preferred the weight room across the street. It was closer and smaller and less intimidating. The YMCA was vast and empty, which while that had its good points at times, on the whole Peter found it unsettling. He'd spent the morning moving everything he wanted to the smaller, more comfortable room. His plans for the afternoon had involved swimming, but Sylar's presence probably put the brakes on that. Probably. On autopilot, Peter started walking in the direction of the YMCA anyway. When he saw Sylar wasn't keeping up but was definitely following him, Peter just as automatically shortened his strides and fell in a few yards away – Sylar on the sidewalk, Peter on the street.

XXX

_Maybe he's just letting me come along so I can help lift things._ Sylar watched Peter from the corner of his eye in time to see the man sidling closer. Immediately he looked forward to keep his peripheral open; he stood straighter and tensed. Just because he could take being choked out didn't mean he necessarily enjoyed it or wanted to do it again (particularly if there was no sexual climax involved). It also didn't mean he wouldn't put himself in a situation that might end similarly if he felt he had to or that he would put himself into a stupid situation needlessly.

XXX

Peter had intended to walk closer, but Sylar's body language put him off. Peter looked away pointedly. Glancing back, he said quietly, "Sylar, if you're afraid I'm going to attack you, then why don't you stop when I get upset, when you're goading me?" _It's not like I don't give signals!_ He flapped his arms to either side and said, still in a low voice, but also frustrated and earnest, "I'm not going to attack you out here, for no reason." He fell silent _. This is probably too much of a conversation to have right after running into the guy._ Peter frowned, but even though his head was tilted forward a bit like he was looking down, it was also turned so he could watch Sylar. The occasional, avoidant eye contact of earlier was gone – now Peter wanted something from Sylar – an answer, if one was possible.

XXX

Sylar just shrugged. He had nothing (decent) to say and kept his mouth shut because opening it would result in Peter leaving, with or without another beating. To say things were complicated was an understatement. Sylar was angry, vengeful, resentful, wary yet needy, self-loathsome, humiliated all at once. _Such a liar_ , he thought about everything Peter had said and he couldn't count how many 'inconsistencies' there were. It was easier, and a better strategy, to assume Peter was a frequent liar, at least where he was concerned. _Right, of course you're not going to attack me for 'no reason.' You never do._ He ignored the looks in his direction. Health and fucking survival had to rank somewhere on his list of priorities because sometimes Peter conveniently 'forgot.' _Why don't I stop?_ "Because I like to see you get _so_ hot and bothered," Sylar replied, complete with a nasty side-eye.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a look, a 'you are _such_ an asshole' look of reproach. It was almost a glare. He wasn't sure if Sylar's statement was funny because it was so over-the-top and uncalled for, or if it was irritating as hell because Sylar didn't get the point. _It's not something we need to be joking about, Sylar!_ Peter sighed, looked away, and blew it off by means of a displeased grunt. _Fine. Be that way._ But after a few paces (still shortened to keep even with Sylar), he had to wonder, _Why is he joking about something so serious? Does he not care if he gets hurt? He was laughing when he thought I was going to hit him and when I went to choke him out … and at Mercy Heights, where he told me to kill him. And other times._ Peter frowned, staring off to the left at the empty courtyard with a currently non-functioning fountain that they were slowly passing. _You know, him being suicidal is not out of the question._

XXX

Disappointingly, Peter failed to respond to that barb (not including a nasty look of his own). Otherwise, Sylar was quite ignored and he felt that keenly. The conversation could not be deader, although Peter still walked with him. He didn't regret saying it. It wasn't like he had been the one to bring it up, either – no, that was all Peter, who would probably blame him for the outcome of such a stupid exchange. Shifting the focus, he asked more normally, "Why not just work out at the 'Y'?"

XXX

Peter pulled his head around to deign to look at Sylar again. After another huff to make his unhappiness clear about Sylar's previous line, his demeanor calmed and he answered. "It's … empty. Kind of big. There's nothing like a room full of twenty treadmills to remind you you're the only one there." He was quiet for a few more strides, then added, "Makes me want to start going room to room to see if I can find someone." Somewhere in the core of Peter's being, he felt that if he just kept looking hard enough, he'd find … something. The way out, a sign, an obstacle to overcome, or unlikeliest of unlikely, a person. Well, a person other than Sylar. Sylar didn't count, especially not when he was being an asshole. But at the moment, maybe he wasn't being that.

XXX

That had Sylar boiling again. _I'm someone! If he's that fucking lonely…(I'm not someone to him and he'll blame my behavior for that. What can I do-) I'm not going to sugarcoat myself. He needs me._ Sylar's eyes narrowed as he stared at Peter. After a while, he probed, "Is that just habit or wishful thinking or do you have difficulty believing me when I tell you there's no one else here?" His slighted feelings made an unsubtle appearance; "I'm good at finding people, even when they don't want to be found, wherever they are. I've had a lot of time to look and I didn't find anyone." He meant it also to imply that he'd _given_ Peter space and that he wasn't blind to Peter's snubs.

XXX

Peter glanced over, taking in Sylar's shift of mood. _So now he's pissed. Why? Because I didn't go looking for the guy who laughed about my brother being killed? Or the guy who did the killing in the first place?_ Peter rolled his eyes at Sylar's narrow-eyed stare and kept walking. But despite the emotional byplay and what sounded like an attempt at a threat (not much of one, really, so Peter ignored it), Peter answered Sylar's question. "Wishful thinking, I guess. Maybe habit. I just have this _feeling_." He raised his right hand and waved it at the city in emphasis, brace poking out of a glove he'd mutilated until it fit around the device. "It's not that I don't believe you," he said sincerely, "it's just that it looks like a city, looks like a place where people should be." He sighed. "I'm not used to it yet." He glanced over at Sylar, intending to sooth the guy's ruffled feathers by ceding seniority in the not-hotly-contested issue of who had been here longer. "I haven't had a lot of time to not find anyone." Looking away, he shrugged. "I'll probably get over it eventually."

They walked along in silence for a little while before Peter asked abruptly, "What was that like? All that time, no one here?" His gaze on Sylar was attentive and concerned, but also curious. How did someone cope with something like that? How did Sylar? For someone who seemed to nearly freak out when Peter left at night, he seemed to have handled Peter staying away for days just fine. Or was that just how it appeared?

XXX

Sylar frowned, looking ahead as they walked. It sounded like a stupid question but it wasn't. It was another one of those personal questions Peter wanted to know without a good reason. After maybe thirty seconds to think, he answered slowly. "My sanity was already in question so this is…" he trailed off with an incomplete, vague wave of his hand. "It can't be a hallucination or a dream if two people see it….assuming you're real, of course," Sylar intoned dryly.

XXX

" _I_ think I'm real," Peter interjected as though offering a piece of helpful evidence.

XXX

"I'm not used to people so that's not much of a change, not having to watch over my shoulder until you showed up. It's…empty." He fidgeted, trying to put more into words. He felt colorblind, hypersensitive to a void vacuum. He'd always been needy but it had become instinct to block things out and defend himself until now, when he (almost) didn't need to anymore. Now he felt the absence of pressure, awareness, contact. There were no human social constructs to worry about or enjoy. With Peter here, it would take one wrong move to turn a potentially fun, fulfilling situation into a one-man horror show. That was the only challenge once again – survival and sanity. Peter was both an irritant and a balm. All that passed through him for the most part and Sylar eventually blurted, "It's too quiet, what the hell do you think it was like, Peter? You don't have to deal with it." A shrug tried to dismiss it and he propelled himself into walking faster, hoping it hurt or to hurt himself, just something.

XXX

Peter shrugged, too, and let Sylar get ahead of him a little. One of the accusations Sylar had made repeatedly was that Peter was privileged, lucky, some kind of fortunate son. _Maybe he feels that way because he has Nathan's point of view from his memories? But … Nathan wasn't … well, he was privileged in a lot of ways. But he was also alcoholic, unfaithful, and …_ Peter frowned and hunched his shoulders against the pang he felt inside at thinking negatively of his brother, under the circumstances. _Dead. And Sylar thinks I'm so lucky that I don't have to deal with being here alone. So lucky to have_ him _here with me._ He huffed and caught up with the guy as Sylar started slowing back down.

XXX

Sylar sighed. "It gets on your nerves in every way," he admitted, matching Peter's pace more intentionally. "I think that's the point." That was murmured with misery. There was no doubt in his mind that this was punishment or some form of karma. How could it not be? At least Peter wasn't laughing and otherwise humiliating him with the fact. Sylar glanced at his partner, then looked away to avoid detection. _(It could be worse)._ The problem was discerning if it was going to get worse or not.

XXX

"There was never anyone else here, was there?"

XXX

"No," Sylar whispered, shaking his head. The question and answer were all encompassing.

XXX

"Did you ever have dreams like this, before? Nightmares, maybe?"

XXX

"Not-not like this, no…" Dreams of being abandoned and alone? Nightmares? Absolutely. But never an empty city. The affect was exactly the same on him. A child terrified his parents would disappear, leaving him to wander and eventually starve; that is if they didn't leave him locked away in his room, wondering where his family was, why he'd been forgotten. Or a lonely adult, searching for meaning and value through the reactions he could gain and deeds he could perform, banished to a world with no accomplishment or hope. He would starve a different way, his mind devouring itself.

XXX

"I used to have nightmares like this, sort of," Peter said softly, waving vaguely at the buildings again. "I'd be in New York. The city had been evacuated. But everyone I cared about was still there. They'd refused to leave, I guess. Then I'd explode." He shook his head against the memories. It made his skin crawl just to think about it. "I had that same nightmare over and over when I was in that coma after I ran into you at the Odessa stadium. Over and over." He looked ahead at the structure of the YMCA. It was surrounded by a now-pointless parking garage that had the function of camouflaging it from street view. Trying to take his thoughts away from the things that haunted him, he wondered if it had one of those spiral ramps. Those were cool to skateboard down, and the possibility of that was one benefit of a lack of cars or security guards.

XXX

Sylar was watching and listening intently, relieved to not be the focus for questions like these. He saw how much it bothered Peter; how could it not? It had bothered _Sylar_ even in the height of his bloodlust insanity. _In the future…he said I was the bomb. I blew up California._ Something shifted; he twitched and lengthening his strides though he didn't intend to, "/Right now I'd settle for you walkin' straight./" _Wait, what was that fr-?_ It had been the last thing Nathan said to Peter before he'd slipped into that coma, after running off, getting himself killed, arrested, then babbling on like the sick idiot he was… _Um…I didn't bring it up._ Sylar hesitated to slow down again because it would put him in range, target painted on the back of his head and everything. He was sure he didn't want to get hit today, or ever until he healed (and maybe even after that…) but he couldn't discern if he desired to talk or even be around Peter in general today.

XXX

_His voice … that's not Sylar!_ Peter stopped in his tracks, heartbeat and breathing both accelerating in a fight-or-flight response very focused on 'fight'. He stared to bore a hole in the back of Sylar's head. He didn't recognize the words as anything Nathan had said to him, but he recognized the tone, even the body language as Sylar walked ahead of him. But then he thought, _If I hit him when he thinks he's Nathan, am I hitting him or Nathan?_ Peter jerked, brows furrowing, his expression turning from anger to confusion. _It's not like I've never hit Nathan, but I'm either hitting him or hitting Sylar while Sylar's … not in his right mind. Like beating up on someone who's in an altered state. It's one or the other._ Peter deflated, frustrated and at a loss as to how to resolve the dilemma unfolding in his head. The more he thought about it, the less justified was his angry response. He was still angry; he just couldn't see moral a way to do anything about it.

XXX

Nervously, Sylar cleared his throat. _I'm the one who can't walk straight. Some help I'm going to be to him._ "Where did you go after that? The coma?" It wasn't something Nathan knew – where Peter had gone after he'd woken from a coma and gone missing. Plus, Peter talking and him listening seemed to make everyone happier than if Sylar shared or asked questions.

XXX

Peter made an upset chuffing noise and hurried to catch up, lengthening his strides. Sylar sidestepped, almost tripping over himself, turning to face him while backing up. Peter made the same dismissive sound and pointed forward, under the gloomy bulk of the parking garage. "Door's that way," he said, otherwise ignoring Sylar's reaction.

XXX

Sylar was still wide-eyed on high alert, the words not registering immediately. He didn't move but Peter did, leading the way into the building – Sylar let him, that way he could be (more) sure he wouldn't be ambushed. Peter was upset; he got that much. _There's no line to cross with him. There are no boundaries. Any little thing will start a fight. (Of course, that was a big thing and he hasn't hit me. Yet)._ Slouched and tense, he followed as far behind Peter as he thought he could get away with.


	80. Cold Shoulder

Day 30, January 8, afternoon

Peter walked along with shoulders hunched, brow beetled, and arms held tight to his body for a few strides, still steaming about the slip he knew was a slip and felt compelled to do something about. But Sylar was now acting like Sylar and every moment Peter didn't do anything made it even more awkward to belatedly make an issue of it. _Whatever,_ he finally thought. _What did he ask? Oh yeah, what I did after I woke up_ _from the coma_. "I was going to leave the city. I was on the phone, booking tickets and trying to hail a cab to the airport when I saw this guy I'd seen in the nightmares, but he was a stranger." Peter shrugged. "He wasn't the only stranger I saw in the dreams, but I knew he was important. In the nightmare I'd wished he'd left when he had the chance. So I thought … I don't know what I thought, maybe that I'd warn him? But as I left the curb and went over to him, he was rifling through this woman's wallet right in front of me, like no one could see him. 'Course, no one could; he was invisible."

Peter continued to the center of the athletic facility. "He and I got in a fight. He said he knew what my ability was, then he took off and told me to stay away from him. He was the first person I'd run into who seemed to know something about abilities, so I followed him." Peter shrugged and gave an ambivalent head tilt. "He wasn't happy about that. I think he threatened to kill me."

XXX

Not for the first time, Peter sounded quite insane. Sylar's eyes narrowed at the man's back, only slowly increasing his pace so he walked more abreast of the man. _I wonder if he has some kind of mental problem. But I guess I'd have to look closely at his parents to determine that and I'm not doing that. Dreams are a big part of his…flights of fancy, though, that much is clear; 'I dreamed about it so it will happen and I will do it.'_ Maybe Sylar was following along with what Peter was saying and maybe he wasn't, either way he inquired, "Did he try?"

XXX

"Eventually, yeah." Peter snorted. "But not right then. He caught up with me later that day. He said he'd changed his mind and he'd teach me how to control my abilities. I'm not sure that's what he was trying to do, especially knowing what I know now about my parents ..." Peter's expression was pained and dark for a moment, a scowl passing over his features. "He had a history with the Company. I think he was taking it out on me because of my last name, but I didn't know that at the time. He got me mobbed, nearly arrested, beat the crap out of me a lot, made fun of me and my family, and threw me off a thirty story building when I didn't know how to fly or regenerate. As far as he knew, it would have been fatal and he admitted that, said he didn't care." Peter crossed his arms defensively, breathing out heavily. Not happy. Murder attempts tended to have that effect. "Then he knocked me unconscious. The next lessons were with sticks." Peter rolled his eyes, remembering how partial Claude was to whacking him in the nuts. Regeneration or no, that was highly unappreciated. "Or rather, ' _a_ ' stick, since I didn't get one."

XXX

_Someone taking it out on you because of your family? Hmm…That must happen a lot._ Peter nearly getting arrested was a funny, fitting image, though, even more so because it was voluntary and self-induced. What interested him more was that someone had already tried Sylar's primary idea: beating some sense into Peter. Obviously it hadn't worked. _You're so dumb, Peter, letting some weird stranger beat you up in the name of…whatever. And sticks? How…Karate Kid._ "He doesn't sound very competent," Sylar remarked. _I wonder what his name was._

XXX

"He wasn't. I don't know that I learned much from him, except about the bad side of the Company. They – Noah and Rene – came after him and he left. Got away and cleared out, leaving me to deal with everything myself." Peter didn't mention his role in getting Claude to safety. It sounded like bragging so he left it out. In a sarcastic and bitter voice, he said, "That was my wonderful mentor experience, Sylar – the one I was so lucky to have."

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows arched a little. _Then I can see why you still almost blew up New York and have a complex about your abilities and you still can't handle them properly._ "Didn't-didn't you ever just…you know, sit and experiment with your powers so you could understand them better?" That seemed the obvious course of action but he didn't know if it had ever been tried.

XXX

Peter stopped in the central atrium of the building, where hallways and stairs made access easy to the rest of the facility. He turned to face Sylar, looking at him like he had suggested Peter should have tried stripping naked and painting himself green to achieve control over his powers. It was _that_ nonsensical (and scandalizing that it might be that simple). Peter's brows pulled together and his lips pressed against each other. "Why-" He tilted his head a little. "I mean, that's-" He huffed and reached up his right hand, scratching at the middle of his forehead with the back of his thumb, then tugging off the headband he'd been wearing to keep his ears warm. "All alone?" He looked down, obviously not done thinking and not intending Sylar to answer right away. "I learned your ability from Gabriel in the future, but he was standing right there, telling me what to do. I didn't-, I mean, yeah, I figured it out, but I'd had your ability for years and never really … I needed him there." He shrugged helplessly and then shook his head in denial. "My ability doesn't work that way. I _use_ my abilities. I don't … 'experiment' with them." The last was said in a tone that implied such experimentation was a waste of time at best and an analog for self-pleasure at worst.

XXX

Sylar was confused by Peter's thought process: he 'needed' outside help when he seemed so confident that he had all the answers for everyone and possibly everything else. _To hell with it._ "Why would you think a person with a single ability could help you anyway? You're kind of a special case – _we're_ special cases," Sylar corrected himself, gesturing between them.

XXX

Peter shifted his weight in the start of a movement like taking a step, but aborted before actually moving his feet more than a shuffle. He crossed his arms, unhappy about having his obviously poor judgment called into question. _Yeah, okay, it was stupid. (Of course it was stupid!) I didn't know what else to do …_ "He was the only one with an ability who I thought I could get to talk to me." Peter fell silent, feeling his face heat, and tried to find somewhere else to look. He sounded like such a loser. He felt like one, too. Funny how it took so few words to stir his insecurities – that people didn't like him or want him, that he was inferior and second-rate. Absently he noted he was breathing harder. _Calm down. I didn't have anyone else to go to. I did the best I could._ As it so often was, it wasn't good enough.

XXX

Sylar positioned himself about five feet away, more or less in front of Peter. Whether he was looking or not, he saw Peter's reaction to that and heard the honest admission. _He's ashamed when that happens occasionally._ _I have_ _to live it. Can he understand that?_ As it was, Sylar looked at Peter briefly, but didn't stare or call it out – what was there to say? "What was his name?" _I wonder if I 'met' him._

XXX

"Claude." Peter sighed. "He called himself Claude Rains. I don't know what his real name was." Peter tugged the glove off his left hand and stuffed it into a jacket pocket before starting to fiddle with the glove on his right. Once they were both put away, he unzipped his jacket. YMCAs were always warm and usually humid. This one, even in the middle of winter, was no exception.

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows quirked up, almost disbelieving that one. _I'm not sure if that's classy or dumb._ "What was he like?"

XXX

"He was … angry. Antisocial. He didn't like people. I think he'd been hurt and hadn't worked out how to forgive the world for it. Or himself." Peter leaned against the railing around the central open area. Stairs spiraled up and down for those too athletic to be seen making use of the elevators set in the walls. On the other side of the railing and glass half-wall Peter was resting against was empty air to the floor below. He didn't mind. "Or do you mean what he looked like? He was middle-aged, white male, about six foot, medium build, able-bodied, short beard and brown hair, neither kept very well." _Or clean._ Peter kept that part to himself. No need to be any more disparaging than he already was. The guy's behavior was fair game; his hygiene less so. "English accent."

XXX

"How did he treat you?" _Was it anything like Chandra or…well, it obviously wasn't helpful like Danko was. Sort of. Better late than never._

XXX

"What do you mean? We didn't 'hang out' together. He helped himself to my beer and anything else I had that he wanted. He punched me in the face after I saved his life." Peter was silent a moment, thinking back on his tumultuous relationship with the invisible man. By comparison, Sylar was a lot easier to get along with. "He wanted me to dump my life and everyone in it. Renounce everyone and everything. Give people up. Never love them again, never think of them." Another moment of quiet passed. Peter's voice had a lot of resolve in it when he finished with, "I refused."

XXX

Sylar snorted. It wasn't a half bad idea. Maybe this Claude wasn't a total loss. "That's what the Company does to you, Peter." Whoever thought pushing specials out of normality, leaving them no options but to be on the run, stressed and most likely having accidents or committing crimes was an absolute moron. How could they expect anything other than what fell into their laps? So long as the 'normal' people were kept ignorant, if not safe, then all was well in the Company's eyes.

XXX

_The Company does … what? It makes you forget about everyone? (Like Rene did to me?) Or it twists your thinking so much that you think hiding from everyone is a good thing? (Like what Claude was doing?)_ Peter huffed and stared at Sylar, trying and failing to will him into elaborating. _Whatever he's trying to say is bitter and cynical and probably not something I want to hear anyway._ So he changed the subject. "What about your experiences with mentors?"

XXX

"I already told you," Sylar said, annoyed. "Did you kill him; Claude?"

XXX

"No." The answer came immediately, but then Peter gave Sylar a weird look. _He thought I'd killed Gabriel's son, Noah, too. What does that mean about him that he keeps thinking I kill people?_ Peter shook it off. It was another subject he didn't really want to explore at the moment. Instead, he went back to something Sylar had said earlier. "What do you mean about sitting around and experimenting?" He had an ambivalent, prudish interest in the question. While Peter could certainly understand people experimenting with sex, or drugs, or altered mental states, the idea of using powers when you didn't know how they worked just seemed … wrong. And more than a little self-indulgent. Peter was of the opinion that abilities were divine, even if he was fuzzy on the details. To use them for selfish purposes seemed inappropriate in the extreme. Sacrilegious, maybe.

XXX

Something about Peter's tone or facial expression read of disapproval or outright moral shock. It had Sylar laughing at how out of character that was, or how hypocritical it was. "You're seriously going to turn your nose up at 'experimenting'? You're the one with the dildo and I caught you _hard_ at work trying to 'experiment.' I take it you never played with the fun side of telekinesis or shapeshifting," Sylar intoned in a rumbling voice, with a naughty, knowing, smirking, smug expression. _Who's the experienced one now?_

XXX

Peter's response to that ran through the gamut – shock that Sylar would be vulgar enough to bring up Peter's sexual history, confusion about which dildo he was even talking about (it wasn't like Peter had one _here_ ; he hadn't even successfully jerked off, much less anything more involved); anger that Sylar had to be using some memory of Nathan's, embarrassment when Peter placed the college incident and wondered what else Sylar knew (he'd always assumed Nathan's lack of further questions to mean he knew more than he did), and then a double-take at Sylar's other insinuation about him being hard at work. _What is he talking about? When did he catch me using abilities like that? Or did Nathan? I never did any of that! Is he talking about that look I gave Nurse Hammer in the elevator? And wait, what_ could _you do with telekinesis?_ A vision of Mohinder on the ceiling came to mind. _Whoa …_ His face heated and his body tingled in a manner that he really wished it wouldn't. He never even got to the part of speculating about shape-shifting. His coat was stiflingly hot all of a sudden.

XXX

Eventually sobering after watching Peter make a few faces, he said, "I don't know from experience since my ability is understanding things and I didn't exactly hang around with other specials," _meaning I killed them because I knew their power better than they ever could._ "I meant exactly what I said. You never sat down and tried to learn your powers so you wouldn't have accidents or explosions. If you do it without stress and distractions, immediate danger, then you should be able to apply it to those situations. In theory," he shrugged, admitting it might not always be possible. "Abilities are fueled or…controlled even, by adrenaline. That much I do know."

XXX

Peter gladly tried to put aside the undesired mental image of sex on a high, shadowed ceiling with a crowd of oblivious onlookers below. "Like shooting a gun," he said, not sure if that fit in with what Sylar was saying. Dragging his mind out of the gutter wasn't exactly easy, but he was managing it. "Fate, destiny – I don't think that has anything to do with practice. It's not the same thing. It takes … faith. Belief. Abilities are not ordinary. They don't work that way."

XXX

"Practice works," Sylar stated firmly, not buying into the cop-out of 'faith and destiny.' He couldn't count the ways to reason why 'faith' didn't work, especially for Peter, who was the perfect example. The man should be able to feel his way through everything far better than logic-and-mechanics-oriented Sylar, instead Peter was constantly impulsive and half-cocked.

XXX

Peter touched his brow with one hand, then lowered it to swing his jacket open at the waist. "Listen, I'm not a theologian. I don't know. And I'm not a scientist who studies abilities, either." He paused a moment as a thought occurred to him. "The last person I knew who wanted to 'experiment' with abilities came at me with a syringe full of who-knows-what, but I'd seen what it did to the guy he gave it to before me." Peter grimaced, taking off his jacket even though the feeling of being overheated in it was fading. "He died, covered with cancerous growths. Mohinder thought I was a better subject since, as he said, my body was primed to accept abilities." He hesitated again, then said, "You know about that. You were there. You stopped him and saved my life." _'That's what brothers do for each other.'_ Peter's expression softened and he tilted his head, regarding Sylar searchingly. Holding his coat by the collar, he swung it back and forth slowly.

XXX

"I can prove practice works and 'faith' doesn't. I don't put any 'faith' into my abilities. They're reliable and they do what I tell them to," _sometimes they act up when I don't want them_ but Peter didn't need to know that. "I practice and understand my abilities, ordinary or not. You use the 'pray and play' method and…well, how has that worked for you? The only other option is a crash course." Sylar remembered Elle's tortured past and his own, learning to hunt and kill people efficiently and effectively. "That…only works for some. Just…trust your abilities, they already know what to do. You're thinking too much and making a mess of your instincts and control." Sylar waved his hand dismissively. "Like you said," he spared a look over Peter's coatless body, "Your body is primed for a lot of things."

XXX

Peter wasn't exactly bursting at the seams with the urge to argue back, but he was lining up his answer. Then at Sylar's last words, the man checking him out and their brief meeting of the eyes, Peter's brows went up and his desire to debate vanished. A second passed, then another, both accompanied by continuing swishes of his swinging coat and the absence of Sylar doing anything threatening. Peter grinned suddenly, smirking to himself. _He thinks I'm hot!_ Ego thoroughly stroked, Peter threw the coat over his shoulder, laughed lightly, and started towards the elevators. "Come on, killer. Let's go check out the third floor. I think I want to add some resistance bands to my collection."

XXX

Sylar started to follow until Peter called him 'killer.' It shouldn't shock him but maybe he thought Peter would try to avoid the word and the reality, that Peter would have more tact. For all the other names he was frequently called to his face, that one didn't crop up often and it certainly was not a compliment. He couldn't say it was rude or even mean because it was true but…Sylar stopped, frowning at Peter's retreating back. He didn't know what to do; he was angry and…yes, hurt, but neither were acceptable responses. _Is he going to keep calling me that like it's funny? I'm not a freak show._ _That's all he sees._ Peter was significantly ahead of him before Sylar got over himself enough to put his feet into motion, not wanting the medic to get to the elevator, turn around and have to watch Sylar finish the walk under his joyful gaze. _Just…pretend that's normal. It happens all the time, right?_ Quietly, keeping his head down, Sylar slipped into the car beside Peter. _I wanna add you to my 'collection,'_ he thought darkly.

XXX

As they stood in the elevator car, Peter thought about what Sylar had said. Now, instead of trying to refute him, he tried to understand. "I don't get what you were saying. You say 'practice', but then you say 'trust my instincts' and 'don't think about it too much'. Which is it?" Before Sylar could answer, Peter cut in with, "Or are you saying I need to practice enough so it's instinctive, like swinging a bat? A lot of the time, I don't even think about using my abilities. I just think of what I want to do and they activate all by them-, um, themselves." He cleared his throat, realizing one compliment and moment of open admiration had him gushing like an idiot about things that made him sound like the fucking loose cannon he often saw himself as. He didn't want Sylar or anyone else thinking of him that way – they'd lock him up or worse and he'd already seen how that worked out.

XXX

_No surprise there._ Sylar's theory/suspicion was confirmed. "Yeah, I know," he remarked about that. "You're making it a…mental thing when it isn't that. Abilities are a tool, they're an extension of you so they should do what you want. You don't think twice to reach for a cup because you practiced it enough as a kid and now it's instinctive – you're thirsty, you reach for the cup because you know you the outcome. Killing is instinctive for me; I've had a lot of practice," Sylar smiled widely, shark-like and toothy. He wasn't about to let that 'killer' nickname stick. If Peter was trying to rub it in or make him feel bad, Sylar would throw it right back and make Peter sick with it. He leaned back against the rail and crossed his arms. "So…who is it you want me to kill?" _Probably his mother, ender of worlds, behind every plot, killing her own son and Peter hasn't forgiven anyone for that. He can't do it himself so he hires out. When did I become the Petrelli's favorite hit man?_

XXX

Peter could not get out of that elevator car fast enough. He'd been elated by the earlier compliment, concerned that he'd put his foot in it by over-blurting, and then discovered his real error had been a casual, thoughtless slip of the tongue. And Sylar couldn't just leave it alone, or even simply make sure Peter knew it was unappreciated. No. Peter moved the fractional distance he had left to him to be against the far wall of the elevator car, waiting impatiently for the damn thing to get to the third floor. He said nothing, his mind having seized up with a failure to find anything physical that he could do to better the situation.

XXX

_Well?_ Sylar raised an eyebrow impatiently. Peter wasn't jumping on the Petrelli bandwagon with gusto – what was up with that? _Maybe he needs a little prompting._ "You wanted me to 'save' a bunch of people, didn't you? Including your girlfriend?" Still, Peter was ignoring him, so Sylar badgered further, leaving it open for Peter to respond, "So…?"

XXX

Peter swung around in front of Sylar, abandoning the futile and unconscious effort to distance himself. So he went the other way, getting in Sylar's face. "You're going to do what I want you to do, is that what you're offering? Then never kill anyone again, Sylar! It's simple!" The doors dinged open behind him. Revolted, skin crawling, Peter got the hell out of there before the doors were finished parting, turning sideways in his haste to escape.

XXX

"I wasn't offering," Sylar was…confused, insulted and doubting Peter's believability. _That cannot be all he wants._ It was that simple. As it was, he felt vindicated that Peter was so upset that he literally squirmed and dashed away. _That is who you're dealing with, Petrelli. You're the one making things…messy, so deal with it. But you can't. Don't fuck with me._ In a gruff voice, he barked at the man's back, "You said you couldn't stop either! Don't…don't even!"

XXX

Peter paced off down a hallway at random, ignoring whatever Sylar had to say behind him. He went inside of the furthest room from the elevator, thinking it would have served Sylar right if he'd just taken the stairs down and left the guy not quite sure where he went, or if he'd be back. The room he found himself in looked like a dance studio, with a smooth-finished wood floor, mirrors lining three walls with a rail at waist height, and lockers on the last wall. He paced in a slow circle, raking at his hair, throwing his coat against one of the walls. When he tired of moving himself around pointlessly, he put himself in the corner of the room, hands on the rails, staring at the door and the little glass window in it that allowed him to see a narrow slice of the hall. _I hate him._ Those words, those thoughts, could not convey the depth of his loathing at that moment, even though they were the strongest and simplest he had at his disposal.

He didn't know how Sylar would save Emma. It was possible it involved killing or hurting someone, or several someones. Peter _knew_ that, which was why he was so upset. There was no way he was going to let it come to that if he could at all help it. But there was the rub: he didn't know how to prevent it. He couldn't control Sylar. Once they got out, he wouldn't be able to stop him. How many times could he pull off something like at Mercy Heights? His gut tightened into a knot. Sweat formed on his skin. _There's no way._ He felt trapped. He felt stupid. _Stupid to have come here. Was I stupid to have trusted the dream? But what else did I have? Should I have trusted Ma? She wanted to let them die, just like before. I don't know what else I could have done!_ He took in an unsteady breath, eyes locked on the bit of hallway he could see, waiting. He was perched in the corner of the room like a boxer ready to come out of his corner at someone. Fighting would make it easier.

XXX

Someone running away. How familiar. Sylar let him out of sight, let him have his moment to freak out or calm down, whichever; it wasn't important. It piqued Sylar's predatory nature; he could feel himself sliding into that well-worn suit, half-heartedly searching for his next victim to overpower. It was a head rush bordering on arousal of some kind. Slowly, he paced down the hall, peering into the door windows with curiosity. _Here, Petey, Petey, Petey…_ At the last door, he sighted him and Peter was staring right back at him – nervous, excited, cornered and hostile. Concussion or not, the idea of a fight, Peter being visibly ready, was wonderful. Sylar stared at him a moment, unwavering eye contact and largely unspoken but still very clear threat or dare being given. Then, in a calculated move, he turned and disappeared from Peter's vision, leaving him to wonder where he'd gone and what he was doing. _Enjoy the uncertainty, Petrelli._

XXX

Peter remained keyed up and on high alert for long minutes after Sylar had quit the window. He imagined the man lurking just out of sight, probably leaning against the wall waiting for Peter to stop overreacting (while simultaneously fueling that overreaction with his own behavior – it was like poking someone with a stick and then questioning why they jumped). Peter finally exhaled heavily and leaned his head back in the corner of the room, staring up at the ceiling. A few moments after he'd achieved that much equilibrium, he shut his eyes.

A few seconds of closed eyes was all he could manage right now in the way of calming down. He left the corner and started going through the lockers. _Compulsive_ , he noted about his actions. _Like going through the apartments. Huh_. In any event, he didn't find anything he wanted – the lockers contained what he assumed was ballet paraphernalia. Mostly this took the form of straps, ribbons, and what looked like harnesses of some kind. He labeled them as ballet-related because he recognized the shoes (and also the room he was in).

The last locker he searched was next to the door. Peter carefully leaned, getting as much angle as he could to look out the window _. If he's out there, he's either flat to the wall, on the other side, or not close at all. Or crouching on the floor. That's where I'd be. But I don't think his mind works that way._ Peter moved to the other side of the door, checking that direction. To get there, Sylar would have had to duck under the window or crossed it when Peter wasn't looking, like when he was messing noisily with the lockers. _That would have been a good time. But he's not there either._ Peter double checked. _You know, what do I really think he's going to do, anyway?_ No real fear materialized in his thoughts. Mostly, he was concerned Sylar might continue to talk to him about things he didn't want to hear. That social pressure was the danger and Peter didn't discount it just because it wasn't physical. Yet it was nice to realize he wasn't physically afraid of Sylar. Not at the moment, at least.

He opened the door, walking out and checking both sides anyway, but Sylar was gone. _Fine._ Peter moved down the hall and went into the next room, setting his sights back on his original mission. Maybe, hope against hope, Sylar had been embarrassed and went home. _Not likely._ And Peter found that was not the case when he finished with his search of the other rooms that led off the hallway. He emerged back to the central atrium, finding Sylar leaning against the wall near the elevators.

XXX

Peter was either too stupid to see what he'd nearly started or he was ignoring it – or, more likely, making a show that he wasn't intimidated. Whichever it was, he appeared. Sylar's arms and legs were crossed, the picture of casual comfort as if nothing had happened. He wanted to see what Peter would do about the change. In an innocent voice, he inquired, "Find what you were looking for?" _If you didn't, you sure found me._ Peter insulting him was really getting on his nerves so…it was called for.

XXX

"Yeah." Peter ignored Sylar's tone, lifting his loot to show it off, which consisted of three resistance bands and some hand grips. His coat, since recovered from the floor of the dance room, was folded over his arm. He looked past him at the buttons to the elevator, then back at Sylar. Peter's expression was one of disgust and frankly, loathing at the idea of getting back in an elevator car with the guy. No telling what he might say this time. Peter had nothing else he wanted to do here besides go swimming, which he certainly wasn't going to do with Sylar around. "When are you going home?" he asked bluntly, knowing the answer wouldn't be anything he wanted to hear, and knowing that just like Sylar, he was poking his adversary with a stick.

XXX

_Kinky. Gonna strangle me with those, too?_ Sylar snorted at the rude question. "When you're ready to put me to bed," he shot back, only a little seductive because Peter was so unappreciative. A glance was directed at the giant rubber bands before he turned around to open the elevator doors. When he turned back, Peter was gone, leaving only the sound of his heavy boots on the stairs.

XXX

Peter snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that happening," and headed off down the stairs. No elevator ride for him. The stairs sounded like a nice stretch of his legs. _That's what I need. Just get away from him – more, longer, again. It's not 'leaving' him if I'm still around. I never promised to keep him company – just not to leave the world._ He didn't hurry. It would be undignified to make it seem like a race and besides, with the elevator car right there and Peter heading down three flights of broad, curving stairs with his hands full, it wasn't likely he'd win if it was.

XXX

Sylar made a face. He wanted to follow after Peter, just…not using the stairs. If he didn't use the stairs, he might lose Peter in any number of floors, rooms, or even the building. Most likely Peter had to pass through the lobby at some point. Sylar stepped into the car, hitting the 'L' button. When the doors opened, he slid out and scanned the atrium. He tried to remind himself this happened all the time – Peter being out of his sight, location unknown, leaving him by himself. It seemed too easy to accomplish and it didn't make him feel any better. There was no sign of the man. _Did I miss him? Or did I beat him?_ Sylar began to wander about and physically search, in case Peter was hiding or…waiting to ambush him…

XXX

Peter turned the last corner, seeing Sylar on the ground floor looking up at him. Peter huffed and then grunted unhappily, but kept coming down. He felt a great upwelling of aversion. He wasn't angry; he just didn't want to be near the guy. He didn't want the memories Sylar stirred up inside him. He didn't want to think about why he was here and how frustrating it was that Sylar couldn't be trusted to save anyone without killing someone else to do it. Peter didn't want to talk to him and have that occasional normal thing of getting excited and happy about interacting with someone only to have his enthusiasm crushed because of some accidental error of his. Peter knew he made too many mistakes. He couldn't _not_ make them – he wasn't that good and no amount of training by his father, coaching by his brother, and getting hit in the face by life was going to make him something he wasn't. The only way to avoid fucking up was not to talk to Sylar at all, which was fine with him.

Peter walked past Sylar like he wasn't there, heading for the door. He stopped near it to put on his headband and coat, leaving the gloves off because he needed the dexterity to hang onto everything with his left hand. He didn't look at Sylar or talk to him, even though he heard the man come up behind him.

XXX

"Where are you going?" Sylar frowned, walking to him. Peter wasn't hustling to get away from him, putting on his gear indoors, but he wasn't lingering around for Sylar. He didn't get close and Peter didn't let him get closer, hell, he'd barely looked at him. _What am I supposed to do, just…take his crap? This is not all my fault!_ It was dawning on him that Peter wished to be left alone when the silence reigned loudly even over the noises of the man's rustling clothes. "What are you gonna do?" he asked more softly.

XXX

Peter glanced at Sylar at that softer tone. _Yeah, hurts, doesn't it? To have someone take something you said and react totally different from how you wanted them to? How the hell did you expect me to react, Sylar?_ He huffed again and headed out the door. He didn't want to actually say any of that to Sylar because he didn't want to deal with the response. He hunched against the cold, trying to tuck his right hand into the pocket of the jacket. It was only a couple blocks, but he knew it would feel longer with Sylar trailing along after him. This time, Peter made no attempt to regulate his pace to Sylar's, an act that left him feeling weirdly disjointed inside.

XXX

"Peter…" Sylar tried. He then followed at a distance when Peter made no effort to let him keep up yet he tagged along anyway, not knowing what else to do. _He started it…He made me do it; why would he think that was funny? Him, to me, of all people. That's all he sees me as? But I thought…I don't know what I thought_. Sylar resolutely kept after Peter, maybe not being aggressive or knowing how to counter this behavior…yet. He was only slightly worried about being attacked; his concern about letting Peter out of his sight was ever present. _It's been days since I've seen him!_ he felt he whined like some kind of addict needing his fix, rationalizing things (like Peter) that were very bad for him.

XXX

Peter dropped off his stuff in the exercise room of the Pegasus, which was the name of the apartment building across from his own – the name of the one with the piano and recreation room. It was a weird name, but he supposed it was better than the Icarus. He smiled a little. English had been one of his better subjects in school and Greek mythology, with the tales of heroes and gods, had been a favorite. He supposed he should look around for the name of the building he lived in, but he hadn't done it yet. He turned towards the door was Sylar was just showing up. The smile vanished, replaced by a deepening frown.

XXX

Sylar followed him in all three doors, hovering anxiously inside the personalized gym room. _Am I even supposed to be here? What are the odds he'll suddenly answer me or talk to me?_ "Are you just going to try to ignore me…today?" he threw on the last word in an attempt to see how long Peter was going to try to punish him. He asked this as Peter neared him to leave the room, assuming it wasn't called for to punch his face or any other body part. _It's just one of those days when my voice is…upsetting._ That depressed him. It wasn't like the cure was not talking – that wasn't working either.

XXX

_Yes, I'm going to try to ignore you._ It was better than physical violence, Peter assumed, although he knew it was still 'violence' of a sort to refuse contact with someone so desperate for it. At the same time, he was so fucking tired of trying to play nice with the guy who had killed his brother. Passive though the silent act was, it was at least a blow against someone whom Peter, at times, dearly wanted to hurt. He walked out past Sylar without response.

XXX

Still, Sylar refused to shake. "That's not fair, you know. You started it. What did you expect me to do about it?" _Obviously not what I did but… Even though I just reminded him of something he thought was…casual and accepted and I didn't even do anything bad, so what the hell?_ "Why do you keep expecting me to take your shit, Petrelli? Is it…personal, the person you want me to kill; is that your issue?" _Like his fucking mother?_

XXX

He was going out the doors towards outside while Sylar talked, with the 'you started it' leaving Peter not sure if he'd missed something over the noise. Standing outside, he stopped to put on his gloves and, truth be told, hear the rest of what Sylar had to say. _Ah, the 'killer' thing. That's what he thinks I started. Okay. And yeah, you're right. I started that. I fucked up. Thanks for reminding me why I shouldn't talk to you. At all._ He turned left, walking off towards the river that was a few blocks away, in the opposite direction of Sylar's apartment and the rest of the city. _I wonder if the river's iced over enough for me to walk across it? I wonder if I'd die if I fell through the ice and … um, died? Would I really die? Would Sylar save me? I think he'd try. But that's because I matter to him. He'd be alone otherwise. But a thousand strangers in Central Park? Meaningless to him._ Peter shook his head, disgusted by that attitude.

XXX

Okay, last or first resort of communication (depending on how you looked at it) a failure, so Sylar moved on to his next option, something he hoped was peaceable enough. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Sylar yelled about the continued rudeness. "Goddamnit…" he said and sped up to grab Peter's arm and turn him forcibly around, standing none too close as he did it. "I won't go away just because you ignore me!"

XXX

_I should have been walking faster._ Peter got jerked around, Sylar's hand on his right bicep, Peter's left hand curling into a fist in case this was a fight. He'd let his 'ignore Sylar' mode extend beyond the man's words to his proximity as well. Peter stared at him. _Sucks for me, then,_ he thought in response to Sylar's words, but he couldn't think of anything snappy enough to justify breaking his silence. By now, talking would be conceding defeat; admitting Sylar had won and forced him to engage. Somewhere along the line, it had stopped being convenient and started being a contest. He reached across and pried Sylar's fingers off his arm, staring threat at the guy the whole time, trying to communicate with eyes and expression alone that grabbing him was crossing the line into physical, which Peter would allow without retaliation only this once.

XXX

It was the glaring eye contact, demanding his submission, that got to him; that and the slow, cold way Peter pried his hand off like he was a some insect to be brushed aside, as casual as that. Sylar stood there and stared, feeling somehow betrayed by the continued treatment and silence. Not a single word, not an acknowledgement or affirmation. Sylar didn't really think about it - Goddamnit, he wanted a reaction of some kind! As soon as Peter looked away, Sylar raised that same shrugged-away hand and used it to shove at Peter's back. To show how much he equally failed to care, he turned on his heel and walked in the direction opposite of where Peter was going. He left his back exposed and the jumpy little Italian had strangulation devices, motive and now inclination to use them. _(Maybe I want him to do something like that again). Or maybe I just don't care. That's beyond rude –_ _i_ _t_ _'s mean._ He consoled himself with daydreams of Peter becoming lonely, looking for and finding him in his need, and saying something far-fetched about how Sylar wasn't _just_ a killer; however impossible that was.

XXX

Peter jerked at the unexpected shove, turning and bringing up his hands defensively. Eyes wide, he took in Sylar's retreating back, comprehending that the contact wasn't the first blow in a fight, but rather the last word in an argument they'd been carrying out without speaking. Huffing for his part in the 'conversation', Peter turned away again and headed off.

XXX

Sylar was more than happy to avoid Peter in turn. He holed himself up in his apartment, first sitting down with his clocks. It had been days since he'd touched them. It was almost as if Peter had never been here except for Sylar's raging head pains and aching toes. He was angry, the unfortunately-too-familiar low simmer of being treated unfairly with no solution but to suck it up and take it with the expectation of receiving more of the same. _He thinks I won't hurt him. His wants and needs aren't the only things here._ Still, he focused on his refusal to let Peter treat him like some lesser creature. (At the same time, a smaller part of him knew that his neediness would outweigh Petrelli's stubbornness and Sylar would be the one crawling back). He was wound up but forced focus on his precious mechanisms helped. Ironically, that included the one Peter had shaken a few weeks ago (that one was less therapeutic). When he began to overanalyze, he moved to the couch to curl up and read. It almost worked. Time felt slow without Peter even with all his clocks surrounding him, ticking away in perfect time in a place where that was meaningless except to his sense of order and contentment. When it grew dark, he got up and fixed himself dinner but mostly poked at it without interest. He spent another miserable night alone.


	81. Closed Encounters

Day 31, January 9th, Morning

Sylar stopped by Peter's apartment. If he allowed it, both men would gladly draw out this stupid confrontation and avoidance maneuver that was fast becoming habit, much to Sylar's disgust. What pissed him off today was the fact that he didn't know where Peter lived, specifically. Without that knowledge he'd never know if Peter was in the building or not. _This is about the time he gets up…I think._ Of course he didn't know that for certain either. When waiting in the lobby (because it was cold outside and he didn't feel like punishing himself more than Peter was sure to) didn't work, he wandered off. _What do I know about him? He likes being thanked, playing hero, having food made for him, exercising, exploring nonsensically and asking me personal questions and taking offense at my answers and questions. I don't feel like thanking him for starting a fight but maybe I can cook for him._ Sylar swung by the diner Peter had mentioned he often ate at but it looked like he'd just missed him – the dishes were still cooling and wet where they'd been cleaned. _Guess he already had breakfast._ _What would Peter look for? What's he interested in? Anything that doesn't involve me. That doesn't narrow anything down._ He circled outward, looking into buildings as he passed.

Sylar saw Peter at the damaged store; the man was slightly stooped presumably in the act of cleanup. It left his backside exposed to all kinds of contact and every flavor of sexual assault that Sylar's overactive imagination provided. Despite his mind being consumed with filth, he approached Peter after doing a visual weapons check. There was still the broom, dustpan and a bucket. He kept what he thought was a safe distance, not wanting to tempt Peter or be tempted himself. His greeting was an attempt at casual, "Hey," like nothing had happened.

XXX

Peter's head whipped around at the sound of a voice where none should have been, his body following a second later as he caught sight of Sylar. _Sneaky bastard!_ He scanned over Sylar, then around him as though Sylar might have brought backup to assist in an attack. But … he saw no danger. At least, none other than Sylar, standing there empty-handed and yet still by far the biggest danger Peter knew of. He breathed out slowly, remembering their tiff of the day before – calling Sylar 'killer', Sylar being threatening and unsettling in response, Peter deciding he was done talking to the man, and Sylar being upset by that. The possibility of going on without talking ran through Peter's mind, but it seemed petty, especially when Peter felt he was the one who had fucked things up to start with.

"Hey," he said with the greatest of reservation and an extra glance up and down Sylar, trying to get a better read on his attitude and intentions. Peter's hand on the broom handle flexed and released a few times.

XXX

"You're still cleaning this?" Sylar asked with some surprise in his voice, a curious frown on his face as he surveyed the damage. Most of the glass was beneath the eaves and thus free of snow, there was a line of melted snow-drips from the gutter denoting where the eave's protection ended. Beyond that was half-melted snow that would likely hide any remaining shards. He didn't offer to help – this was Peter's mess and he would be the one to clean it. When Peter seemed intent on finishing, Sylar leaned against the nearby wall.

XXX

Peter tilted his head at the question, his brows pulling together a beat later. He maneuvered, getting on the other side of the small pile he'd swept together, which put him facing Sylar. It was polite, but he was doing it because it was safer. He felt very uneasy about having Sylar here, where they'd had their last bad fight. The location had him overanalyzing everything Sylar said, looking for possible provocation.

"It's still a mess." He straightened a bit further, shoulders going back and chin up. The push broom was in one hand and the dustpan was dangling from his right, his index finger hooked through the hole in the end of it. "I haven't been out here since we both were, before. And I just got here," he added with a trace of heat, not liking the possible insinuation that he'd been working at this for hours or even days without progress. He waited a long beat, eyes not leaving Sylar's. "What are you here for?" he asked with the clear implication Sylar couldn't be here just to hang out (or, God forbid, help). He had to be here wanting something and probably not something Peter wanted to give. Or he'd come here to start shit, which Peter was mentally gearing up to match in kind.

XXX

Sylar's heart sank. Peter was in a markedly unfriendly mood this morning, with no provocation. Sylar mentally grit his teeth over his instinctive thoughts _(He started it yesterday!)_ He had no desire to be hit or to get into an altercation – it was cold, he was tired and strung out, lonely and sick. He didn't doubt Peter would hit him, what with the pre-emptive broom-gripping, and the supposed-empath was already rude. Sylar considered leaving since he was so far from welcome. He didn't enjoy being stared down; mostly he kept his own eyes on the broom when he wasn't glancing at Peter's eyes. _I didn't know I needed an excuse…I should have thought of that. Why didn't I think of that? I always need an excuse (I didn't when he was taking care of me…)_ His head and toe still hurt and he didn't feel one hundred percent so that would be his go-to excuse as needed – _you break it, you buy it._ But he wasn't going to be run off. "Just here to watch you work," he snitted back, barely polite. _I guess 'good morning' or an olive branch isn't going to cut it with him. Then what the hell does he want?_

XXX

_Great. Thanks. Just what I need – an audience._ Peter exhaled heavily and went to one knee to scoop up his latest pile. It was awkward work, setting up the dustpan with his right hand and then pulling the push broom towards him with his left. The leverage was bad, but he hadn't thought he'd be doing it under observation. Under a lot of circumstances, Peter liked to be watched. This was not one of them.

XXX

When Peter didn't comment – actually a relief, as a comment would probably start a fight – Sylar sighed after a moment. The only sound was that hyper-quiet noise of winter, no wind, the muffled world hidden in a snowdrift, and the sound of Peter sweeping and breathing. "How do you sleep? In your apartment," he asked randomly, but with purpose. He wanted to know if he was alone in sleeping poorly without company – Peter, who had the habit of sneaking into Nathan's room to pester and cuddle him for the slightest little thing. It wasn't that he'd been afraid of the dark or monsters particularly, as a kid, Peter hadn't liked people-less void even in sleep; unlike Sylar who had reason to be afraid of the monsters under his bed, inside his apartment and its inhabitants, or within his mind. They were the kind he felt would snatch him the moment his eyes were shut and no one but him knew they existed. Sylar straightened; he was just…curious.

XXX

"Well enough. Why do you ask?" Peter finished pushing the broom around for what he expected to be the last circuit of the exterior. At least until the ice and snow melted. He'd gotten up everything on the outside that there was to be picked up. Fortunately there was enough of a canopy that the interior hadn't suffered much weather damage yet.

XXX

"I was just curious," Sylar replied and desperately tried to keep it at that. He tried to think of three or more things at once to confuse his brain into silence. Those other-person memories were rising up again, /remembering Peter as a child…the ego strokes and the hope, the comfort he'd provided to his older brother…/ _Pi, a complication and string theory…C'mon…_ He couldn't focus too much on his expression, but he was sure it looked tense.

XXX

Peter frowned. It wasn't enough of a reason and in fact, the passive-aggressive inquiry set him off. The polite thing to do was to inquire in return about Sylar's sleep, especially given the nightmares might have intensified in Peter's absence, and disturbed sleep might be medically important given the concussion. He wasn't feeling polite. Instead, he felt watched, confronted, and judged. And now the insinuation that Peter needed to spend his time meeting Sylar's needs for companionship? _Heh. Fuck him. Maybe if he'd stop killing people, he'd have someone around who wanted to spend time with him._

Standing next to one of the broken storefront windows, about fifteen feet from Sylar, Peter faced him, broom in his left hand, right hand empty. "How do _you_ sleep? Given what you've done in your life?" He held the broom forward, between them, a very similar pose to that he'd adopted before their last fight here. "You talked about changing. You've had a lot of opportunities, but there you were at Mercy Heights to _kick. My. Ass_." He gestured at the store with his right hand to distract from how he twisted the wooden broom handle several times with his left to unscrew it from the unwieldy base. "And here, the last time we were here. For the same reason, as far as I can tell." Which Peter was thinking might be the same reason why Sylar was here now, hence the weapon prep. "You got pissed and picked a fight. That's not someone I want to sleep near or hang out with, Sylar. Go the fuck on. You're well enough to threaten me in your apartment; you're well enough to be in it all by yourself."

XXX

Sylar just stared, trying to wade through the mean, judgmental aggression aimed directly at him. It wasn't pleasant; it hurt, but curiosity of where or why this was happening made him stay and figure it out. With a lot less emotion in general, Sylar replied, "I don't sleep well because of things that have been done to me, too. You're not some righteous, angelic victim who's safe to hang out with yourself, Petrelli. Look at you: I'm defenseless, standing out of reach, trying to start a normal conversation as I understand it, and you're getting ready to hit me," Sylar nodded at the broom handle, now free of the weighted broom end itself.

XXX

Peter snorted. "Sure," he said in a sarcastic tone. "You're just as defenseless now as you were last time we were here." He shifted the broom handle to be sure it was free from the base, since Sylar had clearly seen through his attempt at subterfuge. "And we both know how that turned out. Don't start with me. I'll mess you up, win or lose."

XXX

Sylar sighed and looked up at the cold grey-white sky for a moment. That much was peaceful and it made sense. _How he can feel threatened by me saying 'good fucking morning' when he's the one holding the damn broom is just…_ Control, patience, logic, those were the things what he needed right now, and, unfortunately, Peter's company and possibly medical expertise. "I'm not starting anything. I'm just standing here, talking, without any threats but obviously you have something to say about feeling threatened." He looked back at Peter, trying to will some sense into the kid. "So what's going to make you feel better, safer?" Correcting himself because that was way too open-ended around the spitfire empath, "And don't say 'me leaving,' because I won't – you need to deal with whatever your issue is."

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed to slits as he stared Sylar down. A few tense seconds passed as he waited. _Is it a trick? (Of course it's a trick. He'd probably lose if we fought. He wants to know what he can do to calm me down.) That's probably not a bad idea – calming down._ Peter drew in a deep breath, tapping the metal end of the broom handle restlessly on the ground, because he really wanted to be beating Sylar with it. But he wasn't looking at Sylar while he did it – he turned his head to the side and dipped it. A wave of anger so all-encompassing it was dizzying passed through him. He remembered the joy he'd taken in trashing this place, intermixed with flashes of their fight here and frustrated impressions of his darker desires to gouge out Sylar's eyes and torture him in various ways. He lifted the stick to jab the end of it several times against the nearby brick wall, hard. Then he walked away, ten paces, before turning, whacking the stick against the wall carelessly but intentionally, and coming back with a body language that spoke more of going from point A to B than of any preparation to charge or attack.

He stopped next to the base of the broom, right where he'd started from. Finally, he managed to bring himself back to Sylar's question and give voice to things he'd been bottling up. "What the fuck are you here for if it's not to threaten me? I try to fix lunch for you the other day and you're crowding me. I tell you to cut it out and you tell me I don't get to have my own space. Or yesterday," he gestured, left-handed with the pole held vertically, then grimaced at it and propped it against the wall to get it out of his hand and out of the way (a very clear sign that Peter thought words might gain him more than bludgeoning instruments), "we're talking, things are okay, and then you start about killing people. That's not what I came here for, Sylar! I shouldn't have said what I did, but it was a fucking joke and if I can't … talk ..." He shook his head in frustration. "Then I won't fucking talk to you, okay?

"Why are you here? Why are you watching me? Why are you asking me about my sleep unless it's some lead-in about how you're not sleeping well and you want me to move back in with you or something?" He didn't wait for an answer, talking rapid-fire as fast as the thoughts came to him. "And what happens when I say no and tell you to stick it? Then we have another fight, just like the last couple times I've tried to walk away from you." He waved his hand at the broom handle, which he hadn't moved away from and was still ready at hand. "If that's what's going to happen this time, then I might as well win. _That's_ my issue."

He had no idea what Sylar would do with such an emotional dump, nor did he care. It felt good to give vent to the accumulated issues surrounding proximity to Sylar. He was trying to stay confined to recent events, things that had immediate bearing on his current anger. He'd even managed it without telling Sylar to take a hike, so there was that.

XXX

Sylar watched throughout Peter's entire process. He gave a lot of attention to it and tried to not look creepy or threatening or anything else while doing it. It was a comfort, and a small victory, when Peter set the broom handle aside. Only when Peter was finished did Sylar look away, contemplating the mostly-emotional, general information. Whatever Peter had said seemed to help him but it was of little use to Sylar as it was. _How much of that am I supposed to respond to? Probably none. I don't think he's…listening right now._ "…Okay. So what is going to make you feel safer?" _I can't promise anything but I think I should know._

XXX

Peter snapped out the answer immediately. "Indicate in some way that you understand _**why**_ I feel threatened. You're getting that I am – right, I am – but do you understand _why_? Do you understand that you've killed, assaulted, or threatened to kill or assault, a lot of people I care about, and that means I take threats and threatening behavior from you _very_ seriously? Does any of that matter to you?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar said simply, encompassing all the man's questions at once with as much sincerity as he could manage. _It matters, just probably not the way it matters to you. I would realize that but he doesn't…Of course being taken seriously is important and I haven't threatened him out of turn, just when I needed to. He's…doing the same thing?_ The commonality was surprising, and obvious now that he was aware of it, but he lacked the time he would like to spend pondering it. _He has to make sure I don't feel threatened so I don't threaten him; and I have to do the same for him, I guess?_ Sylar could feel his stress rising, but from somewhere, he summed up, "I don't trust you, Petrelli, and I never will. I can live with you because I have to and you need to live with me because you have to. You can't expect me to act any differently when you keep throwing things in my face and acting like you're better than me. We can always keep things the way they are; it's not shocking to me; but you don't play by the same rules so even that doesn't work."

XXX

Peter's weight shifted forward at 'yes'. He seemed to hang there for a moment, overbalanced forward until he settled back. A load of tension dropped from him – his shoulders relaxed, his color improved, his face smoothed. That helped. Maybe he wasn't just talking past Sylar; maybe they were understanding each other right now. Peter was listening when Sylar went on. His lips tightened at first, but he didn't answer right away. He blinked and looked down, eyes scanning slightly as he went over what Sylar had said, thinking about _exactly_ what he'd said and trying to work out what he _meant_.

Slowly, he said, "I can understand why you don't trust me. Not completely, at least. You trust me some. That's enough. We don't … _have_ to see each other. It's not a requirement." He hesitated. He wasn't sure he could hack the loneliness and he was fairly certain Sylar couldn't – not with the knowledge that Peter was out there somewhere. Sylar would literally have nothing else to do but spend his time tracking Peter down, which was a really good argument against trying to deliberately avoid him. "But if you mean we're going to see a lot of each other because we're the only ones here, then yeah, I agree with that." Grudgingly he added, "We have to be able to put up with each other and deal with our … issues." _Speaking of which,_ "You say I'm acting like I'm better than you. Can you tell me what I'm doing," Peter paused to get his wording right, aiming for non-defensive and non-contradictory, "when I'm acting like that?"

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth, but his brain stalled so he closed it. _There's something to that question…He can't make things much worse – it's not that._ _It's t_ _he fact that he is better than me and he wants me to say as much._ "Ah…mmm….You just keep thinking things happen the way you say they happen," he changed the subject with half the force he could muster. Avoiding eye contact, he looked everywhere but at Peter.

XXX

_And …? What other way would they happen? Is he saying I'm lying? Wait, he's acting weird._ Peter tracked Sylar's sudden absence of eye contact. There was a small family of related emotions that could explain it: guilt, duplicity, shame, submission. It made what little Sylar had said be suspect of truth. Peter pressed for more information. "Yeah? Tell me more. It sounds like that's an 'issue'. I want to know what's causing it."

XXX

"I'm not gonna chase you down if you won't move closer. It's…" _a dumb idea?_ "It's just more convenient." Sylar hunched his shoulders, turning aside. He paused before clearing his throat. _How is seeing each other not a requirement?_ "Is this the last of your projects or…?"

XXX

Peter's brows rose at Sylar's complete evasion of the topic he'd been the one to bring up – confronting issues and making things better, or at least survivable, between them. _He's embarrassed – embarrassed that I asked him what I was doing that meant I was acting better than him. Is that … because he doesn't want me to stop acting better than him? Or … because he thinks I am better?_ "Not going to answer my question, are you?"

Peter shrugged. He certainly wasn't going to push it if Sylar wasn't feeling up to enumerating Peter's faults. Instead, he reached for the broom, screwed the handle into the base, and headed for the ruined doorway, social convention and habit preventing him from stepping through the equally smashed display window, even if that would have been a shorter route to where he was going. Over his shoulder, he agreeably changed to Sylar's proffered substitute subject, saying, "This is what I was planning on doing this morning. I thought I'd be able to get everything cleaned up before lunch. Then I'd have to figure out how to actually fix it."

To Peter's surprise, once it was clear he was going inside the building, Sylar followed him in, sticking closer to him than he'd like. His goal now was to sweep up everything on the inside, clear out the ruined displays, and throw away anything that couldn't be salvaged. He assumed that once in the trash, the stuff would eventually disappear. It was interesting it hadn't vanished from the ground already. Peter suspected the damage had some kind of psychic significance. He wondered if maybe, in some way, it had accomplished exactly what he'd initially intended in striking a blow at Sylar's consciousness and forcing Sylar to take notice of him. He wondered, too, if the fact he'd given Sylar such a bad concussion at their fight here wasn't coincidental either. Musing, he swept as busily as a one and a half-handed man can, at one point telling Sylar in a low voice, "Get further back. You're in my way and I'm not going anywhere." What Peter had interpreted as Sylar's embarrassment had broken the impression of haughty, superior disapproval Sylar had been dishing out earlier. Now he was just there and his presence bothered Peter so much less.

XXX

After putting his foot in his mouth – and worse, being called on his backpedaling – Sylar was inclined to stay quiet. It wasn't necessarily a happy quiet but he wasn't exactly brimming with ways to further embarrass himself and call Peter's wrathful attention down on him. It was a little more insulated inside but the fact that it was shaded and without sun compared to where he'd been standing outside evened things out. He was leaned against the checkout counter, still out of Peter's immediate range with the broom, comfortable to watch since he hadn't been directed to and couldn't see how to help with only one set of tools anyway (besides, shouldn't Peter fix his own mess?) Sylar's eyes widened, then narrowed as he frowned a little. _Why would he need to say he's not going anywhere?_ Either way, given how aggressive things had been just moments before, any warning to get back was well-heeded. Sylar hustled back, unsure how far 'further back' was, luckily not tripping on any glass or merchandise as he went and keeping an eye on Peter as he did so.

XXX

"Sylar, we live, like, a block apart. Two if you count that alley, but really, it's one block's distance. That's a lot more convenient than I'm comfortable with most days."

XXX

Sylar slumped, hands in his pockets. _I know but I can't keep tabs on you from two blocks away! I don't even know where you live and it's not fair. (I'm still worried I have to move…I don't want to. What if he disappears and I can't…)_ Sylar was only dealing with the lack of proximity because he had no choice and felt he would come unglued if he didn't and he feared the loss of his sanity more than most things but in the process of holding himself together, felt he was still coming apart, just more slowly. It stung to hear the part where even that proximity made Peter uncomfortable (to say the least). He thought he'd moved back far enough that he wouldn't be near any glass but he found an escaped piece, about the size of a marble, perfect for kicking around for the hell of it. _And I can hang onto it, hide it, and tell him he missed it after he's finished,_ he thought sadistically. As it was, Sylar amused himself with that piece of glass and his shoe. _He must have hit the window really hard to get glass back this far_ , realizing some more, how angry and dangerous Peter was. _He said he did this before he found me._

XXX

Peter kept half an eye on Sylar. The guy looked really unhappy. Peter had rarely seen anyone who looked so much like they needed a hug – not that Peter was interested in giving one, but he would like to see Sylar happier. The source of Sylar's despondency could be any of several topics – Peter not wanting to be near him, some reflection on the destruction, the 'better than you' issue, or maybe something Peter had said in the course of his ranting. Or maybe it was all of those, since none of them really made for a cheery mood. Together, yeah, he could see how they could grind Sylar down and shut him up. It was satisfying in a way, but disturbing in another. Peter didn't like knowing he was the source of someone else's misery, even when that someone else was Sylar.

"You doing okay?"

XXX

Sylar just nodded and kept the eye contact to a minimum. _No_ _t only do I terrify him, I make him uncomfortable when he's aware of me when I'm not around. (Is that…fair? He does the same to m-) I'm not afraid of him and his fucking broom handle. He knows what I'm capable of and he's treating me like a credible threat like he fucking should. (Hmm…I'd use plywood to cover the windows…)_

XXX

_Huh. Kay. I'm getting the cold shoulder, but he's still here. And I swear he's getting closer._ Sylar hadn't moved that far off when asked – maybe a couple arm's lengths and when Peter looked back up the next time, he didn't even seem to be that far away anymore. He was messing with something underfoot and shuffling back. Peter finished the main part of sweeping and went to lean against the counter where Sylar had been earlier. The broom was left against the front wall of the store some ten or twenty feet away. "That's it with sweeping for now. Next I'll get all that stuff out of the way and haul it back to the dumpster." He gestured at the ruined displays. "I think they'll have a dumpster, right? It's a big store." He looked to Sylar for an affirmation even though he already knew the answer.

XXX

A glance told him Peter was looking at him. Sylar nodded and went back to playing with his find of destroyed window.

XXX

Peter kept going with the small talk, not letting silence fall between them even if he was struggling to find things to say. "Once I get all that out of the way, I'll sweep again."

XXX

_Why not just pick up all the big stuff then sweep once? But whatever keeps you busy and not…assaulting me is a good thing, I guess._ "Are you going to need hardware supplies?" He was curious if Peter's intent still matched the words Sylar thought he remembered, about fixing the store completely or as best he could given the circumstances. _Is he doing it out of guilt, do-rightness, or…does he know it would make me feel better?_

XXX

"Yeah, I will after I get this cleaned up. You walked me by a store a few weeks ago and pointed it out – I remember that. It was somewhere up north of here, but I didn't see it when I was out canvassing the neighborhood. Could you lead me there again, after lunch?" Peter knew he was giving the impression they'd eat lunch together, but that was intentional. He'd like the company. He wondered how well Sylar had been eating. He suspected the answer was 'not'.

XXX

Sylar nodded once more, this time answering verbally also, "Yeah." _He wants to go for a walk. I want to sleep. With him. Around. At this point, I think it would be hazardous to my health to sleep near him._ The subject of lunch was in question; Sylar's assumed they would meet up after lunch despite the more obvious lead-in to dining together. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food but he didn't feel like eating beyond that; certainly he wasn't anywhere near his full strength and that motivated him to keep the peace with Peter.

XXX

Peter nodded to him, pleased to see Sylar perking up some. He reached over in a long leaning motion and gave him a couple quick, encouraging pats on the upper arm. This was despite and maybe because of Sylar's comment during the argument in his apartment - that Peter got in his space without asking. What did that mean? Did this count? Was Sylar going to object to what Peter saw as normal, casual touch or had he been talking about his apartment rather than his person?

XXX

Sylar's eyes widened a little and he went still. It was a slow, purposeful motion, Peter's hand coming towards him, but it could easily be used to gain a handhold and yank him off balance or worse… Yet he allowed it. And nothing came of it. He didn't want to admit he breathed easier when Peter moved away.

XXX

"Come on. Help me load up a couple of those shopping carts with trash, then we'll push them out back to the dumpster." Helping made people feel better. Peter strongly believed that. If Sylar wasn't going to be difficult about the patting, then maybe they could get through doing something together without trying to kill each other.

The debris consisted of a handful of battered, headless mannequin torsos (not that Peter had ripped off arms, legs, or heads – they were made that way), a lot of scattered clothes, pegboard and display backboards, some signs, and pieces from one of the window frames Peter had bashed on repeatedly enough to dislodge it from the brick facade. He rolled a shopping cart over nearby, hoping that Sylar would join him, and tried to figure out how to get as much of the stuff as possible in it. "I suppose the big things, like the pegboard and stuff, should go on top, last. Maybe we should put the mannequins and clothes in first." He glanced over to Sylar for his opinion.

XXX

"Hmm. I can hold the big stuff on top." Sylar said, surveying what needed transport. His eyes caught on the mannequins – white, but still clearly and intentionally humanoid in structure, just as clearly lacking arms, legs and heads. This was probably the closest thing to a life-sized human around, except for Peter. There were pictures of people in any kind of printed material but they lacked faces. Sylar tried not to find it karmic and creepy that these torsos were mocking him, otherwise existing in his Hell. He still didn't want to touch them (rather, maybe he wanted to touch them too much, representing humans as they did, disgusting as that was – it wasn't like he could touch Peter). Carefully, Sylar squatted down and began to gather the clothes, standing and moving to squat again because it was easier on his head than bending over…and he still didn't want to be doing that anyway around Peter. When he had an armful, all the while keeping track of Peter, he dumped them in the cart, thinking how very similar it was to when he killed someone and had to handle the body. _I took Zane's clothes._ He swallowed and left the rest of the mannequins to Peter. "Maybe we should keep these for the next time you get angry," he muttered about mannequins and Peter's violent habits.

XXX

"Haha. Yeah, right." Peter took it as a joke, which was a deliberate choice. He had every reason to be angry at Sylar and the man's comment implied those reasons were insufficient. But Peter didn't want to fight, so he laughed it off. He hefted a mannequin over his shoulder in a faux show of strength (they were really light weight). "Better than beating on each other, that's for sure." He thought about tossing it into the cart in a further display of prowess, but … he'd never been happy about people taking liberties with the emergency services training dummies. He set it in the cart after pulled the metal pole out of its posterior. "I thought about getting a hanging bag for the workout room. Maybe I'll do that someday. It would give me something safe to hit when I get tense."

XXX

_Meaning he has to hit something when he's 'tense.' Great._ Sylar deliberately avoided considering that depressing reality, instead beginning to gather up the signs, righting what clothes hangers he could. It was a little more time consuming because he had to move slower, get lower to grab them up. He went after things he thought Peter couldn't, literally, handle with a single hand – the window frame and most of the displays.

XXX

The largest piece of pegboard was awkward in size and weight. Peter pulled it free from the other store displays and hauled it noisily and clumsily over next to the carts, where he paused while he tried to figure out how to deal with it in a way that didn't endanger everything nearby. "It's a little thick to kick in half," he mused. "I'm not sure it will stay on the cart, though." He reached down and lifted the nearest corner, not sure what he was going to do.

XXX

Sylar hastened to help Peter get the board up. It was heavy and unwieldy, a two-person job, assuming Peter would allow that. Sylar took the other end and helped lift and maneuver it onto the cart where it seemed likely to slide off regardless of placement. "I'll hold it." And then he noticed that the loaded cart was well inside the building – with the pegboard, it was unlikely to fit through the door. _I should have…thought of that. Why didn't I? Well, he brought it in here, which was half-smart._

XXX

"Okay," Peter nodded. "Then we'll just take one cart out at a time." He backed it up slowly, craning his head towards the back of the store. "You're taller. Do you see the way out back there? There should be a couple double doors."

XXX

_Oh, good. Maybe he already scouted-_ "Yeah. There," he pointed, carefully, to his right, supporting the board on the cart with his left. "To your…left."

XXX

They walked it out, slow and easy, down the central aisle of the store and through the double doors in the back. There was, as Peter had expected, a set of freight doors in the back. A little exploration showed the dumpster not far from there. The stuff was piled in it without a problem, although they had to work together on the pegboard. Peter side-eyed Sylar as they headed back. Sometimes he was too close, like earlier; now he was staying oddly far away. It was like he was afraid Peter might try to run him down with the cart or something. Peter didn't miss the slight cant to Sylar's head that let him see Peter in his peripheral vision. There were moments when the man's fear of him was palpable.

_What did I do? So I kind of threatened to hit him with a broom handle. I don't think that's what his deal is. Yesterday I wouldn't talk to him and he got upset. A few days before that, we argued in his kitchen and he kicked me out. He wasn't afraid of me like this then. He was … he was pretty off yesterday, too. Not like this, though. He's not going to want to answer, 'what are you afraid of?' I need to make it less direct._

As they returned to the front, Peter asked, "When we were arguing in your apartment last time, you said I get in your space all the time … and you said I couldn't go around with my own space. What's going on with that? I don't understand. It sounds contradictory."

XXX

"It means if you treat my apartment like a free-for-all, then you don't have any right to personal space yourself. If I tried to act like you in your apartment, you'd…" Sylar sighed. _Kill me. Pull a gun. Something of that nature._ "You'd kick or drag me out." He opened his mouth to say more but it was off topic – Peter hadn't asked for it – so he didn't voice it. "It's very simple."

Reluctantly, Sylar crouched to get his hands on a mannequin. He threw it into the cart, glanced at Peter, having no idea how the other man would take anything he was saying as usual, and went for another figurine. He couldn't explain his discomfort about Peter, the topic, the damn life-like dolls, and he didn't try. He was beginning to realize his distresses would be or had to be overlooked to preserve a working interaction between them and he had to accept it.


	82. Hardware-ing

Day 31, January 9th, Morning

Peter watched Sylar's abrupt motions as they went about loading the cart for a second (and probably last) load. "What do you mean, a free-for-all? Do you mean the fight, that morning?" His brows were slightly pulled together, giving Sylar nearly all of his attention. This was important.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar nodded starting slow at first, a little jerky but getting smoother and faster. His voice strained, "Hitting me, breaking my things, stealing and using others, the food, attacking me when...when you said you wouldn't and I told you to stay across the room."

XXX

_'Stealing and using others?' What does that mean? Maybe stealing some of his stuff and using other stuff? Let's focus instead on the rest, on the things I think I understand._ Peter straightened, but not in a confrontational manner – more just getting up on his feet. "You're saying … that when you started making fun of my brother's death, I should have walked out instead of going for you, right?" His expression was serious. He wasn't doubting or disagreeing; he was figuring out where Sylar drew the line.

XXX

"I'm not telling you what to do, Peter," Sylar scoffed, "As if you'd listen." He noticed he was clinging protectively to the latest mannequin, keeping it between himself and Peter.

XXX

_No,_ Peter thought sadly, _I probably wouldn't_. He nodded slowly, eyes distant. "I broke my word," he said softly. "That's why you're afraid." He touched his forehead and sagged against the check-out counter, eyes moving uneasily between the floor and Sylar. _I fucked up. How do I fix this?_ An apology felt wrong, especially as he felt torn between competing loyalties. He looked pained. _But I told him my family was off-limits! How can he expect me to sit there and do nothing while he makes fun of Nathan's death?_ Peter shifted uncomfortably, talking to himself, as much as to Sylar. "But if I'm willing to break my word when all you've done is talk, then what does that mean to you about how I'd keep any other promise when you've killed my brother?" Peter swallowed. _What am I willing to honor? If it's Nathan's memory, then Sylar should already be dead. And if it's not, then he should be able to say what he wants. It's just words, right?_ Peter squirmed in place again, not at all liking where his thoughts were taking him. It tasted a lot like a betrayal of his brother and it was bitter on his tongue, leaving his chest feeling empty and hollow. Maybe Sylar had tricked him somehow. He'd have to think on it. In the meantime, there was a breach of trust to be healed or else Sylar's increasing and perhaps justified paranoid behavior was going to make life impossible.

Slowly, he said, "I see why you don't trust me. Or at least, I see it more. But we're still here together. How do we make this work?"

XXX

Sylar retorted, "I'm not afraid." He huffed an exasperated breath. "'We' don't do anything, because there is no 'we', right, Peter? You live with your actions because you won't do anything different. I adjust – those are the rules." Sylar shoved the torso into the cart roughly, glaring at Peter with challenge. "What else would you like to talk about, Peter?" he invited. It was just a formality because the Italian would talk about whatever he wished anyway. At least having this out in the open meant he didn't have to be subtle when he watched his back, like now, reaching for yet another damn mannequin. _How many did this guy take out, wishing it was me? And why am I still here helping him?_

XXX

Peter deflated, not that he had far to go. He became … less. "Yeah, I guess so," he mumbled, face tilting down. _No making up for it, no healing, no fixing. Just Sylar taking that kind of behavior from me as the new normal and adjusting accordingly, which includes being terrified of me even while he's desperate to be around me. The only reason he's doing that much is that I'm the only person to be around. If he had choices, he'd be elsewhere. Even Sylar thinks I'm a danger - a loose cannon._ The corner of Peter's mouth lifted bitterly, because the irony was rich, if undesired. He didn't look up as he asked his question: "How do I get you to stop provoking me about my family?" Sylar had asked what else Peter wanted to know, after all. Maybe he could address the problem from the other end, stopping Sylar from picking fights with him, since he felt depressingly sure that given the right bait, he'd swing on Sylar again, no matter what promises he'd made. He finished loading the cart mechanically. It felt hopeless; he felt stupid. He knew it would pass, but he still felt utterly bathed in regret and self-loathing. He looked around to see if there was anything else to pick up, avoiding all traces of eye contact as he did it. "I'm not going to stop defending them." _Even the dead ones. Especially the dead ones._

XXX

"Here's an idea, Peter: stop asking about Nathan! You don't fucking own him or the mention of his name. I fucking _**was**_ him, Peter! I am not your gateway to Nathan. At least not until you can tell the damn difference between me and him and you understand that you and him and your family are not the only wounded victims here; not until you see what your mother and her friends did and what you're still doing. I don't expect you to do anything else, Peter; by all means defend those sick hypocrites. But don't you fucking _**bait**_ me! Don't _bait_ me and play that game! Because I promise it will get nasty and you can believe my word on that." Once that was out it felt like he could draw a cleaner, easier breath. Hell, he had no idea if he was on topic, answering the question given. And he didn't much care. Peter wasn't looking at him and somehow that made it okay to speak.

"You wanted me to be Nathan, well….You can't punish me for having any part of him just because you don't like it after the fact – you should have thought of that before you turned me into him! Then you wonder why I won't answer you and then say things you don't like? Fuck!" Sylar swept his hair back and gripped it tight, turning away from Peter. He couldn't get the emotion out and he knew he was going to do something violent; it was just a matter of what, how and against whom. Peter still wasn't looking at him even as he grabbed the last mannequin, pivoted and slammed it onto a multi-leveled clothes table, screaming his lungs out. The damn thing crumpled and broke, shattering into dusty pieces as Sylar was left holding the metal support bar. _I can break things, too!_ Committed now, he threw it at the counter right next to Peter, on purpose, to get his attention again or halfway threaten, whatever. It felt good but immediately after he felt guilty about everything and it was so frustrating he saw his eyes get hot and blurry. There was nothing he could do to fix his situation and what he'd done probably hadn't helped it any.

Sniffing once, Sylar turned on his heel and stomped out through the broken display window.

XXX

Peter had been holding very still the whole time, listening to the rant and watching Sylar's feet as they carried him about the floor and communicated his personal energy just as effectively as his face. When the metal bar hit the cash register near Peter, he jumped. He hadn't seen it coming and he raised his eyes out of self-preservation. Sylar had his attention, for a moment at least. When there was no impending attack, Peter's gaze slipped past the other man and roamed over the shattered mannequin. _This place breeds anger. Or maybe it just reveals it._ He felt oddly blank about that – philosophical, maybe. The strong emotion expressed on both sides left him feeling comfortably empty for the moment. He watched Sylar go without saying a word, giving a respectful silence for the things expressed. They weren't what he'd asked to know, but they were what Sylar had to say. Now that it was said, it gave Peter a different perspective on things.

_'Stop asking about Nathan.' 'Don't bait me.' 'You turned me into him.' (I did not. But he thinks I did. Or at least he blames me for it.) He's frustrated. He's hurt. Nathan's almost as sore a subject for him as it is for me. And then there's my family, which was my question to start with._ Peter pursed his lips and shot a last look through the window at Sylar's retreating back. Then he bent to pick up the metal rod that had been thrown at him and pushed the cart over to the new source of debris.

_I asked what would get him to stop picking fights with me over my family. He said … I think he means he's mad about them, too. That's why - he's mad enough to not care if it starts a fight. (Mad because his evil plans were thwarted? That would explain why I'm included among the guilty.) Not that it matters. Sometimes the most angry are the least justified. Is that because they don't feel they're getting enough respect?_ Peter kept musing and mulling things over as he rolled the cart to the rear and dumped the contents. He replaced it with the other carts and began the final sweep he'd intended to do. He was mostly through when he saw Sylar coming back. After a brief pause to regard him, Peter continued with his task until Sylar was at a conversational distance. Then he stopped, leaned on the broom, and looked at Sylar steadily and expectantly.

XXX

Sylar took yet another deep breath and stayed out of range. Hands in his pockets, curled in on himself he spoke before Peter could condemn him further, "Are you going to break in again?"

XXX

Peter glanced around the store. All of the front windows had been reduced to empty frames (and in one case, not even the frame was left). Even the thicker glass of the door was spiderwebbed. Breaking in here a second time was irrelevant. Peter certainly wasn't feeling any urge to take out other storefronts, but he didn't think that was what Sylar was talking about. "Break in where?"

XXX

"My apartment, my door, attacking me, is that going to be a…a thing?" He did not want to move. His apartment was more or less a home; it had been a very safe place until recently. As a killer, he wasn't supposed to have anything like that, but he'd made it anyway, made it himself, gathering up every book and treasure to keep close to him as a comfort and now…The idea of being on the run was nearly beyond his comprehension. He'd gotten soft and he badly wanted, perhaps even needed the stability of having something of his own.

XXX

Peter breathed out slowly and said very clearly, "No. Breaking in to your apartment is not going to be a 'thing'." In a slightly lower voice, he added in an attempt to excuse himself, "I've been knocking." He felt like an ill-trained dog, or that Sylar was insinuating he was. He thought he should argue and stand up for himself, but he didn't have it in him at the moment. He had, after all, broken into Sylar's apartment without a knock, a thought, or the slightest regard for Sylar's obvious fear. At the time, none of that had mattered to Peter, any more than he'd cared about smashing this store. He'd wanted something from Sylar and was blithely and callously willing to damage anything necessary to get it, including Sylar himself. It left Peter feeling ashamed of himself. He knew he'd been wrong and so he dropped his eyes in apology, watching Sylar's feet again, and waited.

XXX

Sylar's gaze was locked on Peter while he answered. It was the distinct lack of promise coupled with the explicit finality that worked. It made sense, simple yes or no, and he…he trusted it. Being attacked wasn't addressed but any polite/conceding/warning knocking equivocated no breaking and entering for an attack; not that Sylar would be inviting Peter back any time soon, if he could help it. _I don't have to move._ Relief made his ears ring from a sudden pressure being lifted, the burden eased. "Okay."

XXX

Peter looked up to watch the man go. Sylar was moving more freely, he noticed. _He believes me? After I broke my word? Well, he might not believe me, but he at least trusted me enough to ask. My answer meant something to him._ Peter finished the clean up and loitered around the place for another half hour, in the full knowledge that he was waiting in case Sylar came back to join him for lunch. Peter straightened things and tidied up, but there was no one here who wanted to be with him.

Day 32, January 10, Morning

Peter hadn't felt like spending the afternoon searching for the hardware store alone, so he frittered the time away playing pool and haphazardly searching some of the apartments in his building. It was frustrating and dull – the rooms in his building were nonsensically plain and boring, not at all interesting like the ones across the street in the Pegasus. Eventually he'd given up on it and made an early night of it.

He felt better in the morning. After a leisurely workout, a shower, and a trip down to a Starbucks that shared space with the Y, he'd returned with a pair of parfaits. He sat on the curb across from Sylar's apartment, eating one of them very slowly, wondering idly if boredom, the cold, or Sylar would be the first to stir him from his seat.

XXX

Still sour and pained, Sylar got up if for no other reason than to keep Peter away from his apartment. He'd been undisturbed all night, except for nightmares so that counted for something. Limping and bundled up against the cold like some overstuffed winter bird, he caught sight of Peter sitting outside his building. That sent up a warning flag before he rationalized the innocence of it – Peter was munching up some kind of ice cream or something…It was too odd a sight to hold much threat. _Do I need to say something about…stalking me or…?_ It depended on Peter's word (not in his good graces at the moment) and the medic's stance on 'killers and rights to privacy.' After the brief tangent, he dismissed it scornfully, _Why would he stalk me? Why is he_ _even_ _here? He doesn't want to be. He wasn't…upset when I…about yesterday so this isn't an apology._

Slowly Sylar walked out, looking up and down both sides of the street as if checking for traffic. He approached Peter and stood eight or nine feet away this time, out of lunging distance. He saw that Peter's plastic cup held fruit and non-frozen yoghurt instead of ice cream.

XXX

Peter was mostly done with his meal and really starting to feel the chill on his butt when Sylar emerged. He was glad of the distraction from his discomfort, but not so glad about the way Sylar regarded him, like Peter was a danger. _Oh well,_ he mentally (attempted to) dismiss it. Another distraction was Sylar's continuing limp. _That's the same foot he's been favoring since … before the concussion? It's been weeks. Those aren't jammed toes. They're broken. Or at least one is._ There wasn't much to be done about it. The injury might have benefitted from being buddy-wrapped had Peter noticed it early on, but being in shoes and mostly off his feet immobilized the toes about as well or better than any brace or treatment might.

He picked up the plastic-wrapped spoon and then the container, both with his left hand, and extended them. "Have you had breakfast?"

XXX

Sylar glanced between the offering and Peter's eyes several times. It was clearly for him, unless Peter was especially hungry to eat two or sadistic to offer but renege. _He's not apologizing, right? Of course not, that's unheard of. Tricking me? To do what? Taking care of me?...Why? I'm still alive like I said I would be, taking care of myself._ He didn't greet with any obvious good morning and didn't ask what Peter was doing or how he'd slept. Slowly, he was learning. "Not really," he hedged to admit because his buffet of crackers, soup and reheated frozen meals wasn't doing him very well. He snuck forward to take the cup from Peter's hand. He looked it over carefully, then at Peter again. It was real food and his woeful stomach was in open rebellion because it even smelled good with the lid on. "Thanks." This time he sat about two feet away, what he hoped was still a polite (and safe) distance. Sylar popped the lid and stuck his spoon in, closing his nostrils to get the bite into his mouth. The granola was crunchy, the parfait fresh. He wondered if Peter had made it or found it; either way it was tasty, suitable, and satisfied his needs, nutritional or otherwise.

XXX

Peter shifted his weight a few times after Sylar settled. It warmed and relaxed him that Sylar hadn't taken the food and stomped off, or stood there looming over him to eat it. Instead, he'd sat close, or at least at a normal distance, and was being … okay about things. That was good; Peter was happy as he used his spoon to dig out the last bits of blueberry and yoghurt from the bottom of the tall, plastic cup.

Finished, he set it aside and leaned back, turning his head to regard Sylar for a moment. When Sylar looked up at him, Peter asked, "Would you still be interested in showing me where the hardware store is?"

XXX

Sylar paused, a little surprised headstrong Peter hadn't gone exploring on his own to find it. He hadn't expected the other man to wait or plan to involve him. _Am I needed or is he trying to suck up? But he has no reason to suck up._ He looked the empath over, giving a small nod, "Yeah." _One word answers; keep it very short, that's the key._ After several quiet, slightly awkward moments of chewing (because Peter kept looking at him and that wasn't the most comfortable thing now), Sylar remarked, "I've never had one of these before."

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter smiled a little, hoping that was a good thing. Since Sylar had been very expressive so far about things he didn't like, Peter took the lack of condemnation as approval. "Hm," he said, a short, throaty noise of approval. He let his gaze roam around Sylar's face for a moment. _Do I really use him as a gateway to Nathan? I guess I had been thinking of him as the repository of Nathan's memories. And the guy who's supposed to save Emma. And the guy who killed all those people, along with me. The past and the future – do those really define a person – what they've done, what they will do – or is who they are something else? Who is Sylar?_

Sylar was a person who didn't like being stared at, so Peter looked away when his scrutiny was noticed. "Yeah, um, I had a friend in college who had yoghurt in his cereal every morning. Or maybe he had a little cereal with his yoghurt. He said having milk with cereal was nutritionally the same as putting a few tablespoons of sugar in a glass of milk." Peter looked back at Sylar, using the opportunity to catalogue his features – big nose, dark brows, pale skin that made the dark of his facial hair so much more pronounced than it would have been on a tanner person. He supposed he needed to keep acting like he was having a conversation rather than scoping Sylar out, which wasn't _exactly_ what he was doing. "Personally, I never saw the distinction. I mean, yoghurt's still basically milk, right?" Peter shrugged, realizing he was having this 'conversation' by himself. "Yeah." He picked up his empty cup and rolled it between his hands, his elbows on his knees and eyes on the cup. He could go on about Kevin's opinions on protein and fats and whatnot, but Peter wasn't in love with the sound of his own voice so much that he'd inflict it on an uninterested audience.

XXX

"I guess." Really, he wouldn't have thought yoghurt had so much sugar in it or…wasn't as healthy as he'd previously thought. _Maybe all the processing and curing and preservatives or something._

XXX

After a few more moments of silence, Peter twitched as he remembered something more pertinent to Sylar than Peter's college stories. He pulled a bottle of painkillers from his pocket, opening it and shaking out a few pills. "Here, you should take these." He didn't bother to ask if Sylar had taken a dose this morning; he doubted he had. "They're the same painkillers you were taking before. I went back to the hospital the other day and got some stuff, including more of these." He'd brought them along thinking the trip to the hardware store might be an all-day excursion and if so, Sylar would need to take a couple doses throughout the day.

XXX

"Oh," Sylar said, surprised again. _Those would help._ The illusion of the same caretaking Peter had given him before was making him feel better, almost disgustingly so. _You're so easy. He gives you a treat and you're ready to forget he lied and attacked you?_ He felt terribly conflicted, desperate for the comfort yet ashamed and insulted to need it or have it offered. "Thank you," he said, genuine but quiet, taking the pills and downing them quickly. Sylar kept his mouth full to avoid asking or saying anything offensive. It was silent aside for his spooning, because he was eating alone at this point. He wondered if he was supposed to converse, if that was…required or repellant. Picking the most neutral thing, Sylar cleared his throat and voiced softly, "What were you thinking of getting at the store?"

XXX

"I hadn't really thought about it. I don't know if they sell …" _It's not really selling. There's no one here to sell it._ "Um, if they have windows like that at a hardware store. I don't know how big they sell- um, carry. Maybe we'd have to find a specialty window place? I guess if they don't have windows, I could get some boards until we- or at least," he shot Sylar an uncertain look, not wanting to rope him into a project he might not want anything to do with, but not wanting to exclude him either, "until I find a glass store." _I hate glass,_ his mind tacked on unnecessarily. He could deal with 'windows', but the combination of glass and Sylar bothered him. He was also feeling super-awkward about the conversation and very insecure about his own performance in it. It had started out well enough, but now? He couldn't even speak correctly. He got to his feet to pace and stretch his legs after sitting for so long.

XXX

Sylar frowned down at his meal, snack-like cup. About Peter's unnecessary self-correcting, he thought, _Please don't have a complex about taking things without paying. I won't be able to handle that; it's so stupid. Do you even know what you're doing?_ Sylar wasn't aware the medic knew how to fix a window when he didn't know how to clean a dish (far less skill or technique involved). All that aside, he was warmed by it, almost as much as receiving breakfast if not more so, about the complete restoration of the building. _(He wants to fix it, for me, most likely. He thinks I care or he feels bad)._ It meant less than nothing outside of a gestural, intangible demonstration of….care? Friendship? Healing? Fixing was very much within his ken; it felt like Peter was speaking his language, for a little while at least. It dampened a bit when Peter glanced at him strangely _. Oh. He wants to work…alone. That makes sense, I guess. I can't- shouldn't talk and throw things._

He barely repressed his bodily jerk in reaction to Peter standing up, leaning away in case he needed a quick escape. _Fuck_ , he thought of the other man's pacing. _He's impatient. What can I…?_ Sylar regarded his two-thirds gone cup. _I guess I don't need to finish._ He stood also, gathering his trash, dumping it to show his readiness. "It's this way," he edged around Peter to be closer to the street as he passed to head north then west for the hardware store. _Maybe I can find a couch to sit in somewhere while he works and check in to…make sure…I don't know. Maybe just leave him alone. He likes that._

XXX

Peter rubbed at his forehead, chagrinned as he realized Sylar had read his standing and moving around as a signal to go, and was now foregoing finishing his food. _Do I stop him and … and what? Tell him to sit back down and finish his breakfast like he's a kid?_ Peter shook his head once and fell in, a step behind Sylar and a companionable distance off to the side. _He had more to eat than he would have otherwise. I'll just make sure we stop early for lunch – and next time, think before I jump up._ He blew air out, disgusted with himself again, but there was nothing for it. They didn't have the sort of comfortable relationship where he could explain without making a scene, and the failure of Sylar to eat the last of the parfait wasn't worth it. _'You live with your actions … I adjust – those are the rules.'_ Peter wasn't happy about it, but the one at fault here was him.

XXX

"So what's your favorite fruit? You had fruit in your cup. If you don't mind my asking," he hastily tacked on the last as if it would help if Peter was upset by the question. _Does he like small talk? His small talk is different than mine. If he doesn't like it, he'll…(I don't like this_ , he thought for the billionth time already. It was part of the adjustment period, he knew, but that didn't make it any easier). _Suck it up._ With the most recent incident, Peter had fallen into a category finally. While that was a relief, it was only so manageable. Peter was someone he wanted something from, a person who he would have otherwise hero-worshipped to the point of restraining order. Now, friendliness was gone, and Peter was someone he wanted to be around but had to avoid and yet had to deal with and perform for; walking on eggshells around a man who would snap at a single wrong word.

XXX

Peter waited a beat, increasing his pace to come even with Sylar. The earlier conversation that had seemed like such a mess to him had died and they'd spent the next several minutes walking in silence. He'd begun to wonder if their whole journey would pass like that, but he wasn't about to be the one to run his mouth without prompting. He was grateful for the topic. "No, I don't mind. Grapes." He gave a brief smile. "They're always different. They're sweet. They're small – self contained, individual bites. I like that. They don't stain like blueberries; they hold up better than strawberries; and they taste great with cheese."

He paused, thinking that it had been a while since he'd had grapes – a couple months, maybe more. He remembered popping a few in his mouth after interrupting brunch on his brother's terrace, spinning an impromptu line for a reporter and being the good Petrelli his family wanted him to be. He made a wry roll of his eyes. Surely he'd had some since then. That was years back, but since then he'd been … all over the place, and rarely buying groceries and never attending the sort of events where they were served. He cleared his expression before looking over to Sylar. "What's yours?"

XXX

This was the forced, uncaring conversation Sylar loved so much. _You don't care, so why ask me?_ 'Forbidden fruit?' he almost said, but didn't, knowing it wouldn't be appreciated. "Apples."

XXX

Peter nodded. "Can I ask how your toes are doing? I was noticing you're limping." He used the usual EMT phrasing without any leading comments, saying strictly what he'd seen and leaving it at that.

XXX

Sylar swallowed his fear of what the line of questioning might mean. "I…They're…still sore?" Already they felt better after the painkillers.

XXX

"I was thinking if they're still bothering you, they're probably broken. There's not much that can be done for them. It's like my hand – a brace if you need it, but really that's only to keep you from using them. You were off your feet a lot and that's the main thing. But getting out and walking some, now, is probably good, too." He looked ahead at the buildings, trying to remember how far afield they'd gotten on their walk last time. He was pretty sure the hardware store had been closer than the hospital, so he didn't expect the distance to be unmanageable. Especially since this time, he assumed Sylar would be taking him straight to their destination.

XXX

"I'll be fine," he assured, mild but serious. _I don't see how walking is going to help except to justify your errand, Peter. Just don't make me run, but you can't promise that, can you? Why is it that I have to give my word to help him if he gets hurt but his word is worthless?_

XXX

Peter walked along in quiet. _I don't know what else to say. Did he like the parfait? Kind of stupid to ask, though, because he's not going to tell me if he didn't. What is there to talk about with Sylar that isn't related to our past? Isn't everything related to that? 'What would you like to do with your life?' isn't really fair. It's too big, too philosophical. How do I get to know a person? What would I say to a date?_ "What do you like to do for fun?" he blurted. This world wasn't exactly a fun place and Peter feared hearing something like 'killing people', so he clarified quickly, "I mean, before the abilities, back when things were more normal."

XXX

"I mostly worked…" Sylar began slowly, feeling like he'd already answered this but maybe the previous answer wasn't good enough so he needed to come up with new material, if not outright lie. If only he could think of something to lie about, hobbies (aside from horology) weren't really his strong suit. "I'd go to the library, go for a walk _," to see if anyone would notice me. Not in New York anyway._ "See the sights if they were close enough; watch TV sometimes. Fix clocks. Play cards with my mom," _whom I'm not talking about and it was fun to play with her only if she wasn't talking; play solitaire by myself._ "Boring stuff," he shrugged.

XXX

Peter nodded. He'd heard this before, or a variation of it – working, reading, cooking, and so on. It was just hard for Peter to see those as 'fun'. They weren't recreational activities the way he thought of them. It sounded like his life recently, closed up in his apartment with a police scanner with his days consisting of nothing other than working, working out, eating enough to fuel his body, and obsessively looking for more ways to save people. It wasn't healthy had he knew that. He'd thought about it a lot as he took down the wall of clippings, trying to come to grips with why he'd been putting them up to start with. _Is that the same way he was? Did he become a killer because his life was closed off? Was that where I was going? Noah said I needed to get out, reconnect._ The memory came to mind of crouching over Sylar, hand to the man's forehead, intent on wiping Sylar out of existence. _Where did my compassion go? Why was I willing to do that to someone? 'No one wants him dead more than me, Ma' - I said that. I meant it!_ Although Peter could remember how he'd felt, it left him confused now. It seemed wrong, despite being true. His eyes flew to Sylar's, an unformed question on his lips.

XXX

"What did you do, Peter, besides working out and beating up bad guys?" Sylar cringed. It had just slipped out but he'd obviously meant it enough to say it. "I'm sorry," he said as he stopped walking and stood there. Peter thought he and all those other villains deserved the beating so that sufficiently justified it. _He only needs me for…_ "The-the hardware store is right on Fourth Street – up there and to the right," backing up as he gave directions. When Peter made no move towards him, Sylar turned away with the intention of heading back to his apartment. _This wasn't going to work anyway._

XXX

"Sylar … N-" Peter cut himself off from forbidding Sylar to leave or making any demands. The snark was so transparent he wasn't bothered by it. He was upset much more by the evidence of simmering anger under Sylar's facade. "Please." He held his hands up and to the sides, palms out. "It's okay. Will you show me?"

XXX

Sylar turned back immediately, not looking forward to a lecture or an assault. In place, he waited with the appearance of patience, gazing in Peter's direction but not at his person.

XXX

"Come on," Peter cajoled. "I don't want to get lost. I need your help." It was the sort of appeal that would work on Peter. He realized that wasn't the best tack to take with Sylar. "This is your place, your city. You know the way around a lot better than I do." He waited a beat, then conceded, "I would like you with me." _Even if you're making mean-spirited comments. Maybe I've earned that. The only way to disprove it is to disprove it – leave it alone._

XXX

Sylar nodded once, slowly, and approached hesitantly. _Try harder, no, do better. I have to. Just don't say anything at all._ He rejoined Peter, feeling comforted but mostly feeling ill by the constant threat hanging over him. "Maybe it's better if you only ask me important questions, not anything about...not-important things..." he suggested lamely. _How about you don't ask me any damn thing at all? Can't talk about anything with me and of course, that's my fault._

XXX

Peter gave a shallow nod, even as he wanted to argue about it. _They weren't unimportant things. He's taking this too far. He acts like I've given him grounds to think I might attack him at any moment. It doesn't work that way!_ I _don't work that way! Can't he see that?_ Peter pursed his lips and walked in silence. Sylar had said a number of things, here and there, that made Peter think that maybe he _couldn't_ see that. At a loss as to what to do about it, he continued on.

They came to the hardware store soon enough. It was a couple blocks beyond where Peter had ranged before. Peter had noticed the street signs and building names in this world were low profile when present at all. In this case, it merely said, 'HARDWARE' without a brand or franchise name. At least the Starbucks and the YMCA had had proper names, although Peter had had to really look to find that much. 'HARDWARE' didn't surprise him, as the hospital was 'HOSPITAL' and the place he ate breakfast when not at Sylar's or his apartment was 'DINER'. The inside of the hospital was a lot like Mercy Heights, but with enough minor differences that he couldn't entirely rely on his memory. Then again, most hospitals had similar basic layouts, just like most hardware stores. This one, he found as they went inside, was like someone had tried to replicate a big box store's layout in the footprint of a larger-than-usual downtown brownstone. It almost worked. Everything seemed to be there, but it was all cramped and crowded.

XXX

Sylar hung back, aware of the stupidity of the location and its contents in glaring realism. _Was this a trick? It was still stupid to come here._ Worse than before, he was tense and hyperaware and it wouldn't do to let Peter see that. Every turn was another Mercy attack waiting to happen.

XXX

Peter wandered the aisles by himself, craning his neck to take in the placards directing him to 'Windows'. He walked past fasteners of every conceivable kind and many he'd never imagined. He'd thought Sylar had went off on some errand of his own, so silent was the other. Peter was standing in front of the Exteriors section, hands on hips, not sure where to start, when Sylar's voice sounded from his left. He barely managed not to start. _How the hell does he manage to ghost around like that?!_

XXX

"What are you looking for?"

XXX

Peter frowned, not entirely at the unnecessarily stealthy Sylar, but mostly at the aisles that encompassed his options. "Windows. But these are all housing windows." _I was afraid of that._

XXX

Had he been more relaxed, Sylar would have rolled his eyes. That much was obvious. He'd been inquiring about specifics. "How big a window do you need?"

XXX

"I don't know." He started down the aisle directly in front of him, passing square windows, rectangular windows, round windows, stained glass windows, transom windows, and various other configurations he couldn't identify but clearly weren't what he needed. "I didn't take any measurements." He wasn't even sure how many display windows the building had. _And I'll need something for the door, too._

XXX

Whatever that fucking store was, it was quickly becoming a place to be avoided – Sylar did not want to return to take measurements, alone or accompanied. "What kind of window?" Maybe he could help here and avoid the extra stop…

XXX

Peter grunted in annoyance. "I don't _know_." He started up the next aisle, but it was mostly shutters and the beginnings of siding. He paced down it quickly and went to the other side of the first lane he'd walked down. Here, at least, he had sliding glass doors, but nothing like the sturdy, commercial door he needed. Still, he had nowhere else to look, so he loitered next to some screen doors. "I only worked construction for one summer with Dad and Uncle Tim. Most of that was just doing what they told me to." Not that his obedience had ever been recognized.

XXX

"Do you know how to put a window in?" When Peter began to look at him, Sylar quickly cut him off, "Don't look at me - I don't know how." _I could figure it out but I don't know and I have no pride invested in admitting that, especially when it makes Peter look like a fool for not planning anything as usual. It's his mess and he's going to clean it up._

XXX

Peter laughed ruefully. "No, I don't either. But I sure know how to knock them down." _Well, what do I do now?_ "Maybe there's a section where they sell plate glass?" _I'm not even sure what plate glass is. How is that different from normal glass?_ He turned and started to set off to a different part of the store.

XXX

Two minutes of normality was shattered when Peter moved towards him. In a goddamn hardware store. Sylar didn't question it, didn't think; he scrambled back out of the way, giving Peter a wide berth. He had only a twinge of self-conscious doubt that he wasn't hiding his…wariness very well, but Peter knew what he'd done, had to live with it and seemed okay with things the way there were now. What else could Peter possibly expect after what he'd done?

XXX

Peter slowed immediately, face falling as he realized Sylar was virtually running from him. It shamed him all over again. He wanted to complain that Sylar was overreacting, but Sylar had the right to react however he wanted. If those reactions had been less genuine, Peter would have had something to argue about, but as it was, they were sadly sincere. He ducked his head and walked slowly, giving Sylar plenty of time to get out of his way.

XXX

Breathing faster and stressing in general had him sweating. It took a moment for his brain to reboot enough to follow the medic, who was now ignoring him like nothing had happened. _What…what did happen?_ That first downward spiral of dread broke over him, not improving his clammy exterior. Standing in the store, with this man, was taking a lot out of him and Sylar felt sure he wouldn't be able to last the day like this.

XXX

The store had large panes of glass along with small ones. They were thick and thin and arranged next to a book hanging on a chain that Peter scooped up eagerly. It did not hold installation instructions per se, but listed the part numbers for matching up frames and closures with the number of panes, configuration, and thickness of glass. There were a lot of tables. He stood studying one for more than a minute before flipping through the rest of the book to see what else where was. "This … might be useful. I suppose I could divide the display window in half and install two … windows … on top of each other." He ended muttering, "But how would I brace it?" He flipped to the start of the book idly, about to put it down when a diagram caught his eye. It helpfully labeled and described the major components of a window. Another minute passed as he absorbed sashes, jambs, rails, stiles, and other terms. He reached up to tear the page out of the book and take it with him for later reference, when a slight movement out of the corner of his eye, maybe a shift of weight or just a sudden awareness, stopped him. He looked back at Sylar, standing a score or more of feet away, watching him. Tearing up more stuff seemed … unwise. He flipped the page instead, but there was nothing as useful on the other side.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed. The noise had sounded like a page being ripped. He stood there, looking at threatening as he dared until the threat seemed to pass. _Some glorified page protector. I should isolate him in one of those bubble balls or maybe bubble wrap so he can't destroy anything else. Then if I got upset, all I'd have to do is push him a little and he'd fall over or go rolling._

XXX

"I need to know what I'm doing. I saw some books when I walked in," he said to announce his intentions, striding off towards the entrance. Sylar was behind him, so Peter didn't need to slow his steps this time. Peter perused the 'how to' section of thick, glossy, soft-cover manuals describing all manner of home repairs. None were helpfully aimed at people who had destroyed commercial display windows, but there were several he thought might be applicable. He picked up three. He looked at the cash registers out of habit, his feet stirring a step in that direction before he caught himself. He hesitated a moment.

XXX

That caught his attention, despite (or maybe because of) everything else. "Does this bother you to take things 'without paying'?"

XXX

Peter's head came around towards Sylar. He grimaced. "It's just this place. I keep expecting people." He shrugged. "They keep not being here." With a huff he reminded himself that he took groceries all the time without a problem. With a single shake of his head, he started walking again, passing the registers without further pause. Once outside, he looked up and down the cold street. "I don't want to walk all the way back to read these, then find out I need to come back here to get something. Let's find a place near here where we can get out of the cold and sit somewhere comfortable. Okay?"

XXX

_Like I have a choice?_ Sylar wondered about the continued pluralities, but aloud he said, "Sure."


	83. Clutch

Day 32, January 10th, Afternoon

"Come to think of it," Peter said as he pointed out a low red building near the corner that said 'Taco House' on the awning, "if I can't figure out how to fix it right away, then I'll definitely need to go back there and get plywood and stuff – hammers, nails, boards, whatever." He was puzzling over how he'd manage to affix the plywood to the building's brick facade when he noticed Sylar's reaction.

XXX

Sylar jerked and tried to pass it off as straightening up, but every muscle had already contracted hard, readying for flight. The trip through the local armory seemed like a softball, walk-through threat and this was the solidification. The image of being crucified on another plywood surface, this time a raised, upright one was a potent one. Peter wanted him involved after all. He nodded tensely and followed Peter into the taco place while strongly considering disappearing. There wasn't anywhere for him to be; the place he wanted to hide at was compromised; the man who would hunt him wasn't trustworthy or stable; and any love tap could be the last. Peter sat. Sylar remained standing, fidgeting against the cashier's counter. Peter was calm and carefree, seemingly oblivious to everything, and why should he care? _Putting me in my place and shutting me up, that's what he's wanted all along. What if he could put the fear of God into me – he'd do it. Make me compliant, right?_ It was obvious this was punishment, but it seemed like overkill compared to the offense. Sylar had gone to far, overstepped and crossed lines. It wasn't high in his considerations at the moment. _Did he do something to me? Things have been different since…_ Curiosity won out, though the answer was likely to be an easy lie, unprovable and lacking comfort. He just…wanted to hear what Peter had to say. In a quiet but serious voice, he finally said what was bothering him. "What did you do to me when I was unconscious?"

XXX

Peter had noticed Sylar's tension, but he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't even know if perhaps the current problem was due to the Mexican eatery, though he assumed it was something he'd said. That seemed more likely. Maybe Sylar was upset Peter might not fix the smashed storefront today? Reluctant to make things worse, Peter took a seat near a window, set out his books, and cracked one open. He was only staring at the page, though, when Sylar addressed him.

"When?" he asked cautiously.

XXX

"When you choked me out. What did you do to me then?" Sylar repeated, anxiety spiking at having to repeat himself. Peter thought so little about it.

XXX

Peter put down the book and closed it. This was going to be a conversation (or an argument – his bet was on argument, if the strain in Sylar's voice was any indication). "Nothing. I checked your pulse, then you woke up and we … talked."

XXX

"Didn't try to turn me into someone less irritating? No conversations with your brother? Didn't mess around with any of my fucked up mental functions to better suit you? None of that?" Sylar spat out, edgy and interrogating, gesturing to his own skull. His disbelief was very apparent. "What did you take, Petrelli?!"

XXX

"Nothing," Peter repeated insistently. He could understand Sylar's fear – it made perfect sense, other than the part about why Peter would wait until that particular moment if he had the ability to do any of the things Sylar was accusing him of. There had been so many better times. All he'd been trying to do at that point was shut Sylar up. "It was only a few seconds. Maybe a minute at most."

XXX

"I guess I'll never know, will I?" To think all the times he'd been stupid enough to sleep with Peter around, foolishly relieved by the lack of nightmares. He'd been so suckered in by his own loneliness. Pondering the evidence, or lack thereof, he came across something that confirmed it and felt his blood run cold. "You did…didn't you." It wasn't a question. Peter had telepathy, too, by his own admission. "That's why my head hurt worse when you left…" Sylar stood utterly still in a betrayed, horrified shock. _I need to move…_ That was the least of his problems.

XXX

_When I left? His head hurt …? He's saying his headache got worse after I moved out, right? Probably because he wasn't taking his stupid painkillers!_ He made to stand. "Sylar, it's not-"

XXX

"Don't! Don't…." Sylar pointed at him and began sidling away towards the door. He didn't know where he was going except 'away.' It upset him greatly that Peter insisted on having his little unnecessary war and Sylar was forced to participate or perish. He had no idea what was going to happen to them; he would probably end up dead or very much worse and it was that 'worse' he was afraid to death of. Sylar remembered the last time he'd told Peter to stay away and knew it wouldn't work this time either. He backed out the door, his face a twisted wreck, his mouth open but unable to articulate – not an excuse or threat or 'it didn't have to be this way' because in Peter's mind, it did. After that, he ran.

XXX

"Sylar!" Peter's yell was not gentle or couth. It was loud and demanding, irritated as he finally gave vent to some of the frustration that had been building up inside. He went to the door immediately, but he didn't chase. _I chased him before; he just kept running until he got somewhere safe._ Peter used a different tactic this time, waiting until Sylar was out of sight and _then_ running to where he could see him again, hoping the man would go to ground quickly. Honestly, Peter was surprised Sylar could run at all, between the toes and the bad balance.

_Are bouts of paranoia symptomatic of concussions? I didn't think so … and why would it be cropping up now? Bad nutrition maybe? Bad … oh. Bad sleep. Insomnia can fuck up a lot of things. He keeps telling me he can't sleep without me there. (Then how the hell was he sleeping before I cleaned his fucking clock?) Doesn't matter. He isn't now. Maybe he's more sensitive now because of the concussion, or the headaches, or whatever. There! He went in that office building._

XXX

Sylar ran until he panicked himself into needing somewhere to hide. He didn't know or care if Peter was after him. Everything was blurry, too familiar, too…déjà vu. He felt like he'd been here before, done this before and it wasn't going to work out any better the second time. He dashed into a large building – more places to hide, possibly a back exit. It was a very bad choice. /Filthy and frightened of the large police officer, he'd been dragged in with cuffs on. The place was ill-lit, too gray, black, hostile and cold. He had been caught and confined, no knowledge of who or where he was and no chance of getting out – completely at the mercy of these strangers who clearly didn't like him./ This place reminded him of that in a heartbeat. The gold insignia plastered everywhere, the secure, threatening walls and doors, even the windows. It was a trap; an institution. The police station was a fatal mistake. Sylar would not be leaving with his mind intact, if he left at all.

XXX

At least, it looked like an office building to Peter. It was one of the shorter skyscrapers, with a brick facade and no windows for the first few floors. Most of the buildings in this area were taller and most of those had plenty of glass on the bottom story to open them up to view. Maybe that was why Sylar had dodged inside of this particular one – it looked easier to hide in from the outside. You could only see in through the doors and the view was distorted at that. Peter walked steadily to the door, finding the reason for the obstructed vision was that it was especially thick glass and reinforced with a mesh. Some wry corner of his mind suggested it would make a good replacement for the door he'd spiderwebbed at the ruined storefront. This was a door that might be able to stand up to the worst Peter could dish out. But he wasn't here shopping for doors. He was unwilling to let Sylar think the worst of him and genuinely concerned about the man's health. He went inside, passing through the foyer without much of a look around except to see that Sylar had gone further into the building. The next door was metal and just as reinforced as the one before, in its own way. Again, though, he wasn't paying attention to the surroundings much. He found Sylar a lot faster than he'd expected.

XXX

Sylar sat clumsily; shoulders slumped with knees tucked under himself like a doll with cut strings. Peter was inescapable; he'd won. There were restraints and weapons here, judgment and imprisonment also. The terror of what he faced broke his control. He cried hot, large, quick tears, not for show or to invoke pity. From here Peter would tie his mind into knots, stretch and abuse it without end. Sylar wouldn't know day from night, right from wrong, up from down unless Peter said so. His entire being could be turned inside out and turned against itself and Sylar would have no defense against it. It was the ultimate phobia and the ultimate punishment, so much worse than his body merely being tortured, which would be preferable. Soon he was unable to breathe, his head paining him like a harbinger of an evil fate, and his lungs began to stutter into gasping chokes for air around a stuffed nose. He could barely hear let alone see Peter's approach; perhaps that was a good thing.

XXX

_That_ gave Peter pause. He'd known Sylar was upset. He hadn't known he was _that_ upset, but it all clicked together now. Peter hesitated for a moment, taking in the small, confining room with its hard benches and unwelcoming array of equipment only peripherally, but still a part of his mind recognized the law enforcement setting. Maybe they were in booking; he wasn't sure. His eyes did not stray from Sylar. The man looked helpless and wretched and it twisted at Peter's heart, no matter who Sylar was to him otherwise. Right now, Sylar was a human being in pain and Peter responded. He moved forward, holding his hands out to either side, palms towards Sylar. He said softly, "Hey ... hey. I didn't take anything. I didn't." Peter squatted just as slowly, a double handful of feet from where Sylar sat, unwilling to take away what little agency Sylar had left by going all the way to him like Peter's instincts screamed at him to. "Can I come closer?" he asked with a tilt forward of his head, dipping his face and looking up in entreaty.

XXX

Sylar tried to quiet himself, holding his breath only to let it out in a rush to suck more in. He heard the other man – Peter had stopped a ways away to draw things out. Very seriously, trying to look up at Peter, his voice muted and dull without hope, "Can you dake the rest ob it? Peoble... _like_ me when I'b…gone." That was as close to asking, begging for mercy as he could get, not that he thought it would be granted. If the little hero took everything at once, Sylar would become no one or someone else immediately and the torturous transitions entirely avoided. It would almost be pain-free.

XXX

Peter took that as an invitation, no matter how twisted it was. "Can I take away who you are?" Peter's brows pulled together in distress – it was a horrible suggestion, and yet it was something he'd done. And yes, he would have rather had Nathan, then and probably even now, even knowing Nathan wasn't real, but Peter's feelings on that weren't as firm as they had been before. Sylar was asking him to kill him. Peter knew that and it tore at him. "Sylar," he said, voice low and gentle. "It's okay. It's going to be okay." He couldn't not think of the office worker with the gun, who had listened to his words, been affected by them, and then shot him anyway. This might turn out very badly; Peter knew he had no control over things. Sylar's problems almost certainly ran deeper than Peter could fix and his current pain and fear was something Peter's presence, by itself, had to be aggravating. But there was no one else here. If Peter left, Sylar would be alone and not just alone, but actively abandoned by the only other soul that existed for him. Being alone could be tolerable. Being lonely, being isolated, being rejected – those were the most venomous and toxic things Peter knew of and he would not inflict them on a human being whom he could look in the face. Not even his worst enemy.

He slid in close, probably way closer than Sylar had in mind. Peter did it with an awareness that Sylar might at any moment assault him. Peter tried to look as non-threatening as possible, his movements slow, hands low, expression open, eyes not leaving Sylar's face. He was not the hero he'd tried to be at with the office worker, wrapped up in his own grief and projecting it onto others. He wasn't even focusing so much on what Sylar was feeling – he just wanted to be there for him, to help, to let him know he wasn't alone. He knelt with one knee to the floor next to Sylar's left hip and Peter's other knee splayed to the side. If he had lowered his rump a few inches, he'd be sitting on Sylar's lap. As it was, he was in danger of being racked by the man by even a slight movement. Peter put his arms around Sylar – his right arm topmost, left arm under Sylar's right – and hugged him.

XXX

Sylar closed his eyes as more tears gushed out. At least he'd go gently at first and that was something. When Peter was in place Sylar's arms wrapped around him tight and clutching at the fabric of his coat. The other man being over him was threatening, yes, but Sylar didn't have a choice in what went on from here.

XXX

Having made it this far, Peter tried talking. "Easy … Hey … I know I could make a lot of promises to you, but I don't know if you'd believe any of them. So I hope you can believe _this_ ," he said, emphasizing his words by tightening the embrace – firm, secure, and holding Sylar close. He wished they didn't have their bulky jackets between them. It would have made the hug more human and less distant, but he made up for it with persistence. He held on and didn't let go, his chin on Sylar's shoulder, arms clasped around him. Peter was so deeply gratified and relieved when Sylar didn't shove him away. _Maybe this can work. Maybe I can help._

After a minute or two, Peter settled in and relaxed was much as the awkward pose allowed. He rubbed his hands slowly up and down Sylar's back and let his head loll slightly to the side, his breathing deepening. He shut his eyes and rocked them very slowly. He had not a word to say, not that he knew what he _could_ say that wouldn't cause problems. If Sylar couldn't believe his word, then he could at least believe Peter's actions.

XXX

Goddamnit it and Peter, but this felt safe – it _should_ have been a safe thing. Sylar no longer cared if this was just a mind trip before the other shoe fell. As it was, he wanted to believe this was comfort so much that he did believe it, at least while it lasted. It wouldn't hurt, when it happened. He would just wake up and be ignorant of his origin, of the past, of himself. He would be and do whatever Peter wanted. For now, he just cried and clutched harder but it felt better, this mockery of comfort. It was so very much needed.

Sylar could feel the heat of another human, could have smelt him had his nose been clear. Either this was some prolonged torment designed to freak him out or…it was genuine. The longer it went on, the more the second possibility seemed true and likely. This was…a voluntary hug. He cried calmly now, tears leaking silent onto Peter's shoulder as he clung to the longest, intentional, voluntary contact he, Sylar, had received in…ever? It was timely in his moment of need. He didn't know if Peter understood but…maybe that was okay. _Did I freak out over nothing? It's not nothing, it will never be 'nothing', but…he didn't do it. I don't think…not just now, anyway. I don't know about before. There's nothing I can do about it now._ Sylar eventually snuggled his face into Peter's chest as time went on, his tears beginning to dry from the relieved part of his upset. He could have easily fallen asleep there, though the floor was a little cold and hard.

XXX

Peter finally couldn't take the position. Not unless someone's life depended on it, which it didn't. (Or at least he didn't think so.) His muscles were on fire and he was so hot inside the stifling, heavy winter coat that he was sweating. He straightened a little, giving Sylar a brief squeeze as a signal that something was changing. He cleared his throat and said, "You want to go back to the Pegasus? We could go up to that penthouse, you could get some rest, and I'll stay with you and read my books." He hesitated, not sure what he was getting himself into with his next offer, but he took the plunge anyway. "I'll even read in bed with you if that helps." Peter was imagining something akin to sitting at the bedside of an ailing patient, except instead of sitting bedside, he'd actually be on the bed. He pushed back enough so he could see Sylar's face, though they were still very close. Peter's right hand rested on Sylar's shoulder, his left was at his side. "I'll keep the nightmares away, okay?" He rubbed just a little with his right hand, waiting for a response.

XXX

Sylar inhaled quickly, as if waking, when Peter pulled away. As much as he didn't want Peter to see him like this, a swollen, red, streaked mess, the close quarters wouldn't allow for him to hide – swiping his face on his sleeve was gross and not an option. He looked back at Peter, searching his face, his own eyes tinted with hope. His lip trembled before he firmed it, completely ashamed at his entire display of weakness but…it was being rewarded with the things he wanted most. He nodded timidly at first, then stronger. ( _You used to be one of the nightmares, Peter. I want you to keep them away)._ They didn't have to be friends; Sylar didn't have to be liked, but this could very well solve a lot of their problems.

XXX

"Come on," Peter said, his tone still gentle and low. He stood, his legs cramping painfully. Squatting for a half hour or however long he had was not pleasant. He put his right hand on Sylar's shoulder to steady him and offered him his left to grab onto and pull himself up. With Peter's shaky legs and the additional weight, he lost his own balance and nearly went down. Peter wavered and ended up hanging onto Sylar as they other man finished standing, leaving the two of them clinging to one another yet again. Peter chuckled at how his gallant offer to help Sylar up had ended a bit ignominiously.

"Sorry about that." He patted Sylar a couple times and separated, moving his legs stiffly to stretch them. "My legs are messed up." He leaned against the nearest counter, giving it a quick scan. It was cluttered by various pieces of equipment. Peter recognized a fingerprint machine and breathalyzer right in front of him, but more important to him was the box of wipes and tissues situated between them. He grabbed the tissue box, pulling a couple out, and then offered the box to Sylar to let him clean himself up. Peter winced and stretched a little more, wiping at the moist blot on the front of his coat. He'd been spattered with worse.

XXX

Sylar tried to hold Peter up. His instincts were responsible for that when he felt like the other man would slip and face-plant unless he did something about it. Grateful and embarrassed he took the proffered tissues, cleaning his nose and face but it did nothing for his puffy eyes and stuffed sinuses. There was nothing to be done about it. It would get worse in the cold on the walk back and it was way too obvious that he'd lost his marbles and cried about it. It made him angry, but… maybe he shouldn't try to fix it or cover it up, not if Peter was responding to this current mess. "I'm sorry," he whispered, seeing Peter trying to brush off his coat. The rest of it, he wasn't sure he should apologize for.

XXX

Peter shrugged about the coat. "It's okay." He gave Sylar a brief, warm and lop-sided smile. "Let's go." He took charge, on a mission now even if it was a fairly minor one. He retraced his steps to the Taco House, where he'd left the books. He stayed even with Sylar and physically closer than they had on the walk out. He was only an arm's length away now. Peter smiled at him every now and then. He liked helping people. He liked having the opportunity to help. He hoped Sylar believed him, at least somewhat, that he wasn't out to get him, that he could be trusted at least a little. Things would be intolerable without that and here was a way Peter could prove himself. He felt filled with energy and determination, silly as it seemed given that the 'mission' involved simply lying in bed reading while Sylar napped.

XXX

Peter didn't touch him as they walked, but he stayed close, perhaps worried Sylar would bolt or fall if he wasn't close. Sylar tried for a few small, watery smiles in return because it seemed the thing to do. He hadn't gotten answers but Peter's behavior was usually the indicator and if Peter was caring for him then…he probably didn't have to worry, at least, not to the extent he feared and maybe not even about the things he was afraid of if Peter was too distracted or stupid to take advantage of opportunities. It made his muscles feel weak and rubbery with the lack of tension. The cold helped snap him out of his pleasant, warm haze until he wanted, even more desperately, to be snug in bed with someone else if only for warmth's sake. His toes twinged with each step, his head still pounding away, but he walked in a straight line and did not require assistance.

XXX

Peter was busy thinking as they walked through the lobby of the Pegasus building. He was going through his mental roster of the various supplies and things he'd stored in the rec room here. None of them were really helpful – the only thing Sylar might need were the painkillers already in Peter's pocket and the bed they were heading towards. No matter what the medical advances, 'rest' was something no pharmaceutical could duplicate.

The penthouse apartment was familiar and strangely relaxing when Peter walked into it. Maybe it was that it was a goal reached, but there was also something of how it was not a site of conflict. They'd had disagreements here – they'd had them everywhere – but there had been no fighting as there was at Sylar's, no destruction as at the storefront, and no feeling of invasion as Peter would feel if they'd gone to his apartment. This was shared. It wasn't Sylar's space; it wasn't Peter's. He set down the books and peeled off his winter wear, grateful to get out of the layers. It was all damp in spots and hadn't kept him as warm as he'd wanted on the way back. He felt chilled despite the heavy gear.

"If you want to clean up or something before we settle down, that'd be fine," he suggested. "I'm going to make some hot cocoa if I can find the ingredients." He left Sylar to his own process as Peter searched around in the kitchen. He found sugar and baking cocoa – that was good enough. Milk he had to raid out of a different apartment. _Mental note: stock this place up for food just like I stocked my own apartment._ He had not found marshmallows, nor looked for them, and only realized that after he had poured up two cups of steaming chocolately goodness. He might not know how to cook a lot of things, but cocoa was on the short list of what he knew. _Hot, sweet, full of calories, mood-lifting – just what Sylar needs._ It didn't hurt that Peter wanted it, too.

XXX

Sylar took that as a strong hint; he agreed and disappeared into the bathroom. There he washed his face and finger-combed his hair back, blowing his nose for good measure. He went to the master bedroom and stood there, unsure if he should lie down or if that was too lazy of him, expecting Peter to feed him in bed. Time passed or skipped around, he didn't know, but soon enough Peter was there, handing him a coffee mug of cocoa. "Thank you," Sylar said meaningfully. This felt so very strange but refusing any of this seemed very rude and undesired.

XXX

Peter sipped his drink. It was too hot to do much with. He set it on 'his' side of the bed, which was the left as you faced the headboard. It was the side nearer the outside wall and the side that left his more-functional left hand between him and any other residents of the bed. He claimed the side with his cup on the night stand and by moving the books to it. Then he announced, "I'm going to take a quick shower before we settle down." He scavenged in the drawers for a different t-shirt and underwear. The rest of his clothes could be reworn. Brief shower taken mainly just to rinse off the dried perspiration, he was finally ready.

XXX

Sylar tested the temperature of the cocoa instinctively. He hissed quietly when it was too hot, nodding to acknowledge Peter's shower. _A shower? Does that have to do with hugging me, my snot, or…?_ It was weirdly domestic, especially when Peter returned to climb in bed with him, smelling…fresh, from what little Sylar could detect. Peter's side was already chosen, so Sylar sat on the other. He would lie down when his cocoa was gone. It smelled good, too, and would taste the same when it was cool enough.

XXX

Peter sat on the bed cross-legged after pushing the pillows against the headboard to his satisfaction. He leaned against them and recovered his cup to blow on it slowly, watching it swirl in a tiny whirlpool as he blew on only one side of the cup. _Neat._ He looked over at Sylar's back, wondering about him. Once more his thoughts turned to what kind of a person Sylar was without their history, without abilities. _'Boring stuff' – reading, working … was he happy with that? Why did he lash out so much after getting his ability?_ He wished he could ask; wished he'd get an answer if he did. Spontaneously, Peter said, "I worry about you. I'm sorry about the way things are. Between us." He took a sip of his cocoa, watching the liquid instead of the back of Sylar's head. "I didn't do anything to you while you were unconscious. I can't … change who you are or take your memories. I don't have any abilities here. I can't even get us out."

XXX

Peter spoke but it wasn't what Sylar expected to hear. He didn't turn around or shift to see him better, instead he listened and pretended to be more involved with his cocoa than he really could be at that point. _Worried about me? Why would he be sorry? I_ _thought_ _this was the way he wanted it. I suppose the only thing keeping him from doing that is the fact that he can't do it for some reason. Maybe he doesn't have abilities –_ _mine_ _don't work. I can't…feel them._ "Then why did my head hurt worse when you left?"

XXX

"You probably weren't taking your painkillers," Peter said, even if he didn't believe it was anything that simple. "Were you?"

XXX

"No…" Sylar replied, feeling very low and very stupid. Peter didn't mock him about it, the question was factual, logical, and easily deducted. _I didn't know they made such a difference._

XXX

"Will you tell me how your head has been feeling lately?"

XXX

"Just…really bad headaches. One big one, really. It's…" _difficult to do anything, focus, talk, think_. "I want to sleep a lot but that's…." _difficult, too. He knows why, I guess. I don't want to have to go out and find you only to fight with you. I must be more fun to be around when I'm retarded and sick._

XXX

Peter reached up and rubbed at his own forehead in a sympathetic gesture, imagining Sylar's miserable catch-22. _Well enough to kick me out, but_ not _well enough take care of himself. Great. Of course, good reasoning ability and solid self-assessment are pretty asymptomatic for the mentally compromised._ Peter suppressed the sigh he wanted to make. He should have known better than to leave Sylar to his own devices without so much as checking on him. He knew what he'd been thinking – he hadn't cared. It was difficult to care for someone who was combative, threatening, and had killed you a few times in the past. Peter wasn't even sure if he should blame himself. "What have you eaten since I left?"

XXX

"Um…crackers and cheese. Some soup maybe? One of the dinners you left." It did not add up to the correct number of meals for the days Peter had been gone. _Hey, I fucking ate on my own. I told him I wouldn't starve and I didn't._ "It's hard to eat with…everything. Cocoa feels like a meal sometimes." He checked over his shoulder at Peter, then shrugged. Sylar knew that wasn't good, the shrunken stomach feeling.

XXX

"Yeah?" That was not a good sign – at all. He was no nutritionist, but if Sylar was saying he had no appetite and perhaps even a diminishing appetite rather than an increasing one, then that needed to be remedied immediately. "If you don't mind," Peter said softer and more gently than the rest of his words because this was a request, truly a request and one Sylar was at complete liberty to refuse, "I'd like to stick around and get some calories in you for a few days."

"How are your toes doing after that run?"

XXX

"They hurt to walk on. They did that before, they're…a little worse now," Sylar said, feeling guilty and stupid once more. He'd done that to himself, over nothing it would seem, if Peter was to be believed. By then his cocoa was cooled enough to drink, so he did. It still burned a little on his tongue, but it warmed up his insides quickly and he didn't hesitate to down it all. He set the empty mug on the bedside table and lay down atop the covers.

XXX

On top of the covers? That was not going to work. Peter drained his cup more hastily than he wanted and got up off the bed. He tugged at the blanket before Sylar could get too settled in. "Hop up. Underneath. You'll sleep better if you're warmer." He climbed under them himself, redistributing the books to the night stand and then moving himself up to where he was sitting against the pillows again, under the blanket only from the waist down. He waited a few beats, watching Sylar and trying to judge his own personal safety here. Things seemed okay. Peter carefully unstrapped his brace, which was still damp from the shower, and laid it on the night stand so his hand and the brace both could dry. He picked the thinnest book, pulling it over and opening in the middle for now, expecting to flip through it for a while before checking the table of contents and picking the parts he wanted to review.

XXX

Sylar sat again on the sheets, back to Peter as he unlaced his shoes. That sounded much more comfortable and looking back on it, he realized he hadn't done that so it didn't upset Peter's position or flip-flopping sense of personal space. Being invited was so much better! In socks, dress shirt and jeans, he lay back again, and rolled to face Peter, craning his head to watch him read for a moment. Sylar could very well sleep here, despite the issues from earlier. Softly, he said as he grew drowsy, "Don't touch my head at all, Peter." He kept his eyes open long enough to hear the confirmation, inching closer until he could smell the other man.

XXX

What a strange request. Or not really a request - it was an order that came with a question mark – a 'please don't do this' followed by a 'are you going to do it anyway?' Peter looked at said head, at Sylar's forehead, for a long couple of seconds, putting together Sylar's ability, the wiping of his memories, the concussion, and his current fears of being blotted out. They were all of a theme. He wondered if it meant anything similar about him that it was his _hand_ that had been broken. His eyes went back to Sylar's sleepy ones with a single nod. "Okay. I won't."

Sylar scooted close after that, stopping only a couple inches away. Peter could feel the heat from Sylar's body against his skin and the regular puffs of his breath moving the bared hairs on his forearm. He didn't want to pull away – it wasn't his personal space that was bothered. It was that if he moved at all, he might brush against Sylar and he hadn't been planning on being perfectly still. If nothing else, he'd be turning pages and switching books. The proximity was inconvenient and restrictive, not threatening. He thought about it for a while, then dismissed his concerns. If Sylar wanted to be that close to him, then Sylar could just deal. Speaking of things Sylar would have to deal with, Peter stuck his sock-clad foot to the left until it touched Sylar's shins. He pushed it between those shins and went back to his book smugly satisfied that he'd done something – asserted his dominance or whatever. He just knew he was happier having done it.

XXX

Sylar's eyes flew wide at what was a domineering, vaguely sexual move. At first, Sylar didn't even know what it was until he looked and deduced visually. _Shoving something between my legs…Is…that going to turn into more?_ Just as quickly, he checked Petrelli's face – it was smug and content. _Guess that's…what I wanted, him touching me and…if it involves sex, then I offered first I suppose._ While it wasn't his ideal of safety, Sylar was fairly certain that was the extent of Peter's moves…for now. And if it wasn't, well, he'd deal with it as it came because he had no other choice. _He didn't like that part about not touching my head._ Ducking his head back down, he let his eyes fall shut.

XXX

It was a need for lunch that finally stirred Peter out of the bed, though he was glad of the excuse to move. He was stiff and he was bored with reading about a subject that didn't interest him to start with. He learned mainly by doing. Despite the many pictures, he didn't think he was making much of the material. Also, he needed to pee.

XXX

Sylar inhaled and felt himself waking to some outside stimulus. _Huh?_ Sleeping what he assumed was a few hours felt like longer and that told him how tired he was. He saw Peter…going somewhere.

XXX

Peter turned back after setting his books aside and picking up his brace. Seeing Sylar awake was unsurprising, although the man had slept quietly enough and Peter, despite his Sylar-will-have-to-deal-with-it attitude, had in actuality moved very little while in the bed. "I'm going to make something for lunch. I'd like you to eat some." After the bathroom, he detoured over to his coat for the painkillers, setting the bottle prominently on the table before heading on to the kitchen. He didn't like the selection of foodstuffs, but had a feeling that leaving, even to go across the street and get food from his apartment, would not be taken well. There was enough to make it to tomorrow if they were happy with condensed soup. He'd seen some in the apartment where he'd gotten the milk earlier.

"I'm going to go down the hall to get some soup. I'll be right back."

XXX

Sylar sat up, both at the mention of food and Peter leaving. _He's come back every time he said he would…even sometimes he didn't say he was going to come back._ Looking over Peter's face, he couldn't think of a reason for Peter to ditch him now. _He hugged me earli_ _er._ "I'll eat."

XXX

Reconstituted cream of mushroom soup – it was easy to make, although Peter had yet to figure out how to avoid it being clumpy. It still tasted good. He kept an eye on how much Sylar ate, made sure he took his pills, and didn't engage in any conversation more stressful than a discussion of which of the four varieties of condensed soup Sylar might want for dinner: split pea and ham, cream of mushroom again, cream of asparagus (Peter's choice, not that he mentioned it), or chicken noodle. If Sylar wanted something other than the cream of asparagus, then Peter would simply fix two soups.


	84. Bedmates

Day 32, January 10th, afternoon

Sylar's gut was a self-devouring coil, awakened by the smell of the soup. He was definitely hungry. The warmth of the food was a bonus, not that the suite was cold. Sylar sat and ate, slowly but steady for the most part. "Any of those is fine," was his input about the next series of meals. _Soup is sick-people food. There's probably a reason for that and for him giving it to me. Or maybe his jaw is still hurting him._ When he was done, he thanked Peter and brought his bowl to the sink. Sylar felt better, stronger, if not more mentally agile, but he still wanted to sleep or at least rest. With Peter, of course. It was amazing how well things could work when they weren't fighting or talking. He was very content.

XXX

"You're welcome," Peter said in a low tone with a sideways glance at Sylar as he waited in line to put his bowl in the sink. _He thanked me. Just for the soup? I think it was just for the soup. Not for anything else. It's harder to thank for big things. And it's not like I'm doing it for thanks anyway._ But it was still nice. He rinsed out his bowl in turn and said when he was through, "I thought I'd spend the afternoon doing some sketches and maybe lay out what I was going to do with the repairs. You want to catch a few more Z's?"

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar said quickly, more enthusiastic. That was very agreeable. He only wished he could be up against Peter, but that was weird and probably forbidden. _I wonder if he's bored. He likes to be active._ Worried he was an inconvenience, he asked, "Is…Do you want to be doing something else?" Sylar was sure he wasn't up for another project or trip but where Peter would go, he would follow. "Do you need…'space'?" He asked that with even more reluctance, unhappy with the prospect. _Maybe he did that foot thing because he wants space, kicking me away to make room?_ All he knew was that pushing Peter into anything only set the Italian's stubborn victimhood or fight-or-flight on full-throttle.

XXX

Peter raised a brow at him. "That's … very considerate." He smiled for a half-second. He hadn't been expecting that and he was surprised Sylar had noticed or cared what Peter wanted. "No, I'm fine. I want you better. Getting you some rest is the best way to do that. I don't know how long you haven't been sleeping well, but," _you look terrible, like you're hungover,_ "I think you can use it. I'll go out tomorrow. Or we can both go out tomorrow. We'll need to go shopping if nothing else."

XXX

Sylar shrugged about his sleep quality. As he shuffled back to the bedroom, he murmured, "Is it really shopping if there's no one there?" _And no exchange of money?_ It sounded like he was going shopping with Peter and that was that. Under the covers, he sat and eased himself onto his back because it was easier for his headache to move slowly. He watched Peter to make sure he didn't slip away once Sylar was down. While the other man didn't look scheming, an escape didn't seem likely at this point. Peter's word might be shit, but the things he said seemed to hold truth. In a way, it was almost a better way to interact, not needing the promises.

XXX

Peter scouted around for the sketchbook he'd used previously, finally finding it on its edge between the nightstand and the bed. He didn't remember putting it there; didn't remember where he'd left it at all, which was obvious because he had to search for it. Peter caught himself having an existential concern about whether the location of things had permanence or whether their existence was a subjective something-or-other of his and Sylar's combined minds. _It doesn't matter! I wish I'd stop that. It's like the most pointless thoughts ever!_ He huffed and climbed in bed, fluffing the covers and plumping the pillows, only to exit the bed immediately and stalk off to the guest bedroom with purpose. He raided it for pillows and returned to fortify his side a bit more.

He cast an eye over Sylar as Peter resettled himself. His expression softened. He supposed he wasn't being very soothing what with the unexplained huffiness or the pillow-mission. "You doing okay?" He reached over and gave Sylar a pat on the forearm. "I might be up and down a little bit, but I'll try not to move around much. I won't leave the apartment." _I promise. Do you believe me?_ He couldn't add those words, because he didn't think Sylar did. There was no particular reason why he would believe him, after all. A couple days wasn't much of a track record and Sylar was well able to say and do things that might run Peter off despite any promises he might make. He didn't know how to reconcile that. Peter exhaled and patted him again, turning back to arrange the sketchpad. If his foot reached out and touched Sylar's shin again a few minutes later, he would have denied having anything to do with it.

XXX

Sylar propped up on his elbows when Peter zipped away without reason, to the guest bedroom from the sounds of it. _No…not there! Come back!_ Come back he did, with pillows, explaining his absence. Sylar went still at the contact, looking back at Peter. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he replied though he was still confused and unsure of his status on Peter's annoyance radar. The empath seemed satisfied with what he'd said and another gentle pat later, he was minding his own business, completely unaware of Sylar's puzzlement. Settling in himself after that, he froze as he felt something, a foot surely, against his shin again! _Again? He's done that before. It's his…thing. That's all? I can handle that. It's…actually kind of nice._ Floating on the pleasant feelings, he turned to examine Peter with a normal gaze – taking in both the paper and pencil, the hands wielding them and the user's face as he drew. He'd never seen anyone else draw or emote creatively before (not that Peter could be considered a great artist, far from it; though he could probably convey an idea with some clarity) and he was curious to see what Peter looked like when he did those things. Mostly it was a calm or concentrated face.

XXX

He was being watched, Peter noticed. Sylar didn't have a book or activity of his own and didn't need them when he was supposed to be sleeping. He was resting, at least. Peter couldn't blame him for not dropping off immediately – not after the amount of rest they'd already had. There was a politics to looking at someone – who initiated eye contact, whose gaze lingered rather than being required to catch furtive glances. It was bold to stare, considered rude because openly regarding someone was a privilege you might not have. Peter looked over in acknowledgment with a brief smile before going back to what he was doing, knowingly extending that privilege to Sylar.

XXX

He'd been spotted, but there was no rebuke or question. This was allowed. Sylar made a hum of pleasure and rolled onto his side to continue to view the drawing process, close once more to Peter with that foot-to-shin contact going even as his lids slid into sleep.

He woke sometime in the evening when Peter rose, mentioned dinner and moved to the kitchen. _I must need the food if I'm digesting that quickly while asleep_ , he noted.

XXX

It was cream of asparagus for dinner, with nothing more controversial as a conversational topic than Peter mentioning, "I still haven't figured out what plate glass is. I think it's just glass-glass, maybe single pane? They haven't mentioned it much." He'd swapped back and forth between books and sketching for the last couple hours. He thought he was getting slightly better at drawing, which was good given that his skills weren't particularly advanced beyond stick figures, flames, paisleys, and shadowboxed lettering.

Peter took his time cleaning up from the meal, then went over and stared out the windows for a little while at the dark, quiet, empty city. The slight sounds of Sylar moving around in the apartment behind him were comforting in the face of all that emptiness out there. The set of his shoulders relaxed and he shut his eyes after a while, just listening to those living noises. _Three years, alone. Head injury. Anxiety – separation anxiety, I guess. He wants me close._ Peter cocked his head slightly, taking in the sound. _It's not about me. It's about him. I understand. Some, I think._

He was calm when he opened his eyes and turned to his companion. "You want to hit the sack? I think I'm going to work on drawing, just in general."

XXX

"I think so." If he didn't have to stay awake, he wasn't going to and the offer was good. Sylar felt like a fuel gauge, slowly rising with every meal, contact and nap. It would probably never fill up, and if it did, he would certainly pretend it hadn't. He wasn't sure how to express his gratitude properly, remembering what he'd said before about thanks, promises and apologies. He wanted to put his arm around Peter's sketchbook-occupied waist, or clutch his arm to him as he slept. It would be warm, possibly soft, shifting with the other's breathing, an overall wonderful experience he'd never had. Sylar eyed those parts of Peter longingly until it grew circular and pointless. As it was, he laid the back of his hand against Peter's arm as he rested on his side, facing the man, keeping it casual. It was not rebuffed. _Hmmm. This is good night, right? I wonder if he'll stay here and sleep with me?_

XXX

It was much later when Peter's lids finally began to droop. He set everything aside and pulled over the brace, strapping it on to protect himself from rolling on his hand in the night. Then- He froze in the act of reaching to redistribute the many pillows. He turned and looked at Sylar, eyes wide, then back at the pillows. _Oh fuck. How the fuck did I not think …?!_ Somehow, in planning out the day, thinking about the importance of getting food and rest into Sylar, and a good night's sleep, and even the half-formed plans Peter had entertained for the next day – somehow in all of that it had never occurred to Peter that _he_ would be asleep, defenses down, during any of it. And if Sylar needed him close to rest, like within inches close, then … Peter stared at his bed partner, trying to figure out how he was going to avoid sleeping with Sylar when the situation required _sleeping with Sylar_ _._

There was no guarantee he wouldn't wake up molesting the guy again. Sylar had not appreciated it before. Peter had appreciated it even less because he'd taken measures to prevent it and Sylar had circumvented them. Peter had felt taken advantage of and the only reason he hadn't made a bigger deal out of it than he had was because sex hadn't been what Sylar was after. He knew now Sylar had been trying to get _this_ , the proximity he was getting right now, which seemed necessary for his sanity and recovery.

Peter combed back his hair with his hand and reviewed his options. Trying to sneak out was not going to work – every time he'd left the bed, Sylar had woke quickly. He mulled it over and decided to opt for sleeping on top of the covers. They were both fully clothed – it should be safe. He might be a little cool and it might seem ridiculously prudish, but he could address the first with a blanket from the other bedroom and the second … well, he'd explain to Sylar in the morning. Such was overdue. His arrangements were made with a minimum of disturbance. Turning away to face the wall, Peter shut his eyes and eventually went to sleep.

Some time later, the sound of Peter's own voice woke him up from his dream. "It has glitter on it," he heard himself say. He sat up, bleary-eyed, hands flexing in memory of kneading the squishy material he wasn't handling now. Bemused, he looked over the side of the bed, but there was no box there.

XXX

Sylar awoke to an odd sensation, a sound. He caught the end of something (somehow aware it was the end of a sentence or similar), '…But it has glitter on it.' At first, Sylar, having remained unmoved throughout this wake-up call, couldn't string the words together to make a damn sentence. "Petey?" he grumbled as soon as he identified his bed partner, his tongue heavy and dry. The room was dark but a light was distant, refracting off a hallway. Through that, he could see Peter's hands doing something curled or clutched in front of him. The other man woke and sat up to look around before noticing Sylar. _Um…is this bad?_ was his extremely unprepared response. "Petey?" he asked again.

XXX

"Huh?" Peter looked back. So Sylar really was in bed with him. Weird. He'd thought he was dreaming about that, too, because it was just as nonsensical as the rest. "I was giving your memories back, but they were made of red Play-Doh and one of them had glitter all over it." He laid back down with a sigh, letting Morpheus extend his shroud over him again without being the least troubled by a serial killer being in his bed. Mumbling now, he added, "I thought the glitter was unsanitary, but you didn't care."

XXX

A weird feeling twisted in his gut, unrelenting as it spread through him warmly. Peter wanted to give him his memories back. It made all the difference in the world, that unrehearsed and unexpected admission. It was a very nice thought to snuggle up with, glitter or unsanitariness notwithstanding.

Day 33, January 11, Morning

Sylar woke to breakfast sounds. A languorous stretch preceded his rise from the shared bed. Even his headache seemed happy to allow some warm fuzziness in his head this morning. He padded out. "G'morning," he croaked, ruffling his hair back and stretching his back once more, feeling his days old clothing rub against his skin in an annoying reminder that brought him back to earth somewhat. _Need pajamas. And a shower._ He waited until the food was served and Peter was occupied to ask about their (shared!) night. "So my memories are red Play-Doh with glitter on them?"

XXX

Peter slid a bowl of oatmeal in front of Sylar before settling with his own. He'd already put out jelly, butter, and maple syrup as possible toppings. He put jelly and butter on his own as he tried to place what Sylar was talking about. It sounded familiar, like something that had happened just recently. After a moment, the dream came back to him. He scanned Sylar's features carefully before speaking, very sensitive to how any discussion of mental faculties might be taken.

"Um … yeah." He took a bite of oatmeal, then fussed with stirring in the butter without mixing the jelly too much. "It was a dream." He looked at Sylar to be sure that was understood. Peter didn't want to be held accountable for his weird subconscious. Sylar's expression was interested enough for Peter to elaborate cautiously, "They were made out of Play-Doh and kind of long," he gestured to show a length of a couple feet. "Real narrow." He made an 'okay' sign with his left hand, showing a diameter of an inch or so. "They were in a box next to bed. I was handing them to you, trying to do it without them breaking. And I had to get the right ones, because there were other strands in the box that were blue and gray, but those weren't yours."

XXX

Sylar frowned for a few seconds, listening and taking that in. _They're fragile? He was being careful? He has more memories than just mine?_ "What about the glitter?"

XXX

Peter shrugged. "I pulled one out and it had glitter on it. I didn't know if it was one of yours or not. But you took it anyway, so I guess it was."

XXX

A curious shrug as Sylar ignored his food, "Why was the glitter unsanitary?"

XXX

Peter smiled a little, embarrassed, and picked his spoon up for another bite, this time carefully carving off a bit of jelly to go with a spoonful of oatmeal. "Well … We're eating breakfast here, but … um … don't take this wrong. It was just a dream." Having given this warning, he waited a beat for Sylar to be ready. "The top of your head was gone and you were putting the memories back in. You were fine though. I mean, you were calm, alert, oriented, all of that – but … you didn't have anything in your skull. I was handing them to you and you were coiling the Play-Doh in there. You were talking to me." He hoped Sylar didn't take this as any repressed desire to mess with his head. "All I was doing was giving them back. I guess, if we're talking about meaning … I know I wish I _could_ give them back."

XXX

Sylar sat back straight in his chair. He didn't ask how his head came to be open – it seemed obvious. _Maybe that's why he keeps hitting my head. He thinks my head being opened is fitting._ "Are you being serious?" He gave Peter a penetrating stare. This was not a joke-worthy topic.

XXX

"Yes. Dead serious. It's not something that belongs to me."

XXX

_Good choice of words._ "I appreciate the thought," Sylar intoned a little stiffly, "but I already...have them back..." _At least…I think I have them all back. I'll never know. Would I really be upset if I didn't have them all?_

XXX

Peter smiled wanly. "Yeah. I know." Perhaps Sylar had missed his point. Peter was carrying a book that contained all the secrets to Sylar's life and when Sylar perplexed him, enraged him, or terrified him, Peter wasn't opening that book for the answers. It was a strain, a burden, and a temptation to leave it shut. "My point is that it's something of yours I'm carrying, that I shouldn't have taken in the first place. For better or worse, I've made your past a part of me." His eyes skated to and from Sylar's face, uneasy with what he was saying. "It's going to take me a while to figure out how to deal with that." He was quiet for a moment. "I'd like to give them back … but I can't."

XXX

_I can't say I blame you for wanting to get rid of them,_ because clearly Peter wanted that. _Giving them to me is just…a convenient ploy? He admits he shouldn't have taken them, though._ _You should really leave my past where it is. I wish they wouldn't benefit you just having them as a pressure point._ Sylar said nothing, but he wanted to voice 'You should really leave my past where it is,' as impossible as that was for Peter to do.

XXX

"That's all there was to the dream. Maybe we should talk about … me sleeping with you?" He leaned back, a nervous smile creasing his features as his hand went to his hair to fidget with it. "I think I can put my sleeping habits under my list of 'things I never thought I'd need to discuss with Sylar.'" He gave a throaty, rueful laugh before swallowing and getting more serious. He leaned back to the table. "Um … when … you know, when you got in bed with me a week or so ago, after that I said something about me not being the best of bed partners." Actually, he was pretty sure he'd said he wasn't a _platonic_ bed partner. "That's … true." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, fiddling now with his spoon. "I … touch people I'm sleeping with." He rolled his eyes, looking anywhere but at Sylar for a moment. "And sometimes, as you found out, I do more than just touch. That's … as far as it goes. I mean, I wake up, but … sometimes I'm already …" _I sound like a rapist! (And that's kinda what it is, Pete. Which is why it's so fucking important to talk to him about this. He needs to know who it is he keeps trying to get in bed with.) I've never raped anyone!_ "Just wake me up. Please."

XXX

Sylar faked a small smile about being the last person to be told about Peter's bed habits, not that he necessarily needed the information. It was an annoying reminder of how low he was on…any of Peter's lists about anything. He addressed his oatmeal now as Peter spoke until he got to the part about waking him up, then he looked up under his brows. _Are you kidding me? Wake_ **him** _up? When he's hard and in bed with me? Right, and he won't blame me for whatever placement he's in._ He was absolutely ignoring that.

XXX

Peter put his elbows on the table and raked at his hair. This was a very stressful conversation to have, but the worst part was out. He switched to something less violating. "I talk in my sleep sometimes. You know that, too. I've had other people complain that I'll follow them around in the bed trying to be up against them or touching - well, I mean in contact with them, I don't grope people." _Usually. Should I tell him that? I think he's probably figured that out from what I already said._ "There are things we can do about this. If we have to sleep together, we're going to have to have some separation, like me on top of the covers. And … dressed, like last night." He swallowed again, very uneasy with how much of a dangerous pervert this made him sound like. He tried to get a read on how Sylar was taking all of this. Nathan knew some of it, but Peter had never slept with him as an adult, after developing an active sex drive. A kid's adorable snuggling up to you and murmuring in his sleep became a lot less attractive in a fully grown man.

XXX

It was about this time some part of Sylar (or God forbid, Nathan) started to realize this would make an excellent alibi for when Peter _did_ grope him: 'But I was asleep!' Since that was in play, Sylar tuned out most of it, except the parts about separation by clothes or bedding. It made sense but Sylar didn't think it was necessary. _(It's not like I've ever slept with anyone. I don't know what I'm like…Should I tell him that? If I fuck it up, it will be over. He's…making an effort here)._ "Okay," he said simply, hoping to not only cease the rush of admissions/confessions and to give his own input. "I don't know what I do when I sleep. I don't have as many…" he trailed off and reconsidered what he was going to say, which basically amounted to 'I know who and where I am and I'll remember things better without my abilities.' "I don't have my abilities. I already told you what not to do when I have…disturbances." Very much Sylar hoped that his nightmares' record with sleeping with Peter was steady because otherwise it would get embarrassing quickly and he didn't need to be more vulnerable than he already was. _May_ _I eat now?_ He held Peter's eyes until he was cleared to disengage and focus elsewhere.

XXX

Peter nodded, reciting what he remembered of Sylar's directions to show he had paid attention and give an opportunity for Sylar to correct him if he was wrong. "If you're having a nightmare, I don't touch you. Use a pillow or something else to wake you up then." He thought, but Sylar didn't seem to have as many issues with sleeping. Aside from the big one – that he needed someone sleeping with or near him. "And … I should never touch your head." He looked down, his lips drawing together as he wondered if Sylar's prohibition on that was due to Sylar cutting open heads, Peter forcing out his memories, or something done to him by the Company. _The answer is probably 'all of the above'._ "As far as that sort of thing goes," he said quietly, "I'd really prefer if you didn't point at me, or at least, not at my head."

XXX

Sylar tilted his head. _For someone who's lived through as much as he has, he still thinks death is the worst thing that can happen to him._ "I don't point at your head, I point at your face," he clarified, mostly to himself. It was mild but a little defensive. _If I pointed at your head, you'd know it._ And in Sylar's book, powerless pointing was better than violence. It was an acknowledgement though, the best he could safely give. He didn't know how successful he would be in that endeavor because Nathan pointed far more than Sylar (who was aware of what the gesture meant) and what was left of the senator was…unpredictable.

XXX

Peter stared at Sylar for a moment, thinking about the pointing incident that had last upset him. It had been right here at this very table, with Sylar not pointing at Peter's head, but merely at a glass which was directly in line between Sylar's finger and Peter's head (or face, if you wanted to be ridiculously pedantic). He looked down and curled his lips inward, biting at them to keep from saying anything – 'It doesn't matter!' 'You know what I meant!' and 'I don't fucking care what you thought you were pointing at!' He exhaled and looked at Sylar's bowl, then his own, his lips pursed. _Don't argue with him over breakfast. Just don't. Yesterday went fine because we didn't talk about anything. Just leave it._ He glanced up at Sylar to say, "Alright," like the word was dragged between his teeth by force.

He finished eating, then stared into the middle distance, off to the side. After a moment, he realized it might be helpful to share his plans with Sylar, rather than expecting the guy to figure it out as they went along. "I was thinking," he said, refocusing on his companion, "that we're going to end up back here tonight." Peter scratched at the back of his neck, still uncomfortable about the 'sleeping together' thing. But there seemed nothing to be done about it at the moment. Odd dreams aside, the night had gone fine. "So we need to go out and get some food for this place. I'd like to swing by the storefront I was working on the other day and take another look at the settings, maybe measure some things off. I don't have a measuring tape … I'm sure the hardware store has one. So maybe food first, come back here, unload, then back to the hardware store and the storefront?"

XXX

Everything but the sleeping sounded like a lot of effort, manageable only if conversation and helping were minimal and fighting was nonexistent. Sylar glanced up, "Okay," he said and went back to eating.

XXX

Peter nodded. "Okay. Before any of that, though, I'm going to go downstairs and work out, then across to clean up at my apartment. We can meet up later downstairs. I'll probably be a couple hours." He glanced at Sylar's bowl, this time keeping his ass planted until Sylar was done – no more shorting Sylar on his meals just because Peter wanted to move around the room. He asked, "How are your toes doing? I want to take a look at them before we go anywhere."

XXX

Sylar blinked at him. _He made another mess in his apartment? Is he only neat around me? No…he licks utensils…_ Sylar eyed his spoon, nearly finished with his oatmeal. He left that alone as there was nothing to be done about it now. He flexed his socked foot; still seated he made a walking motion with it to apply pressure. "They're…They'll be fine." _I wish you'd take a look at something else more han_ _ds_ _on…_ He couldn't help the look he cast over Peter's bodily profile, even while sitting. His spoon was set in his bowl. "Do you want to do it now?" Sylar was internally smug at his own innuendo, boosting his mood and some of his blood flow.

XXX

Peter did a double-take at the way Sylar was looking at him. There was desire there, smoldering in Sylar's eyes. _Uh … huh._ Peter's brows climbed slightly and he didn't look away, didn't back down. _And I might be in bed with this guy tonight?_ "Finish your breakfast," he said, his tone a dare. _I guess I should be happy he's feeling good enough to start shit. I will wear his ass out if I need to. We'll see how he is after a full day._

XXX

For a moment their eyes held until Peter made his command. Sylar grinned widely, very amused and pleased with himself (and Peter) at having been caught. "I'm done," he said, and it was true.

XXX

Peter made a pointed look in Sylar's bowl, rolled his eyes slightly at the remaining couple of bites and rose. "I'll go wash my hands." It wasn't necessary, but it was habitual and more importantly, it got him away from Sylar for a few needed moments while Peter marshaled his patience and metaphorically put his nurse-hat on. Scrubbed up, he returned and went to one knee next to Sylar's left side. "It's this one, right?" By now, his tone was clear and neutral. He looked to Sylar for affirmation before touching him.

XXX

Before _you touch my feet? Whatever, Peter._ Sylar turned in his seat, elbow on the table as he awaited instructions. It surprised him when Peter approached him at the table – he'd thought they examination would take place somewhere more comfortable and less subservient for Peter. _Like the bed?_ "Uh, yeah, yes." He raised the leg to elevate the foot.

XXX

Peter pulled the sock loose carefully. He started by tugging to loosen the sock on the top of the foot and then on the sole, then peeled it down over the heel before pinching it up on the sole and pulling off and upwards so as not to stress the toes. He cupped the heel of Sylar's foot with his left hand. He took a moment to review the body part in question, looking especially at the toes relative to one another for size and discoloration. He gently brushed off stray sock-lint from Sylar's sole before pronating the foot to watch the flex of tendons and movement of bones. "If there's any displacement, I'm not seeing it. That's a good thing. Which ones are bothering you?" He was fairly sure of which ones (after all, Sylar had told him before, but Peter been concussed at the time and as far as that went, so had Sylar), but he still asked for confirmation, looking up.

XXX

"The index and middle," Sylar pointed. His big toe hurt on the end, but it didn't bother him to walk or run.

XXX

Peter took the pinkie toe between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, squeezing lightly on the joint where the toe joined the foot. He shifted his left hand to bring his thumb and fingertips into contact so he could better feel it if Sylar tensed. _This little piggy went to market_ , he thought as he moved up a joint, squeezing gently on the next knuckle and manipulating it up and down. He looked up at Sylar to check for any pain reaction, then moved on to the next toe. He skipped the mentioned index and middle without so much as touching them, repeating his check on the big toe. Human curiosity made him want to check the others, too, but messing with something until it hurt was a guaranteed way to _hurt_. Sylar said they pained him and without an x-ray machine, that was all Peter had to go on. Well, that and the very faint bruising he could see around the ends and the knuckles. He set the foot back on the floor and offered Sylar his sock.

XXX

He watched Peter work, soaking in the attention and care at such close quarters. His caretaking companion was very gentle, almost unduly so, in handling his foot. It bordered on ridiculous, but it was wonderful – warm, careful hands holding his heel like it was fragile. Peter checked his face a few times; Sylar had no need to signal anything so he didn't, wondering if that was the right response. He was disappointed when the nurse didn't replace his sock.

XXX

"They look okay. Let me know if they start hurting you more as they day goes on. You took your painkillers, right?" Peter looked around, checking for the bottle. He set it in front of Sylar and took away the bowls and utensils.

XXX

_I won't get hooked on these, will I?_ he thought as he swallowed the usual dose. "I can walk," he insisted, standing to back it up and begin helping with cleaning up the butter, syrup and jelly.

XXX

"I know, but there's no reason to tough it out." Peter rinsed the dishes and set them aside. "I'm going to go work out and clean up. I'll be back in a few hours."

XXX

"What am I supposed to do?" _I should shower, that's what he's probably going to go do. Why can't he shower here?_ Just because Peter said (not promised) he would return, and he had nearly every time, didn't mean Sylar was happy or comfortable with the separation. It would seem empty and cold without Peter here. He would need different, new reasons, other than the truthful paranoia that Peter would not return, to keep the man with him.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a surprised look. _Since when am I in charge of how you spend your time?_ His mouth opened to say that (and probably in a sharp tone), but he remembered Sylar crying on his knees, asking Peter to take it all away – everything. And again, in the hospital nailed to the plywood, trying to order Peter to kill him. _Am I stuck here because he won't let me go? Has the carnival … Emma … everything already happened and I'm trapped in Sylar's head forever because he doesn't want to be alone?_ Peter's brows pulled together in an expression that was concerned, both for the life he might be missing and the genuine need Sylar's clinginess demonstrated.

"Um." He cleared his throat, tilting his head in uncertainty as he tried to feel his way through the new role being thrust upon him. He wasn't rejecting it; he was just unfamiliar with it. Peter didn't know what to make of that much responsibility. "Whatever you want - you could clean up, read, take a nap. I'm just going to be downstairs at first …" He trailed off, not wanting to invite Sylar to work out with him, but not wanting to disinvite him either. Peter was fine with Sylar being in the rec room if it made him happy to be where he could hear Peter.

XXX

"Oh," he replied to the undesirable answer. It was the unfortunate side effect of being 'sick,' which is what he was after all. As Peter went about doing the dishes, Sylar tried, "Am I allowed to take showers now?"

XXX

"Allowed?" This time he couldn't stop himself from blurting. "Yes," he answered after a beat, not sure if he should let Sylar put him in a position of being responsible for what the other man did. "I would think you'd rather go down the street to your place, though. One of the things I want to get while we're out shopping is shampoo, razors and stuff, for here. I don't know about you, but I don't remember liking the stuff that was in here."

XXX

Sylar shrugged, "They're fine for me." It was sort of a lie but he didn't feel like trekking over the ice back to his apartment for hair product. He began to unbutton his shirt. He peeled it off, letting it fall from his shoulders and into his hand. "I'll see you later," he rumbled a sort of invitation, now standing shirtless in front of Peter. He looked him in the eye for a moment before he turned and walked to the bathroom. He was arrogant enough to demand Peter's attention and to assume he had it until he disappeared into the hall.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar undressed, alarm warring with … interest? curiosity? something, but his throat was dry and his eyes kept flicking between Sylar's fingers and face. _Is he just going to strip right here? What the hell is he doing?!_ But no, it was just the shirt. He swallowed as Sylar turned and headed off. For a moment Peter looked back to the sink, but he was done. He looked back at Sylar's retreating form, calling out, "Close the door this time!" Then shook his head. He didn't know why he cared, given that he was leaving anyway, but care he did. The guy was scandalously good-looking, which was inconvenient as hell. Peter shook his head again and went out, shutting the front door firmly (but not slamming it) because he wasn't quite sure Sylar had clued that Peter wasn't sticking around.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes. _Whatever, Peter!_ He mentally called back in response. It wasn't like doors were any protection against a motivated Petrelli. To make something of a point on multiple levels, he left the door open a crack. Despite the 'doctor's' okay, he went carefully in the shower. _Has anything changed since_ _I…lost my marbles in front of him? He thinks less of me. He won't break in, he won't…attack me, or so he says. So long as we don't talk about anything and so long as I don't say anything, we_ _'re_ _fine. Is he still going to take my mind bit by bit?_ He wasn't thrilled to be left alone at all, but especially in the potentially dangerous bathroom where he was not visited; his thoughts were not good company. The shampoo wasn't great either.

XXX

Peter pushed himself fairly hard during his workout. He was tense, wound up by Sylar's open display of interest in him. It complicated things enormously, in ways Peter didn't want to think about. It would be easier to blow off if he hadn't been expecting to share such close quarters with him. The only thing he could think of was to tire Sylar out as much as possible without setting back his recovery, but that itself was such a fine line that it seemed impossible. _I've done impossible things before. I'm_ here _trying to do an impossible thing – getting Mr. Serial Killer to save people. But I don't have to deal with any of that right now. Right now I have to shower. Then we'll go get groceries. Who knows what else might happen? I won't get anywhere by worrying about it._ He threw his sweat towel on the nearest bench and set off for his apartment and a hot shower. When he arrived back at the penthouse, he was clean, shaved, and felt human again. He knocked, waited for some signal of Sylar's awareness of him, and walked in when he got it. "Hey." Peter made a bob of his head at the door. "You ready to go?" He moved over to where he'd shed his cold weather gear the day before. He hadn't needed it for the short walk across the street to his apartment building, but he would for the grocery store. He gave everything a cursory check for dryness and started putting things on.


	85. Grocery Shopping

Day 33, January 11, Morning

Sylar was sitting on the couch, thinking it would keep him awake but he zoned out quickly after sitting. He came to when Peter arrived. _Go? Oh yeah_. "Yes." Just as clearly he wasn't ready because he had to hunt down his coat and shoes, both near the bed where he'd left them to sleep with Peter. Putting them on went without a hitch, other than his prevalent concussion symptoms. Peter wasn't hustling him (because he has his own clothes to put on) and soon enough they were down the elevator, to the street and entering the grocery store where Peter got a cart.

Sylar tagged behind Peter, watching him more than anything else. He wanted to see what Peter's eyes lingered on, and maybe the man's face would explain why he chose that specific product. It didn't work like that; Peter frowned or had no expression as he considered the options. They seemed random but he shouldn't be so surprised. It was interesting to see the vegan foods Peter selected, they seemed very…basic, but they were good for you. _One cannot live on cheese and lettuce alone._ Sylar looked over the empath's body several times more without getting caught. After Peter had moved ahead to the next food item, Sylar went behind and got a bag of apples, eventually putting them in the cart. He noticed there was no meat on the menu, no surprises there either.

XXX

Peter cruised down the first aisle after finishing in the produce section, skipping the banks of freezers between the sections. If food didn't tend to go bad here, then he was going to go nuts with fresh stuff. _Speaking of nuts …_ he dropped a container of name-brand chunky peanut butter in the cart along with a store-brand one of honey. (The peanut butter because he'd had that brand and knew it tasted good; the honey because he didn't remember ever noticing a brand on any honey he'd had. Honey was honey, right?) Then he reached the shrine to caffeine – the traditional American plethora of tea and coffee choices. He breezed by the tea, preferring something stouter. "Are you okay with coffee in the morning?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar said, thinking that was obvious. They'd had coffee together before; Sylar had even talked about the stuff. "Is it bad for concussions, the caffeine?" He didn't think so, assumed not since the nurse was offering it. It was one more thing Peter could fix for him in the kitchen (that itself was amusing), it was a social thing, a normal habit or vice; though Sylar didn't need to drink coffee every morning since he wasn't exactly on the run anymore. Poor or worse sleep was a factor still, when he had to be alert around Peter. _He's sleeping with me. For now._

XXX

"I don't know. We'll find out." A little less flippantly, he turned to look at Sylar and amended, "Start slow. See how you tolerate it. There are plenty of other things to drink if you don't want to risk it." He turned back to the scores of selections. It wasn't like ordering at the coffee shop, or making espresso with the fancy monstrosities so many of the more expensive homes Peter had been in had possessed. Peter frowned, trying to remember if the upscale penthouse they were inhabiting even had the simplest of coffee maker. "There's no way I'm doing instant," he muttered, then asked Sylar at a more normal tone, "What kind of coffee do you like?" He reached up and touched his chin contemplatively, weighing his choices carefully.

XXX

Sylar frowned, oddly put off by that reply. Peter amended it so…"I never really experimented….with coffee," Sylar was quick to clarify. The conversation about experimenting making it a little awkward. "Anything is fine." _I've never tried Italian-made coffee before_ , he thought, amused.

XXX

"Okay." Peter nodded decisively, grabbing the medium-sized, high-end, name-brand container that pleased him the most at that particular moment. His careful process was to slowly review all of his possible selections, then almost impulsively grab whatever looked like a good idea and move on. It was a method. He set the canister in the cart, added some creamer he was familiar with, and continued looping through the grocery area and finally dairy. After that, he headed to the other side of the store for personal care. Picking out an extra toothbrush and tube of paste was simple enough, but then he came to … hair. There were even more choices than coffee and this was quite a bit more important.

XXX

Here Peter came to a grinding halt. He barely moved for long minutes, staring at the shampoos and conditioners. Sure the guy had some upkeep with that rebellious mop of hair but was it really this complicated? Sylar grew fidgety, then impatient. When he could take the standstill no more, he left and went down a different aisle; quite sure he wouldn't be missed. He was unfamiliar with condoms but he managed to make a decision faster than Peter and hair care. Returning with a box of Trojans and a bottle of basic unscented lotion from Peter's same aisle, he threw them in the cart, pointedly, waiting to see when Peter noticed and how he reacted. There was no uncomfortable check-out to pass so Peter was the only would who could see the items.

XXX

Peter had settled on a shampoo, which was in the cart. The brand-suggested conditioner option was in his hand, but he hadn't finished thinking about all the other possibilities (mousse, gel … and what about hair dye?!) when Sylar returned. Peter made a bland, acknowledging, "Hmm," noise before deciding he needed to get moving before Sylar left on another expedition. (And that he, Peter, didn't have anyone to help him apply the blue coloring to his hair anyway.) He looked in the cart to see what Sylar had gone for, saw the conspicuous box immediately, and stared at it, face blanking as his blood pressure shot up and muscles tensed.

XXX

"What? You don't use them?" _With men_ , was the implied climax of that question. Sylar was itching with curiosity.

XXX

"I'm not going to use them wi-" Peter cut off the end of the ill-thought outburst. _No, that sounds like I'm_ going _to have sex with him, just not use condoms._ "I mean, we don't-" _Wait, that has the same problem._ "No! It-" _Dammit!_ Frustration made him grit his teeth. His jaw chose that moment to spasm and his expression turned to a pained grimace.

XXX

"Not your brand?" Sylar silkily inquired with all the innocence he had. "They have more."

XXX

Put on the spot so unexpectedly (and clearly that was Sylar's plan), Peter didn't find the best words, but he had to say _something_. He bit out, "There is nothing we are going to do that needs condoms." It was at least better than the other things he'd almost said before.

XXX

Sylar shrugged one shoulder. It satisfied his curiosity. He removed them from the cart, setting them on the shelf. Then he smirked. That answer could mean a lot of things: Peter never used condoms or didn't care to, he didn't use them with men, or Peter thought Sylar wasn't worth using them on, which could really go either way, a good or bad thing. The whole thing was a prank in itself anyway – Peter would take it seriously and nothing would come of it.

XXX

Peter shook his head, calming down and tearing into himself internally for being so easy to provoke. Just as he was telling himself not to rise to Sylar's bait, he put the conditioner he'd been carrying into the cart and noticed the lotion. _That wasn't there before._ Lips tight, he asked, "What is that for?"

XXX

"We're getting supplies. It's winter. I don't want to get dry skin," he emphasized the last two words, his meaning apparent: the dry skin of my dick. "You can use some, too. Never know when you might…need some," that was said with a glance at Peter's groin.

XXX

_Fine,_ Peter thought snippily. _It's the only wet either one of us is going to get._ He looked past Sylar at the section of lotions. It wasn't that bad a point. Truth be told, Peter had a preference for self-pleasuring and this worked, but he'd rather have two bottles so as not to have to deal with … sharing. _If I just grab a second one right in front of him, is that bold or weird? Ah, to hell with it._ Peter took down a second bottle to match Sylar's and tossed it in the cart without comment.

XXX

/"Remember what I taught you about lube?"/ Oh, he should have seen that one coming. Sex was so prevalent in Nathan's – and in Peter's, apparently – life that the slightest mention would trigger something. /Nathan had had to give his little brother the talk, several of them throughout the years as the boy grew. First was birds and bees, second was 'be careful' and masturbation tips, and third and other ones were about the graphic specifics of seduction, porn and protection. Very much Nathan had stressed the protection part, regardless of what their parents and the church were drilling into Peter. Meredith and Claire and that tragedy that still followed him wouldn't happen to Peter if he could help prevent it./ Sylar colored from embarrassment and fear. Quickly his good, playful mood vanished as his safety was questioned, his hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched as he took a shuffling step back. "I-I'm….I…." This one was more than just crossing the usual line.

XXX

It took Peter a moment to process that as something not entirely from Sylar. Had Sylar just blown it off and walked away, Peter wouldn't have been sure, but the second the guilty body language started (and Peter was giving him eagle-eyed, suspicious attention at that point), he knew. Those words coming out of Sylar's mouth were a profound violation – that some of his most private moments with his brother were to be blurted out for humor or shock value was reprehensible. It was indefensible. Peter grabbed at him with his left hand, fingers tangling in the heavy fabric of the coat as he sought to slam Sylar back, into the rows of flimsy shelving of hair care products.

XXX

_Ah, fuck_ , was all Sylar had to think about this serious overstep that was going to get him hurt. Sure enough, Peter advanced and Sylar backed up, as if 'getting out of Peter's way' would solve the problem. He kept trying to back up until the medic helped him with that, shoving Sylar's spine into the metal shelves with some force. "Ah!" he said in a pained and unhappy tone. His hands jerked up halfway but dropped in the face of inevitability as he squirmed and dreaded what came next. It just didn't seem fair.

XXX

Peter snarled at him. "'Remember' …?" He dipped his head down a little in exaggerated query. "You think that's funny? Huh?" He shoved at Sylar again.

XXX

"N-No," Sylar replied with resolve. His head was back, hoping it was out of reach, as he watched Peter's free hand, the right one. _He can't hit me with that, or he won't, right_? Whether he got smacked or not seemed dependent on how he responded – Peter wasn't going to beat him, based on the hold and the holding pattern they were in. Sylar didn't know what to make of that. (He didn't think he should be spared any punishment but he was being offered a chance of sorts).

XXX

"Sylar, I am _trying_ -" Peter stopped, staring at the hand gripping Sylar's front and holding him in place so Peter could vent at him. ' _Here lies Peter Petrelli – He tried_ ' and ' _You act; I adjust_ ' flashed through his mind. Whatever he did, Sylar was going to react to it … because that was the world Sylar was living in. If Peter treated him brutally, then Sylar would act like Peter was a brute. Peter's chest heaved. That wasn't how he wanted to be. He let go with an effort – not shoving, not embellishing the gesture. He just let go and took a step back, teeth slightly bared because he still wanted to tear into Sylar for reminding Peter of how many of his private moments were inside Sylar's skull. "I am being-" _No, that doesn't work either. If I have to tell him I'm doing my best be decent, then I'm not doing a good job. I shouldn't have to tell him. What I say doesn't matter; it's what I do._ He looked down, sealing his lips together and letting his shoulders sag as the fight left him. Peter glanced up, tilting his head to one side as he said, "You can't help it, can you?" He drew in a deep breath and expelled it along with his rage.

XXX

Sylar watched as Peter tried to work through another reply or possibly a lecture. He took a deeper breath when he was freed, adjusting the hang and fit of his coat with barely a glance spared for it, feeling jittery. "I don't think it makes a difference to you either way," he admitted, resigned about that.

XXX

Peter looked up at him, voice strained. "It's the difference between malice and an accident. It's important." He took another step back, nodded, and worked his lips uncomfortably. His voice was normal when he spoke again. "Come on. I think we missed the bakery section somewhere and I don't want to leave here without some raisin bread."

XXX

_Why does that hurt him so much? I'm not saying…bad memories. Just his memories. And he's gone (and I'm here) and that's what matters to Peter, I guess._ Sylar waited until Peter was well past him with the cart before considering moving in any direction. He kept screwing up every time they talked and even when they didn't – he still didn't know if he was invited along. The least punishment Peter could enact was sending him home alone right now.

XXX

Peter looked back, realizing Sylar wasn't following. It made him feel small and mean, knowing he'd just attacked Sylar for something Sylar couldn't stop, something Sylar hadn't wanted. But it had been inflicted on him anyway and now he was trapped here with Peter, who felt way too hair-trigger towards the guy. Peter made a wide, inclusive wave with one arm and gentled his voice further to say, "Come on, buddy. You need to come tell me white or wheat for sandwich bread. It's okay. I was an ass. I'll cut it out." Peter looked down and to the side, deflating as he realized how much his temper interfered with normal interactions. "Or I can meet up with you somewhere else. Whatever you want." _Whatever makes you feel safe._

XXX

"I don't have a preference," Sylar said, quiet and quick, as if bread was the most important thing to talk about or do at the moment – it wasn't and he really didn't care which bread was chosen. He was being offered a way out but there was a right and wrong answer. _Do I stay with Peter because I need supervision and he wants to berate me some more or…am I unbearable now and he needs space and that's a hint to leave?_ He rocked his weight forward, then back, almost taking a step. "Um…Should I leave?"

XXX

Peter stopped, turned, and looked at Sylar with an expression that went from disappointed to thoughtful within a few seconds. _Do I want him to leave? I can't snap at him if he's not here. Maybe he doesn't feel safe around me. He really_ isn't _safe around me, but I think he wants to be around me. Is it better for him to leave?_ Peter's eyes dropped to Sylar's feet. Although the questions he'd been asking himself were all about Sylar and Sylar's safety, his feelings were more predictably rooted in what he himself wanted. He didn't want to feel like he was such an ogre that even Sylar, lonely and desperate for companionship, couldn't stand his company. He wanted the illusion of friendliness they had at times between them – open animosity was tiring and wrong. He wanted to be thought well of and he couldn't get that unless he acted right. Quietly, Peter said, "I want you to stay."

XXX

Sylar nodded once, looking meaningfully at the mess of shampoo and wishing he could clean it up but left it and he slunk behind Peter once more, hands shamefully in his pockets. He considered apologizing because, well, this accident was an extremely embarrassing one, but then he remembered the conversation about apologies and intentions. _I didn't get the condoms and lotion to piss him off or talk like Nathan. Does Peter think I did that part on purpose? Yeah._

XXX

They finished the last bit of shopping with very little talking, then Peter rolled the entire cart full of groceries right out of the store and along the sidewalk, which was smoother than the street itself. It felt very weird and rebellious to be walking off with a cart like he was either homeless or brazen, both of which possibilities cheered him in turns. He wished he had more of an audience for his defiance of social norms. Sylar looked very subdued, so Peter didn't mention how cool it made him feel. Besides, he chided himself, the feeling was dumb.

He turned his thoughts back to the more important issue of how he could better deal with Sylar airing Nathan's memories. _First, I need to understand what's going on._ In a serious tone, he recapped what Sylar had told him before. "Let me know if this is how it works: I say things, sometimes that triggers memories in you, and it also triggers you to say it, out loud. Is that it?"

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar whispered. _Remember the last time I talked about Nathan and this whole thing? (I threw a mannequin at him?) No, before that._

XXX

"So it just bypasses your filter?" _No internal censor, no choice, no veto power?_

XXX

_Like 'self-control'? It…overrides it,_ "Umm…" Vaguely his noise sounded affirmative but the equal part didn't. Was admission a good idea, permanently labeling this…thing as unintentional? Oh, God, this couldn't end well. _How can I get in trouble when all I do is answer the questions he asks?_

XXX

That wasn't much of an answer. Peter gave Sylar a slightly longer, expectant look, but Sylar didn't elaborate. "Okay." Peter didn't push it. _Maybe he can control it; maybe he can't. Maybe he can only control it some of the time. Maybe he controls it fine ninety-nine percent of the time and I only hear about the one percent that slips through. In any case, I think he's_ trying _to control it. Let's go with that._ "The lube thing - that's kind of funny." Peter chuckled a little, although the incident was still too recent for his laugh to be anything other than forced. "You have all those memories, right? What about that treehouse where Nathan got me drunk when I was a kid?"

XXX

/"Yeah, that one we built? We used to hide in it after stealing Dad's scotch-"/ Sylar's gut sank as Peter's goal became obvious. He faced Peter and backed away, jerking his hands from his pockets to raise them in self-defense before Peter made any such move. His chest hitched up and down roughly. "That's not fair!" Bait and hit him, the system was beautiful for all its sadism.

XXX

It took Peter a moment, during which he stood mostly still, hands still on the cart handle and leaning slightly away in case Sylar did something aggressive. Then he figured it out. _He thinks I did that on purpose? He's that easy to trigger? Huh. Okay._ It was the best illustration the recollections were involuntary Sylar could have made – so good it left Peter slightly suspicious, but so authentic he purged his doubts. "It's okay," he said, taking a few slow, short steps forward to indicate there was no bad blood. _Just walking and talking. It's all good._ "I was just wondering if you had everything, like even the obscure stuff." Peter made a one-shouldered shrug. "The stuff you know about me … that's really embarrassing." He looked over at Sylar carefully, trying to read if the guy understood how weird a position this put Peter in.

XXX

Sylar glanced at Peter's face, then his eyes and just as quickly, he looked away before returning to repeat the circuit. By his own words, he was damned, 'if you did it, you meant it' although how he could 'mean' what Nathan had just said made no sense. "You're…my brother. It doesn't sound weird – or embarrassing – until I say it."

XXX

Peter gave him a hard, but considering look. "You're not saying … that you really are my brother, right? You're saying, maybe, that when one of those memories is set off, you're seeing it from Nathan's perspective. And so, from his point of view, he was there, it's his memory, it's not embarrassing for him to say that to me. Is that it?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar said ambiguous in its honesty. He wanted to be Peter's brother but he wasn't; he thought he was Peter's brother but he wasn't; who was Peter's brother and who would treat the empath better? "It's only embarrassing for you to realize I know things."

XXX

Peter puckered his lips slightly as he thought that over. He swallowed and sighed. "You know, this isn't much of a secret, Sylar, but it's not something I talk about with just anyone. But my brother was really self-absorbed and I don't think he thought through how his actions affected others." Peter paused for a moment and said as an aside, "Family problem." He went on, "But the things you remember about me are still embarrassing for me, some of it, and it would be even if it's Nathan saying it. Even back when it was Nathan who _did_ say things like that, it was embarrassing." _Is that Nathan trying to talk to me out of Sylar? Is Sylar just repressing him? Is it okay for me to tell Nathan through Sylar that Nathan was a bastard at times?_ Peter frowned tightly. _Leave it alone. There's no way to know. Not unless I get out of here and still have telepathy and even then, who knows? Until then, he's who he says he is and that's Sylar._

Peter itched to talk about Nathan with someone. There were so many things he hadn't had a chance to say at the funeral, things he wanted to get out, but things he shouldn't burden anyone to listen to it. It was all snarled up inside of him and Sylar was hardly the person to talk to about it. He tugged off a glove to wiped at his eyes – they weren't damp, but they stung. "You ever lose someone you cared about?"

XXX

Sylar was very stuck about Peter crying over this. It forced him to answer, albeit quietly. "Yes." ' _Lost' is such generous word for what happened._

XXX

"You run across things that remind you of them, after, and sometimes it just brings it all back up again in your mind. I miss him. Hearing you talk like him is hard. I'm sorry that was done to you." More quietly he said, "I can't imagine how hard it must be for you, too." _He can't get away from it. He probably remembers how Nathan died. Does that feel like_ he _died, like that was his own death?_ Peter gave a brief sideways bob of his head, thinking about how Claire had said dying was no big deal. Even though it had happened to Peter several times, it had never been anything other than a big deal. Every time it had mattered. _Maybe I'm not as tough as she is._ He looked over to see how Sylar was taking it.

XXX

Sylar inhaled and went still, remembering his walk on the dark side – shapeshifting into his mother to have a conversation with…someone, with her, he didn't know. He remembered the snow globe, the murder weapon; the musty smell of her tea and the dust of her house…the blood and her soap on the softness of her sweater. In that moment, all he could think about was if Peter somehow began quoting her, hounding him until he had no peace and pouring salt on every wound he still possessed. "Don't ever do that, Peter," he warned in advance, finding himself breathing faster, clammy against his coat. "It could be dangerous." He didn't know if he expected Peter to abide by that or not, if it was even possible.

XXX

"Don't do what?" Peter asked very cautiously, stopping the cart as he remembered how negatively Sylar had responded in the past to Peter's attempts to empathize with him. Was this another case of that? It didn't look like it. Sylar looked lost within himself. It was very different than the times he'd snapped at Peter for trying to recognize the difficulties of Sylar's life.

XXX

"Don't talk like…those people, if you…go looking. I can't explain," he didn't know why he said that part because if Peter saw the memory, then the explanation would be pointless. Perhaps he was making an effort at being polite, while he could. "They said things that…Well, you said you…chose not to look," Sylar finished weakly, angry at himself for that and a lot of things, upsetting Peter to tears was one of the unintentional ones.

XXX

Peter waited, cart not moving as he worked through that. _Don't talk like … the people you've lost, the ones you cared about? Wait, why would I?_ He looked puzzled for a moment, before his eyes widened and face cleared in realization. _Oh! Because he's saying I'd be having a memory flashback like he does with Nathan._ "Um, I don't know if it works that way for me – the memories, that is. In the dreams I've had, it was from your point of view, no one else's. If anything, I think I'd be talking like you, like the way you do with Nathan." Peter fell silent and looked down, thinking about losing himself and turning into some twisted reflection of Sylar. He shifted slightly, voice quieting to nearly a whisper, "I think it might be a really good idea for me not to go looking too much at your memories, if … you know … I want to stay _me_." He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder, "And I do, so … you're probably safe."

XXX

Peter sounded repulsed and frightened of the possibility of becoming Sylar. It was sad and insulting, but he couldn't blame Peter. It wasn't like he had his powers to make the transition worth anything. It was both better and worse that Peter only saw the memories from Sylar's perspective – there were no voices but the nurse also got to see and possibly feel whatever Sylar had felt at the time. Lips pursed, he nodded, nothing to say to any of that.

XXX

"Do you want to talk about any of it though?" He was deliberately vague about what Sylar might want to talk about – Peter wanted to know everything, but he had a right to none of it. He restarted the cart trying to get them on their way again, waiting to see what Sylar would tell him.

XXX

Sylar was caught off-balance by that. He'd never had anyone around let alone the opportunity to divulge any grief and guilt. There wasn't time to break down; it just wasn't safe. The offer was unexpected. Peter had just been upset, Sylar had just screwed up and instead of…trying to do what Peter needed and wanted, fixing, explaining the mistake, he was being asked to talk about his loss. For a moment, he simply stared at Peter until the other man began to move again. Sylar followed instinctively as he actually thought about the question and the process involved. He didn't know where to start. _I must not understand him. It's rhetorical or something._ "What would I have to say? I didn't 'misplace' them; I'm responsible, right? That's how it works. They died; it was a long time ago." Sylar shrugged it all away, reassuring himself he hadn't said too much and that he'd deflected properly.

XXX

Peter clued immediately to the 'I'm responsible' and he gave Sylar a longish look, contemplative rather than incisive. He was trying to decide if Sylar automatically thought Peter would blame him even when he hadn't done anything wrong, or if Sylar had actually done something wrong – it was a tough question. Peter's earlier speculation that Sylar had turned his ability first on one of his relations came to mind (which meant only his mother, unless there was someone else Sylar had stubbornly not mentioned). The prohibition against asking about Sylar's mother was another factor. But Sylar hadn't ruled this off-limits yet and maybe it was just that he didn't know how to relate something that had mattered deeply to him. "Tell me what happened," was what Peter said.

XXX

Since Peter wouldn't leave it alone, he had to answer. Heaving a sigh, he spoke, voice tense, "Words betray the soul and people become their actions. Some people are monsters and...They do bad and horrible things. That's what happened to them. All of them. They were murdered. That probably doesn't surprise you and I guess it's only fair."

XXX

_That sounds like a riddle,_ Peter thought. _Or a poem. Is he quoting something to me_ _with part of that_ _?_ _It's not one I've heard before, if he is, but he's read a lot. 'People become their actions' – that's like him saying it was my actions that counted, not intentions or anything I had to say._ "Hm." _It might not be his mother he's talking about. I asked for loved ones, right? Or was it 'close to you'? I think that was it. Could be friends. He's said he didn't have friends, though. There was Chandra. 'All of them', multiple. Maybe people killed by the Company? Or him._ Peter exhaled heavily and twisted his hands restlessly on the handle of the shopping cart. The plastic was okay, but the metal portion was getting uncomfortably cold in the chill air.

"I'm sorry." _Even if he killed them?_ "No matter what happened, they mattered to you." He gave Sylar another look that was longer than a glance. _Maybe if he'd had some people close to him who had helped, whom he wouldn't call 'monsters', then things would have turned out better._

Offering a different topic, Peter said, "Let's talk about what we're going to eat for lunch. Out of all this stuff we just bought, what do you want to have first?"

XXX

Sylar forced himself to sigh and move on from the depressing subject. "I don't know. Do you know how to make pancakes?" He left out a word 'do you _even_ know how,' pleased about that and his tone. _Or am I supposed to make the food now? I thought he said something about me cooking but I don't think I've ever prepared anything for him. He…didn't want to eat with me or something._ "Oh. Never mind." Sylar shook his head. Peter could neither stir the batter nor flip the pancakes with his broken hand. "My…head still hurts but I can try to cook something." _Am I supposed to offer that? It's not like you got a lot for me to work with._ There was no meat or even broth to make a stew of all the damn veggies Peter had gathered; it seemed like a bunch of glorified (healthy) snack food. He was a good cook but not a miracle worker, especially when he let an incompetent bachelor do the shopping without forewarning that he, Sylar, was going to be doing the cooking.

XXX

_Yeah, I just made pancakes a few days ago …_ Peter shrugged though when Sylar said 'never mind', assuming he'd remembered that and the headache/concussion was interfering with his memory. Instead, Peter gave a cheerful, "Okay," and wondered what Sylar would come up with.

XXX

It was Sylar's idea to bring the whole cart up with them. He'd done that before with books and his own apartment. Once it was parked in the hallway, they carried the items inside to the kitchen. Whatever Peter placed on the counter, Sylar would arrange more or less in a loose category by type. He began a slow process of eliminating what was truly useless for any cooked dinner meal by putting it away. There wasn't much there and that had left him staring at the options, wracking his already tired brain to dream up some dinner, anything besides plain biscuits and pancakes.

XXX

He noticed Sylar had stopped, but Peter went ahead with trying to put away a couple tubes of biscuits from the diminished stacks of groceries.

XXX

"Hey," Sylar said, a little snappily, when he saw Peter messing up the arrangement. It got the other man's attention soon enough, with a questioning look so he obviously had to explain the obvious. "Leave it out. This isn't what I usually get to cook with. If you'd wanted me to _cook_ , you should have gotten ingredients I can cook."

XXX

Peter looked at the food uncertainly. It was the same sort of food he'd usually get for himself, except he generally didn't buy so much fresh food at once, because otherwise he ended up tossing most of it in the trash. Also, if Sylar didn't like the food, then he should have done something about it. Peter frowned, trying to remember how long ago it had been when they'd had the discussion about Sylar taking over cooking. _But if he can't remember that I made pancakes a little while ago, then he's not going to remember that conversation, either._ "You don't have to do it," he said, but his voice was disappointed anyway. "I can put something together."

XXX

Every second seemed to irritate him. Peter was just too clueless. Maybe he'd intentionally gotten insufficient ingredients for…some reason, just to watch Sylar struggle with it. None too kindly, he sassed, "Well, then what are you planning to make, Chef Boiardi?"

XXX

Peter squared off from Sylar, head drawing back at what he saw as an unwarranted challenge. Had he not been feeding this guy for weeks now? "Yoghurt, fruit, and some raisin bread would make a nice lunch. Or hummus ..." _Chips? Do I have chips? Some pita chips would be perfect._ He seemed to have overlooked getting chips. _Whatever. There's probably some around here somewhere. Would toast work?_ "... and some of the vegetables. Or cheese toast. Cheese toast is good." _Would cheese toast and hummus work? Hey, that sounds good. I ought to try that._

XXX

"Exactly. Rabbit food. That's why I'm trying to cook. Now will you shut up if you have no useful suggestions and let me get back to it?" He didn't really wait for an answer; instead snatching the biscuits to replace them on the counter and turning away back to his contemplations, ignoring the other's presence. _Go away!_ he spared the time to think.

XXX

Peter snorted. But since he was really looking forward to not having to do it himself, he put his hands up in surrender and vacated the kitchen. "Let me know if you want any help," he said, knowing the moment the words left his mouth that it virtually guaranteed Sylar wouldn't ask. He thought about it and made a mental shrug. As long as Sylar didn't catch the place on fire or hurt himself, it didn't matter. He certainly wasn't going to stay in the kitchen with an irate Sylar and risk some repeat of the boiling eggs incident. Peter got his sketchpad, moved it from the night stand to the living area (where he had an indirect line of sight to the kitchen), and settled in.

XXX

It took him much longer than he would have liked to make a plan and to complete it. Thank God Peter wasn't hovering or talking and otherwise wasting time. Steaming carrots and broccoli (those damned fresh vegetables with no correlating main dish), mixing and making pancakes went smoothly, if slowly, by himself. When he was done, he raised his voice a little, "It's ready. Get your plate." There was maple syrup around here somewhere but in the process of getting out serving utensils he forgot about it.

XXX

Peter put his stuff aside and hurried to set the table, leaving Sylar to manage getting the food on the table. He craned his neck to look at the meal as Sylar carried things by, perplexed by the dishes. He was still perplexed when he sat down, turning from the stack of pancakes to the steamed vegetables. _Um … what am I supposed to do with this? Is this how Sylar feels about my meals? Huh._ He gamely forked over a couple pancakes, noticing they were … well, cooked properly, not burned, and so on. That was a good sign. _Maybe I can treat it like a crepe?_ Peter put a thin layer of carrots and broccoli down the middle and rolled the pancake around them like it was a cannoli. He picked it up, caught the look on Sylar's face, and took a bite anyway.

XXX

_Um…_ Sylar frowned and stared rudely, waiting for Peter to…quit whatever the hell he was doing and eat like a normal person. _Maybe that's asking too much of him. It's pancakes and vegetables. If it's gross, it's his own fault – I didn't make them to be eaten together like that._

XXX

"Mm!" Peter said, surprised the taste was okay. It would be better with some herbed butter, or even just butter period since he wasn't sure how 'herbed butter' was made (he only knew he'd had it in restaurants and it needed something savory to offset the vegetables). He fetched some after taking another bite, unrolling his pancake to add plain butter (the only kind they had), then finishing it off. "I bet this would be pretty good with just carrots and some of that maple syrup." His second (and then third) pancake featured that combination, which wasn't the sort of thing he'd go out of his way to eat, but it was definitely edible and ... interesting. He liked interesting.

"You should make sure you take your pills." Peter thought about the day so far, from Sylar's perspective – there was whatever he'd done while Peter was working out and cleaning up, the trip to the store, getting assaulted, coming back, handling cooking all by himself … _He was pretty grouchy earlier. Does that mean he's worn out? Or was he just grouchy? He was forgetting things, too. Well … it's not like I'm in a hurry to get back out in the cold._ "The hot meal was good. Thank you." It weighed pleasantly in Peter's stomach. "I was thinking maybe we could put off the rest of the stuff until tomorrow, and stay in and get some rest. What do you think?"

XXX

_Oh yeah._ Sylar felt dense as he didn't notice or remember the bottle on the table with them, taking his dose anyway. Again, he looked at Peter funny. _You told me to cook, so I did._ It wasn't that strange because he knew it was a social custom but those things didn't usually apply to him. Sylar lifted his chin once in a sort of nod, going back to his own dinner – eating pancakes with fork and syrup as God intended. The medic had continued to eat in his own weird way, seemingly happy about it, too. "I don't mind if you want to rest." It would be a relief not to have to do more, though the hot meal did help, the effort to make it didn't. _I must still be fucked up. I wonder if he can tell that? What happens if he makes me push too far? I'll ask him later._ It was still light out but digestion made his eyelids heavy. Sylar anticipated sleeping with Peter and dreaded it – the slightest wrong thing could be disastrous.


	86. Brain Injury Medicine

Day 33, January 11, Afternoon

Sylar finished his food some time after Peter and began to clean up. The kitchen wasn't a bomb zone but it wasn't particularly tidy either; he was a little embarrassed about that. Peter pitched in and was doing the dishes when Sylar finally blurted, "What's the worst thing that can happen to- with a concussion?"

XXX

Peter glanced over, raising a brow and trying to get a grip on what Sylar was after with that question, at this point in time, with that degree of worry on his face. "What do you mean?"

XXX

"How do they die? Like a headache or bumping their head on something?"

XXX

_'They.' Okay, I guess I can pretend we're talking hypothetically. And we might be – I'm not sure what he's looking for._ "People don't die from concussions very often. Usually, it's whatever gave them the concussion – like a motor vehicle accident or a fall," _or a fistfight with the brother of the guy you murdered_ , "that kills them. There can be bleeding in the brain or enough swelling to cause death, but the time period for that is minutes to hours from time of injury. If you make it past a day, you're fine. Or at least, not in danger of dying from that. I picked up a book about it while I was at the hospital, but I really haven't had a chance to read it much. I ought to go get it before we get settled in." Peter leaned against the counter. He started on drying some of the cleaned dishes, not that they really needed it, but he welcomed the opportunity to talk about something fairly neutral. "But back to your question, once a person makes it past the first twenty-four hours, the only treatment is time and rest." His brow furrowed. It seemed like it had been quite a while since the fight – weeks at least. All of the bruises had faded and Peter's broken hand was even feeling better. But Sylar's toes were still a problem, his headache was constant, he still had memory problems and even a half-day of light exertion was too much for him. And sleep disturbances – weren't those a symptom, too? _Why does he still have these problems? Why isn't he healing?_

XXX

"Concussions aren't...permanent, are they?"

XXX

"They aren't supposed to be," Peter blurted, before recovering some of his mislaid bedside manner. "I mean no – no, they aren't. You're improving, but I should do another of those exams on you." But was he really improving? Peter was now consumed with doubts. _Sylar shouldn't be needing to sleep all the time. Or am I over-focusing on yesterday and today when that's just a blip caused by him not getting any or enough sleep for a long time – like three or four days? And he wasn't eating right then either, or taking his painkillers, and it's not like he's in a low stress, relaxing environment, ever._

XXX

"Oh. I wasn't talking about me. I was just curious." Sylar ended the conversation by wandering into the guest room and finding a pair of pajamas, or clothes that would fit the purpose. In the bathroom he took out his new toothbrush and toothpaste. That done, he started in on the pajamas.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar go. The suspicious expression on Peter's face didn't have anything to do with Sylar's motives – he didn't doubt those. But he was beginning to think he had to be overlooking something from a medical standpoint. For what wasn't the first time, he fretted that he wasn't a doctor, didn't have that level of training, and didn't have the answers he wanted. But maybe he knew where to find them. "I'm going to go down and get that book. I'll be right back," Peter called out, going to the door.

XXX

"Wait, what?!" Sylar left the room for a few moments and Peter was slipping out? For how long? His shirt was half unbuttoned, that was as far as he'd gotten when he emerged quickly from the bathroom. _Oh, God. Is this going to be another trek across town for a stupid book? I shouldn't have asked._ "Wait, I'll come with you." Fortunately his shoes were still on and all he had to do was locate his coat. They left together because Peter didn't protest, but he did take the cart down. The book was in the Pegasus rec room along with a stack of other Peter books. Sylar tried to glance at the titles without being obvious but they looked like big medical journals or something equally boring (unless they were about brains or other of Sylar's various psychological disorders, in which case it would be interesting if Peter was reading up about that). That was all – he returned with the empath to the suite and he was able to finish getting into the pajamas and slide into bed like it was familiar (and more comfortable with the pajamas instead of jeans). Once again, he rolled over to be able to breathe Peter in, closer than he'd been before because it was comforting.

XXX

Peter settled in on top of the main set of covers, the extra one he'd used the night before loosely bunched around his sock-clad feet. He'd restored his mound of pillows, as he was planning on reading. He was also planning on giving Sylar another MMSE, but thought letting him get some rest first would be better than springing it on him right away. Peter read. At first he felt Sylar's eyes on him, but at some point when Peter glanced over, he saw Sylar's lids had closed. He sighed and watched for a few minutes, admiring. Sylar looked so much younger and vulnerable when asleep – everyone did, but few of them roused the fear and defensiveness in Peter that Sylar did while he was awake, alert, and threatening. Peter shook his head a little at how Sylar could be threatening even when he was miserable, concussed, and in pain. Looking at him now in repose, Peter could shed some of the preconceptions. Sylar did not look as haggard as he had the day before. Was it possible he hadn't slept at all in Peter's absence? At least not in any meaningful way? Peter frowned and went back to his book. From what he was reading, that was entirely, and disappointingly, possible.

XXX

Sylar woke up and knew Peter was gone before his eyes opened. There was light coming from the kitchen, the refrigerator to be exact. It was…absurdly domestic. _This is the part where I say, 'come back to bed,'_ Sylar thought hazily, without rancor. He watched as the other man returned with a bowl, presumably filled with food and…a small knife across it. Sylar woke up a little more, eyeing it suspiciously for a moment but Peter's unconcerned approach sold it. He rolled over with a pleased noise all the same, stretching some. _I should have left that clock here, the one he gave me._

XXX

Peter set the bowl between them and picked up the book as his rump took its place on the bed. The knife slid off the bowl with the motion. "I thought about those questions you were asking earlier about head injuries. It's hard to address concussions definitively because they're all unique. It's not like a broken bone that tends to have the same mechanics." He hesitated, thinking about Sylar's rephrasing of how they could rest if that was what _Peter_ wanted to do for the afternoon, and how Sylar wasn't asking about concussions for _himself_ – he was just curious in general. "Most symptoms resolve in less than two weeks – dizziness, headaches, mental fatigue, sensitivity – the rule is ten days to two weeks and the patient can resume normal activities, like a full course load in school or return to work."

"But," Peter shrugged, "like I said, every case is different. Predicting what happens can get especially dicey if you- if the patient has multiple concussions, like they have one and then a few days later take another blow to head that's even worse." He remembered Sylar throwing up after their first fight, the one in the male child's bedroom that had been stopped by Peter breaking his hand and Sylar brandishing the baseball bat at him. He'd been concussed then – Sylar had, definitely. Then Peter had head-butted him only a few days later, not to mention whatever punches he might have landed. "When that happens, symptoms don't always resolve in two weeks and sometimes new ones crop up, like mood changes or sleep disturbances." That one, in particular, had jumped out at Peter. "Some people sleep a lot; some hardly at all;" _and the kicker is,_ "others get very specific and can only sleep under certain circumstances." _Like while Peter Petrelli is in the room with you._ It wasn't unheard of for it to be _that_ specific – to people, locations, or conditions. Anxiety and irritability were common as well – more extreme mood swings weren't unusual either. "It's called post-concussion syndrome. The good news is people don't die from it. It just takes a little longer to heal." He ate one of the grapes, then nudged the bowl. "The apple's for you; the knife's in case you wanted to peel it or cut it up. I don't know how you prefer to eat apples."

Peter watched Sylar for a few moments to find out how he ate the fruit, then asked, "How are you feeling today?"

XXX

Sylar listened, attentive and quiet. It felt weird, too, having specific medical care like this, having his questions about his symptoms answered as clearly as Peter – the sometime enemy – was able. _He…thinks that's a symptom?_ Sylar wondered immediately about his odd sleep habits. _Is it a symptom?_ It sounded like Peter wasn't laying blame on him or thinking he was a freak; instead it was just a medical happenstance, an unremarkable one at that. That hardly ever happened, having his behavior attributed to a legitimate (and apparently acceptable) reason. He frowned thoughtfully, considering how nice a feeling that was until Peter's off-topic comments caught his attention. "What?" _Why can't I eat an apple like a regular person, why would he….? The knife is for me?_ Peter obviously felt safe to give Sylar even a tiny blade, or it was a test, either way, it would amount to the same thing. "Oh. Um…Thank you." _Now am I supposed to use the knife because he brought it?_ The other man was watching and waiting, so Sylar quickly snatched it up and sunk his teeth in, staring back. It was a much more satisfying mouthful to hear the skin of the apple pop and the flesh tear. As a child, he used to think the opposite – cutting, peeling and little, juicy mouthfuls - were more fun. "I'm fine. The food, the….pills help." _And the rest helps, too; knowing you're around but I'll never tell you that._

XXX

"You know, there are stronger painkillers out there, for migraines. They tend to come with side effects like nausea, though. But if you'd like to give them a try, tell me and I'll go get some. We can treat the nausea symptomatically with Zofran." That would involve another trip to the hospital since he hadn't found a pharmacy yet, but he would welcome the opportunity to get out and do something constructive. Peter didn't want to be Sylar's emotional support or medical aide, but he felt he had to be. No one else was here and Sylar needed him, genuinely. Peter liked to be needed, wanted it, craved it – but to have it coming from Sylar was hard to handle. He knew, though, that it was something he _had_ to handle.

"Would you let me go through an MMSE with you again? I think the last time I did one was more than a week ago." The test would give him a better sense of how oriented Sylar was and how irritable. If he was too cranky to go through it at all, that told Peter something by itself.

XXX

"I just wish they'd last longer, but they do alright." Sylar wasn't sold on more meds. If they cleared his head so he could think better, he would be interested. "You wake me up just for that?" Sylar chuckled briefly. He was still tired, of course, but the sleepiness was fading slowly and he remained…comfortable where he was.

XXX

"No, I woke you up because I wanted a snack." Peter tossed a grape at his mouth, missing, but managing to catch it before it fell to the bedspread. He laughed at himself and placed it in his mouth to make sure it made it the second time. He was cheered by Sylar being cooperative. Had Sylar remained asleep, he would have simply gone back to reading. "But as long as you're awake, tell me what year it is."

XXX

"It's…" Sylar paused to calculate. It was in the new year, he was quite sure. "2013."

XXX

"What season is it?" Peter twisted and reached over to retrieve the sketchpad from the night stand, along with the pencil. Not only would Sylar need it later, Peter needed it now to record the score.

XXX

"Winter. January. Spring doesn't start until…March or so."

XXX

"Okay." That took care of the follow-up about the month. "What's today's date?" That was a good question. Peter had no idea. He wondered how he'd score that. The date was regular knowledge in a world that functioned off it, where most human interactions – work, play, television programs, social events, and more – ran off an agreed upon reckoning of the date. Here, though, it didn't matter. Time was meaningless. It was whatever day he and Sylar thought it was.

XXX

"It's about two weeks…into January…"

XXX

Peter nodded. That was about as right as he suspected he could get. They'd had his birthday, then Christmas (really crappy Christmas that he'd prefer not to think about, so he didn't), New Year's Eve, and then … it had been a while. "Do you know what day of the week it is?"

XXX

"Um…." It was embarrassing not to know this. Did Peter even know the answer?

XXX

"It's okay," Peter said. "I'm not sure either. We should probably just pick one. Do you know what country you're in?"

XXX

"The United States," Sylar looked at him suspiciously. "It is, right? You think….Yeah. Yeah," he firmed his reply.

XXX

Peter gave a single nod. "What city are we in?" he asked more slowly, like this one was maybe more of a trick question, which to a large extent, Peter thought it was. _What I really ought to have done was sit down with the questions and work out some substitutions that work better here than what I memorized as a paramedic back in the real world._

XXX

"New York, New York." That came easily and surely. He watched Peter to see if Peter still thought he was in La La Land or in California or something ridiculous.

XXX

Peter slid his tongue along between teeth and upper lip, but he didn't argue about it. Sylar was consistent in reporting they were in New York and that was probably more important than anything else. "Okay. Do you remember the name of the building or what floor we're on?"

XXX

"The Pegasus suite. Peter's playground," Sylar grinned a little about that. _And I'm in his bed._ "The top floor."

XXX

Peter laughed lightly at the name. _That's cool. He thinks this is mine? Like I actually have a place here and I don't have to defend it from him? Of course, I think this is more like 'ours', but whatever._ "Yeah, that's where we are." He smiled again, noticing and responding to Sylar's warmth. Peter relaxed and sat up straighter where he was, with one leg bent in front of him and the other hanging off the side of the bed. The hanging one swung once or twice. "I'm going to tell you three words. You'll have to repeat them back to me later: apricot, pen, table. Got it?"

XXX

"Yeah. Apricot, pen, table."

XXX

"Spell 'world' backwards." Peter noticed they were moving through the questions quickly and easily. He glanced down and scribbled a note, 'date, day', on the pad. He couldn't think of any other questions Sylar had gotten wrong.

XXX

"D-L-R-O-W."

XXX

"Okay. What were the three words I asked you to remember earlier?"

XXX

"Apricot, pen, table."

XXX

"What's this?" Peter lifted his left arm, pointing at his watch. It still didn't work. He wasn't sure if he continued to wear it as a joke or as defiance against the place, or maybe just habit, but it was still useful as a prop for the test.

XXX

"Wristwatch," Sylar said with an 'are you serious?' attitude. How could he ever forget that?

XXX

Peter shrugged at Sylar's attitude. It seemed simple, but the test was designed specifically to highlight when people were having trouble with the simplest of things. He held up the pencil. "And what's this?"

XXX

The look deepened, "Pencil."

XXX

"Some of the questions are supposed to be easy," Peter said. "A lot of things get tricky when the brain isn't working right. Can you repeat to me, exactly, 'no ifs, ands, or buts'?"

XXX

"No ifs, ands, or buts." _I'd watch your butt, if I was you, Peter…_ Sylar thought lecherously.

XXX

"That's one of the harder ones." Peter carefully tore out the sheet the sketch pad was open to, the one with the note he'd written on it and some badly-done drapery drawn towards the top of the page. He wrote, 'Close your eyes,' on the back of it and said, "Follow the directions I'm about to show you." He held up the page.

XXX

Sylar smirked. _I might like this game._ He closed his eyes, busily thinking a way to be naughty but Peter instructed him to open his eyes too soon.

XXX

"You can open your eyes." He closed the sketchbook, putting the removed page on top of it with the pencil and offering them to Sylar. "Now write a sentence – any sentence."

XXX

'I like forbidden fruit.' Sylar handed that back, his smirk very much alive.

XXX

Peter looked at that, blinking ( _that's insulting and gross; is that about me?_ ), then half-smiling ( _actually, that's kind of cool; apples are the forbidden fruit, aren't they? It's not about me; it's just a play on words_ ), then losing his smile ( _wait, what if it_ is _about me and he's saying I'm the forbidden thing because I've told him to fuck off?_ ), then smiling more warmly as he looked up at Sylar ( _either way, he's flirting with me because he thinks I'm hot_ ). He looked at Sylar's smirk. _Yeah, he's totally into me_. Peter's eyes lingered on Sylar's lips as he tried to ignore the part of his brain that was saying this was a very bad thing to encourage in the person you were sharing a bed with and weren't interested in actually fucking. But it was hard to hear over the sound of how awesome he thought Sylar might think he was. He took in the rest of the man. Sylar was distractingly handsome, even if a little scruffy and adorably rumpled sitting there in his pajamas. Or, Peter abruptly realized, not Sylar's pajamas but those sweats Peter had worn last time he was here. _He's wearing my clothes …_ Peter's fingers and toes flexed and released slightly as he had a funny feeling in his chest about that. He supposed the clothes were better than the too-tight, too-small stuff Sylar had worn the last time they were here and even still, the sweatpants were too short for him, riding up on his calves, but fine in the waist.

Peter cleared his throat and fidgeted with the paper, his mind shorting out on the matter of Sylar's measurements. _What am I supposed to be doing? There's more questions, right? I'm supposed to be doing something else._ "Um, yeah, you've got to copy a drawing. Hang on." Trying not to look at Sylar's sentence, Peter carefully drew two pentagons with an intersecting, four-sided area, struggling to be professional about this.

XXX

Sylar took the pencil with his left hand and copied the drawing. The trickiest part even on a flat surface was getting the lengths of each line correct. It looked better than what he remembered from the other test.

XXX

Peter took back the paper and evaluated the drawing. _Good enough._ "Are you left or right handed?" He assumed left because Sylar had just been drawing with that hand, but the next question was based on the answer, so he had to make sure.

XXX

"Left." He used his right for a fair amount of things also, which was fortunate.

XXX

"Now take this page in your right hand, fold it in half, and set it on the bed." Peter offered the page with the drawings and notes on it.

XXX

Sylar blinked at the paper in hand. To get the edges even like he wanted, he would need the assistance of another surface, preferably his left hand, but it the directions implied he had to use only his right. Aiming as well as he could, he brought his fingers to his thumb, folding the paper between them and set it on the bed. The edges were probably uneven.

XXX

Peter collected the sheet of paper, smoothing it out. "That's it. I'd say you're as mentally competent as I am." He cringed inside, remembering too late Sylar was especially sensitive to anything to do with being 'crazy'. He tried to cover by moving on. They'd been talking well; maybe he had enough conversation karma that Sylar would overlook it. "That means you've recovered from the concussion – the primary damage is healed. All that's left is to resolve the secondary symptoms through pain management and rest."

XXX

Sylar soured. _That's insulting._ He supposed that was good to know, that Peter thought Peter was mentally incompetent. He wondered if he was mentally incompetent (if that's what it meant to be on a level with Peter Petrelli). _How did I not know that until now? I'm not, though. Why does he think that? Does he think I'm retarded on a good day?_ Peter's recent care came at him through a different light – caring for someone who was too stupid to do it themselves, a charity case. That very much bothered Sylar, in more ways than one.

XXX

He looked down at the sentence Sylar had written, thinking about the energy he, personally, got from defying social norms. A lot of his life choices had been driven by doing what other people thought he shouldn't. Was Sylar the same way? _Of course, I ended up in nursing and he ended up killing people. That's not fair, though. Once I had my powers, I was …_ Peter frowned in thought. _I was trying not to blow up New York. Which is kind of the same thing as killing people. It's just that I didn't and he did. Is the difference that small? Did something … tiny … happen that set me off in one direction and him in another?_

Peter swallowed and readjusted himself on the bed, setting the sketchbook back on the nightstand and getting out the unnecessarily massive tome, 'Brain Injury Medicine,' again. He didn't want to think about the morality of Sylar's life choices – Peter had seen the end result (murders) and already made his mind up about it (condemning). Anything else made him uncomfortable, but it didn't quell that curious itch inside him that he wasn't seeing the whole picture. "I think I'll do some more reading."

He flipped through on his way to finish the chapter about sleep disturbances, pausing at an earlier spot he'd marked to quote it to Sylar, "It may be that the single most important cognitive function typically disrupted by TBI (that's traumatic brain injury, like a concussion) is some aspect of memory." He looked over at Sylar. "I'm not taking your memories. But if you're feeling like things aren't right … then you're feeling like things aren't right. I'm just saying … what you're feeling is real. That's what it says here."

XXX

_But you did take my memories! If I'm so fucked up you could tell me the moon was made of cheese and you think I'd probably believe you! You don't see it as a problem!_ And what did that mean, 'what he was feeling was real'? Like it wasn't real before? Not to Peter anyway. Was it real in any sense? Sylar was so confused, he faked a weak grin in response to the look. _Um…Good? I have an excuse…right?_ Badly he wanted away from this topic. He was more focused on where he was and with whom, even though that didn't make much more sense than anything else about his day. "Who was the first person you ever slept with?"

XXX

"Slept with?" Peter looked at the bed and Sylar lying on it, trying to divine which meaning he was using – sex or sleeping. The subject change was jarring, too. He looked puzzled.

XXX

"Yes."

XXX

"I don't remember." It was a bizarre question. _Does this tie into memories somehow?_ "Nathan, probably, or my mother." He remembered being told that Nathan had been inseparable from him as an infant, carrying him around, feeding him, talking to him, and rocking him to sleep.

XXX

"I know, I was there – postpartum depression and all. Someone had to change your diapers while Ma laid in bed. What I meant was the first person you slept with after fucking."

XXX

Peter gaped at Sylar for a moment as a lot of family comments suddenly clicked together and made sense. Then there was outrage, that Sylar knew things about his family he had no right to know and that Peter hadn't even known or realized, followed by frustration – there wasn't much Peter could do about it. He bristled and glared at Sylar, closing the heavy book he was reading for Sylar's benefit, leaving it on his lap. A Nathan reference, a highly personal question, an abrupt change of topic and focus, and even a dig at his mother, all at once (not to mention the word 'fucking' wasn't one of Peter's favorite ways to refer to sex when he wasn't in the middle of having it) – oh yes, Sylar was pissed about the mental competency/'crazy' slip. Peter wasn't happy to have it brought up this way as a relentless line of verbal attacks. It looked like he was going to have to pay for the transgression by entertaining Sylar's prurient interest and enduring his obnoxious comments. Without ever taking his eyes off Sylar, Peter reached out, tore a grape off the remaining bit of the bunch, and bit it in half, teeth snicking together as juice burst. He leaned back against the pillows, finally looking away, at the twilight out the window in feigned disinterest as the other half of the grape went in his mouth.

"That's a very personal question. Why do you even care?" Peter huffed and looked back at Sylar, his expression having calmed down from aggressive to very put out. He skewered him with his annoyed gaze for a moment. The second Sylar drew in breath to answer, Peter interrupted with, "Never mind. I'll answer it." He at least had the satisfaction of cutting Sylar off – and if he had to pay, then he might as well get it over with. Even though it was ten years earlier, it wasn't hard to recall.

XXX

"I-" he began his trusted reply, 'I was just curious' because it had worked in the past. Sylar tilted his head and didn't bother to finish it if Peter agreed to tell without the answer to his own question.

XXX

"You remember me telling you I had a job in college Dad got me fired from? I met the first girl I seriously dated there. Her name was Jennifer." He left off the last name. It wasn't Sylar's business. Not that any of this was, anyway, but if it would get Sylar off his back, then he'd tell. "She was another freshman, same as me. I fell for her, hard. And I thought her for me. For, like, a couple weeks, I thought everything was working out like in stories – soul mates and everything, the 'One'." He pulled a grape off slowly, twisting it off the stem, trying not to think about how devastated he'd been when she dumped him and how in retrospect he was certain his father had a lot to do with that. "We slept together," he said softly. "That's what you wanted to know, right?" Peter looked up at him, something dead in his eyes. It wasn't a pleasant memory. His confusion and pain over it had driven him into a pattern of hookups and casual relationships that had lasted for years. One thing was for sure – he never brought another girl home to meet his parents, never told them he'd met someone who was special to him.

XXX

Well…that was an interesting twist. _The first girl he seriously dated. There were others before her._ Sylar frowned slightly, 'soul mates' and 'the One.' Peter had been that naïve? After that, he didn't like the look Peter was giving him. He was sure he couldn't understand the emotions involved there let alone begin to judge the effects of whatever happened. _Why did it end?_ "Was she the first girl you slept with?" In keeping with the intent of his question, he copied Peter's wording, inquiring softly.

XXX

"No." Peter breathed out slowly and leaned back against the pillows, eating another grape. As he chewed, he considered how much he didn't want to sit and stew about how things had ended with Jennifer. He might as well talk about something else – a memory that wasn't so painful, even after all these years. He pulled off the next grape and rolled it in his fingers thoughtfully, glancing over at Sylar.

Peter ate the bit of fruit. "First sex I had with a girl, she was a woman I guess, named Shelly. It was after a swim meet. She was a year before me. I was a senior in high school, so I must have been seventeen or eighteen. Looking back on it, I know why she was coming to the high school sports events – she was cruising for exactly what she got – some … kid, man, whatever, who was in shape and interested, no strings attached sex. I saw her a few times after with a different guy every time. It hurt a little, but it wasn't like we'd had anything for me to be hurt about."

He paused, thinking it over and wondering how many salacious details Sylar wanted. He didn't mind telling them about Shelly. There was little relationship there and it hadn't affected him as much as Jennifer. He supposed it didn't matter to tell and it might keep Sylar off his back, so he went on. "It was after the meet. I was supposed to go with the guys to Ricco's for pizza. She said she'd give me a ride if I'd stay and talk to her. I was a sucker for that, especially with someone giving me the sad eyes like she was doing. I guess she had my number. As soon as they were gone, she told me what she was really after." He laughed a little and rolled his eyes. He'd been pretty naïve at the time. "We ended up doing it in the locker room on a bench, her in my lap. It was a weird position." He furrowed his brow. "I'm not sure I've ever done it that way with anyone else. Mostly, I guess, because I never had a bench handy." He shrugged. "Anyway, it was okay. Good, I guess. It was kind of hard for me to get into it with someone I hardly knew, but, you know, seventeen." He smirked.

XXX

Sylar stared at him from beginning to end. The information was…definitely interesting. The position, how it was, what it meant (or didn't) to Peter... _He said the position? He was seventeen! How could he say it was 'good, I guess?' How picky does he get to be? (He's not opposed to super casual then_ , he noted with evil purpose).

XXX

Peter looked to Sylar, eyes questioning and voice low. "Can you tell me something? You don't have to – I know this is private – but … what was Elle to you?" He knew it was a quick subject change, but he felt he'd provided more than enough information to make up for Sylar getting pissy about his word choice earlier. Maybe he could get a few answers in return.

XXX

Surprise showed on Sylar's face and he knew it did before he could blank it away. "Why?" he blurted, not comprehending. From the sound of things, Peter knew the real Elle, at least, the real Elle she was most of the time, better than Sylar or sweet Gabriel ever had.

XXX

"I know she was … important to you. I just don't know in what way," Peter said respectfully. "I know her a little. I know you a little. I'd like to know what you are to each other." It was just a wordy version of saying, 'I just want to know', but Peter hoped his serious, thoughtful tone helped convey that he didn't want to know for idle curiosity – he wanted to understand if Sylar had loved, if Elle had returned it, what had happened, and most importantly, what it had meant to Sylar. The people Peter had loved had changed who he was, the experience of loving and losing had left wounds that had yet to heal. Was Sylar in that same situation?

XXX

How odd – he'd never had to talk about her, especially given how much thought he'd given her ever since they met. She was still a tangled mess in his head, dead and harmless now, but still painful for all that. In the beginning, he'd wanted to take her home to meet his mother; he'd been a sap that she'd twisted with ease. A spark of lust, jealousy, hinting and tempting and she'd made him kill again. She'd been an angel and a betrayer, a lover and a mate and a friend and an enemy who wanted to use and change him, like she couldn't or didn't want to see who he was. In the end, he killed her for the last time and he wasn't sure that excused him of anything. "I don't….She's difficult to describe. She was….a lot of things." Why was his throat so tight? Bitterly, he continued, "You'd say we're a lot alike. Whatever those words you like to use – two psychopath peas in a pod, that kind of thing." He waved it off but found he couldn't continue. There were very important differences between them but Peter didn't know and couldn't care. She called him Gabriel but wanted Sylar, the killer. Sylar wanted to transition to being a person again, with a disgustingly normal life now that he thought he'd found someone who saw how special he was. He'd fallen so damn hard for her and had never been able to tell what, if anything, he meant to her (quite possibly just another assignment for the Company) because apparently neither of them understood 'forgiveness' very well. "Probably something like that Jennifer girl to you," he got out roughly; because Peter had barely ever mentioned her to the family or to Nathan, who'd never met the girl.

XXX

Peter watched as Sylar searched for words, for how to express something (love, Peter imagined) that so rarely fit neatly into spoken language. _She was a lot of things to you,_ was how he interpreted what Sylar was trying to get out, and the complexity that implied said as much as any lengthy monologue might have. If it had been simple, if there had been no deeper relationship there, then Sylar wouldn't be struggling to describe it.

"Were you with her for very long?"

XXX

"I knew her for a few years, off and on but I was only really with her a couple of days. She meant something, or she might have, but she's dead now. It doesn't matter any more. Leave it at that." He gave Peter a direct and penetrating stare for a moment until he was sure it was dropped.

XXX

The last he'd seen of her, she'd been on the floor of Level Five, recovering from emitting an electric burst that had opened all the cells. And Sylar had been trying to kill her then. Had he succeeded, even though he'd been driven off? Feeling guilty that perhaps she'd died because Peter had left her side when he'd given in to Jesse's overwhelming compulsion to flee, he finally asked, "Was it in Level Five? Please tell me, was that where she died, after the explosion that opened all the cells?"

XXX

"No," Sylar said simply. He looked at Peter, suspicious and searching. Did Peter know? He rolled over and off the bed, going into the bathroom. After using the toilet, washing his hands thoroughly, he watched himself in the mirror – all the flaws, any beauty of his exterior was undermined completely by the black perversion of his soul. His face, and the corrupted interior, had always been this way and neither were changeable now.

XXX

Peter nodded and went back to sitting quietly, hands tracing the edges of the hefty book still on his lap. When Sylar returned, Peter felt a pang at realizing for the first time, the man was facing away from him rather than towards. He shifted the book to the side and leaned across, putting his left hand on Sylar's shoulder. "Hey," he said softly. "Losing Jennifer … changed me. I didn't deal with it well. I want you to know you're not alone. Not in any of this."


	87. Special Connections

Day 33, January 11, Late afternoon

"How am I not?" Sylar said over his shoulder, going still at the contact. _There is no 'we'._ "What are you going to do, Peter?" He turned over enough to make eye contact or close to it. "I deal with it. I don't have any other choice. She didn't…change me, not any more than I already was." After a few seconds pause, he continued, the words falling out more than he intended himself to speak. "She didn't make me a killer, she…led me to kill my…second special. I…" he couldn't finish. _(I didn't want to, but I did, and I did do it. I didn't have to, but I wanted to)._ Peter wouldn't believe that, no one would. Sylar didn't know if he believed it but the fact of the matter was that he hadn't orchestrated the circumstances that led to Trevor's death. He'd been played, with intent. "She said I should be around people like me. The Company wanted to see if I could transfer abilities and take them to use for myself and that involved killing someone." _That was after Chandra saw something in me, briefly, and after she told me I was special._ "My apartment was a mess after that," he mused, rueful tone partially hiding his upset about his home being defiled and abandoned as a result.

XXX

Peter listened, metaphorical ears standing at attention as he absorbed what Sylar had to say. He didn't know what to do about his hand as Sylar spoke – pull it away and appear unsupportive, or stay leaning over tensely and seem … weird with the continuing contact. When Sylar finished, Peter said softly, "That sounds like Elle, all right." He patted Sylar's shoulder and withdrew. Thinking they were sharing, he swallowed and offered in return, "She told me she'd never been on a date, never been on a roller coaster, never been swimming. She said she'd grown up at the Company, after she'd burned down … her house? Maybe her grandmother's house." Peter tried to remember the specifics. "That would have been right after Kirby Plaza, when they locked me up, when she told me that." In the light of how limited her life had been and how frustrated she'd been by that, Peter was glad she'd been laid. From what he'd seen of Sylar's memory, as sex went, it was wonderful.

XXX

"She-?" Sylar began in surprise before the timeline was mentioned. _She didn't think it was a date. How could she? Someone was killed and she had to leave or be killed herself, hardly a great time. It's not a date. (It was me, and her_ _;_ _how could it have ever been a date?)_ Peter ignored the slip about being led to kill someone. It was just as well. At the same time, he wondered what Elle had been like with Peter, in her natural habitat. "Well…good night," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

XXX

Peter let Sylar sleep through the light dinner he had later. It was probably for the best, being 'rabbit food' anyway. He felt very wound up about having been cooped up all afternoon and now all evening, but he didn't leave the apartment. He made a mental note to get some beer, or something to calm himself down. He had a glass of warm milk instead, but sleep was still difficult to achieve.

Day 34, January 12th, Morning

Peter was up early and raring to go. He vented some of his energy on making breakfast, doing a fine dice on swiss cheese and mushrooms, then folding them into scrambled eggs, served with toasted raisin bread and orange juice and coffee. He might be clueless about lunch and dinner, but breakfast was something Peter was decent at, especially when he was feeling good. As they sat and dug in to the meal, he said, "After I work out and get cleaned up, I was going to head out to the hardware store again for some measuring tapes, then maybe to the storefront to see what the dimensions are. Assuming the weather's good. Did you want to come with me?"

XXX

_I'd like to_ come _with you, and see what your_ dimensions _are while you get_ cleaned up. Sylar was filled with arousal and self-loathing upon waking with an erection once again after sleeping with Peter. The empath was still very much the focus of Sylar's hatred for thinking to change him into Nathan at Mercy without a second thought, and even now, the man acknowledged the original wrong but not his equally damned actions to further and repeat it. The fact that Peter thought he was better than Sylar didn't help anything either. They were enemies. The empath was also the object of several fascinations; he was a sweet toy, entertainment, a challenge, forbidden fruit. His lack of control over….anything in his life angered him, that Peter was both a danger and an interest was confusing, annoying, and it only fueled his anger. Over his plate, Sylar looked up at his companion underneath his brows, "What happens if the weather's bad?" he murmured, thinking filthy indoor things. _Say something about using up all the lotion._ The idea of a slick grip on his dick sounded like heaven. If only he could get Peter pinned down…

XXX

_That's a weird look,_ he thought of the way Sylar was eying him. But he ignored it and addressed the question. "Then we'll stay in and do something else. Maybe I'll go across and get the guitar. Did you have anything in mind?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar grunted, disappointed. "I was thinking more along the lines of testing out the lotion. You're overdue for it. I'd give you a hand, Peter," he said bluntly, staring the man down.

XXX

"Jesus, Sylar!" Peter jolted, his chair actually skidding back an inch in his surprise. Sylar looked dead serious – so serious, so focused, that Peter felt turned on just from the invitation, unexpected though it was. "Uh … no. No thanks." He kept his eyes fixed on Sylar, taking quite a while to calm down from … that. _Is this just one of the dangers of dealing with him? Occasional, unsolicited solicitations? As long as he takes no for an answer, I guess it's okay. Sort of. Complimentary in a way._ Peter swallowed and scooted back to the table, trying to get back to his meal.

XXX

"Hmph," he said and took another bite of mushroom-cheesy eggs. He was almost finished with them, Peter waiting patiently but obviously ready to move around based on the subject matter. Poking at his next bite, he asked, "What do you know about connections? Is it a people thing or…do abilities get in the way of that for everyone? I'm just curious," he added to clarify, hoping the whole thing was disgustingly casual as he intended.

XXX

"What kind of connections?" Peter asked warily. _Like Craigslist missed connections?_

XXX

"With people. Like…people you know or…friendships. I guess." It sounded lame even to his own ears, but it wasn't like he knew what it meant either.

XXX

"So you're not talking about my ability and … some kind of connection with it, right? Like what I need to borrow another ability?"

XXX

"Right."

XXX

Peter relaxed. _Okay. We're going to talk about things. Things other than him lotioning me up._ He reached up and rubbed at his forehead, trying to banish the disturbing, too-attractive thought. He exhaled heavily and tried to refocus on what Sylar was asking, while simultaneously trying to make sense of why he was asking this now. _Is it just a dodge and a subject change since I turned him down? Or is he asking because it has something to do with the offer?_ "Friends don't usually offer to give me hand jobs over breakfast," Peter blurted. "Even really good friends." He picked up the remaining crust of his mostly-eaten raisin bread, twiddling it.

XXX

_We're not friends anyway. Your 'friends' don't sound like fun either. There's a first time for everything._

XXX

"If you're talking about if abilities get in the way of connecting with other people?" He watched Sylar's expression. "Yeah, I'd have to say so. Drove me and my brother apart. Me and my family. I can't … there's a lot of stuff I can't talk about with the people I work with, or … well, anyone. All of the really important things in my life lately have involved abilities and there's no one I can talk with about it. Nathan _wouldn't_." Peter's resentment shown through with the way he pronounced 'wouldn't'. "I didn't feel right calling anyone else up and trying to talk to them about it – about what was going on in my life, problems ..." He trailed off, lips pressing together as tension knotted his shoulders. _I shouldn't be telling him, either._ He looked away from the table, feeling himself losing his appetite a lot faster at this than he had at the come-on. Voice softer, he said, "It's not right to burden people like that, so I just … don't."

Peter squeezed on the crust of bread, watching it crumble under his fingers. "And yeah, that gets in the way of really being friends with anyone – real friends. Having that special connection. Is that what you're talking about?" He ate the bit of smushed bread. "I've told you a lot more than anyone else. Let me know if I need to shut up sometime."

XXX

Sylar winced. /It had been worst around the election, when it was a new discovery for Peter. Nathan had been freaking out about his own suspected abilities, knee-deep in denial and avoidance and secrecy of all sorts and along came Peter, digging it up, desperate to talk and share…Nathan had been juggling a dozen different people, remembering who knew what and who had to be kept in the dark, and Peter had to be kept quiet or everything would fall apart. The very fabric of things would unravel and still Peter kept yanking on the dangling strings without a care while Nathan was ground down from the pressures of carrying everyone on his shoulders. After all that, it still wasn't something he needed to share or advertise./

Thank God he was occupied and his mouth full…Sylar forcibly kept chewing, fairly certain that Peter was too caught up in his own voice to notice that Sylar looked ready to spit his food out to speak or vomit from the effort of keeping quiet. The rest of his thoughts were of his own, real life. _It's not right to burden people with my problems?_ It occurred to him that he'd been trying to do just that in all his attempts to connect with people. _How am I supposed to get help, then? If I can't talk, I can't….Oh._ The realization that there never was any help to be had made him feel hollow. It was all a trick. Just 'get help', code for 'submit to their tortures' because that was his only use, his only fate. He gripped his fork tightly. "No, that answers a lot," he managed stiffly, focused on his plate. _There's no help or hope for him, so I'm screwed. No connections. And no talking._ Peter had helpfully illuminated his little plot, the reason for all the personal questions. _He feels he can 'burden' me, though. Does that make it right, or wrong?_

He wasn't going ask to but his non-existent moral sense insisted. "How is it right for you to ask me questions about my 'burdens'?"

XXX

"I ask because I want to know, Sylar. Most people have other things going on in their lives that are more important to them than … than listening to someone. I don't." He shrugged. "Well, I don't usually. If the fate of the world hangs in the balance, then yeah, but normally it's just another day and the people in my life are the most important things in it. _You_ are in my life. You don't have to answer me and sometimes you don't. But I want to know where you're coming from. I want to know why you just got tense and why you're phrasing your question the way you are. I want to know _you_. That's what I do."

Peter leaned back in his chair as much as he could without tilting it. "Why do you want to know what I think about connections and friends? Does this have to do with Elle telling you that you should be around people like me – other people who have abilities? Are you … thinking we could be friends?"

XXX

_I'm important to him?_ _What? How did-?_ Peter was a people-person. Perhaps he understood people and paid attention to them because it was easy for him, and, like he said, he was curious and interested in people (as strange as that sounded for its own sake). So the empath noticed his tension, was…looking at him, and was curious for no other reason than…just to know, not to use his knowledge for evil ends? Needless to say, Sylar gradually adjusted his posture and grip on the fork. "What do you mean, 'how I'm phrasing my questions'? I ask the question I want an answer to, and I got it."

XXX

Peter cocked his head, not in the mood to let Sylar off that easily. "That's not what I asked." He waited patiently to see if Sylar would go back to Peter's actual questions, rather than acting like he hadn't asked anything at all.

XXX

Sylar waited out the eye contact for a few solid moments, at first with a normal expression, then with narrowed eyes as it was obvious Peter was waiting as well, on purpose. "Fine," he snipped. "I was bored. Not really – obviously I shouldn't be and can't be around people like you." He paused to consider his companion. "And no, I don't think we can be friends. I'm a psychopath, remember? You're the hero." He was oversimplifying, of course: Peter wouldn't let go of Nathan and Peter had heartlessly raped Sylar's mind and couldn't see why that was a problem. It precluded any real connection, but working relationship, such as Sylar was familiar with, which is what they had now, was possible obviously, because no one had died yet. _Funny how he has the same problem but it's_ my _ability that will always get in the way._ Just because Sylar desired a friendship (with Peter as strange as that sounded) it didn't mean his desire and willingness to work would overcome or be taken into account by the other stubborn person who had feelings that made no sense to Sylar. He tapped the tines of his fork against the plate twice in an anxious gesture, not wanting to leave his words on such a negative note but not knowing what else to say to make it better.

XXX

Peter leaned forward. He caught the hopeful tone of the part about friends, but chose to leave that one alone and focus on the other, which was an actual barrier to being friendly. "What do you think it means to be a psychopath?" He was genuinely curious, seeing an opening to something he'd wondered about for a while. Sylar was so touchy about slurs (or imagined slurs) against his mental state, yet he seemed to regard himself as crazy. He was as sane as Peter was able to judge.

XXX

Sylar shot back, "What does it matter what I think it means?"

XXX

"What about your behavior is psychopathic?" Peter said dubiously. "Killing people isn't enough. Nathan and my father both served in the military. I don't know Nathan killed anyone directly, but I'm as sure as I can be my father did. He was a lot of bad things, but a psychopath wasn't one of them. What makes you different?" There was something about that hand job comment that had Peter not giving up on this. He was trying to corner Sylar and put him on the defensive in turn. If Sylar wanted to make intimate, intrusive comments, then Peter had some questions he wanted answers to.

XXX

Now Sylar leaned in, putting his elbows on the table, mimicking Peter but with an eyebrow arched upwards. "Cutting into people's heads and touching their brains doesn't qualify?" His (and Samson's) methodology was certainly unique.

XXX

"No." Peter stared back at Sylar, certain of himself. Not all neurosurgeons were psychopaths. Though he had to admit there was something different about the people who routinely cut into other human beings – but it wasn't necessarily pathological. In some cases, it was live-saving.

XXX

"Ah," Sylar smiled with fake amusement and spread his hands out. "Then I don't know why they call me that. Something to do with my home life, my love life probably; but I always wondered how people like Bennet and your mother could kill so many and still be the 'good guys.' I assumed it had something to do with being afraid for your lives; being jealous of my understanding of the powers I gain; or it's personal; or wanting to stand in the way of progress. It's like you expect someone to take being blacklisted and exterminated with a smile."

XXX

"My mother isn't one of the good guys," Peter hissed with far more acid in his voice than he expected. He blinked at his own vehemence and looked away, thinking the moment of rage that had just flooded through him was completely misplaced. Peter's feelings about his mother were none of Sylar's business. He breathed a heavy sigh and brought his head around to regard Sylar. "People don't come in 'good' or 'bad' types," Peter said, contradicting his own knee-jerk statement about Angela. "It's more complicated than that by far. I'm not a 'hero' who can do no wrong." Peter gave a patronizing roll of his eyes. "You know that."

He made a quick, jabbing point of his finger at Sylar. "I think you're letting yourself off on everything, telling yourself you're a bad person, that you're crazy, like that somehow absolves you of responsibility." Peter leaned forward. "That's not how it works, Sylar."

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows went up and stayed there. The bit about Mama Petrelli was most interesting. "I'll have you know I wasn't the one to start calling me crazy. I thought it was your job to cash in the punishment. You don't know anything about my responsibility – I seem to recall you getting in the way of my attempts." Just as smoothly, he slid the topic sideways, where he wanted it, "If your mom and Bennet kill more people than I did and they aren't 'good guys', doesn't that make them the same as me?"

XXX

"Your attempts?" Peter frowned, brows drawing together and eyes narrowing. But he went on to the rest of what Sylar had said. "I don't care what you call them. Good or bad – they're _people_."

XXX

"So why do I get treated differently?" Sylar tilted his head seriously. "And don't say Nathan. If you can answer that, you'll have the answer to your psychopath question."

XXX

"Differently? Why do you think you're treated differently?"

XXX

"I'm different – _special_ ," he hissed. "People don't like me, they never have. I'm 'unfit for human contact.'"

XXX

"It isn't about _you_ , Sylar. It's about what you've done, where you were, and who you were useful to. I came here to get you because I thought you were supposed to save people. It wasn't because I _liked_ you or because I _didn't_ like you. You're not treated any differently than someone else would be who had done the same things." Peter gestured widely to the side. "Of all the people for you to compare yourself to – Noah Bennet? My mom? There are people terrified of both of them. Either of them. Whatever. They are _isolated_ , Sylar. Their lives are falling apart. Their relationships with their families are strained. Friends might be non-existent. You started this conversation asking if abilities got in the way of connections for everyone. Yeah, they do. You're special, but as far as abilities ruining your life goes, we're all in the same boat."

He stood, picking up his plate, silverware, and juice glass. They weren't going to eat anymore if they were talking like this, but at least it seemed to have changed tone from an argument to a discussion. He kicked himself inside for screwing up yet another of Sylar's meals, but he didn't feel too bad - the guy had eaten most of it before the verbal darts had started flying. "Who was the one who started calling you crazy?" Peter asked. He took his dishes to the sink after speaking, trying to act like this was just another heated, yet casual, conversation.

XXX

_I'm special?_ Sylar focused on that to the exclusion of all else. Then he noticed more: _I'm useful. Probably not in a good way_. After a moment, he absent-mindedly and dismissively replied: "Probably my parents when they got me." As he was turning to address the more important question, eyes bright with interest, Peter put him off balance with his continuation.

XXX

"Yeah? What were they upset about?" _'When they got me' – what does that mean? Like when he was born? Or, well, he said he didn't grow up with his biological father. Huh._ Peter didn't ask about it, but he filed the odd word choice away.

XXX

"I…" Sylar blinked and shut up immediately. _I don't want to talk about it. I thought- I know I'm not supposed to, either. He said he likes to know…probably so he can use it later; it's not like he wants to be friends. (I missed my real mom and I cried too much)._ It had come as a surprise, not necessarily a welcome one, when he'd remembered his real mother in that diner with Luke. There had been a time of heart-breaking upset but he'd lacked a reason until the memories came back and explained everything. His transition with his new family, aunt and uncle not mother and father, had been…difficult and incomplete. Sylar mumbled whilst picking at the immaculate tabletop, "I don't remember. I had….behavior…problems and I told you I don't remember things correctly."

Peter returned and began to meddle with the table, so Sylar stood up and took his dishes to the sink as well. Having taken painkillers at the beginning of the meal, Sylar was barely surprised to feel his headache rise up again along with his heart rate. Busily, he clumsily started washing the dishes, ignoring whatever Peter was doing. Halfway through, he cleared his throat and tentatively voiced his interest in something that mattered more than the bitter past, "What did you mean, I'm special?" Peter could have meant it several ways and he needed to know which it was, daring to hope it was an unexpected and worthwhile answer.

XXX

Peter had fallen silent, respectful that he'd wandered into something very personal for Sylar and not something Sylar felt comfortable sharing. The other man looked anxious, agitated maybe, by the turn of the conversation. As a result, Peter moved more slowly, lingering at the table and taking on tasks that kept him from crowding Sylar at the sink. He put jelly and butter back in the fridge. He was in the process of putting the raisin bread back in the breadbox when Sylar asked his question.

"I mean you're special. You have abilities – a lot of them. You and I both used to have that. It's … power. It's a lot of power. I think what I have now with being able to trade back and forth is better than always having the same thing, but," he leaned against the counter where he chuckled briefly and without jealousy, "it was better to have everything at once, like you do."

XXX

Naturally, _he_ wasn't special; the abilities were. _He thinks I was powerful._ Sylar liked the idea of Peter envying him. Despite some neutral or uncertain phrases, it sounded like Peter thought well of Sylar's powers…if only he had them. It was mostly complimentary and possibly respectful. _He did say fixing things was cool and important. Maybe he does see some good in my ability. He'd be the first._

XXX

Peter straightened. "I'm going to go change and work out. You going to be okay?"

XXX

"I'm fine," Sylar answered quickly, a little insulted that Peter thought he should be upset by anything that had been said. Thank God Peter didn't care enough to press it.

XXX

Peter nodded and took a step closer, reaching out slowly to telegraph as he patted Sylar a couple times on the side of the shoulder. _You're not unfit for human contact._ "Okay. I'll come up later when I'm done."

XXX

Sylar straightened at the proximity but didn't move or react to the contact. _Why does he keep doing that? I guess he and Nathan used to do that?_ Mentally he made a frustrated growl because that categorization, whatever it might be, wasn't what he wanted. _I just said I was fine!_ "I'll come with you." Apparently, unfortunately, Peter had picked up on his introspective moment, so he needed to appear like everything was normal and get the message across. That and he wasn't sure being alone with those recently surfaced thoughts was a good idea. He needed to watch his own moods; for some reason, most likely boredom, Peter was beginning to notice them, accurately, too.

XXX

Peter glanced off to the side, briefly imagining Sylar either working out or creepily watching him work out. Hadn't he been offered a hand job less than fifteen minutes ago? "Uh, yeah, that's okay. You could read or something. I'll just be in the exercise room," he said, trying to subtly steer Sylar into hanging out in the rec room where he wouldn't cause any problems. He waited for Sylar to finish with the dishes and dry his hands before making for the door.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed at the dishes. _I don't need your permission._ He noticed he was being put in the adult equivalent of a 'play room' so Peter wouldn't be too disturbed by his presence. Peter actively dissuaded him from working out, at least on Peter's turf. _Fine. I didn't want to anyway._ When Peter moved for the door, Sylar hesitated, trying to check himself for anything out of place or missing. Shoes and jacket, as usual. A visual sweep of the apartment supplied only his jacket on the bed – the bed they'd shared, no less. He found his shoes on the other side of it and put everything on, assuming that Peter waited for him, but if not, he would find his own way.

XXX

Peter put his shoes on, not bothering to tighten the laces too much. He'd be taking them off soon enough anyway. He glanced over Sylar, who was still in Peter's sweat pants and a t-shirt that was too small for him. Peter ducked his head to hide a smile. _I don't know, maybe I shouldn't do anything about the clothes. At least for him_. For himself, Peter felt he had some important needs. He was still in yesterday's jeans, for example, as he was sleeping clothed while sharing a bed. The night before had gone remarkably unremarkable as far as Peter could tell. Sylar hadn't mentioned anything, at least. _He would have mentioned it, right, if I did anything?_ He worried quietly over that.

XXX

Sylar took his baseball book and joined Peter. Through the hall, elevator and lobby they went until it came time to separate. Sylar moved into the rec room and settled into the couch, alone with his and Peter's books. _I'll see him if he tries to leave. I think. If I'm awake, I'll hear it. Wait, are we meeting up afterwards or…? He said he'd feed me, so he'll come back at some point._

XXX

Peter prowled the exercise room uneasily for a few minutes, letting himself experience the nervousness he felt over Sylar being in the other room. He thought it was a dumb thing to be nervous about, but it only subsided when he decided he wasn't going to be interrupted. That's when he stood a little straighter and relaxed, realizing what his anxiety was about – he didn't want Sylar coming in on him while he was tired, off-center, and focused elsewhere. He wandered over to the door and checked it, trying to be casual in case Sylar could see him through the window in it. It could be locked, but only with a key he didn't have. He figured there was one in the building office just across the hall, but Sylar might notice and ask questions and Peter didn't want to admit what he was doing. Instead, he blocked the door from opening easily with a bar bell weight, just like he had originally put a stack of soup cans in front of his apartment door.

_Yeah, and now I'm sleeping with the guy, but I'm still not comfortable letting my guard down around him._ Peter shook his head and retreated to the corner of the room, where he couldn't be seen through the window in the door, and changed clothes. He had a pair of shorts here and a white t-shirt. He left his other clothes with his shoes. Going barefoot was only unsanitary if he was sharing the space with others. Apparently that was not going to be the case. That settled, Peter finally got on with his workout, managing to get through it undisturbed.

He finished most of an hour later, as well as he could tell. Peter felt much better – calmer, more centered, his mind less cluttered with fears and concerns and what-ifs. Having swapped back to jeans, shoes, and his previous day's shirt, he stowed the door-blocking bar bell and ambled over to the entrance to the rec room. "Hey. I'm going across the street to clean up in my apartment. I'll drop back by." He scanned over Sylar's clothes. "If you're going to go with me later to the hardware store, then you should go down to your apartment and change." With that, he headed off without waiting for Sylar's reaction to the suggestion/order.

XXX

Since inviting himself along for the work out had gone so well, Sylar decided to try it again and sate a curiosity of his: "I'll just clean up at your place," he intoned casually.

XXX

Peter said firmly, "No. You've got your own apartment," and gestured down the street in the direction of Sylar's place. He continued towards his own without a glance in Sylar's direction, because this was not open for debate.

XXX

_Smarter than he looks. And he looks…refreshed for someone so sweaty. I'll have to watch next time._ Sylar was amused, for now, at being rejected. _It's really not fair. Maybe he knows more than I think he does. I still have his shirt…Does he think I'm some kind of kleptomaniac? He definitely thinks I'm a pervert and he's not wrong,_ Sylar thought miserably, trudging back to his apartment, alone. A shower, shave, oral hygiene, fresh jeans and a fitting shirt helped his mood and his ego. He would get to Peter, under his skin, if it killed him…and it very well might come to that. For now, he knew he looked good; he'd paid attention to Peter's reactions to that sort of thing.

XXX

Peter showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, tried to jerk off and didn't get anywhere with it, and dressed in clean clothes. He considered the contents of the dresser in the apartment, wishing he had something better to sleep in than his jeans, something where he'd be comfortable, but not worried that he might do something undesired while asleep. Like most of the stuff in this particular building, it was unimaginative – long-sleeved, dark t-shirts and equally dark jeans, with black boxer briefs and matching black socks – nothing else. No sweaters or sweat shirts or long johns or ties or shorts or pajamas or any of a variety of other garments he might need. The sweat pants he'd found at the Pegasus, but now they were most likely littering the floor of Sylar's apartment – totally unreachable.

_I suppose I could always sleep naked tonight,_ he thought to himself in amusement. It was just a joke, but that didn't stop his mind from supplying him with the impression of the blanket, cool and scratchy against his skin, Sylar's warm body shifting under it, rolling to face him with a welcoming look, the smile on Peter's face as he inched the blanket down between them, biting his lip as the dim light revealed that Sylar, too, was at least shirtless. And what about lower? "Euff!" Peter shook his head. "No!" _What the fuck is wrong with me? Guh!_ Well, if his privates were any indication, he'd probably be able to finish a jerk off session now. Peter slammed shut the dresser drawers and stomped out of the apartment, grouchy and irritable all over again.

XXX

Sylar was rolling from heels to the balls of his feet to keep some motion and warmth going as he waited outside Peter's building. _This is ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. Next time, I'm going inside._ The sadistic consideration of waiting inside the stairwell just to give Peter jolt flitted evilly through his head.

XXX

"Come on," Peter said tersely, trying to remind himself that Sylar was not (directly) responsible for Peter feeling itchy and unsatisfied. He had that caveat on there because he figured his subconscious was loitering in the gutter solely because of Sylar's offer to help him 'try out the lotion'. Even if Sylar had dropped it, Peter was having a hard time purging his idle thoughts. Once on the road towards the hardware store, Peter had to intentionally slow himself down. He wanted to walk fast even for him. Needing to find something else to occupy his mind, he blurted out, "So, tell me what it's like being a watchmaker."

XXX

Despite Peter's short-temper, for once not directly caused by Sylar, he answered anyway, "I don't make the watches, I repair and restore timepieces." There was a difference. Unfortunately, the common term was 'watchmaker' and it seemed a blanket title.

XXX

It struck Peter as another of Sylar's dodges, but Peter wasn't in the mood to allow it. After all, letting it slide would leave Peter to his thoughts, which he didn't want. With a long look to his companion, he repeated his question with the Sylar-approved alternate wording. "What do you do as a restorer of timepieces?"

XXX

What he'd said before wasn't cutting it for Peter. Usually that much was enough to make people's eyes glaze over. "I clean and reshape them or get them working. New parts, adjustments, I tune them until they run on time." He didn't mention retooling the insides of a body, like he'd done with his Sylar.

XXX

"What kind of hours do you keep? Is it like a nine-to-five job? Is it easy, or difficult?" Peter watched Sylar with frequent, lengthy glances as they walked along.

XXX

"More like eight-to-six. Mostly it wasn't difficult."

XXX

"Did you like it? Was it engaging?" Peter felt the tense, pent-up energy of earlier dispersing as he listened. "When you were off work, was it still something you thought about?"

XXX

"Yes, I like it. It's very engaging, it's…complicated work." The hours were long but it was safe being alone. It wasn't like he had a life to rush off to, just taking care of Mom. Sylar tilted his head, catching the end of one of Peter's glances. "I thought about it a lot." It was strange, for all the trauma and stress surrounding his family, the shop and the business itself, it became a surprisingly comforting place. He knew that made him weird and it had bothered Mom no end, all his fantasizing and worrying about something only semi-important.

XXX

"Is it the sort of job where you have a steady stream of customers, or just a few spaced out through the day?"

XXX

"Spaced out, early on, lunch hour and quitting time. Whenever people remember to get their watches and clocks checked. It was a quiet neighborhood."

XXX

"When you're working on a timepiece, are you … I mean, are you really focused on what you're doing, or was it the sort of work you could go on autopilot and your mind might wander?"

XXX

"Um…both? I was good at it so I could do it on autopilot but I like the focus. If that makes sense. It doesn't get boring to me; it's peaceful." Fixing things, knowing all about them and hearing the satisfying noises, how could that not be peaceful to everyone?

XXX

"Did you have a boss who was there all the time, or coworkers? Or did you work alone?" Peter thought it was probably the latter. He was fairly sure Sylar had said something about it in their various previous conversations.

XXX

"I worked with…my dad for a few years. I took over after that, so it was just me."

XXX

"Do you think you were paid enough? Was it worth it?" Paramedics and EMTs weren't paid enough – everyone knew that, but most of them also knew it was totally worth it.

XXX

"No," Sylar chuckled or tried to. Mom was the one concerned with money, wanting the bragging rights that came with saying 'my son is an investment banker.' "It was worth it. You only need money if you're going to do something with it." _Like dating_ ; another one of Mom's concerns. He didn't know what else to make of himself without abandoning his mother; and he wanted…different things out of life. Money might have helped but he'd ever tried that route, except as Nathan, who already had everything and didn't need the money.

XXX

"You ever think about doing it anymore? I mean, going back to work, maybe your own shop? Would you, if you could?" Peter hadn't been blind to all the clock and watch paraphernalia in Sylar's apartment. Bereft of abilities, it was something he'd turned to in order to pass the time. That meant something.

XXX

That question finally annoyed him. "It doesn't matter here. There's no people – you won't let me fix your watch. And if there were people here, the hunger would come back and it wouldn't be an option. So, no. I don't entertain the idea. I do it for fun; that's all it ever was – a hobby," Sylar emphasized. "I have better things to do, Peter."

XXX

"Like what?" _And don't you dare say, 'you'. Though I suppose that would be complimentary – I would be one of those 'better things'._

XXX

"Like…" _trying to be special._ Gradually, with building fervor, he said, "Like getting abilities and…possibly staying alive and…giving you heroes hell as a natural order of things. Like not being a pathetic shut-in. I killed people in all those places. There is no going back." He exhaled in a huff, riled up again now. "I'd ask you about your job, but I know most of it. I know your hours are too long, you don't get paid properly and you obviously think it's worth doing /to make Dad angry/-" Sylar quickly rephrased, hoping to hide his nervousness, "I mean…to defy the family plans. So…do you, um, like your co-workers? Your supervisors?"

XXX

_Ah,_ Peter thought. _You mean if we got out. You'd …_ He felt a sinking, depressed feeling. _… still kill people. You killed people in your shop, too? I know he mentioned his apartment last night._ But then Sylar went on to Peter's work and Peter let himself be drawn into the new subject. "You know, there are reasons why I went to nursing school that don't have anything to do with my father. If I'd just wanted to hack him off, I could've become a hair stylist or maybe an artist. He didn't have any respect for those, either." He sighed. "I like my co-workers, yeah. Hesam …" Peter paused, wondering what danger he might bring to those people by describing them to Sylar. Given Sylar had already literally been Nurse Hammer, it didn't seem likely that Peter could endanger them more than they already were. Maybe knowing something about them would make them harder to kill out of hand? "Hesam Malik was my partner most recently. He's a good guy, sharp. His family's from Iran, but they came over here when he was five or six, so you really can't tell from his English."

"My supervisor is a guy everyone calls by his last name - Jackson. His first name took me forever to find out." Peter smiled. "It's 'Carnelius.'. He's a good guy. Big, black, busy, older man who really knows his stuff. He doesn't put up with much, either. If he has a flaw, it's that he's a little quick to yell at people, but otherwise, his priorities are always on getting the patients the best service we can manage. I like him."

"I precepted – that is, I had my field training – with a woman named Karen O'Neill. She's been with the service a long time and knows all the ins and outs. She's a good teacher, too. She's steady. She asked me a lot of questions about why I was doing things and she asked them when I was right and when I was wrong both. I had the feeling there was a lot she could teach me, but I ended up assigned with someone else for a while and rotated through a few different partners until I ended up with Hesam."

"It's okay … working as a paramedic. But I don't know if I'll be able to do it long term. There's got to be a way and a place where we can fit in." Peter dragged a foot along the pavement as he walked, scuffing his toe. He was thinking more about Sylar than himself with this. "It's kind of contradictory – being extraordinary, yet fitting in. Claire wanted to be normal; I always wanted to make a difference. What do you mean by giving the heroes hell as a part of the natural order?"

XXX

"I never had that 'fitting in' problem." After that he bit his lip to prevent himself from mouthing off about Claire, his would-be brat of a daughter. The next question, while redundant, was a welcome distraction. "I already told you. Someone has to make you pay for all the lives you've ruined."


	88. Not Enemies

Day 34, January 12th, Morning

"You say if there were people around that you'd still try to get abilities. But … you told me a couple years ago that just knowing there was an alternative gave you hope. Do you still have that?"

XXX

"Ha!" Sylar barked his laugh. "No," he said that like it was obvious. Because it was. When he'd said that, he thought he'd had a family who would help him, not lock him in a cell and feed him live targets. The family thing wasn't just limited to him and that made it both better and worse to know that Peter was in the same boat, that Brandy or whatever the fuck her name was with the memory touch power was just Angela's fail-safe for Nathan's death. The whole family was bullshit. "I tried nearly everything. If that's what you're angling for, you already know what you have to do." Sylar rounded on the shorter man, towering over him and poking Peter in the chest, "But until you make good on it, quit with the fucking psychobabble!"

XXX

Peter was in the midst of feeling sad for Sylar, for himself, for the whole situation – but mostly for Sylar. He was sad Sylar didn't see a way out. He was sad that maybe there wasn't a way out for Sylar. And he was a little annoyed by the defeatism in it, which blossomed into anger when Sylar got in his face so unexpectedly. "What the fuck are you talking about?!" He stiffened, breath coming faster, brows drawn together in confusion.

XXX

Sylar used three fingers to push off Peter's chest and start walking again, uncaring if the empath followed or not. "It's more useful to torture people and leave them alive to see if they're still useful. No one has managed to make death stick to me, so if you're going to do it, just fucking do it and be done with it. Eight years is kinda pushing it, Pete. And I don't need to hear how I should have 'done the right thing' and offed myself," Sylar sneered with a sort of bitter sarcasm.

XXX

Just as quickly as it had sprang up, Peter's anger was doused. He paced along in Sylar's shadow, chewing over Sylar's words and Peter's memory of telling him just that – that he should have taken matters into his own hands once he found he was killing people uncontrollably and ended things. It was still what Peter thought was right, just as he knew, also, that it wasn't useful or constructive to say. He should have never have said it – telling someone to kill themselves was … wrong. Very wrong. It left Peter feeling small and unworthy of himself. Then something Sylar had said jumped out at him. "What does 'nearly everything' mean? Why 'nearly'? What is it that might have worked that you didn't try?" Then, before Sylar could answer, Peter groused, "And don't call me 'Pete'."

XXX

"It means, Pete, that I tried everything I could think of at least once. It means that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, a concept very lost on you."

XXX

_Another 'Pete', on purpose._ Peter ground his teeth. "Are you going to answer my questions? Or are you going to keep trying to start a fight?"

XXX

"I am answering your questions." _Just not the way you want me to._ "I'm trying to stop everything but the walking, so stay focused for once," Sylar commanded, waving his arm the direction he was walking to get Peter moving again, towards the silly storefront. _Where he probably plans to start a fight after all this. It sounds like a good idea._

XXX

_He didn't call me 'Pete' again._ "Are walking and talking too compli-, yeah, okay, never mind. Maybe they are." _Stupid conversation anyway. He's stonewalling me._ Peter sealed his lips and kept them that way, digging his hands deep into his pockets and hunching his shoulders a little against the cold as he tried to mimic a turtle – head drawn in and chin tucked. He considered that he needed a full hat or at least a hood, occupying himself with thoughts about the temperature and not paying too much attention to where they were going. Sylar knew the way; he was leading.

XXX

Sylar glared at him for that, "No, it isn't." _I thought that would be obvious. I want you to shut up but not at the cost of thinking I can't walk and talk like a retard._ But Peter did drop it.

XXX

When they arrived, Peter straightened and looked at the shattered storefront. "This isn't the hardware store," he said dumbly, blinking at it. He reached up and scratched at where his shifted posture caused his cold weather headband to pull on his hair and make his scalp itch. He realized it made him look like he was scratching his head in befuddlement and decided to go with it. It was better than being angry. "At least, I don't think it's the hardware store," Peter said, aiming for comedy even though he doubted his audience would appreciate it. He didn't care – or rather, he would be amused regardless of how Sylar took it. "Now maybe if those mannequins were a little more explicit it might be the hard- _something_ store, but I never knew anyone to call their penis a 'ware'." Peter absently noted there were four display windows, not the three he'd imagined, and he'd managed to smash all of them. Then there was the spiderwebbed door to remember as well. "Speaking of which, you'd think a hard-wear store would sell armor," he said with a slightly different enunciation.

XXX

Sylar was confused who, or how, exactly hadn't been clear on their destination. Who was at fault? Peter didn't seem to be making a big deal of it though. "Ah. A condom joke," Sylar returned in kind. "I guess it depends how much _wear_ your penis gets, Peter." He gleefully placed slight emphasis on the man's name.

XXX

Peter chuckled at the comeback – not sure if it was derogatory or admiring and not willing to show his uncertainty. He walked in through one of the smashed out windows because he could and they were here at the smashed storefront instead of his intended destination. _This is what I get for letting the guy with the concussion do the driving. Maybe I can get a decent hat here?_ "Jesus, it's cold in here, too! I wouldn't have figured that on a day like today. Whoever left the windows open like that is a real dick." Peter looked back at Sylar, smirking shamelessly. "Come on. Help me look for a measuring tape – one of those flexible ones they use at clothing stores. There has to be some here somewhere."

XXX

Sylar looked up at that and grinned. It was true. ( _As opposed to a fake dick_ , his mind supplied unhelpfully). After that his face was confused, but he followed along, looking for…whatever a flexible measuring tape was. The only ones he knew of was the kind Virginia had used every now and again, a yellowy-orange with metal tabs on the end. _We obviously don't shop at the same kinds of stores._ /Nathan had seen them before, for various suit fittings. He even recalled hitting on the fitting assistant, getting her number and banging her./ _What are we measuring again?_

XXX

Peter glanced around the nearest checkout counter, but expected and found nothing. He quickly moved on into the store. "There has to be a fitting room in here. I bet they'll have measuring tapes near there." He craned his neck and stood on tip toes, trying to see over the many displays to spot any separate, walled off area that would indicate a changing room. Or a sign. A sign would be nice. "Hey, maybe you could find some pajamas here," he said, deciding to just be fucking merciless in revenge for the 'Pete' thing.

XXX

Sylar watched with bemusement at Peter's height issue. He wasn't actively involved in the search for several reasons, not that Peter had really noticed. "What's wrong with your pajamas?" _In case you didn't notice that I stole them or you did and you didn't say anything?_

XXX

"Aside from me not having any?" Peter shot back immediately. He continued tauntingly, "I know you're not into me or anything, so you probably haven't noticed I've been sleeping in my jeans." _To keep you out of them._

XXX

_I'm not into you, but of course I noticed and it looked…restrictive._ "I hadn't noticed," he replied smoothly. "For the guy who usually wears baggy boxers or nothing that must be really hard. The sweats I have are fine."

XXX

_The sweats you have are_ mine _. Oh! That's what he means._ Peter's smile faded as he imagined Sylar wearing his pants; of him wanting to wear Peter's pants and confirming that he'd done it intentionally. Peter's face flushed and his eyes, entirely of their own volition it seemed, darted down to make a direct eye line to Sylar's crotch before he reasserted control and snapped them back to Sylar's face. He stumbled over his words, "Yeah, I notic- uh, yeah." _I just implied that only someone who was into someone else would notice their sleepwear. Crap._ "Those are fine. Little high water on you, though." Desperate to change the subject, Peter asked, "Speaking of your height, do you see a fitting room?"

XXX

_Oh, yeah. He_ finally _has dick on the brain. I have him._ Several plots hatched at that moment. Sylar smirked. "Like I said; they _are_ fine." His voice indicated that 'fine' wasn't an average acceptance, instead it (Sylar himself) was a measure of attractiveness. "I thought we were speaking about my measurements?" he inquired with false innocence and a hint of seduction. "I think it's over there," he pointed a little further up from where they were now. "The silky things are over there, too. That's always better than jeans." He smirked again as he passed Peter, wickedly adding, "I'll leave you alone with those. I forgot to bring the lotion."

XXX

Peter bristled and deliberately misinterpreted Sylar's words, letting the other man head off alone a few steps before saying, "Well, you probably won't chafe too badly. Have fun." Peter took a roundabout route towards where Sylar had indicated a possible fitting room. He didn't want to look like he was making a beeline for 'the silky things'. Those were either lingerie or gowns. And it seemed to be the same place Sylar was going at the moment – to be alone, doing something that forgetting the lotion made inconvenient. Or at least per Peter's insinuation.

He found a dressing area, a single door with a clerk's desk and an L-shaped hallway leading off from it. Peter poked his head down it to make sure of where it led. It was only the expected several stalls of fitting rooms. What he wanted was most likely at the desk. He turned back to it to find Sylar sprawled in the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder against one side of the frame as he leaned diagonally across it and obstructed passage. It was a good pose for him – showing off the athletic length of his body.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes and sighed. Peter understood him, evidenced by the fact he could hold a conversation about sex (sort of). But the infuriating little man refused to play along, even if it was just words for now. Sylar was left more frustrated every time. _I was talking about you playing with the women's underwear, not me-!_ Once that thought passed through his head, he indulged it with a single glance to that area of the store. _(I never thought about doing that…Has he ever-? Well, I'm not that much of a pervert. That stuff is only fun when someone else wears it)._ Idea dismissed, he followed Peter to the dressing room (for a moment Sylar thought he was headed into the intimate apparel or whatever the fuck they called it). He wasn't there to really help beyond acting as a guide and pointing out the obvious and he was still frustrated, not just sexually but on an interactive and interest level. "You don't want to try anything on? I'll wait out here. It'll be fun."

XXX

"I thought you were going to leave me with my jeans and go have fun with the silky stuff." He frowned at how Sylar was blocking the way out, but for the moment, Peter turned his attention to the contents of the desk. It held brightly numbered chits on hangers, empty hangers, stationary, several pens, a drawer littered with pins and scraps of fabric and glossy magazine pages displaying flashy outfits – but no measuring tape.

XXX

Peter wasn't…freaking out. Interesting! It was still possible. "I could always pick something out for you." That reminded him of something Peter probably wished he could take back. "But you are the crossdresser here, so maybe you already know what you like. You just…do that stuff just because or is it like a kink?" Sylar was now painfully curious. _How does that work, your junk shoved into…well, I guess I don't know what he was wearing. And who did he get laid_ with _?_

XXX

"I had my reasons," Peter said evasively, "but no, that's not one of my kinks." Searching the desk had taken only a few moments. The next best place to look would be in the back, where they kept the stock. Peter had seen it as they'd pushed the carts of trash out to the dumpster. Now that he needed to leave, Sylar's position was more of an issue. When a half-step towards Sylar didn't get even a twitch of motion that might lead to getting out of his way, Peter stopped. "Let me by."

XXX

"I thought you wanted to measure me. Do you want me to try something on?" _NOT from the ladies department, thank you, this isn't Truth or Dare._ (Although being a woman to fuck Peter wasn't outside his offer, it was just outside his ability at the moment. That could be pretty hot).

XXX

Peter took another half-step, this time backwards, away from Sylar. He gave him a quick sizing up. The man might be blocking the way out, but he had no leverage the way he was leaning. Peter could probably push him down one-handedly, without resorting to much in the way of violence – no quick motions, just a simple shove to Sylar's center of mass. But that wasn't the game they were playing and for now, Peter was willing to play by the rules. So what to say? 'I already have the measure of you,' - that just sounded mean, because the implication, since Peter had expressed his disinterest, was that Sylar wasn't worthy. Peter went with the less offensive challenge, delivered complete with dubious expression, "Do you really think you measure up?"

XXX

Sylar tilted his head at the step back and checking glance. It wasn't the type of look he wanted, he could tell. "There's only one way to find out," Sylar murmured, arching an eyebrow.

XXX

"Heh," Peter grunted. "We're not going to be certain until we find a measuring tape. Now get out of my way before I make you." The issuance of the playful threat made getting Sylar out of his way part of the game. There was little about Peter's demeanor which looked inherently threatening – just the slightest shift of weight showing a general poised stillness. His hands were still down and posture otherwise unchanged.

XXX

Again, Sylar rolled his eyes, probably not for the last time today. He was beyond annoyed because Peter's deflection made sense, damn him. As he took his time making room for Peter to pass, he sassed, "It's so refreshing that you're not threatening to people recovering from head trauma. But while we look, tell me that crossdressing story." He'd gotten Peter to spill about his first time, so why not this? It would help make up for Peter's lack of participation.

XXX

Peter grunted again, even less articulately. It summed up his mixed feelings. He'd brought it up originally to quash Sylar's insults about Peter's choice of store to smash or clothing to wear. It had been effective, but apparently Sylar wanted the gory details now.

XXX

Sylar was prepared for that. "You either tell me, or I'll have to use my imagination for the reason why you would do something like that. Getting laid notwithstanding. You couldn't know you'd get laid if you dressed like that. So I want to know the real reason."

XXX

"Why do you want to know? You seem awfully determined about it."

XXX

"Help pass the time. And it's interesting."

XXX

Peter sighed like this was an imposition. He didn't mind the telling – not really – and it was innocent enough that he didn't think Sylar would use it against him. "It's not as racy as you think. It was Opposites Day, towards the end of senior year. There was a party over at ..." He stopped walking, narrowing his eyes and looking off to the side, his expression shifting as he called up a name and face he hadn't seen since high school. "Becky's. Becky … Tomlinson, I think." Peter gave himself a brief shake and continued, pushing open the double doors at the back of the store.

"Doesn't matter. That was just where the party was. I had this plan that I was going to go dressed as a girl, but you know Mom and Dad would never let me out of the house like that, no matter what." He smirked at Sylar. Like his parent's disapproval was going to stop him – ha! "So I made a deal with girl named Amanda. She was about my size. We'd hardly talked before this, but we sold it to our parents like we were dating and as soon as we were out of sight of her house, we stopped at a gas station and swapped clothes in the restroom."

Peter smiled easily, remembering clearly how awkward that had been. She'd been shy and even though he'd been with Shelly at the swim meet a few months before, undressing and sharing clothes with someone wasn't something he was used to. "She had some make-up from the theatre or her home or wherever. She shaded her face like a five o'clock shadow and helped me get my lipstick on straight. I meant to overdo it, so I was pretty painted up. The party was great," he said with feeling. "It was towards the end of the school year. We were all talking about what we were doing after high school, what teachers we'd miss the most, that sort of thing."

XXX

Sylar placed himself almost directly in front of Peter, arms crossed, expression intent on listening.

XXX

Peter hitched his hip up on a pallet of nondescript cardboard boxes, continuing the story. "I remember going over and asking her if she wanted to go home once it got late and Becky's mom started encouraging people to move on. We'd both had a few, but we weren't wasted – how wasted can you get at a chaperoned party? So I was heading for the door and Amanda literally, I mean literally, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into a bedroom." Peter made an apologetic head bob. "I wasn't very big then. Of course, neither was she, but …" He shrugged. "She started taking her clothes off, so I did, too – all of them. And when she was just in her bra and panties, and I was looking at her, I remember her expression – it was sort of like 'oh!'" Peter grinned, his brows shooting up briefly in imitation of her face. "Like you see in comics when a light bulb goes off over someone's head. And she was like, 'We're just changing clothes, right?' and I was jolted because I hadn't been thinking, or at least, what I was thinking wasn't _that_ and what I _had_ been thinking was pretty obvious at that point. So I answered, 'Yeah, okay, sure,' and got her clothes. She took them and seemed to think for a moment. She'd put my clothes on the bed, which was behind her, so I was waiting. Then she turned back to me and-" Peter eyed Sylar for a moment. Surely he knew what was next. Did he want the details, or was a discreet fade-to-black more what he was comfortable with?

XXX

"And?" Sylar prompted. The story wasn't finished – no one had been laid.

XXX

"She took her shirt and said she was going to help me get my make-up off. That made sense to me at the time, but later I realized that was a nice shirt she ruined. As she was dabbing at my lips, I kissed her fingers. I wasn't real smooth about it, but she stopped moving so I did it again, better." He looked at Sylar, at his eyes and then at his lips. Peter thought of those tender, affectionate kisses the man had given Elle – Elle who had meant a lot to Sylar. His kisses to Amanda were the first loving ones (rather than hungry, passionate, or anxious as he'd been with Shelly) he'd given anyone. Peter breathed out and looked down at the floor. "So, yeah, we made love on the bed. It was really sweet. It was wonderful. Or at least it was until Becky's dad figured out we were in there and started pounding on the door."

"In the rush to get dressed and get out of there, I didn't realize I left with Amanda's shirt until I was home. And you know, in a situation like that, Ma has to be _up_ , right?" He laughed and colored a little. "She took one look at me ..." Peter shook his head. "We'd picked shirts that were extreme because Opposite's Day isn't as fun if you don't play it up. So I was in this rumpled, powder pink blouse with a lacy white cravat or something in the front, which was of course where the stains were. At least I was in my jeans instead of the poodle skirt I'd been in earlier. I stammered out something about how the lipstick wasn't mine. Mom cut me off and ordered me upstairs to clean up. She didn't have to tell me twice. And she never mentioned it again."

XXX

Sylar shifted once. The 'getting caught' thing was something he understood all too well. Angela would have had the uncanny knowledge of just how to embarrass Peter, or anyone for that matter. _Poodle skirt…did he shave his legs for it?_ Though Peter had been correct, the story was hardly racy. Instead it was more childish and innocent and cute. "Did she do you again when you were dressed like yourself?"

XXX

"No. The next day, she chewed me out for not having used a condom (not like I'd finished anyway, but that wasn't the point), said she didn't want to think of me that way, and," Peter winced, "she didn't want-" He shrugged unhappily. She didn't want _him_. "We weren't dating before and we weren't dating after. It was a nice night. We both had fun. She wasn't accusing me of anything, but after she'd had a chance to think about it, she ..." He shrugged again the same way. "I wondered if maybe Becky's parents called hers, but I don't know. If they called mine, no one ever told me. Anyway, high school was over in a few weeks and that was it."

XXX

_Ah. (He didn't use a condom? He wasn't…prepared. Why is that the man's job?)_ Sylar was at a loss for words because he could vividly imagine what that had felt like. "How is it 'making love' if you're not…Hmph," He cut himself off and moved on. "Girls, huh?" Sylar offered disparagingly, with that man-to-man tone he'd heard before when discussing something both of them knew they'd never grasp, abilities or no. "I think it's worst in high school." He turned away and began actively hunting for a measuring string, whatever took their minds off Peter's story.

XXX

Peter shrugged, still leaning on the boxes and not feeling motivated to search right now. "I don't think it's specific to girls," he said quietly. He tilted his head at something he wanted to talk about more than the propensity of both sexes to dump him. "How is it making love if you're not … what?"

XXX

"'In love.'" His tone was clearly less than thrilled about that.

XXX

"Oh." Peter looked down to consider his word choice. Just yesterday evening, he'd described his time with Shelly as 'having sex', if his memory served. With Jennifer it had been 'slept with her'. And now, 'making love'. "I guess I … mean different things by how I talk about it. Um …" He lifted his head to look off in the distance, thinking about how it had made him feel to be with Amanda. "At that moment, it was ... soft, gentle, so sexy, passionate, a little careful …" He shrugged. "I thought it was loving. I … felt … love." A brief frown chased across Peter's face, worried that Sylar would make fun of him for saying that, even though Peter had a history of being free with expressing his feelings for and to people. Sylar could stuff it if he didn't like it. "I call it making love … if love is what you're making."

XXX

"Oh, God, Peter…" Sylar murmured in despair, his face disgusted and slightly pitying. _I guess this Emmy girl shares this sappiness? She'd have to._

XXX

Peter crossed his arms and frowned. He wasn't going to take that attitude, especially about something so precious. Sylar was the one who had asked for the story, the details, and the explanation. He didn't get to disrespect it. "You know what I'm talking about. You've felt it. I know you have."

XXX

Without totally grasping what they were talking about, Sylar shot back quickly, "No, I haven't."

XXX

"That memory of yours I saw when I was asleep? The dream? It was from _your_ point of view, Sylar. I know what you were feeling." With emphasis, he repeated, "You know what I mean." He realized belatedly that Sylar had requested Peter pretend those had never happened, to ignore them, and he almost certainly meant the ones Peter had already seen, too. They'd had quite an argument about it, where Peter had insisted he wouldn't use them and Sylar had called him a liar (or implied it strongly).

XXX

Sylar frowned now, confused. Which dream? The way Peter was looking at him was making his heart lurch in panic. _What does he mean? My point of…_ Then his eyes widened. There had only been two memories of his that Peter had shared so far and one had been about Elle. _And he just-? I knew it. I told you so! I told him he would! (But…) You know better than that; a temptation like that, it was only a matter of time, like I said. (And he thinks I felt love?)_

XXX

Peter uncrossed his arms and looked away and up, put out with himself. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry." As desperately as he wanted to simply change the subject or walk away, he couldn't. It wasn't right, Sylar probably wouldn't stand for it, and the last time Peter had broken his word had been … well, he was having to sleep with Sylar now, which was as just about as genuine a statement of Peter's apology as he could make. Breaking his word had seemed to break something inside of Sylar, damaged some psychic part of him that wasn't going to be quick to mend. The man's identity, sanity, and by extension, memories, were sacrosanct to Sylar. Peter didn't know how to heal this new breach, but addressing his slip immediately and fully was the only thing he could think of for it. With determination, he looked at Sylar as he got out, "I shouldn't have mentioned your memories. They aren't mine to bolster my arguments. That was wrong."

XXX

Voice a dangerously low growl, Sylar replied with a glare and a sneer, "You know the next time I tell you something about abilities, maybe you should just take it as the gospel fucking truth that I know more than you and I know what I'm talking about." He approached and grabbed Peter's coat-front, shoving him aside before walking past to search elsewhere, away from the other man. He felt like punching him, strangling him into silence, ripping his fucking broken head open to stop the threat and make sense of it all…He felt like walking out but Peter would be lost _(good!)_ ; he felt like maybe punching a row of pallets but then he'd break his hand like stupid, stupid Peter had. Loudly, he railed in his head, _Don't ask me any more fucking questions! Just go look! You'll get everything you want and more!_ (He wound up whining pathetically, _No…don't do that, I don't want you to know…I don't want you to know…)_ Worse than Peter seeing the memories was knowing how he'd felt about everything. Sylar's mind was still struggling to encompass it – someone else, his enemy, was going to use his entire past against him at some point, it was inevitable. It was one of his worst fears realized at full capacity. It hurt and he was helpless and he hated every heartbeat of it.

XXX

Peter stepped backwards when Sylar approached, but his heel hit the pallet of boxes. He sidestepped, but Sylar tracked with him. He had a fraction of a second to consider running and a lot of instincts were screaming at him to do that, yet there was something in Sylar's face that stopped Peter from outright fleeing the beat-down he thought he was about to get. He stiffened, eyes wide and nostrils flaring, still teetering between fight, flight, and standing down when Sylar only grabbed him and shoved. Peter fell against the boxes, scrambling up and out of the way in case there was a more damaging follow-up. There wasn't – Sylar just walked off to the other end of the backstock area, storage, receiving dock or whatever the name was for where they were. Peter didn't know it if it had one. It took him a moment to figure out what Sylar was doing as he pawed through things angrily. He was looking for something. Peter hoped it was the measuring tape and not an implement to whack him with for being a complete idiot.

Peter moved over to the receiving area desk and spotted what he had come back here for ridiculously quickly. There they were – several fabric-based measuring tapes hanging out in the open next to some colorful aprons. Voice cautious, he said, "Oh. Um, yeah. Here they are. I-I found them." He pulled down two and waved them in Sylar's direction so the other man could see.

XXX

Sylar ceased the search and glared at him, stalking by without a word to lead the little prick to the hardware store. With his anger keeping him very warm, it wasn't as awkward a silence as he'd anticipated but hopefully Peter was feeling it – the heat, the awkward or the silence, any or all would do.

XXX

Peter followed, keeping up without drawing even or speaking as they walked through the store. He missed the teasing banter of earlier and it wasn't entirely because his current guilty feeling sucked. The way they'd talked earlier had been fun – and it was very different for him and Sylar to do anything 'fun'. They left through the front door, with Sylar continuing down the street without hesitation. Peter stopped. _Did he not want me to follow him? Is he leaving and I misunderstood? Or does he want me to follow him now, like we're going somewhere?_ Before Sylar could get too far away, Peter called out, "Do you want me to come with you?" Measuring tape in hand, he looked back and forth between the smashed windows and Sylar.

XXX

Sylar stopped immediately and turned to look back. He saw a confused Petrelli with a measuring tape – for measuring the window. _I hope all my mistakes are the concussion. I'm…a lot better at planning and thinking things through._ Missing a step transferred some of his anger towards himself, irritated in general now. He turned completely around and waved for Peter to continue, "Finish."

XXX

Peter eyed him for a few more moments. The disapproval, regardless of how justified, was starting to piss him off. With a sullen huff, he went back inside the store and rooted around the checkout counter for a pen and a pad of paper. With these, he returned, measured the width for one window, then checked the width on the next two that they were the same. Then he stood there, hands on hips, frowning as he looked at the top. How to measure the height accurately? He couldn't reach that high, though he thought he only missed it by a foot or so with his hands outstretched. Sylar, on his tip toes with hands lifted might be able to reach it, but he might not and Peter wasn't about to ask him to do anything – not with the way he was scowling and glowering. Peter walked inside, looking around for something to stand on that could support his weight and didn't have wheels on the bottom.

XXX

Sylar watched with half an eye so he noticed when Peter went inside for some reason. The last thing he'd been measuring was the width… _Ah. We're not completely hopeless then._ Sylar gauged it himself then began looking around for a measuring stick-like thing instead of a tape-like one. The broom handle was set against the cashier counter from their last visit. Sylar took it and commanded, "Peter," as he emerged from the store and began unscrewing the broom head. When the little man appeared, Sylar directed, "Measure the broom handle."

XXX

It took Peter a few seconds to figure out what Sylar meant. Then he said, "Oh!" and moved forward quickly to follow directions. He measured and wrote down the numbers. It wasn't the most accurate of dimensions, but he hoped they made these things to uniform sizes and a half inch here or there wouldn't throw things off too much. He took down the numbers for the door, too, then stood checking over to make sure he could make sense of his scribblings later. "Okay. Do you know any place that sells glass commercially?"

XXX

For a moment, Sylar stared at Peter, thinking and watching his face. He was still angry. _Why does he need me? He's…dependent on me for things, too, like directions and locations. He could learn but he…chooses to have me help him._ Another thing came to him; _I shouldn't expect more of him. He's…like the rest…for the most part. He's still a Petrelli. It's not the last time._ Peter had held out longer than Sylar expected, almost to the point where he'd forgotten about it. Being made to be helpless every few weeks wasn't as frequent as it could be – the man had apologized, not for the first time, saying it was 'wrong.' _He_ _apologized. Was it real? (Does it matter?)_ It made him feel like a pansy (after what he'd said about apologies) that a stupid little apology – mere words - could make him feel…better, human, accepted, even if it didn't fix anything and it didn't ease the tide of helplessness that made him panic so. Being magnanimous, helping when he didn't have to, when it wasn't his transgression to correct, and the teamwork, being useful, all helped lighten his mood. _Because I didn't do anything wrong. I can't leave him, he'd get lost or do something stupid. Something even more stupid, that is. (I think we're responsible for each other). Is this what it's like to be a big brother?_ He inhaled and considered the question asked, "Uh…probably a bigger hardware store? They'd have…plywood, if nothing else." _But that involves nails…_

XXX

Peter waited as Sylar stared at him, evidently thinking something through. He doubted strongly that it had anything to do with the location of glass stores. Given it was Sylar, Peter wondered if something about the question had triggered Sylar into considering whether Peter was expendable. _Well, it probably wasn't the question. Maybe just the realization that he's going to have to keep interacting with me, memories and fuckups and all. Is he willing to put up with that?_ If he wasn't, then it seemed to Peter that Sylar would be holding him to an inhuman standard. But on the other hand, Sylar seemed displeased, disappointed, and ill-served by people in general – he might not have any tolerance of normal failings, much less Peter's. Peter fidgeted under the gaze, vacillating between being pissy or patient, trying to read what small indicators of emotion Sylar was showing.

Finally, an answer came – a literal answer to his question and not the more concerning one of what Sylar was turning over in his mind. Plywood – yes. Peter sighed a little, accepting that protecting the store from the elements was probably wisest while they continued looking for better products to replace the windows. He nodded. "Do you know where one is?"

XXX

"There's a…Home Depot that way," Sylar pointed behind the store. A telekinetic-and-then-some former watchmaker had had little use for hardware so it had been a long time since he'd even been in one. Assuming Peter was finished now (there was nothing else Sylar could think to do here), he began walking at a better pace for short-limbed Peter to keep up. "Did those books tell you how to apply a window?" he asked curiously.

XXX

_Hm. Okay. He's talking. There's that. I guess he thinks I'm still decent company. He doesn't seem angry anymore._ "Yeah," Peter said, stowing the measuring tape in his pocket and moving to keep up. "The books were about residential windows. They come in a frame with flanges that have pre-drilled holes in them. You fit them to the opening, shim them even, then fasten them in and caulk to seal. I don't know if commercial windows operate the same way or not." He shook his head. "And they don't make windows of all sizes. So even if I'm trying to make some kind of … sub-frame assembly and use two or three residential windows, they have to match the dimensions exactly or close enough for the framing to take up the slack." He gestured out in front of himself, marking off squares that were stacked on top of each other, then shrugged. "Now that I have the numbers, next time we're at the store I can check against what they have there and see if there's some combination that would work." _Maybe I could make it prettier by putting one of those stained glass sections at the top?_

XXX

"Do you think we could be friends?" Sylar finally blurted as they walked, hastily trying to smooth it out with, "You asked me, but you didn't say what you thought." He wanted to know what he was working with because what he thought about things didn't seem to be the same as Peter.

XXX

_Oh._ Peter blinked at him. _**That's**_ _what he was thinking about earlier. Oh_. Now he had to think about that. He nodded so Sylar wasn't stuck in Peter's situation from before, wondering what was going on in the other's head. "No, I didn't say. That's a tough question," he said, talking it out. "We're not enemies. At least," he looked over, "I don't think of you as an enemy. Not anymore. I don't know what we are. We're friend _ly_ ," he said, gesturing between them. "There," Peter swallowed, "there are things I've told you, things I've … done, like the … bed, sleeping with you, that I've never done with people I didn't … didn't feel really strongly, really positively towards. There's a lot of trust in that." He turned to look Sylar direct in the eye. "I trust you." Then he looked away. "Which is kind of funny because a lot of the time I'm wondering if you're going to get fed up and kill me. I think that has to go away before I could consider you a friend."

XXX

Sylar looked at him quickly and kept looking upon hearing he wasn't viewed as an enemy, and friendly and trusted were vast improvements. It was completely novel. But Peter was right. _I do get fed up and want to kill you. Everyone gets fed up and kills me. Maybe it's just…one of those things I should get used to? It means less now because I'm- I was immortal._

XXX

Peter walked on a few paces before adding, "Then there are the other things – things you've done. How can I be friends or even friendly with someone who killed my brother?" He gave Sylar a long look that was laced with a simmering anger. Peter's nose wrinkled as he looked away. "How do I stay on good terms with any of my family?" He shook his head slowly. "I'm still trying to figure it out, Sylar." His voice thickened with emotion, thinking about his mother, how he'd cried in her arms after finding out Nathan was lost to them, how he'd taken her faintly trembling hand when she'd called him to see her on the pretext of consulting about what should go on Nathan's gravestone. He knew even less how to handle his relationship with his mother than this one with Sylar. "I don't have the answers." He sniffed and tried to brush off the emotion. "I'm just trying to take each situation as it comes up. I've always been shit for planning, anyway."

"Speaking of which, where are we headed right now?"

XXX

_Crap. Ask more questions. They get answers, at least from Peter._ "I'm-" he cut himself off from finishing with 'sorry'. "Home Depot…" he hedged, checking Peter's face and slowing his walk in case that was the wrong destination. "I thought you wanted windows." The rest of what Peter had said didn't fall on deaf ears, just…a mind that was out of its depth and no more help than Peter's currently was. He hated that it was so complicated – morally for Peter, intrinsically for Sylar, being two persons at once in a way. _I was never good with relationships or morals._ With his anger gone, his headache returned full force but it wasn't stopping him. Sylar offered gently even though it wasn't asked for and he didn't think he wanted to talk more about it, "Moms…confuse everyone; I think." _Why am I trying to comfort Peter with fucking_ Angela _? She doesn't deserve his forgiveness._ All it served to do was remind him of a nightmare he'd had, one of many.


	89. You And Me Against The World

Day 34, January 12, Afternoon

Peter nodded. Home Depot was fine with him. Maybe it would have different window choices than the rather crowded 'HARDWARE' store. As for mothers, he gave Sylar a sidelong look with one brow raised in question, before grimacing slightly and leaving the topic alone. _I don't want to talk about Angela and he's put the topic of his mom off-limits. So, what else do we have to talk about?_ "Would you like to eat lunch at one of these restaurants?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar eagerly agreed to the change of pace. His stomach rumbled, too. "You just like my cooking better." Not that he considered pancake-carrot-broccoli tacos to be his best effort.

XXX

Peter laughed easily at that. "Maybe," he hedged. "I don't mind fixing breakfast, but I've _never_ had to make meals three times a day, seven days a week. Not for anyone. Not even myself!" He chuckled again. "Suddenly I'm understanding trapped housewives who beg their husbands to take them out now and then." He shook his head at the image. "Hey, you said you were from Queens, right? Did you ever go by Erawan Thai? They have this really great dish called pad mamuang with mushrooms and cashews and they do this mild curry sauce on it that's delicious." Peter stared off into the distance, remembering food much better than something served out of a can or eaten raw. Not that he minded either, but there was better out there. "Man," he sighed in yearning.

"So where do you want to eat?"

XXX

Amused, though the dish Peter described did sound delicious, Sylar replied, "Thai I guess?" Mostly he wondered if he could replicate something similar. And if that made Peter something of a wife.

XXX

Peter nodded. "How was high school for you? All those people around all the time – was that the best thing or the worst?"

XXX

"Long and vicious." Sylar admitted before he could censor himself. _They're fucking lucky I'm not into 'small game.'_ It was embarrassing because high school was his highest education, compared to…well, the rest of the Petrellis. _No better than fucking Parkman and he can't even read. (Well, I can't make connections)._ "I could see how it could be nice for a people person to be surrounded by people. It didn't pay off for me. I got good grades because I worked hard." _Really hard. Not that any of it matters now._ "Not really any sports."

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter cocked his head. "Is there anyone you miss from then?"

XXX

Sylar surprised himself and actually thought through it, picturing the faces he could remember and what each had meant to him (which wasn't much). Girls he'd liked from afar, bullies, the teachers. Perhaps he didn't understand the question – why would he miss any of those people? _It's one of those Peter things._ Not even the teachers who'd interested him or been kind were really worth revisiting. "No. Not…really. I had some good teachers, even ones who liked me but I don't really 'miss' them."

XXX

"Were you expecting to be a," Peter fell into silence, trying to remember the exact phrasing Sylar had used before. There had been something to Sylar's voice that made the distinction sound important. "A restorer of timepieces?" It was quite a mouthful, like Peter insisting he be called an emergency medical technician rather than an EMT. But maybe he'd misunderstood and 'watchmaker' was fine. He knew he didn't always read Sylar right and even when he did, sometimes he didn't know what to do with the information. "Or did you have another career in mind?"

XXX

Sylar gave him a prolonged glance, giving Peter points for (intentionally?) using the actual title before he attended to the question. "Uh…I wasn't really thinking of what I wanted to be. I had…a lot of potential options, if I'd went to college. My…dad started training me when I was young so it seemed…natural, I guess? I was good at it, so why not? It was kind of expected of me, at least, _he_ expected me to restore timepieces and run the store. The whole family thing. You know."

XXX

"Yeah, they told me I was going to be an attorney. Every now and then that sounded like it might be okay, like I could join the ACLU or something to hack Dad off, but most of the time I just knew it wasn't what I wanted to be. I felt … stifled, smothered." Peter craned his head as they came to a new intersection, now well into an unfamiliar area of the city. "Wait, what's that down there, on the corner? Is that a bar, a pub, a sushi house?" He reached over and familiarly whacked Sylar's arm with the back of his left hand. "Come on. That's something. Let's go see what it is."

XXX

"Su-shi…" Sylar tried to question. Not from the common feeling of disgust about 'raw' food, instead thinking back to all the times Nathan had been to sushi houses, the most recent with Angela. Then there was the very familiar, very light backhand. It didn't bother him but like most times it didn't make a lot of sense and it was unexpected.

XXX

"Hey, did it ever occur to you this whole place is like a post-apocalyptic horror movie without the zombies? My first couple days here, I kept wondering if I'd open up a door and find … you know, find _the people,_ just that they were dead or something." Actually, he hadn't imagined undead, but simply an entire population slain by the resident serial killer. It seemed rude to mention it that way, so he didn't. He smiled at Sylar genially despite the morbidity of the topic. "It's me and you against the world, Sylar." He turned, walking backwards as he raised his fists (or at least his left fist and right hand, both swathed in gloves) and threw a mock punch at Sylar with his left. He was two arm's lengths away so this wasn't at all a serious threat. Sylar's reaction to even the pretense of contact caught Peter's attention. He'd seen it before, a lot. Dropping his fists and turning to walk in the direction they were both headed, he asked, "Why do you always freeze up when I touch you?"

XXX

Sylar chuckled. Peter's delivery of 'the people' was funny. "I thought the exact same thing when…I…first got here." For some reason he hesitated there but he couldn't phrase it any other way. He was about to say something about their abilities and zombie-fighting when Peter asked his question. "What?" The surprise in his voice and face was only slightly false. He was taken aback by Peter…not only noticing it, but addressing it. "I do not." When that sounded too defensive, Sylar amended, "And you didn't even touch me." _Why would you want to touch me? You can touch me but I can't…Is it because he thinks I want to fuck him? Why would he even notice?_ No one else ever had. Sylar knew what it was: a self-preserving habit _(people don't touch me nicely, why would they?)_ , though he didn't know how he was supposed to take Peter's attention and interest, such as it was: be more paranoid or less.

XXX

Peter was watching, closely, for Sylar's reaction to his question about freezing up. It was denial and the implication Peter was only talking about this one time. _So the reason is … something Sylar doesn't want to talk about. Okay._ With a mental shrug, Peter redirected his attention to the storefront they were approaching. It was something Peter was curious about, obviously, but if Sylar didn't want to talk about it, then Peter certainly didn't have any right to insist.

XXX

They entered the sushi-pub-bar (Sylar letting Peter go first to avoid more noticeable touching), Sylar looked around the dining area with half-hearted interest because the important things, like food, were out of sight in the kitchen. "What do you think about zombie-fighting if we had our powers? That would be you and me against the world." _Plus life-threatening/life-saving sex would be a lot more likely…'Shh, Peter. Keep it down – the zombies will hear you!'_

XXX

"I think if we both had all our powers, the zombies would never have a chance, and that's no fun," Peter said, looking around at what looked to him to be a classy combination of a sports bar and the set of Cheers, with a big, polished wood bar in the middle and the peripheries of the room full of small tables of varying heights with matching chairs. There were a couple deep booths in the back, but the swinging doors to the kitchen were where he headed.

Once inside, with Sylar following, Peter elaborated. "Now, we need to work out what kind of zombies we're talking about. The slow, shuffling kind really aren't very scary, but the super-fast ones are just ridiculous. So let's assume they're in between, and can do anything a normal human can if they were exerting themselves as much as possible, okay?"

Peter milled around in the food prep area, looking at the cold and empty grease vats for making fries and taking an interest in the plastic wrap covered trays of burger toppings. "Hm," he hummed, getting distracted by lettuce, tomatoes, onion rings, and a selection of pickled vegetables. It wasn't really what he wanted to eat, but it was a start.

XXX

Sylar didn't know how the food preparation was supposed to go – were they both cooking, was one fixing both meals, were they even eating the same thing? _Unlikely_ , Sylar thought sullenly about the recent lack of meat; _Because sushi doesn't count_. "So…hamburger patties, turkey, chicken, pork, bacon, hot dogs and sausage…some fish, mozzarella sticks, onion rings, potatoes, slaw…All American, basically." Maybe by listing the options Peter would give a hint about who was doing what. That didn't seem to appeal to the other man, the poor vegan. Sylar rolled his eyes and listed the other rabbit items, "Mushrooms, lettuce, cheeses, soup, chili…tofu…" He added the last just to see the reaction.

XXX

"Oh, good," Peter said, coming up behind and beside Sylar to join him in looking in the freezer. "Did you say mushrooms? Some mushrooms, Swiss cheese, and maybe a hard fried egg on a burger bun would be great. What are you going to eat?"

XXX

"Yes, I said mushrooms…" Sylar swallowed and passed them over, making contact with the other man's hand/arm/shoulder as he did so but didn't confirm the reaction with any glances. Peter's diet was weird, plain and simply weird.

XXX

Peter noticed the rub up against him – and especially the deliberateness of it. Not deliberate in the 'please notice that I'm doing this intentionally', but rather in the simple, 'I'm doing this on purpose' way. Equally on purpose, Peter reached up his right hand (having come up on Sylar's left side to look in the freezer) and patted the guy's shoulder a couple times before turning away. He walked off casually, half his mind wondering what the contact meant and might lead to, and the other half occupied with the subject of his dialogue, which was, "They wouldn't keep cheese or eggs in the freezer, so … there it is." He moved over to the refrigerator unit next to the sinks.

Looking inside, he found what he needed and more. "What do you want to drink? They've got milk and a bunch of juices in here, then of course there's the bar out there."

XXX

_Goddamnit! Why does he do that?!_ Sylar stared after his companion. He perked up about the bar, remembering their last alcoholic event. _Is Peter going to drink?_ "If there's anything German, I'll try it." He fetched his own burger food, bacon and avocado among others. He wasn't sure he could eat it all but it would at least taste good and sate his craving for, well, real food. Firing up the large flat-top stove…more of a grill, he set about preparing his own sides. "Do you want any burger or bacon?" Sylar smirked a little to himself at the offer.

XXX

"No thanks," he said to the invitation to eat meat. Once done cooking his egg and putting together his sandwich, Peter set his plate on the bar and went around the side to browse the selection of beer. He picked something out in a green bottle that was light and Irish. For Sylar, he looked through bottles until settling on a dark amber bottle with a blue and white label that featured a German-sounding name. He slid onto his bar stool, handing over Sylar's drink. "So back to the zombie thing – regular-people-type zombies, and you and I only have one power each. And no, 'well, I have one power that does a bunch of different things', or 'I have one power that lets me have a bunch of other powers.' Just a single ability. Which one would you pick?" Peter shook his head, thinking of something to add. "Oh, and no time travel or whatever that negates the entire scenario. We've got to fight our way through, or kill enough of the zombies to make a place that's safe for us."

XXX

The stove heated quickly so the burger didn't take long. Assembling it, he took his seat beside Peter and listened to the parameters of their little fantasy. "You're not fun, Petrelli," Sylar mused in good humor when Peter got to the part about ability specifications. He rather liked the scenario. "What about regeneration?"

XXX

Peter thought about it. "Yeah, I suppose you could pick that. But once they pin you down and eat your brain, it's not going to do you any good. I was told if your head is removed, you're dead-dead, forever. At least that's what Adam told me. He'd had regeneration for centuries, so even if it wasn't like he'd tested it, it seemed like the sort of thing he'd know." He tried to take a bite out of his burger, only to have the mushrooms escape out the back while the egg stayed affixed to the bottom and the cheese was melted to the top. "Dammit," he muttered, pushing a few 'shrooms back between the bread and leaving the rest to be eaten after.

XXX

_So he does know of a way to kill me_... Sylar shrugged. Peter's reason made enough sense that he wouldn't push for it. He didn't point out that the whole thing was rather skewed – any pair of abilities (well chosen) against a planet-full of zombies wasn't really fair…for the zombies. Though Sylar and Peter would tire eventually there was nothing in the rules that said they couldn't hide and recoup before re-engaging. The image of depending on Peter like a brother, or brother-in-arms more likely, fighting back-to-back against a ravenous crowd was…interesting to say the least. It had its appeal, definitely. Surely that compensated for the lack of regeneration.

"I can think of a few that would work well. I'd be biased if I said telekinesis right away because it's easy to use, you know, low strain, high output, renewable. There's the nuclear power…but I'd irradiate the planet and us. Same with Samuel's power; make the planet unstable. Super strength would work if you wore enough protection not to get infected." Sylar chuckled at his own thoughts, "I knew a guy who had impenetrable skin!" Just as soon as he'd said it, he didn't mention how he'd tried and failed to get that ability since his audience had a delicate stomach for it. "I had one where I could focus and snap my fingers and turn anything or anyone into dust, literally. I never tried it on multiple targets at once but I should have. I knew a guy who make black holes but I never had that one. Maya- There's another one that's basically the Black Death and that one does work on multiple targets…I don't know how well it would work on zombies, though…" This was almost as interesting as the burger!

XXX

"What about invisibility? You could just stay away from them all the time."

XXX

"No, no. They'd smell you." _I can smell you, even over the food._

XXX

"Good point," Peter nodded. "Well, maybe phasing would be better, but I don't think a person can do that continuously. The version I had didn't seem to work that way. What I'd like would be zombie control, like telepathy that worked on undead. Or, wait! I'd like to be able to heal them – cure zombie-ism. Then every time I'd convert someone, I'd be making another freedom fighter for our side!" Peter grinned. He liked that idea a lot!

XXX

Sylar's eyebrows slanted up in amused disbelief. "Well, then it wouldn't be me and you against the world. I'm not sure that would be a permanent fix, either."

XXX

"Fine. Then I'll just recure them," Peter said stubbornly. "Look at it this way, if you got infected, I could save you, too. Wouldn't you want that?"

XXX

"Um…" Sylar replied, purposefully taking a drink and making a vague nodding motion. The whole zombie-plus-brains implications was too ironic for a decent answer. Being a mindless drone, bent on another kind of hunger might not be so bad and at least he would die on cue as a zombie.

XXX

Feeling jazzed about the ability to rescue people, Peter said, "There's always flight ..." before realizing that wasn't the best option to be discussing. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, "Super speed is pretty useful in a fight, but it has the same problem as phasing – you have to stop eventually. Impenetrable skin sounds good. I wonder what the zombies would do if they couldn't hurt you? Would they give up eventually? Or just gnaw on you all the time? I bet they'd do that. They're not smart enough to realize it wasn't working." He had a mental image of being half-buried in rotting but animate corpses, whose teeth were bared as they mechanically, savagely, relentlessly tried to tear him apart. "They'd just keep chewing and suck-" _Whoa. Somehow that turned into something very different. If you couldn't be hurt, but you could still feel things … um, yuck._ "Yeah. I'm sure it'd be gross." It was time to stick his sandwich in his mouth some more before it sounded like he was a fan of zombie porn.

XXX

A narrow-eyed look was Sylar's reaction to the mention of flight. I _didn't mention it on purpose – it's useless and…useless to mention._ But the moment passed, not that Sylar expected Peter to press it. The next bit of interest had Sylar's eyebrows arched way up. "For the record, Peter: no zombie blowjobs. Ever. That's probably the only time I don't want one." _I might be depraved but that's nasty._ He chuckled a little, "I can't believe you actually thought about that."

XXX

"My thoughts don't always go where I expect them to." Peter gave Sylar an amused smile, watching him out of the corner of his eye. "I think I've picked what I want – the ability to cure people. Of course that doesn't leave me much in the way of fast defense or offense, so you're going to have a lot of slack to take up. I'm assuming I'd need to touch the people and could only do one at a time. A lot of powers seem to work that way. When I had healing, it wasn't something I could use automatically like other abilities." Peter made the smallest grimace at the memory of the fatigue he'd had after using healing, along with the more important one of seeing news of Jeremy's death on the television at work. "What ability are you going to choose?"

XXX

"I always have a lot of slack to take up," Sylar deadpanned with some feigned resignation. Healing wasn't really an ability on his list of things to get, but his attention still snagged briefly on the fact that it wasn't automatic. That seemed to go hand-in-hand with its purpose. "Since I'll be covering your ass…Telekinesis. You realize for every person we save, if you succeed, I'd eventually be taking care of thousands and millions of people, assuming our food and water resources didn't run out." _Again, what's wrong with the 'me and him alone' part? He'll only be using_ _me_ _for my ability, as usual. He'll 'cure' someone he actually wants to fuck._

XXX

"They _should_ be able to take care of themselves. At least some of them. Just because they need saving doesn't mean they're helpless. Besides, every person we save is one less zombie to fight." Peter took another big bite of his burger, nearly done with it by now. "Okay, here's another scenario. Imagine I get taken out. You have a vial or a syringe of zombie cure that you can use to pick a new sidekick. It just so happens that you can pick anyone you've ever run into or known, alive or dead – I guess they rose as undead, or something. Who do you pick?" He supposed Sylar could say he cured Peter, but even though Peter would have thought the sentiment was nice, the implication was Sylar had to choose someone else. Would he pick Arthur? His father? They both supposedly had a lot of abilities. Or would he go with someone who meant more to him, like Elle?

XXX

That was a much more difficult and unclear choice. Sylar rested his forearms against the bar, still idly holding his burger as he considered. It all depended on his motivation for saving that person – revenge, love, lust, companionship. The worst part was that only one person embodied all the aspects and he wasn't sure he'd pick her for fear of, well, regretting his choice and repeating history. Virginia was not an option, neither was Martin or Samson. His birth mother…He still had questions and with no other specials to become more special or more monstrous, his killings would be justified as self-preservation of himself and another…perhaps his mother would still love him. It was a gamble. Of course, if she didn't, he would have wasted a valuable opportunity. Luke more than Micah made the list for companionship.

Sylar took into account that 'saving' any one person wasn't really a nice thing to do to them, given the situation. Whomever he saved would hate him for it and probably long for death. It wasn't like he was great company to begin with. Noah or Parkman came to mind because fucking with their heads would be fitting and entertaining, purposefully 'saving' them to live a horrible life with him for as long as it lasted. Arthur would be no fun at all. Mohinder and Angela were out because he'd kill them on principle (Mohinder was more of an annoyance factor). Perhaps Dr. Gibson? Lydia? Both would be useless but they'd been kind and they were female _._

_What about Nathan?_ Oh, if only it were that simple. He would only resurrect Nathan to alleviate the hunt on himself, the pressure to become Nathan and pay for the sin of killing him. _I'd give him back so they'd leave me alone!_ Sure as hell, Sylar would never resurrect the bastard for Nathan's sake because he was still glad and proud of ridding the world of that snake. It would be a pointless gesture because no one would be around to rejoice at Nathan's fucking triumphant return. And then Sylar really would kill him again. Peter? _I already have Peter. I mean…I'd be adding another person to our group, right? (A threesome? That changes my answer…)_ "That's a tough one." _Wait…does he expect me to say Nathan?! I'm not answering that!_ "I'd have to give it some more thought," he declined, "It depends what kind of person I'd want for the rest of my life, or close to it."

XXX

"That's true." Peter thought about who he'd pick. _Caitlin_ , floated immediately to the surface, probably due to his previous thoughts about who Sylar might save. He frowned at the idea, though. He hadn't been able to protect her before. Was she even an option? What would he do if he lost her twice? Not saving her out of fear of failing was incredibly shitty and just about the worst possible reason to hold back. Maybe there were better choices, though. _Maybe I should pick someone who would keep me alive?_ But his subconscious wouldn't give it up. He was right back to thinking staying alive didn't matter if he had nothing to live for (other than killing more zombies) and that he'd work a lot harder to keep himself alive if he was looking out for someone else. _But I can't tell Sylar '_ _Caitlin_ _'._ "Claire, maybe? There's Noah. He'd at least be smart. But I couldn't trust him, so he's out. Oh." Peter stopped, eyes rising to Sylar's. _Nathan. Um, wait, would that really be a good idea? Other than bringing him back to life, what would that do? He wanted to die. I don't …_ His thoughts were a morass, far more complicated than he wanted to consider for a fun game over lunch. "I don't think bringing Nathan back would help."

He scratched the side of his neck, lying badly, "Um, yeah, Claire, I guess." He shook his head, lifting his beer and telling the truth next, "There's no way in hell I'd bring back my dad." He finished off the drink.

XXX

Sylar snorted about Noah. _Definitely untrustworthy._ Sylar froze at that look, staring back. He didn't think he was in any danger – Peter was the one to bring up both the question and the obvious person – and the meal had been going very smoothly and enjoyably, but it was the principle of the thing. Sylar tried to breathe evenly, playing it cool but he felt like sweating, whether he was or not. Because of that, he didn't bother to point out the incestuous theme the Petrellis seemed to favor. He wondered how serious Peter was about what he'd said. Sylar cleared his throat, raising his bottle to his lips, "What about /Ma/ - I mean, your mother?" _More booze. That will help._ He admitted he had some investment in the answer, and a small right to hear the answer, too.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a brief, exaggerated frown for calling her 'Ma' in what Peter assumed was either mockery of having been lied to and told he was a Petrelli, or some Nathan-esque holdover. But the thing was, it didn't make him angry to hear Sylar call her that. He'd been through this before and so now his frown was an airing of his opinion on it without heat or, more importantly, without assault or threat of assault. Peter was getting better.

As to the answer, he pulled a sullen face and finished off his beer before saying, "You'd think she would have seen it coming, wouldn't you?" Peter exhaled heavily. Regardless of his anger, he had a duty to his family. With resignation, he allowed, "I'd bring her back, yes, but if I had only one choice, she wouldn't be it." He rolled the empty bottle back and forth between his hands.

"Let's change it up. No more sidekicks – just us. Two powers, not one, though I'll admit telekinesis is pretty great all by itself. It's only one power, yet it lets you do so many different things – attack, defend, levitate – and all at a distance, too, which reduces your chances of getting infected. What would your backup ability be if you could use two?"

XXX

"Maybe Samuel's power to move the earth and elements. If I only used it on the crust of the planet, it would almost always be reversible and wouldn't cause too much damage. Be handy for making a defensible fort or a trench, moat thing. Burying people, too." The last was morbid, so he quieted. "I could always blind the zombies with a sandstorm. I know how well that works."

XXX

Peter nodded. "That's another smart, multi-use power. I have to say, I think I'd take regeneration. Then you wouldn't have to worry about me getting turned and as long as they didn't get me down for very long, I'd still recover fine after you blew them away. Being able to go without sleep, food, water, being able to heal and not getting exhausted? Sign me up. I think that would be a lot more useful than blasting people or projecting forcefields. Plus, if you got hurt, I could give you a transfusion and you'd be good as new. Give me a shotgun or a flamethrower and I-" His eyes caught on the label of the bottle he had been absently rotating in his hands. It said the bottle was brewed in Cork, Ireland. Faintly, he finished his statement, "I think I could hold my own." Shotguns. Burned bodies.

XXX

Sylar chuckled. The image of Peter with any kind of gun was amusing to say the least. "You are such a pacifist. Two passive powers? You really do expect me to hold off the universe while you play doctor. But isn't that counter-productive of you to shoot someone then save them?"

XXX

Peter straightened, brows furrowing as he studied the bottle. He hadn't thought anything special when he'd picked it out. It had been green and towards the front. That it was Irish he'd noticed, but it hadn't mattered. He'd paid more attention to the label on Sylar's bottle than his own. But what were the odds that he would have ended up with a random bottle manufactured in Cork? He scowled at it, lifting his head to look around the place. It had no special resemblance to the Wandering Rocks, but there were little touches here and there that stood out to him now that he was looking – the color scheme, the arrangement of the bottles along the wall behind the bar. The rich wood looked as weathered and dark as that in Ricky's place and there was just that hint of wood smoke to it, different from cigarettes or cigars. In the Wandering Rocks, there had been a fireplace. Here there was none, so whence the scent? And worse still, why was there an undertone of scorched flesh to it?

Peter slipped off the bar stool abruptly, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as his nostrils found some confirmation for his thoughts. It felt like someone had walked over his grave. The place was obviously different. He'd say he was seeing things where they weren't except he wasn't even seeing them. He just had this pervasive feeling that the place was more familiar to him than it should be. Somehow, the Cheers song seemed perverse. He murmured, "A place where everyone knows your name. But no one knew it." He drew in a quick, shallow breath, the burned meat smell reminding him of the stench Ricky's charred body had made after Elle was done with it. His eyes lit on a door at the rear of the room. The one to the kitchen was to the side – swinging double doors they'd already been through. So where did _that_ one lead? "None of them knew my name."

XXX

_O-kay…We're done eating?_ "Peter," Sylar said though it wasn't completely a question.

XXX

Peter strode to the door, a wave of hesitancy striking him as he reached it, making him open it slowly, not sure what he'd find. The old fear that he'd find 'the people' rose up in him as the door swung – those missing inhabitants had to be somewhere, his subconscious promised him. Inside the room, he didn't see people or bodies, but instead his eyes met something that rattled him nearly as much. There on the boxes and crates, neatly arranged and ready for an occupant, was a collection of blankets, with what he knew was a hooded sweatshirt folded for use as a pillow. They'd made him sleep in the back room (or let him, depending on how you looked at it) – Ricky and Will – and his makeshift bed had looked _exactly_ like this.

"NO!" he shouted in defiance to reality. He didn't know what to do with the surge of desperate emotions as his sense of what was real went abruptly topsy-turvy, so he channeled them into actions, and violent ones at that. He seized the blankets and threw them, but it wasn't enough. Peter kicked one of the boxes and shoved another one from the stack. It toppled to the floor. Glass jingled and cracked. Peter slammed his foot into the fallen box and those bottles not already damaged were smashed. The bottom of the box darkened as the smell of strong spirits filled the room.

XXX

It was a back room. The significance of it bypassed Sylar entirely. He looked it over and dismissed it, instead focusing on his shaken companion. Peter was tense, a little clammy, and pale; that is, until he snapped and went berserk on the room without any provocation. "Pe-" he began but didn't finish it. When Peter began stomping on things, namely glass items, Sylar felt obligated to intervene lest the other man hurt himself. He approached quickly, from behind and to the side, and wrapped an arm around Peter's waist, pulling him or holding him back. He said "Peter…" in his ear, since Sylar was facing the bar and Peter was directed into the room.

XXX

Sylar had nothing to do with this and Peter didn't want him to have anything to do with this. Exasperated and angry, he tried to wrestle free of the arm and shove Sylar away. It was easier desired than accomplished, even though he managed to wedge his elbow between Sylar's arm and Peter's body, levering it off of him with a wrench and a twist. _Why is he trying to stop me? Why does he care?_

XXX

"No…Peter…." Sylar said again, just as before, hoping to induce some calm, even as he matched the other man's struggles.

XXX

Peter gave an ill-tempered glance over his shoulder at the door frame. If he drove Sylar into that, the man would probably let go of him. But it also might hurt him, especially if he hit his head. Various other forms of escalation ran through Peter's head, along with surrender – both false and authentic, as he wasn't overwhelmingly invested in winning. In the end, he fought enough to loosen Sylar's grip on him, then went to the floor, straight down, letting gravity do what he didn't have leverage to do while standing. He slithered and scrambled sideways, bouncing off the stack of boxes and backwards as he got to his feet, one heel in the puddle of caramel-colored alcohol staining the floor. "Was this your idea? Huh?" He glared, waving curtly at where the pallet had been made up on top of the crates.

XXX

Sylar blinked, coming to the conclusion Peter was accusing him of. "No. I just came here for lunch. I've never been in here before." He wondered if that was going to cut it. At the same time, he was aware that Peter wasn't angry with or at him, and the pair of questions were the only things directed at him. Nathan was no help with an answer here.

XXX

Peter narrowed his eyes at the answer but then shook his head. "It couldn't have been yours. It had to be mine – they're my memories." He was breathing hard, the fury draining out of him like the liquor streamed out of the box, spreading across the floor. "It's what you said before, that first day – 'this is my mind, playing tricks on me'," Peter said, echoing how Sylar had originally said the words. "That's all it is?" He looked at Sylar intently again, but this time it was a searching look, imploring an answer that would reassure him.

XXX

"I think so. Yes," he added when faced with those puppy-dog eyes. It wasn't like self-induced mind-games were unheard of here. In fact, they were prevalent.

XXX

Peter left the cramped room that now reeked of bourbon. He didn't go far, though, sitting heavily at the end of one of the booths, body pointed out into the room instead of across the table. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and face into his hands. He huddled in on himself, angry and embarrassed that he'd had such an outburst in front of Sylar. It made him look volatile and unstable. His shoulders slumped as he supposed he was. "I lost her. I left her behind. That's why this is haunting me. Because I've pushed it out of my mind for so long that it's no more real than anything else here."

XXX

_Oh, Peter._ Sylar sighed. It didn't matter who Peter was talking about, concerned about: Simone, Emily, his mother, Claire. The guilt and grief was the same, very familiar to Sylar himself. He was still stuck on what to say, what he could do; Peter was very partial to the shoulder-patting, so maybe…Slowly, he drew closer and tentatively did just that, giving a squeeze and eventually leaving his hand in place there.

XXX

Peter leaned into the touch, appreciating it. He felt … miserable, much of which was from the realization that he would need to explain himself to Sylar, which involved explaining things he'd never talked to anyone about (except, to a limited degree, Adam). He began to speak, but it was about something else – it was his fears of hopelessness and futility, just like he felt about Caitlin's fate. "Sometimes I think maybe this is all I've got – you and this empty world. Maybe my body died out there and I'm not going back. Matt told me if I came in here, I'd never get out." Peter was quiet for a moment, remembering how Parkman had yelled at him. "I heard him. Clearly. I knew what he meant. I came anyway." He shrugged the shoulder Sylar wasn't touching, not wanting to risk dislodging him. At least here, now, he had not abandoned someone who wanted and needed his help. It gave him hope. "I think it's okay. This isn't a cargo container where I don't know who I am or where I'm going. I know this. I had a purpose in coming here and it was a good one, even if it doesn't work out the way I wanted it to. You're not alone anymore. Even if I don't accomplish anything else, at least I'll keep you company, huh?" He murmured and hung his head again. "That's worth something. I hope it's worth something, to you."

XXX

Instead of Peter making him feel helpless, now he felt hopeless as a mirror of Peter's views. He didn't like it; Peter was usually stupidly optimistic, it seemed to hold him together but perhaps that was fraying and if it went away…Sylar didn't know what would happen to either of them. _That's a shitty consolation prize. It's not even a prize. (I'm never a 'good purpose')._ He wondered how much his opinion mattered: that Peter was slightly crazy and his motives unfounded, his ideas impossible. _Maybe he just has to think it's possible and that…keeps him going. I'm not keeping him here; why does he make it sound like I am? If I'd just behave his life would be perfect. For someone who thinks I should suffer and die alone, he has a funny way of showing it. What a stupid silver lining to find with me. He didn't come here to save me and I'm a waste of his time._ But still, there was nothing to be done about it. Sylar tried to shake off the twinges he felt internally and agreed with Peter, "Yes. Of course it is."

After a moment, Sylar supplied, "You…you shouldn't beat everything up, Peter. Sooner or later, you're going to break something that I can't fix." Realizing that sounded sappy as hell and said far more than he ever wanted to for which he cursed himself; he tried to cover it gruffly, "Just…don't be an idiot." He grabbed Peter by the scruff of the neck like Nathan used to, giving it a sort of squeeze/massage for a moment. Somewhat bitterly, he finished with a few hard pats to the shoulder as he walked back to the bar, "Emily and the world are counting on you and all that nonsense. Now my burger is cold."

XXX

"Emma." But Peter only whispered the correction. He didn't know if the word carried. "I busted her cello," he said a little louder. "Can't fix that. I'm a pretty lousy pacifist, Sylar." He looked up with a small smile. "You get me mad and ..." He stood up and walked over to the bar, shaking his head at how stupidly destructive he was. "Get me mad and I'm a regular Petrelli. But when I'm not, I can do things no other Petrelli can, with powers or without." He reached past Sylar to swipe his plate. "Let me put that under the warmer for you. Hang on." He said this more softly than the rest, going off to heat Sylar's burger up as a show of appreciation. He snagged a bag of potato chips off a bracket near the swinging doors, adjusted the infrared lights, and leaned on the counter next to them as he opened the bag. There was a serving window through which he could see Sylar well enough to talk with him.


	90. Wandering Rocks

Day 34, January 12, Afternoon

Sylar tried for a wry grin. It was true, what Peter said. He wondered at how the attempts (and failures) at being good seemed to mean nothing no matter who made the attempt. Well, people at least noticed when Peter was a good boy. He watched his food carefully. Just in case.

XXX

"I've told you about the cargo container, right? I got out of it when a bunch of guys broke it open in Cork, Ireland, thinking it was full of stuff they could fence. When they found me, they were angry, felt cheated, and thought I had to know something about where the stuff they'd come to steal had gone to. I didn't. I didn't know my name; didn't know I had powers. They took me back to a bar called the Wandering Rocks. And they … beat the crap out of me. There were three of them. They took turns. It didn't jog my memory." He sighed, remembering how Caitlin had cleaned him up and how much, how desperately, he'd bonded with her. A tiny smile flitted over his lips. "After they let me go, I slept in the back room on top of the liquor boxes, with some old clothes and a couple cast-off blankets. I didn't know where else to go for a while." Peter looked down at his feet. "Eventually, Elle showed up and fried the proprietor while I wasn't there. His name was Ricky."

He took the plate from under the warmer, getting a double layer of napkins to keep from burning his hand, and brought it out. He sniffed at it as he did. _Burned meat. That's where the smell was coming from! 'Don't be an idiot' - like that's going to work._ "Your plate, monsieur," Peter said, affecting an overdone French accent. He circled the bar and dug out a second beer (this one a popular American brand) before returning to his seat, where he could drink and eat chips while Sylar finished his meal next to him. Peter poked at the now cold mushrooms on his plate, experimenting with putting them on the salty potato chips. They were fine that way. It was a taste combination he didn't think he'd ever had.

XXX

Sylar accepted and adjusted his plate. "Thanks," he replied quietly, still thinking about the story. He tried not to examine why he wanted to beat the crap out of the people who'd hurt Peter and how someone getting fried to a crisp for it was fitting. Something wasn't making sense about it. "I get why you would stay if you had nowhere else to go, but why did they let you stay? Why did they let you go if they thought you had their stock?

XXX

Peter poked around in the foil bag, devoting more attention to selecting his next chip than necessary as a way of avoiding looking at Sylar. "There was … a girl," he said with difficulty, his throat giving him trouble all of a sudden. He took a drink of beer and focused on his breathing for a few long moments.

XXX

_Ah_. Even that much sufficed and Sylar let it drop, but eventually Peter continued.

XXX

"She … cleaned me up after they were done. She was friendly. She was ..." He took another drink because he needed it. "She was the first friendly thing I knew – after weeks in the container, then … them, and their questions that I couldn't answer. Good cop, bad cop, maybe, but you know," he looked to Sylar for validation, "when you don't have anything else …? Anyway, after they left me alone for a while, I phased out of the ropes that were holding me. I started to leave out the back, but there was a commotion going on in the front. The guys who'd passed them the information for the heist were in the bar, wanting their money, their cut, whatever. Of course it wasn't there, but she was, alone. I heard the guys threaten her."

Peter took another drink. At this rate, he was going to need a third beer fast. That probably wasn't a good idea, so he went back to shuffling the chips around. "I went back. I ran them off. And then … I stayed."

He waited, but Sylar didn't seem to have anything to say in response. Peter went on to explain the embarrassing but fairly harmless part of the story. "They, uh … once they knew I had powers, they brought me along on a heist and had me help them hold up an armored van." He grimaced. "I mean I helped them _rob_ the van. I didn't hold it up. I just spun it around, actually." He waved a hand loosely. "Telekinesis, but I didn't know what I was doing at the time. It was all coming on instinct."

XXX

"And after that?" Sylar pressed, only somewhat interested. Nathan didn't know any of this.

XXX

Peter wanted to say there wasn't much to tell. But there was, and it ended badly for nearly everyone. Only Tuko got away unscathed. And maybe Will, but he didn't know that for sure. "They never found the stuff they were looking for in the shipping yard. I think it was a bunch of iPads or iPods or something like that. One of Ricky's guys, his name was Will, tried to steal the money from the armored car robbery. I read his mind, though, and stopped him. He shot me a few times and took off. After that, Ricky seemed to think I was something special." Peter gave Sylar a crooked smile. "Then the Company came looking for me." He was quiet for a long period before adding, "Ricky sent me down the street to his sister's place. She was the one who'd cleaned me up, took my side, thought I was special in a … more real way. Elle killed Ricky."

XXX

Sylar's head tilted. _Of course you're special._ But Peter said it like being special was…something special and Sylar understood that, or at least, he thought he did. How interesting they had that, of all things, in common. Shameless flattery came to mind. It frequently worked on insecure specials after all and most were too stupid to see it for the dangerous seduction it was. Peter had said as much but now it made sense! His thoughts were entirely inappropriate for the conversation, even as a passive audience, but excitement was hard to contain when he'd just stumbled onto the key to sex. It took him a moment to drag his thoughts up, filthy from the gutter. "What did you do about that?"

XXX

Peter shifted uncomfortably on his stool, trying to think of a polite way to end the conversation. He knew he wasn't coughing up the important part, the part he needed to explain a lot more than why he hadn't gone after Elle or whatever it was Sylar was implying he should have done. He turned his head to look anxiously at the door to the back room, then reached over to Sylar and manhandled his deltoid some, wanting to touch. He blurted out, "Sylar, I left someone to die!"

XXX

Sylar was doing a horrible job of proving Peter's 'freezing up on contact' comment wrong. _Okay, okay, okay!_ He leaned away quickly, eyes wide with surprise, fully expecting to have a Peter-induced 'accident' at the bar. _Not my head!_ he whined to himself. But there was no pressure and hardly any grip, so he remained seated and intact. Sylar adjusted himself to look like he'd been shifting his weight. _Right. Change my face to look surprised at his words not his action. What was he talking about?_ "Ricky?" Sylar frowned, confused by that train of logic.

XXX

Peter's voice rose, frustrated by Sylar freaking out over the touch and not getting how upset he was over this. "No, Caitlin!" He frowned and quieted back to conversational. "Though I suppose I did for him, too. Just with him, I didn't know. All I knew about Elle was just that she was someone asking around about me. It didn't seem like that big a deal or I never would have left." He shifted again, fighting against the urge to call a time-out and refuse to talk about it further. He didn't want to do that. He couldn't even hide behind the concern that telling Sylar would endanger people – they were all dead or lost.

XXX

"Who is Caitlin?"

XXX

"She was Ricky's sister."

XXX

"Okay…What happened to her?" Peter seemed both eager and reluctant to talk about this. Given the recent random explosion(s) that Sylar was currently investigating (naughty detours aside), he should have been tried to be more…understanding or something, lest Peter lose it again. _I thought killing people was off limits…Guess that's just when I do it, huh?_

XXX

Peter reached out and pushed his empty beer bottle, desperate for another one. "This would have to be one of my versions of hell, Sylar. To be trapped somewhere with you and have to tell you the worst things I've done in my life, the things I most regret, the times when I made decisions that hurt people and they weren't mistakes because I knew how it would turn out when I made my decision, but I made it anyway. Those are the times when I wonder if I ended up doing what my dad would have thought was right." He shook his head. "I didn't do what was right – what _I_ thought was right. I _know_ that, but I didn't know what else to do!"

XXX

"Fine! Then don't tell me! I don't care! It sounds just like _my_ hell!" Sylar fired back without totally thinking about Peter's sins he'd like to hear confessed before changing his tone, "But when you go batshit crazy on some random room, I need to know why!" There was no finishing the burger after this, the various ups-and-downs, the threat of attack and head trauma were churning his guts.

XXX

Peter's brows drew together as Sylar's voice became emphatic – the man had his complete attention. Peter was aware they were close, physically – he'd seen closer adjoining stools in bars, but if this turned bad, it was going to be bad. They were within elbowing distance of each other as it was. It registered as a danger, but for the moment, he ignored it and hoped they could get through close-quarters emotional venting without someone getting slugged or at least pushed around.

XXX

Sylar huffed, trying to regain his composure. He managed only a so-so job. In a calmer but no less passionate voice, he began again. "Not that you care or that you asked, but don't think that killing someone is the worst thing you can do to them, Peter. The things you do to a living person are the worst; you know, _gutting_ their _soul_ and their _mind_! And then you tell them to keep living, or maybe _you_ don't." Sylar cruelly mentioned the man's suicide comment and general desire to have Nathan replace him.

XXX

Peter tilted his head and frowned, getting that Sylar was talking about what had been done to Sylar and not anything to do with Cork or Peter's recent outburst. It sounded like he was blaming Peter for the entire Nathan thing, start to finish. His frown deepened and he pulled his head back, brow relaxing a little and eyes narrowing. _This is coming out now? Well, it probably needed to come out anyway._

XXX

"Killing can be a mercy sometimes. You do it to animals, children, the elderly, the sick. Killing, death, is usually quick and final and there's no pain after for people who don't regenerate. It's not like anyone blames you for any of it. Death just happens, sometimes, Peter, and you can't fucking avoid it." With a heartfelt and gentler delivery, he nearly implored, "So…please….grow up."

XXX

Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out with a forceful exhale. His lips were a tight line, almost a scowl. He had a lot he could say about death in general, Nathan's in specific, and Sylar's lack of it. But he didn't, not for the moment. Avoiding the death of anyone present seemed more important. So he put the chip bag on his plate, picked it up with one hand and his empty beer bottle with the other, and slid off the stool to carry them wordlessly into the kitchen. When he came back a few seconds later, he stopped at the end of the bar and leaned on it in a bad attempt to look relaxed. "How do you want me to respond to that?"

XXX

_Fuck_. Sylar could tell that hadn't gone over well. He watched carefully in case it looked like Peter was leaving, walking out. There would surely be repercussions even if he did stay and Sylar resigned himself to that. He was disappointed as to the whole thing. Sylar looked up at the question, surprised at it and even more miserable because of the question itself. "I don't know," he admitted in a mildly frustrated, vulnerable, disappointed tone.

XXX

"Let's go back to the immediate thing. Yes, I went batshit over a room, but it wasn't random to me. Most of this place," he waved his arm generally to indicate the world, "seems to be about you – your memories, your places. Your apartment, but not mine. This is the first thing I've run into, other than palm trees, that seems to be about me. I can feel it, this place, _this entire world_ , creeping up on me, especially when you're not around. That bottle I grabbed first was bottled in Cork. That room was laid out …" He pointed towards the back of the place, towards the room in question. "You know, maybe it was coincidence and I'm making a lot out of nothing, but it was close enough to make me think reality was slipping or something. And you know I don't think this place is real the same way you do." He swallowed and looked away. "Okay, maybe kicking the crap out of some boxes wasn't the most mature way to deal with it, but I didn't take it out on you, or myself, and it's easier to fix than that storefront."

Peter grimaced and gestured at the remains of Sylar's burger. "Go ahead and finish. I'll find a mop and get started." He walked off into the kitchen, fairly sure he'd seen a yellow, rolling mop bucket near the sink. _I'll need that and a trash can. I can just throw the whole box away, since it's not like anyone's going to mind losing a few quarts of bourbon._

XXX

This was the simple if not brief explanation he'd been looking for. Listening to the backstory was fine, possibly helpful to Peter, but it wasn't what he'd really been after. Even better, it made sense, a lot of it. Of course he'd noticed he hadn't been hit or otherwise hurt in the process of Peter's fit. Sylar opened his mouth to say as much but Peter was moving away. He shut his mouth for a second then opened it again to say that Peter didn't have to clean the room then thought better of it. So Sylar was left with the burger and beer, still sullen and concerned he'd hacked Peter off once more but he obeyed. _Reality creeps up on him, too. Most of the world is about me. Huh._

XXX

The mop bucket with mop was where Peter had remembered it. He rolled it into the back room. The first order of business was getting rid of the wet, kicked-in, leaking box. There was no way to do it without getting bourbon all over him. He carried it out without coat or gloves, tossing it in the dumpster. Back inside, he gingerly picked up the scattered pieces (sparing a moment to hate on glass a bit more) and put them in the trash. He looked at the dry mop and empty bucket, realizing he'd forgotten a step. It was back to the kitchen with the thing rolling along noisily behind him. He got water, added dish soap for good measure, and returned. He mopped, only to find he couldn't operate the wringing mechanism one-handedly. Or at least, he couldn't figure out how to do it – there might be a way, but Peter had never mopped a floor with anything more complicated than a Swiffer. This huge, dread-locked, industrial-strength mop and thick, yellow, commercial bucket with a lever-actuated squeezer was unfamiliar to him. Well, gravity still worked, so he let it drip between rinsings and succeeded in getting the liquor off the floor and replacing it with a lot of water. He recovered the blankets he'd thrown around in his earlier fit and used them to sop it up. Finding the sweatshirt, he paused and fingered the knotted strings that hung from the hood. Even through the mixed scents of the room, he knew the garment would smell like her. He'd worn it when they went to the beach. She'd told him about Cuchulain and how he'd gained his power from others. Peter threw out the wet, dirty blankets along with his bourbon-soaked shirt.

Clad in the grey hoodie now, Peter rolled the mop to the kitchen and put it away. He washed his hands and returned to Sylar's side, getting that third beer now and sliding back on his stool. He opened it and took a shallow draw. It was some kind of English honey lager. He didn't like it much. "I'd had the impression the deaths you'd caused weren't just … 'things that happened', but that they were things you'd _done_ , on purpose, intentionally. That you went places and hunted people down so you could kill them," he took another drink of the surprisingly dry beer, "and take their abilities. Or," he said shrugging, "just kill them. Was it something else?"

XXX

The grey hoodie was new. It looked soft and comfortable and it appeared to be all Peter was wearing for a shirt. Peter's words made him forget about it. Unfortunately. "Since you don't really want to talk about that, except to hear my reasons, I assume you're trying to make a point out of something. I have more than one reason for killing people – abilities, just to kill them, both, yes."

XXX

Peter frowned. That wasn't a useful answer, though he did click to the idea that Sylar thought Peter wanted to hear his reasons, yet he then wasn't giving them. Except to say he had a lot of them. 'Just to kill them' also stuck out like a sore thumb, but Peter left it alone for now. "Do you think you have any responsibility or blame for their deaths?"

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth then shut it. He had several reactions to that and it took him a moment to sort them properly. "Yes and no." It was simple and straightforward even in his delivery. His voice was gaining a tone of 'where are you going with this?' but he still answered truthfully and without troublesome specifics.

XXX

_Christ! This is impossible. Is he not going to actually answer anything?!_ "Do you think killing them was a mercy then?"

XXX

Sylar exhaled through his nose quick, darkly amused but not. "I didn't do it for mercy. I killed one person out of mercy and spared others for the same reason." He shrugged, unable to recall all the outliers as quickly as he would like to determine his motives for each death. "There is a difference between death and being put to death, if that's your point, even though the end result is the same. I was…talking about both earlier. I guess the saying 'people are killed all the time' is maybe a better way to put it."

XXX

_Who was that one person, then?_ Peter gave Sylar the biggest frowny face he could with it still being serious. _He's not being sarcastic. He's just … stubbornly not answering anything, and he doesn't even look like he's doing it intentionally_. Peter drew in a deep breath, still staring at Sylar like he was trying to will the right words to come out of the man's mouth. _I can be angry about this, or not._ He let the breath out and shook his head slowly. His frown turned to a sardonic smile and he reached out, turning his arm so as to put his forearm to Sylar's shoulder. He jostled him – a deliberate contact because he had the impression Sylar didn't like it or was bothered by Peter touching him. Maybe he had a variant of that weird tingle Peter got sometimes when they touched – Peter didn't know, but he gave him a shake anyway, hoping to annoy him in the same manner he annoyed Peter.

"That was completely unhelpful," Peter said, crossing his forearms on the bar and resting his forehead on them. Head still down, Peter lamented, "If I were trying to tell you what I did on a normal day at work, it wouldn't be a bunch of 'it depends' or 'never the same thing' or 'yes and no' if you had asked about something specific." He sat up and reached for the beer. "You're frustrating, Sylar," he pronounced, drinking some more. "And this beer sucks." He looked over at Sylar's. "Is yours any better? Is that still your first one?" _Am I drunk? On two and a half beers with a meal, I doubt it._ He sighed, not caring too much about Sylar's answers. _Tipsy maybe. It would be interesting if I was a lightweight in this world, or if all the alcohol was way stronger here than in the real world._

"I don't want to talk about anything else." He got up and went to fetch his coat, pulling on his gloves and sulking about the whole thing.

XXX

Sylar heaved a sigh. "I don't mean to be frustrating. Sometimes you don't seem to understand what you're asking. It's complicated. You told me not to talk about that, so I don't. For the most part," he amended, standing after the other man. There was more he could say about it, other questions he could ask, but he held back because Peter wasn't interested and he'd all but requested that Sylar shut up.

XXX

Peter stopped in the middle of pulling on the cut glove that fit over his brace. _Of all the times to pull the 'you told me not to talk about that' card! Is he just messing with me?_ "I'm asking you to tell me now."

XXX

Sylar watched him for a moment more. Peter was across the room. Of course, that hadn't been a deterrent before…"Alright. Ask the questions again."

XXX

Peter tugged off the glove and stuffed it back in his pocket. "The people you've killed – did you kill them on purpose, intentionally? You hunted them down so you could kill them and take their abilities? That was your decision?"

XXX

"Yes, I kill people intentionally most of the time. Sometimes I have to defend myself but…that's an argument all to itself. Yes, I hunt them. I want their ability. They don't want it or won't use it or they hate themselves. They don't see how special they are so I take it and I use it how it should be used. I take it away from useless people; I make it special. Maybe that's a mercy, I don't know. Half the time death isn't the point, I just want the ability and death is a side effect. I kill them because I'm angry and they're lives aren't worth more than mine – that's how people treat me. People, like you, take notice. Killing…taking abilities, gives me purpose. And people want me for that purpose because I'm useful and good at what I do." Sylar didn't look away from Peter's eyes the whole time; delivered his reasons calmly, logically, then waited.

XXX

_'People, like me, take notice.' What does that mean?_ But first Peter wanted answers to what he'd asked earlier. "Do you feel responsible for their deaths?"

XXX

Sylar inhaled. "I told you it's complicated…Yes, in the sense that I take life, I plan it, I intend it, sometimes I desire it and sometimes I don't. I've…I had to get over the part of me that…couldn't handle the killing." He looked away now, licking his lips, focused more on his own thoughts and feelings, the memories, too. "I understand other people's arguments but I reject them. Do I feel responsible? Not particularly. Death is a part of life, the food chain, and all that. No, I'm not responsible because it isn't…black and white. I've been pushed and tempted and manipulated into killing. It wasn't my intention to ever kill people, I would have preferred not to but I have to deal with it now that I do. I don't rule out the…extenuating circumstances of my past or the 'what-if' variables even if it's just wishful thinking. That's not what you want to hear but that's how I see it and I know I'm alone in seeing it that way, so we…usually default to your moral hero's way of things." Sylar tried for a smile.

XXX

Peter met Sylar's attempted smile with narrowed eyes and head pulled back. If he looked like he was judging Sylar, that was probably because he was, or at least was trying to. Everything was yes and no at the same time, which sort of made sense. Being a serial killer was a dangerous, antisocial activity to pursue, so that Sylar had reasons for and against wasn't surprising. "You've thought about this. Are you okay with who and what you are? And what did you mean earlier about how people like me take notice – take notice of what?"

"I know that's not really a fair question about what you're okay with. But it seems to me like you're okay with it on one hand, but then not on the other, so I want to know more about where you're coming from there." His voice was hard and clear, brows drawn together, and watching Sylar closely with a tiny tilt of inquiry to his head. Peter moved a couple steps closer, but was still most of half the bar away from him.

XXX

Sylar's eyes snapped to Peter with suspicion but he tempered his expression until it was hidden. "Of course I'm okay with everything, who I am and _what_ I am. I made myself, didn't I? I mean, what happens if I'm not okay with myself and what I've done? Are you…" Here, Sylar turned and slid from his stool with smooth motions, approaching Peter casually, "going to help me?" he asked that with pleading sarcasm, applying his wide-eyed innocence that seemed to sucker Peter right in every time even as he grasped at the man's coat lapels as if helpless.

XXX

Peter took a half step back as Sylar approached. For a moment, he thought he was about to get throttled even though that didn't mesh with anything else that was going on – words or expressions. Nothing was making sense. Sylar was going from resolute and determined, content with his past and trying to calmly explain it, to slinking across the room with an out-of-place innocence and then grabbing at him. His hands came up and off to the sides as he waffled between leaning away and letting Sylar do whatever it was he was doing. Mostly, Peter just stood there and looked surprised.

XXX

"No; you never believed that anyway, did you? You know exactly what I am." Sylar sidled up to the shorter man closer still. "I enjoy walking on the dark side, I'm not good with temptation. I like the power, the control; I do it for the fucking release! You respect the abilities even if you think I'm an abomination; you notice. Maybe you know how much I love…" he grasped Peter's right hand, mostly covered in the brace. It would be easy to gain compliance with this in his grip, although it was light for now and the man's left hand was free to strike. "…I love getting _hit_ on by heroes." Sylar raised the hand to his mouth and licked, wet and hot, across all the empath's knuckles, purring, "Maybe this is my kink; maybe I'm just playing nice."

XXX

_What the hell?_ Had Peter been less startled by the whole thing, he would have been provoked by the suggestion Sylar got off on killing people. When Sylar grabbed his hand, he didn't react at first. Then, _Wait, what are you doing?_ "Stop it!" Peter tried to pull away. Sylar's grip tightened. _Is he going to bite me?_ But no, it was just a lick – disgusting – and making Peter want to rise up on tip-toes with tension. Teeth bared, his left hand went to Sylar's right shoulder, shoving him.

XXX

Sylar weathered the push, stepping back and then adjusting his balance forward right after, admonishing with a teasing tone, "You broke the bed in the back, Peter…That's okay. We don't need a bed."

XXX

Peter's eyes went to his right hand. It was securely caught. At the moment Sylar had took it, Peter hadn't been thinking he needed to oppose the grip. He'd just been glad creepy-Sylar had let go of his coat. But now, Sylar was holding it hostage. Since Peter wasn't inclined to allow that (and he might have had he any idea of why Sylar was doing this), it translated to a need for getting free as quickly as possible. Jerking, twisting, and anything else that involved trying to get his hand free directly would be painful. That left the option of making this behavior too expensive for Sylar to continue. Fortunately, he didn't seem to be doing much in the way of defense. It occurred to Peter that might be intentional – all of this made sense if he assumed Sylar was trying to goad him into attacking him. But either way, Peter wanted loose.

He punched Sylar in the throat.

XXX

Peter hit him all right, just not where Sylar expected it – then again, when did Peter ever do what anyone expected? Sylar released the hand at once. He could have held on but his purpose had been fulfilled and the empath was very likely to escalate. He allowed the instinct to clutch his throat as he coughed over the initial pressure. _Goddamnit, Petrelli! Goddamn, Petrelli!_ It angered him because Peter refused to play along, obey the rules and nearly every strike he made was aimed to cause major damage. _I'm playing by his fucking rules and he's not playing anything at all. Every time I try to talk, I get hurt – what the hell?! I was trying to help!_ He wouldn't have minded so much if the other man would tone it down, even so, he couldn't really complain about the location, severity or intent of the blows. In this case, Peter clearly wanted him to shut up. The rest of his recovery was spent massaging his throat to check that it fucking worked, hacking and wheezing for air in a surely dignified manner. Everything worked, though it would hurt to speak. The growl he wanted to make was going to be delayed.

XXX

Peter hustled backwards as fast as possible, getting to the door and knocking it open. He stopped there in the partly open doorway with cold air at his back, huffing, nose wrinkled, and watching Sylar. He didn't think he'd hurt him very badly. It wasn't like he'd had much of a wind-up for the blow, but it was a delicate part of the body. He waited to see what would happen next, a little surprised that Sylar wasn't pushing the fight.

XXX

He could still glare, though, so he did. Sylar rasped with feeling, "You're frustrating, too." _In so many ways. This must be how men indicate attraction to other men: hitting the back of the head, throat, strangling, kicking the knee. 'Love taps,' right?_ From that point, he didn't know what was going to happen. Did they both continue on, go home, or was Peter leaving by himself, one foot out the door already? The immediate concern was Peter's return to the shared bed tonight.

XXX

Peter quirked a brow, rolled his eyes, and tilted his head in a wordless, 'Yeah, I probably am' gesture. Sylar could clearly breathe and speak. Those were good signs, but they didn't preclude the possibility of swelling. Peter let the door shut behind him and suggested, "You should put some ice on that. Go get one of those bags of food from the freezer. Use it."

XXX

If Sylar could have sighed, he would have, but he followed the directions, going into the kitchen and digging out a baggie of pre-cut carrots. _He hits me, then he tries to help. What's that syndrome called, the hostage one? He expects me to go along with it, whatever it is._ It was frustrating only to get half (if that) of what he wanted every time. "It'll be cold enough outside," he grumbled. He felt shaky, shaken, weak after the conversation. Being punched was both painful, emotionally, and helped him normalize as he wondered why Peter had to do things the way he did. _(I hate myself. How is that not obvious? Does he know?) Because he'll kill us and make things worse if he knew. I had to distract him. (I just want to sit here for a while). On the kitchen floor? That's pathetic. (Then that's how I feel. Pathetic)._ Dutifully he kept his face close to neutrally blank as he pressed the cold bag to his throat. At least it meant the mini-fight was over. "What now?" Sylar asked into the too-quiet silence.

XXX

Peter had followed Sylar, somewhat, when the other man went in the kitchen. What that meant was Peter kept most of the width of the bar between them, but angled to keep an eye on him through the service counter. When Sylar returned, Peter didn't have to stoop and juke to keep line of sight. In answer to his question, Peter said with a wry smile, "Well … standard first aid training would dictate I have you lie down, relax, and slow your breathing for the next fifteen to twenty minutes while we let the ice pack work and I keep a close eye on you. The danger is that swelling might constrict blood vessels and cause you to black out unexpectedly. But I'm not sure if you'd put up with that as a treatment, or if I'd put up with how you might put up with me. So how about we compromise and we'll both sit on the floor. Okay? It's not nearly so far to fall, if it comes to that."

XXX

Sylar's expression was highly dubious, but Peter already guessed his response to that. "I am not going to fall down," he complained and dismissed the idea, frowning about it. _I did mention a bed and the floor._

XXX

"The other option is that we go home," Peter said, which came out as more of an ultimatum than he intended. Certainly he was already mentally vetoing the rest of the trip. He assumed it was early afternoon, the place wasn't in sight, and then they'd have to get back … all in the frigid air and short amount of remaining daylight. Plus, Peter's morale was flagging. If his was, he assumed Sylar's was worse.

XXX

"Alright, fine," Sylar huffed. He came around the corner of the bar and sat somewhat close to the stools. Peter was the most interesting thing here so Sylar observed him because he could. This could get more awkward or it could be comforting, sitting, on the floor, with nothing else to do.

XXX

Peter sidled closer before folding his legs to sit so-called Indian style on the floor. He was now only about ten feet away, which was still an odd distance to be from someone you were friends with, and unwisely close to someone you didn't trust. "One nice thing about this place is that it's pretty germ-free as far as I can tell. 'Sterile' has its advantages." He regarded Sylar as closely as he could from where he was at, looking at the guy's color. He doubted anything was seriously wrong or would become so, but he saw no reason to take the risk. Peter glanced down at his right hand, rubbing his left thumb over the knuckles where Sylar had licked him. He supposed the spittle was sterile, too, not that it was wet anymore. "What was all that about?"

XXX

In a much better act of innocence, Sylar answered, "What was all what about?" _That's another thing he does. He asks me endlessly why I do anything. I only ask him when it's important or makes no sense or I'm…bored or curious, but he_ wants _to know the reasons why._

XXX

"I mean that … What you just did – that ... approach. Why?" Peter was a hair's breadth from asking what he'd done to provoke it, but that made it sound like he was at fault and he didn't feel he was. The more he thought about it, the more he thought Sylar had started the whole heavy-handed, over-the-top flirting specifically to get Peter to hit him, but the motivation for that was a mystery. Sylar didn't seem happy now, so maybe he'd expected something else?

XXX

Sylar shrugged. His interest was caught on Peter's thumb rubbing his just-licked knuckles – was that a gesture of disgust, 'get it off,' or was it…like a caress? The man himself was ambiguous enough that he discerned no answer. Probably disgust what with the mention of a sterile world. _Goodie. I'm sterile so he's not freaking out about my germs._ "I just wanted to. Obviously." _I wanted to do more than that. It's not like I can just call time-out or stop to a conversation, not once he gets going. It's always a lose-lose, it just depends what I chose to do that will make me lose._ He didn't know how that was going to be taken. "Is it supposed to feel like something's twisted?" he said of his neck. It was mostly neutral. His hands held the ice pack and adjusted his clothing to make his throat more visible and comfortable, offering himself up to see what Peter would do. It would make everything better if Peter would play nurse again.

XXX

"Your neck?"

XXX

"Yes." _What else would be, Peter?_

XXX

Well … he didn't know what it meant to feel that way. With a beat of hesitation and a bevy of checking glances, Peter knee-walked the few steps over to him and knelt to one side and to the front of Sylar's right. It was the side he'd been hit on. Sylar was making only occasional eye contact, mainly looking away and letting himself be examined. Deciding it was safe, Peter draped the ice pack on Sylar's shoulder and looked at the area in question. He was pretty sure, from memory and the vasodilation, that he'd struck Sylar mostly on the side of the neck, the impact falling mainly against the sternocleidomastoid muscles. That Sylar could speak and swallow without much difficulty confirmed it. He touched the back of the fingers of his left hand lightly against what he judged to be the center of impact. "Here?"

XXX

Sylar made a happy noise, something of a hum, though disguised it as a groan of discomfort – he thought it was successful. "Right here…" he indicated the area, fingers brushing Peter's. It didn't feel great and it did feel somewhat twisted or crushed or something, he didn't know what.

XXX

"Hm," Peter said. He turned his hand to use fingertips, pressing them lightly for a few seconds against the stiffer skin above the area, which would be bristly as the day wore on, then over the smoother, softer skin where he'd struck, then under it. Nothing was throbbing or distended.

XXX

This was making up for everything. The touch was barely-there, but it was intentional and kind and skin-to-skin. Not wanting to seem weak, he rested his hands on Peter's forearms, not considering that it also kind of increased his neediness.

XXX

Peter jumped when Sylar touched him, just a little, more a start really. A wash of pins and needles through his extremities announced the flood of adrenalin that small contact had created. He looked down, taking a couple shallow breaths. But it didn't look like anything to be worried about. He took a deeper breath and let it out as he turned his attention back. "It's just localized here?"

XXX

"Yes. It's mostly where you hit me, that area," Sylar indicated it again. "I still feel pressure; it feels tight. It hurts my headache." _You hurt me. What are you going to do about it? What am I going to do about it?_

XXX

"Okay." Peter gently palpated the front of the throat, but everything seemed to be where it needed to be. The memory of choking Sylar ran through his mind. He glanced up at Sylar's face, remembering the guy waking and rubbing on him, just as he'd made a pass moments before. Was there a common factor in what they'd discussed before each of these? Peter had the feeling there was. "I think it's just the swelling." He replaced the ice pack. "Just hold that there for a while longer."

XXX

Sylar swallowed as the touch extended to his throat itself. It was just instinct but it probably made him look nervous. Their eyes met at almost the exact same moment, both of them likely thinking the same thing. It didn't look like Peter was uncomfortable…Sylar knew he was feeding off the attention, completely caught up in enjoying the other man's gaze on his person, on his skin. His throat was chilled because of the ice but Peter was warm. "Is that normal? What happens if it continues?"

XXX

"It's normal," Peter reassured, deciding not to address all the possibilities and alarm his patient. "You're going to be fine." _But let's stay sitting down just in case_. He scooted away, out of arm's length, but not so far away as he'd been sitting before. He watched Sylar speculatively, trying to draw a parallel between the previous 'we were talking about how Nathan died, and then he got mean like he wanted to piss me off' and the more recent 'we were talking about him killing people in general, and then he started another fight'. _What about the other fights we've had, like the one at the storefront or the one in that kid's room? What were we talking about before those?_


	91. Topping the List

Day 34, January 13, Afternoon

"Are you ever going to make your point, the reason for all the questions? Or was that all just a joke to see if I'd talk?" Being pampered took the edge of Sylar's questions. Would he ever feel stupid if that was the case, if it was a joke; his attempt at helping Peter through whatever weird therapy was turned against himself and he blabbed his secrets for some of Peter's or perhaps some stories that he didn't particularly care about. The ice pack was chilling the blood to his head via his carotid; it served the dual purpose of aiding his headache a little. He could easily curl up somewhere despite his hurts, with his companion in the vicinity or even closer. "Knowing you, you'll tell me 'I just wanted to know; that's how I am, Sylar.'" He did a credible job of imitating Peter's voice, cute frown included. "But I told you so you could tell me what you were freaking out about earlier."

XXX

"Huh?" Peter pulled himself out of his introspection. It wasn't important at the moment, anyway. Peter huffed a laugh at Sylar's imitation. "Um, it wasn't a joke, but, uh, the questions were the point. I wasn't trying to make a different one." He waited a long beat, then asked, "You thought I would tell you what was bothering me?"

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar allowed some 'duh!' to slip into his tone. He'd still fallen for it, though, knowing that Peter was asking just to know and judge and he'd still answered the questions anyway. _Or maybe now I'm trying to change my reason for answering in the first place._

XXX

Peter's eyes hooded and he looked down to pick at the way his jeans were folded around his knee. "I told you most of it, part of it." He plucked at the cloth a little more. Voice lower, he continued, "I didn't have much control over my abilities before. You know that. They didn't give me any help in Level Five. Adam was … selective in what he told me. And then I lost my memories, so I didn't even have that. In Cork, my abilities were coming and going and I didn't know what I had and didn't have." He paused to chew his lip, still studying the floor and his knee aside from the occasional glance up. "I teleported us – Caitlin and me – into a city in the future. It was … an accident. The place was deserted, like here. When people found us, they were in decontamination suits and took us to a treatment facility, mostly by force. They were yelling at us, panicked, not how you should treat patients, but I doubt they were trained. We were separated – Caitlin and me. I found out a disease had been released …" He sighed. "About the time I'd teleported forward from, near the time I'd been in Cork, maybe a month later. It had spread fast and killed about … over ninety percent of the people in the world – in the entire world." He frowned up at Sylar for a long moment. "I found out later I'd been the one who released it. So, you know, obviously I went back and I didn't."

Peter chewed his lip again, hunching in on himself. He almost whispered. "But … I didn't take Caitlin back with me." He was quiet, letting Sylar work out for himself what that meant.

XXX

Sylar just…stared. A lot of things started making sense about Peter Petrelli. "That's what you meant…" he mused aloud. Unfortunately, Sylar could imagine all too well the kind of burden that entailed, killing the entire planet basically. It was so much worse than .07 percent of New York, one city and it paled beyond Sylar's personal count. _I'd…freak the fuck out, too, if something like a bar and a backroom reminded me of it._ While he heard the part about Peter's former fuck-buddy, his 'girlfriend' (of course that would be what Peter focused on), he had a more important question, pertaining to their current situation. "Who was immune to the disease? What was it like, do you know?" _Was it like the Shanti virus? Were specials immune? Is that why we're here?_ /He remembered Angela telling him the quick-and-dirty, need-to-know, vague details about the virus when he went after Adam when Peter was with him./ Now this information made more sense and connected to other things Peter had said or done.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a measuring look, then came out of his huddle somewhat. Those were questions that didn't hurt to contemplate the answers. They had nothing directly to do with his own culpability. "Um … I know it had visible symptoms, because we were examined and decontaminated. So that says a lot about its pathology. It can't have a significant incubation period if they were mainly relying on visual cues." He paused, staring off into the distance and trying to remember dry charts and facts from his epidemiology class. The more recent and easily remembered bioterrorism protocols he'd been inculcated with as an EMT weren't what Sylar was asking for, or so he thought.

He shrugged finally. "I don't think I saw enough to say. I didn't see anyone who was infected and the corpses were covered. There was hardly any quarantine period at all, but I don't know what that meant." He sighed. "I know Nathan died in the first outbreak. I know Mom was alive. I … I met her. They called her. They acted like I was so lucky to have a living relative they could call for me." He shook his head slowly at how their surprise had driven home the reality of the disaster to him. "She brought back some of my memories – early ones, family stuff, so at least I understood who I was. But the rest, like my abilities and anything recent, I was still struggling with. Then we ..." _were walking and saw Caitlin and I teleported and that was it._ He shook his head slowly. "That was it." He poked at the fabric on his knee again, tensing and releasing the muscles of his legs. He knew he needed to give a better explanation. In a rushed, glum, and bitter voice, he said, "I tried to get to Caitlin. They wouldn't let me, so I teleported, and ended up back here and now." Peter looked up, around the bar. "Well, sort of here and now. 'Here and now' for then, back when I'd left. Adam found me."

XXX

"Is that disease responsible for this?" Sylar twirled a finger in the air to denote the world around them. "Could it be responsible?"

XXX

Peter looked around the place and considered, including considering the possibility that his own idea of the past – carnival in danger, Sylar in a basement, Matt Parkman's mental prison – could be fabricated, as false as Sylar thinking he was Nathan. He didn't think so, but he supposed it was possible and somewhere along the line, Peter allowed that Sylar deserved the respect that his idea of reality was as valid as Peter's. After a few moments, he said, "Not that I know of. Where are your memories of it? Where are mine?" He chuckled as a particularly morbid thought struck him. "Where are all the zombies?"

XXX

Sylar tried to chuckle and choked it off quickly. It was uncomfortable to do that. "I'd say they ate each other," he grimly half-joked. "But there's no bodies and no signs of natural disaster or radiation, nothing. I don't have any memories of any of this. I was at Matt's, then I'm here. I'm not really immortal and neither are you. It's not like the world works like it used to – it's fucked up. There's no explanation," he heard his voice rising in upset because the confusion and worry was compounded from having been here so long alone, but he thought that Peter could understand that much by now. He shook his head. "I always thought _I_ fucked it up. The world, that is. Any explanation that works is a good one, you know?" _(What explains it is actually Peter's 'it's not real' thing. Didn't he call it a dream?)_ "Did you ever have any…connections with anyone with abilities? Like the…ones you mentioned before? Not a family member or co-worker, but a friend?"

XXX

"My life hasn't exactly been rife with friends lately, or since I got my own powers." Peter swallowed, thinking and making the assumption Sylar meant 'close friendship' for 'connection' instead of 'lover'. "There have been people I've talked with, and been friendly with - like Mohinder or Matt. Rene maybe, or Hiro. Adam, but that didn't turn out well. Neither did Matt, I guess. All I can really say is that compared to strangers, I guess we were friends. But if you mean ..." He tilted his head and looked at Sylar curiously, applying the definition to the man he was regarding. "I never lived with any of them for a month, or sat around and talked about ... anything with them. We never talked except about whatever crisis was going on right then. That's it. I hardly knew them." Which was probably why Adam had found it so easy to lead him astray.

Peter continued to study Sylar steadily. _He's more my friend than any of them were or are, and I still want to beat the crap out of him ... a lot of the time. Not all the time, though. Not right now._ He made a single, amused noise in his throat and looked away. _Not like my family got off any better. I'm pretty rough on them, too. Am I really thinking Sylar's my friend?_ He smiled wryly at the floor. _I've got lousy taste in friends, then._ He tried the idea on like an unflattering suit. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but Peter wouldn't deny they'd built a kind of relationship in the time they'd shared here. He shrugged and glanced back to Sylar. "I don't know what ability any of them would pick to fight off the zombie hordes."

XXX

Sylar considered that and looked right back at Peter during the visual examination. The empath was probably wishing he didn't know Sylar so well and that he'd rather 'live and talk' with anyone else instead. There was nothing to be done about it, though Sylar tried not to squirm in place even after Peter quit looking at him. Sylar couldn't help his lips moving at a grin; it didn't come to completion but the rest of his face relaxed because the man's meaning was obvious and it warmed him. _He doesn't trust them either. I know he's said it, but_ _he means_ _it. He…only works with them because…he has to. Same as me, same as anyone. That's why he never talked to them after the crises or…maybe he was too busy being a hero._ He allowed the grin to bloom into a smirk. "Have you ever slept with someone with abilities? I know Simone didn't have one, but did Caitlin or Emma, anyone else?"

XXX

Peter smiled a little. "Ma fell asleep on my shoulder in a church we were hiding in overnight. But I doubt that's what you mean."

XXX

Sylar snorted. "No."

XXX

Peter studied Sylar for a moment, trying to decide how much he was willing to tell him of personal things that weren't Sylar's business in the least. Peter pursed his lips and then chewed on the lower one briefly, coming to a decision. "I haven't slept with Emma. We aren't even dating. She has an ability, but she's still trying to come to terms with it." He moved on before Sylar asked him things he wouldn't answer. "As far as I know, Simone didn't have an ability and neither did Caitlin. That's everyone, because before them, I wouldn't have known if they did." He glanced away and then back. "What happened with Elle … didn't go that far."

XXX

_Wait, not sleeping with Emma? Not even dating? Why not? They're just…friends? I bet he doesn't want to be 'just' friends. And she has an ability? Please. He wants her. The old 'I'll help you control your power' move._ Sylar was opening his mouth to pursue this Emma information but Peter had already moved on; clever boy.

XXX

With the intention of making sure Sylar didn't get a follow-up for details, Peter asked the question in return. "How about you?"

XXX

Sylar's smirk returned with evil promise. "Two women. You already know about Elle. I fucked Lydia, at the carnival. The empath-tattoo lady I told you about." _I sort of slept with her. Almost twice. Rounding up…_

XXX

Peter grimaced at the coarse way Sylar phrased it. "Did she mean anything special to you?"

XXX

Sylar frowned at him, confused by the logic. _Oh, his 'fucking because you care' thing._ "No. She was…with someone else who didn't like me. She had a daughter, maybe fourteen, fifteen years old – the kid had a power, so...No good mother in her right mind would keep a predator around her kid. Samuel sent her to…figure me out but she wanted me to kill Samuel. She was nice, but…for obvious reasons…" He waved it off.

XXX

Peter nodded and said nothing, wondering if there was anywhere Sylar drew the line as far as the taking of abilities was concerned. In Peter's own bout with it, he'd turned on brother and mother without hesitation. Peter knew Sylar had gone after Claire when she was no older than sixteen. _No one in their right mind would let Sylar loose on the world,_ he thought bitterly.

XXX

"Who would you pick to have here, if you could have any woman? No family members. It has to be someone you can fuck, someone you know. Emma?" he asked the last like it would be a scandal if Peter chose otherwise.

XXX

Peter's brows rose. "'Someone I can fuck'?" he repeated. "That's a pretty crass way to put it." He waited a few disapproving beats. "Maybe Nurse Hammer, so she can help me deal with you," he said sourly, but he laughed at the end, making light of it. He looked away and sighed, letting a moment pass before answering, "Caitlin. Not because I'd be saving her – well, not _just_ because it would save her – but because I thought … You talk about connections? I thought I had one with her. Or that I could have had one." Peter frowned and reached over to pick at the brace, thinking they'd been sitting long enough and really ought to go.

XXX

It took him several seconds to place Nurse Hammer – the large black nurse he'd impersonated at Mercy. Sylar assumed that was a joke. _Ah. So it's Caitlin he wants. I don't know if that's better for my chances or worse._ Despite his concerns, he wanted to know. "Describe her."

XXX

Peter scratched along the edge of the brace. He'd gotten it wet at some point in the mopping and although it had dried, it was now itchy, probably due to soap suds. "She was … Irish. About my height, shoulder-length, curly-wavy reddish-brown hair. Green eyes, pale skin, freckles." He smiled softly, looking at Sylar's feet but seeing something entirely other. "She was quick. And smart. She had a mouth on her, and I mean that as far as verbally, so don't get any ideas. You would have liked her wit. She was good with people, but she saw things as they were, too. She gave me a chance. She gave me a lot of chances. She liked me just as I was, without any of the past or the abilities or the other reasons. She wanted me to be … family. Hers, maybe." Peter glanced up at Sylar and shrugged one shoulder. "I basically told her yes." He'd agreed and she'd inked him, though all her careful, beautiful work was washed away within minutes of finishing.

He sighed and changed the subject pointedly. "Who would you choose to be here with?"

XXX

It made him depressed, intrigued and a little warm all at once to hear Peter talk about his misplaced girlfriend or…fiancée? Sylar knew he couldn't live up to that. If Peter liked her so much, he almost wished to meet her. The regard Peter had for her was clear: she actually sounded like a decent human being. "I'd pick a…doctor I knew. Dr. Gibson."

XXX

"A doctor?" Peter asked. That was surprising, given the aversion Sylar seemed to have to all things medical. But maybe Gibson wasn't a medical doctor. "How do you know them?" Although he used a generic pronoun, Peter assumed Gibson was female, given Sylar's previous statements linking 'women' to 'someone you can fuck', as though the male gender were mysteriously off-limits. It was a weird attitude to have when coupled with Sylar's offers to couple with Peter.

XXX

"She was at the police station when they found me after…um…I barely knew her. The police chief wanted to torture me into confessing and she wanted to talk – you'd like her," he said wryly. "She had an English accent and thought my hearing," Sylar pointed to his ear, "hearing clocks, was cool. She kind of helped jailbreak me. I had a gun at the end, but she didn't flinch. She…saw I had abilities and she let me go; it wasn't like she had a power or anything. I guess if I brought her here she'd be safe," Sylar sent a checking look to Peter. "It's safer now," he insisted about himself and the world. "No…car accidents, no natural disaster, no Company, no powers…" Actually, the more he thought about it, she would only need protecting from himself and from Peter, who, even if he had a girl of his own, would probably steal Sylar's – there was no guarantee she'd like him, Sylar, anyway. He rubbed at his forehead, "Maybe not. Just…thinking out loud."

XXX

Peter nodded. "Now that you mention it, that was one of the things I liked about Caitlin. She saw my abilities, but they didn't scare her. And unlike her brother, she wasn't leaping at having me use them to benefit her. Not that he was all that bad about it. She just ..." He shook his head and shrugged. "I could read her mind now and then. She liked _me_." He said it like it was astonishing that someone might appreciate him for himself because, well, it was. It wasn't about his family or connections or money or looks. Not that Caitlin had minded his appearance, but she didn't covet it; it was a benefit, but not a trophy to her.

"Come on." He gestured at the bag Sylar was holding to his throat. "Let's ditch the carrots and get moving."

XXX

_No_ , Sylar decided. He wanted this perfect lost girl kept far away. Wherever she was, she could stay there. There was no way he could stomach Peter in love with someone right in front of him while Sylar had nothing and no one. He was a little irritated his choice had been ignored. _Your abilities don't scare me,_ he thought with determination. He stood, replacing the carrots in the freezer, and followed after Peter. Once outside, Peter waited for him so he led the way towards the bridge and Home Depot.

XXX

"Where are we headed?" Peter asked as they took off in the same direction they'd been going before. "I think we should go back to the apartment for now. I don't want to get stuck out here after dark, or have to walk back late." He was concerned about Sylar's stamina for it and not too wild about the prospect himself – especially when he wasn't sure how much further the place was, or how the weather might turn as the day wore on. It was cloudy at the moment, which could turn to snow at any point, or clear up, or remain the same. He put on his headband and slipped on his gloves.

XXX

Slightly irritated, Sylar paused before reorienting them towards the Pegasus. It was going to bother him if he'd unintentionally ruined their errand – how many times had they tried to finish one stupid project? What he said was, "So you're not dating Emma. Do you want to be?"

XXX

"I wouldn't have minded. She's nice." It was about the blandest answer Peter could give. He hoped Sylar would get the hint.

XXX

"Does she like you?"

XXX

Peter frowned. "I broke her cello – busted it all over her living room floor, the instrument someone gave her as a gift. We're not even on speaking terms anymore, Sylar. Why do you want to know?"

XXX

"You came here to save her or get her back, so I want to know what she means to you." _I might need to know what she means to you, what I'm dealing with here._ "I want to know about her, so I'm asking. That's what normal people do, isn't it?"

XXX

Peter grumped, grunted, and shrugged. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

XXX

_Excellent._ Peter bought it, as Sylar had expected he would. "Where do you know her from?"

XXX

Peter couldn't help being prickly, suspicious, and defensive about the whole subject. "I think the first time she really paid attention to me was when I saved her from being run over by a bus." Maybe he could distract Sylar by telling him that story, but even that would lead to the information Emma was deaf, a weakness Peter didn't want to reveal.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes. _Typical. Fucking damsel in distress. Or maybe he just goes around perceiving catastrophes he needs to avert._ It was a line of questioning he'd have to explore another time, after more thought. "How do you know she has an ability?"

XXX

"Would you drop it, Sylar?" Peter snapped in exasperation. "We were just talking about how no one in their right mind would let you around their kid if the kid had an ability. Well, Emma has one. And it's not dangerous or defensive or anything that will warn her you're coming her way. I'm not going to tell you where to find her or why you should. She's a human being in danger and I know her personally, so I care about her even if she's never 'someone I can fuck'."

XXX

"Hey!" Sylar protested in affront. "I wasn't asking where you 'thought' she is, or _was_ , or where to find her. She doesn't exist except as a figment of your mind. And I don't kill kids, thank you very much. I told you, I let three or more of them go and treated them well. I took _care_ of some of them, died for them sometimes. What I said earlier was about Lydia's mothering skills - just because people won't let me near them or their children doesn't mean I'm _going_ to do something. Hell, I was free to roam around her kid, who was still alive when I left." He allowed that to sink in before continuing, "Now, I want to know how you know she has an ability – obviously you saw it or you have it, either or both." An expectant look was aimed at Peter. "So, what is her ability?"

XXX

Peter huffed, rolled his eyes, and stomped along quietly for a while, chin tucked to his chest as he considered what Sylar had said. So Sylar didn't kill children. Little help that was, given that Emma was an adult. But it was worth something. Peter wondered if he could talk Sylar into not wanting Emma's power. Sylar had a good point about how she wasn't in any immediate danger – at least not from him, not here. "Her ability lets her see sound as colors."

XXX

Sylar stared for an extra few seconds. _Are you kidding me…?_ "That's it? That's useless!" _All this fuss for a lady who sees sound as colors? How annoying!_

XXX

_Good. Glad you think so._ Peter shrugged and kept his chin tucked. "It's an ability. Does it matter to you how useful it is?"

XXX

"Eh, sometimes." Questions in this vein were complete, for now – he moved on seamlessly, "Why did you hit me just then?"

XXX

Peter lifted his head to look Sylar over – mainly just his face, neck, and chest. They were walking fairly close to one another, within arm's reach. Peter noted the proximity only because of the subject of hitting. "I told you to stop and you didn't. You were," he quirked a brow, "escalating. So was I, I suppose." _That's what I do when I can't figure out how else to resolve a situation._

XXX

"Huh," Sylar grunted, acknowledging that he'd heard. It had been nice, getting to ask his questions and bother Peter a bit, mostly without incurring damage, lethal, lasting or cumulative. Now he wanted to think about it. Bed sounded like a welcome destination, especially since he got to share it.

XXX

Sylar said nothing for the next block and looked to be continuing that trend into the next. Peter eventually asked, "Does it matter to you how useful or powerful an ability is, when you're deciding whether to take one or let them live?"

XXX

"What, you mean about Emmy?"

XXX

"Emma!" Peter corrected testily. He shot Sylar a look, beginning to think the guy was messing with him about her name. He seemed to remember everyone else just fine. "And no, I meant about anyone, not her specifically."

XXX

Sylar smirked a bit about that and continued, answering the question. "Not in this case. In this case, I'm just curious. I like abilities. If you're asking about how it was with my ability, with people around, then I have to know if you're 'still asking now' because you already punched me and you might not like the answer."

XXX

Peter's next look was more uncertain than anything else. He didn't get what Sylar was asking for, aside from a 'don't hit me for my answer'. He frowned, wondering what Sylar could blurt out that would deserve a punch. _Maybe it's something about me and my old ability?_ If that were the case, then Peter didn't think Sylar was in any danger. "Yes, I'm still asking now."

XXX

He spared a side-eyed glance at Peter, considering it. Perhaps they were developing something of an understanding or at least a similar code. _It depends how…much my ability is pushing me. It depends on my options. (I've taken ones I've never even used…)._ "I haven't come across many that I've turned down, consciously or otherwise. But I have turned some down before. I do…choose the better ones, I like to think." Just as he chose his words carefully, changing 'target' to 'choose.' Peter was awfully sensitive about word choices sometimes, even though the man abused the concept himself and waffled on it, with words like 'fucking.' ' _How crass of me!'_ Sylar checked his companion again, seeing how that was being accepted (or not).

XXX

"Huh," Peter grunted. There was nothing about the statements he found provocative, which was both a relief and a concern, since it meant Sylar still had no idea of what sort of things caused Peter to react. Yet he'd asked, just a few minutes earlier, about the punch Peter had thrown in the pub – asking was a good sign. "What about mine? The new one, the one I have n-, yeah, well, sort of now. I don't know. I haven't tried to swap it, if I even can." He wasn't sure if he'd survive if he were able to do it – where would his mind go? Would it get split like Sylar with part of him residing in comatose Sylar's brain and part of him running around in his body? What would that be like? What would Matt do about it? Could he fix it? That sparked a new thought. "You didn't kill Matt Parkman when you had the chance, and _his_ ability is really useful."

XXX

Sylar didn't want to address the half-voiced question about Parkman, so he went with the other. "What about your power? I don't want it."

XXX

Peter frowned, which he thought was a dumb expression to have on his face. It was the rejection, the 'you're not good enough', that he took from Sylar's comment even if Peter didn't want to take it that way. "Good," he said more roughly than he intended. He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to shed the insecurity with it. It would help if he had more information. "Is there a reason?"

XXX

"Are y-?" Sylar straightened as a new thought struck him and he looked at Peter differently, wonderingly, like things made sense. "No, how could you. You said you never took a power with my ability. My ability is understanding how things work." He paused to see if that connected with Peter in any way. "When I use my…. method, my body copies the power, but I also understand how to use it. There's very little…'experimenting' I need to do. With your method," and he tried to say that without being excruciatingly condescending, "you just copy the power and you have problems like being unable to control or use it or, like you said, even knowing you have it. That's why my control will always be better than yours because I'm not getting unknown, unstable abilities just by brushing shoulders with people. That's why I don't want your power."

Sylar checked his partner, almost eagerly for several paces. It was making his head and neck throb but it was worth it and the cold helped. "I wonder if that's the difference between us. I've always had to control myself and you haven't – precision versus quantity…Whether you believe it or not, I _do_ control myself." _I wish I didn't have to or have to as much but…there it is,_ he thought enviously without admitting it _._ "The strange thing is that I got a virus that wiped all my powers and when I fixed it, I still had my original. And when /Dad/ took your abilities and you took that synthetic one, you still got empathy."

XXX

Peter's head bobbed once in a nod, but otherwise they walked in silence for a while. Sylar might have thought the subject was dropped, but far from it. Peter was feeling his way through it, remembering what it felt like to gain a new ability with both his original and the later power. The original had felt like almost nothing at all – a wisp, a faint stirring inside of him – but once he knew what to feel for, he'd felt it a few times. His later power was much more … tactile. It gave him sensation on the skin of his hand and racing through his veins. It felt _good_ , like a drug hit, and sometimes he even shut his eyes during the taking, though it seemed inappropriate and rude to the person he was borrowing from to let on how much he liked it.

"But, what if you-" _No, that's stupid. Don't ask him that._ He frowned severely, watching the road in front of his feet as they walked. But he was going to ask anyway. "I mean, it's not that I'm _suggesting_ you do this, but if you did ..." He glanced over at Sylar a couple times, intent and questioning without having asked the question. _He's not an idiot. He must have thought of this already. It's not like I'm giving him a new idea. I'm just asking why he's not interested. That's it, right? (I don't think I should care so much that he's interested.)_ "If you … took my ability … then wouldn't yours still work?" He shrugged shoulders tense from the thought of his own murder. "You'd be able to understand whatever you got, right?" He went on, speaking a little faster, "Like if it was my original ability. Yours would still work. You'd still know any power you got that way?" The end of the sentence lilted up in question even the exact words didn't reflect one.

_Is that my destiny? To let him get more powers without having to kill people? But then … I'd be dead._ Peter sighed unhappily. _If it saved other's lives, if it saved Emma's life … would I do it?_ "Would that … guarantee that you wouldn't have to kill people anymore?" He asked hesitantly, not sure what to do with the answer.

XXX

Sylar raised an eyebrow, meeting the look cast his way. He deduced the reason for the other man's hesitance, what with the direction the conversation was going, but let Peter voice it in his own time mostly because Sylar was so surprised to hear it. Did it involve what he suspected it did? _Is that an invitation? I know he says he's not suggesting it but…it's the way he's wording this…_ Peter's motive became clear at the end – a relief of sorts that Peter wasn't that suicidal. Casually, testing, Sylar dissembled, playing a little dumb, "I don't have my powers right now and you don't have your original ability."

XXX

"I know that!" Peter said testily. "But I don't think it will always be that way. I _can't_ think it will." Then he snapped, "You're avoiding the question again!" Sylar's evasion about something so important pissed him off. Peter was considering sacrificing himself (not at the moment, of course, but later) and to get some vague non-answer went all through him, like not even his life deserved a direct answer.

XXX

Sylar smirked humorlessly. He'd wanted to know how Peter really felt about that…concept he was putting forward and now he knew. "I don't think that would work. There's…lots of reasons why," he artfully omitted his own intermittent empathy and acquisition of powers he didn't intrinsically understand, "but the primary one is that you didn't understand the abilities you got with your power. That's like expecting your power to work differently just because it's in my brain – you've had my ability and it acted the same, I think. I've never had two abilities work at the same time, except my ability with another power plus regeneration; that type of thing. I had chances to take your power…I guess I, or my ability, wasn't interested." He shrugged because it could be very useful but it didn't help him fulfill his end goal and sate his hungry desire. "I want the understanding. Sometimes my ability is smarter than I am."

XXX

Peter frowned severely at him. He was still angry – not only had his possible solution been trashed, but Sylar was still not answering one of Peter's core concerns, which was whether he'd kill him as soon as they were out of here and back in the real world. "You sure seemed interested back in Mohinder's apartment!" Irritation strongly flavored his voice. He wasn't happy about being murdered, either. Beating the crap out of Sylar would do a lot to even the score there, and maybe it would do something about his unacknowledged fears as well. He balled and released his left fist and his stride became springy as tension ramped him up. _But … wait …_ "What happened after I died then? What did you do? Why didn't you take my ability then?" The questions came rapid-fire as Peter realized he didn't know what had happened between the time the glass lodged in his skull and when Mohinder had brought him to Petrelli residence. _Did he really pass me by? Is he serious about that?_ "How did Mohinder survive?"

XXX

Sylar just huffed. It was the allure, and what's more, the display of Peter's other powers at the time that had tempted him to try to kill Peter, not the least of which was the fact that he'd survived throwing them off the high school stadium, possessed regeneration and other abilities. "If I didn't tell you before, I think you've exceeded the limit for asking questions about the past," he intoned like he was in control.

XXX

"Asking, maybe, but you haven't _answered_ any of them!" Peter canted his body towards Sylar as they walked, punctuating his words by gesturing widely with sharp, agitated motions. "Answer me for fucking once!" If Sylar was compelled to obey him, then he would, right? "What did you do after I died?" he repeated doggedly. "You were going to take my ability before, so why didn't you once I couldn't stop you?" _Wait, what if he_ can't _take an ability from someone who's dead?_ Peter hesitated, brows pulling together. "Why did ..." _But maybe he_ didn't _let Mohinder get away? What if Mohinder got away on his own? (Carrying me? … Or maybe he came back for me.) What if I'm giving Sylar too much credit here and Mohinder not enough?_ Peter cocked his head, asking with more curiosity than exasperation, "How _did_ Mohinder get away from you again?"

XXX

This time Sylar growled under his breath. The answer was beyond embarrassing, so he didn't explain it. "Mohinder can be a slippery bastard. He got lucky and took you away. I was after the list anyway, but you…literally walked into it and fell into my lap, so…" Sylar's eyes scanned up and down Peter briefly because they were walking and his head was pounding worse. He was not going to put up much of a fight if Peter attacked today. The young empath's brain and pluck had been delicious back then. Sylar had enjoyed that brief struggle, a sign that his prey wasn't weak, was someone to play with. "Don't worry. Mohinder is on _my_ list." A tilt of his head before he added amused and confiding, "Though he's not at the top."

XXX

_He got lucky?_ Peter watched Sylar scope him out. _'My lap' … 'slippery' … 'on my list' – Huh. It's sexual, is it? The taking of powers, or something else? No, I think it's something else._ Sylar, laughing at Peter while Peter hit him, came to mind. _It's something else._ "What kind of list is that?" Peter asked with an undisguised, beat for beat copy of how Sylar had just looked at him. Peter was still plenty amped up, but the admission that Mohinder had bested Sylar somehow had taken a lot of the anger out of him, even if the upshot of the answer was that Sylar had not 'passed him by' in any intentional sense. It put Peter right back to where he'd started in thinking he would likely be a victim if they ever got out of here. He wasn't done making digs, though. "Who tops your … list?" he said, his delivery not as deadpan as he wanted it to be.


	92. Not A Damsel In Distress

Day 34, January 13, Evening

That word, the…innuendo therein, meant nothing to Sylar. Almost immediately, Nathan recalled it: /pornography – curiosity; in the Navy, being propositioned to bottom on board the Endeavour, being propositioned to top other men, in college – hazing, parties, orgies; even as a lawyer and as a politician./ Sylar licked his lips at the realization of the question, feeling his eyes take on another kind of intensity. Peter had asked how to fuck him. He slowed his pace and reached out to grab Peter's closer shoulder, then letting his hand slide down the man's coat-sheathed arm, brushing his chest along the way, "Don't worry, Petey. You're on the list," he rasped with plurisignificant promise. "And you can top it." _I won't make it easy, though._

XXX

Peter slowed when grasped, tensing and coming hyper-alert as some instinctive part of him brought all systems on line. He wasn't being attacked, though. The hand that stroked down his arm damn near fondled him and he was thankful (and regretful) he had on enough winter clothing to muffle the contact. Even if he lost a lot of the sensation, he missed none of the intention. Sylar's eyes were dark, lips wet, his gaze direct and demanding attention. Peter returned it, feeling his breath catch in his throat as his heart started to pound. What Sylar's words meant made its way to his conscious mind a lot slower than to his subconscious, which had apparently clued in before Sylar even spoke. There was the literal (which was troubling, actually, given they were talking about people Sylar wanted to get back at) and then the subtext (which was … fuck, an _offer_ ).

An offer he … did and did not want to take Sylar up on. He didn't, not really, at least he told himself that (while standing there just a few heartbeats away from having an erection), but the offer was the stuff of dark fantasy the likes of which Peter would never admit to having entertained. _Oh shit. But I started it with the 'topping' comment. And by looking at him like that._ He blinked, licking his own lips, and swallowing. He realized he'd stopped and was just standing there. They both were. And it looked a lot like Sylar was right on the cusp of …

"That's good, right?" Peter interrupted and laughed, a loose, relaxed sound as he realized how fucked he was and how fucked up all of this was. It was like when he'd woke up after Jeremy had healed him. He'd laughed out of hysteria and relief and at his own stupidity for trying to stop a shotgun shell with his chest. It was like he laughed now, knowing he'd brought this on himself, knowing he wanted it, knowing he could never take Sylar up on it. "Come on," Peter said abruptly, jerking his head the way they'd been going. "Let's keep moving. It's cold out here."

XXX

He felt a flush of heat at the other man's reaction. After a few seconds, Sylar raised an eyebrow curiously. Yes, it was a good thing. Peter had obviously missed or decided to overlook the part where it made Peter a target, so…yeah, a good thing because that left only the offer standing between them. And Peter had…laughed. It didn't sound mocking, nor did the man's body language indicate it. The response was 'keep moving. It's cold.' Sylar chose to take that as acceptance and he followed.

XXX

Peter shoved his hands in his pants pocket, the better to conceal anything that might be visible. He shook his head at his own stupid libido. It was like when Sylar had loomed over him in the hallway of the apartment and Peter had gone off upstairs and tried to jerk off but Sylar had walked in on him … yeah. Sometimes, all it seemed to take was the right fucking _look_ from Sylar to get him going. _Ridiculous – I am ridiculous._ Peter shook his head again, smiling slightly. _He called me 'Petey'. I suppose it's better than 'Pete'._ Regardless of which list he was on, he felt wanted now instead of rejected. It drained his anxiety and left Peter feeling pleased. Even the nickname was seen in a good light.

XXX

Once they were moving, Sylar checked his partner's zipper out of curiosity. He was quite certain he'd given Peter an erection at least once before. This time…he couldn't tell. Literally. Sylar was no judge of what was penis and what was simply the mobile folds of denim because it wasn't like he looked at other guys' bulges as a habit or hobby. _But he put his gloved hands in his pants this time, which is nearly impossible to do. It's awkward, so why do it?_ A check of the man's face was somewhat more helpful – Peter was ruefully amused, no longer jumpy and pressing. _I might not mind a little pressing now…I offered to let him…Great._ Anxiety killed or repressed any arousal Sylar might have had, though the idea had initially sounded very appealing, if done correctly. It was unlikely and he knew it. But Peter was interested, there was no denying it. That was all that mattered.

The rest of the walk was more or less silent. In the elevator, Sylar cast heated looks at his companion, with the intent of being caught at it a few times. Peter began to undress from his outerwear once they arrived at the apartment suite – coat, gloves, headband – and Sylar lingered nervously in the entryway, taking off his own coat and shoes. The nurse's first order of business was something involving the kitchen (and that didn't help Sylar's paranoia), which turned out to be cocoa. _He wouldn't care if I was cold, but maybe he can't perform when he's cold, in the cold. That doesn't mean I misunderstood…I just…thought he'd be a lot more…aggressive or specific…?_ Half way through the process, Sylar slunk closer to sit at the table, facing forward at Peter, telling himself, _This is normal._

"What's your poison?" he asked less casually than he'd intended.

XXX

"What?" Peter looked over his shoulder from where he'd finished stirring sugar into the cups. "At the moment, hot cocoa." He turned back and hunted through the cabinet in front of him for the marshmallows, finding them.

XXX

Of course subtle went right over Peter's pretty head as it had every other time before. The man responded to directness. But not to kissing. Or licking. "What's your fantasy? Sexually," he clarified, "What do you want to do?" _Fuck. Is he making me cocoa, too?_

XXX

Peter's brows rose. _That's … blunt? Direct? A little more explicit than I thought we were? (I did bring it up …_ , some part of him excused Sylar.) Taking both cups, he brought them to the table and pushed one over to Sylar. Neither were full – each was only about half full of cocoa with a layer of marshmallows that took another quarter of the cup's height. He'd misjudged the amount of milk and decided against heating more or watering it down. If Sylar wanted round two, he could make it. Or he could ask politely, which seemed unlikely as Sylar asked for very little – except for sex and more intimacy than Peter had given some of his lovers. _He has this strange, 'I ask for nothing except everything from you' going on, and then acts like he hasn't asked for anything beyond basic decency, to be indecent with me._

Peter sighed and blew in his cup, not that it did any good with the marshmallows insulating the liquid. "My fantasies involve people who want me," he stated truthfully, "and who _like_ me," he added, shutting down Sylar's chances, "for who I am rather than me being their only option." He shrugged. "I suppose it says something about me that they involve people paying attention to me rather than me to them, but that's how it is in any case." He raised his cup and took a sip. It wasn't as hot as he'd expected (which would have been too hot) and the cocoa was well-mixed; it was sweet enough.

"What's yours?" he asked more blandly than if they were discussing the route to the Home Depot.

XXX

Sylar quickly asked another question, "What do you think about when you masturbate?" with the implication that Peter possibly thought about Sylar when he jerked off. _Will he admit to it?_ He wanted to put Peter on the spot and get some information for being turned down (Peter's idea of rejection was rather weak).

XXX

Peter looked down in his cup and then got up to fetch a pair of spoons. He used his to scoop out some half-melted marshmallow to eat, following it with a drink of cocoa. It gave him time to think over Sylar's continuing inappropriate questions. He noticed the evasion of his own question, but he didn't see any harm in responding. "The person I'm with, why they're there, and how they feel about me." He inclined his head a little. "It's the same answer, really." He waited patiently for Sylar to connect the dots as to why Peter wouldn't be with him, even if he was the last man on earth.

XXX

Sylar's expression soured at the non-answer. _I'm the person you're with, who cares why you're here, and you don't have a damn clue about how I feel about anything, as if it matters anyway – he just said it didn't matter._ He idly swirled his cocoa because it was probably too hot even though Peter was drinking his like it was fine. Burger and beer was a heavy dinner or lunch, whatever, so it wasn't like he was hungry. Peter's little assumptions were getting under his skin. He frowned and addressed it with more of his current candor. "Why do you think I don't like you, Peter? How would you know if I did like you? Or do you just get to decide that? I mean, you liking me, and I'm your only option, too, how does that factor into anything?"

XXX

Peter leaned back in his seat without tipping the chair, head tilting a little. Sylar's tone and his manner was confrontational now, interrogating him. _Rejection stings,_ Peter thought, considering the irritation he'd felt when Sylar had decreed that Peter's ability wasn't good enough for him to want. It was a really stupid thing to be upset about, just as Peter didn't see much reason for Sylar to be upset that Peter wasn't into him. No reason, that is, except ego, which was one of the most important reasons of all.

He gentled his tone and leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the table, cupping his hands around his nearly empty cup. "You've said you didn't like me. Most of the time you act you don't, either, but then you do things like grabbing me earlier today. I think you were trying to protect me." He gave the cup a half-turn, considering the complexity of their relationship. "I can live without sex. I want your company, though." _Sometimes. Maybe. You are my only option, after all. I'd rather be with you than alone most of the time_. He frowned and spooned out the last bit of marshmallow, washing it down with the dregs of cocoa.

Ignoring the bulk of Sylar's questions, Peter put his cup down and fixed Sylar with his full attention. "Why do you want to have sex with me? Why that, specifically, from me?"

XXX

There were so many reasons he had to answer that question. Admittedly, few of them were even good reasons. Sylar distinctly didn't want to talk about it. "No. I have reasons not to like you. I want to know if you understand why I don't like you." _At least, in the way you seem to demand to be liked._ At least Peter was perceptive enough to notice Sylar didn't 'like' him, and to remember that Sylar had said so (at some point) – the empath wasn't totally deluded.

XXX

Peter exhaled heavily and looked away, lips pursed. A lot of things ran through his head as possibilities, but he didn't have enough information. He looked back. "I don't know. I don't know what caused you to do the things you've done. A little bit of it hangs together for me, but not all of it or even most of it. So why you feel the way you do about me? I don't know and I don't want to play the guessing game while you string me along. Just tell me."

XXX

Sylar stared at him. There was nothing more he could do. He was surprised but he knew he shouldn't be – this was typical Petrelli, hero behavior. It was a low he'd thought no one would ever sink to. Maybe the lack of guessing or 'game playing' was a sadistic joke but…not even a wild theory. Nothing! It was utterly dehumanizing, degrading; he had no value and the events at Mercy were normal and morally valid. Sylar felt incredibly tired and he didn't care if another fight broke out; it just didn't matter. _He thinks that's okay, assuming he remembers it at all. He thinks it's okay. (I'm not safe)._ Eventually he stopped looking at Peter, his gaze sightlessly directed elsewhere as his breathing sped up to panting. His calm was shattered, the comfort he'd been getting from sleeping beside Peter was now suspect.

XXX

"Sylar?" he asked quietly. The guy was hurting and that hurt to see. Something Peter had said had struck deep. If it were someone else, if it were some other subject, then Peter would have moved to give comfort physically – a hand on Sylar's shoulder at the least. But the topic was why Sylar didn't like Peter. Peter was wary of people who were this quiet. It wasn't because Sylar was being polite.

"I don't understand why you _would_ like me, either," he said in the same low tone as before, voice sad as he kept his seat across the table. "That's why I'm afraid sometimes that you're going to kill me. I mean, why wouldn't you? You killed Nathan," his voice caught briefly but then steadied. "You killed my dad. You were going to kill Ma. You came back to Mercy Heights to kill me. I might not know your reasons, but I know what you intend for me and my family." _What's left of it. I'm not even sure what you did to Claire._

He watched Sylar for a long beat. The silence prompted him to go on. "The reason I don't want to guess is that there are so many things it could be. Was it the stadium in Odessa, or was it Kirby Plaza, or Mohinder in that med suite when you came back for me? Or was it the Stanton or Coyote Sands or Mercy Heights? Or any of that whole thing with Matt? And those are just the times you've been killed or close to it that I've been involved in. Or maybe you're angry about something else entirely. I don't _know_."

He didn't ask again for Sylar to tell him or explain himself. If he expected Peter to be a mind-reader, then he was expecting the superhuman in a world where they were all too human. It ran through Peter's mind that perhaps Sylar was thinking Peter knew these things from the stolen memories. He exhaled heavily, the fingers of his left hand picking briefly and anxiously at the edge of the brace on his right. He rose more slowly than normal and fetched Sylar's painkillers, offering them because he didn't know what else he had to offer as a balm.

XXX

Of course, thinking about it from Peter's perspective, it probably _wasn't_ obvious though Sylar still thought it should be. Peter droning on about just how clueless he was wasn't helping, neither was Sylar's rising anger. It didn't give him any response, no way to communicate the issue let alone sort his feelings. It wasn't something he wanted to talk about but it needed to be said at some point – for now, Peter was aware there was an issue on Sylar's end. More animated at least, he took the pills. "That answers it," he said with a dull edge. _Is he safe to sleep with?_ Sylar gave him a searching look. _Why didn't I originally include him in the plan to kill the Petrellis? Claire still isn't 'on the list.' Peter's on it now. (Sort of. Why do I want to sleep- fuck him?)._ He knew he should stick up for himself in this. "I have reasons for everything I do." _Why can't you see that?!_ "That's all I can tell you for now." _I should probably wait until we can fight about it – it's not like Petrelli would think he has any blame._ "I'm going to read," Sylar said like he didn't care what Peter did with himself. He wanted to think, so he escaped to the bed.

It had been such a long day: Peter's weirdness and claimed ignorance, confessions, getting hit again, almost getting hit _on_ – for once! He'd been so close, he could taste it…or maybe that was the lingering taste of Peter's knuckles on his tongue…Sylar comforted himself with the knowledge that Peter's body very much wanted to fuck him. He shot another piercing look over the top of his book, _I wonder if he needs to jerk off. Again. Has he been getting off?_

XXX

Peter exhaled heavily at the lack of answers, which Sylar claimed was an answer. The 'all I can tell you for now' made him wonder if Sylar was operating under some mental compulsion to be obtuse. But it wasn't necessarily that. He could simply be unwilling to tell. Peter knew it wasn't like he was a trustworthy, sympathetic ear for the man. After all Sylar had done, Peter found it hard not to be either wary or seething, especially when reminded of the past. He collected the cups from the table, noticing how Sylar hadn't touched the cocoa he'd made him, that Peter had shorted himself on to have enough to share. It pissed him off more than anything else had. He felt ignored, taken for granted, despised, and rejected. He was unwanted and unappreciated – or at least, the things he wanted to be wanted for, and appreciated for, were meaningless to Sylar. Instead, Sylar just wanted to fuck him, even as he talked about how much he didn't like him. Peter was seething again. In a quiet fury, he poured the cup out, rinsed them both, and headed downstairs without any announcement of his intentions.

XXX

Sylar sat up and frowned heavily at the other man's abrupt exit. What did that mean? How far was Peter going? He worried despite everything. _Well, fuck you, too. Oh, wait, you won't let me._ It was obvious he wasn't meant to follow and…the bed was comfortable. Maybe it was better to be alone to be both safe and somewhat comfortable (because there was more comfort to be had, if he could arrange it).

XXX

Peter put his emotions into music, not returning for dinner until some hours later. He made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for himself on toasted raisin bread and had one of Sylar's apples with it. Still feeling angry and hurt, he didn't volunteer to make anything for Sylar, nor ask him what he wanted. Peter sat on the couch near one of the lights, where he transferred the measurements they'd taken that morning to his sketchpad, then browsed through the books for ideas. He didn't stay at it for long, wondering as he climbed in bed how much longer he'd have to keep these close living arrangements with someone who would kill him if circumstances were even a little different.

XXX

Sylar frowned some more through his relief at seeing Peter again. He definitely felt ignored and momentarily abandoned. _He knows how I feel about that and he does it anyway, on purpose._ The silence grew stronger; Sylar bunkered down on himself, not attempting to break it because he hadn't done anything to earn this treatment. His pride outweighed the slight rumble of his stomach when Peter made his own dinner. _If I want to eat, I'll make something_ , he told himself. He was lonely, even having the empath's presence – his back was turned, not a look, not a word spared for him.

After Peter readied himself for bed, Sylar followed, brushing teeth and hair, pajamas and using the toilet. He carefully approached the bed Peter already occupied, laying on his designated 'side' (they had sides!) about a foot away from Peter to be cautious. And, admittedly, he really wasn't up for trying anything in spirit or in body. He let things lie between them and eventually fell into a tortured sleep. He was in Taub's apartment – the blue walls, white trim and dark taupe carpet he'd know anywhere. He sat in a small body before a bloody corpse that filled him with such terror and shame. Whoever he was, he realized he was a child and he knew the corpse was his mother, dead by his doing somehow (he both knew and didn't know how it was his fault, if his actions directly caused her end). Sylar…Gabriel?...lay next to her cold and entirely distant body, waiting for her to wake up and comfort him. He rocked himself, plucking at her, jostling her to help the process, crying the whole while.

From nowhere, on the other side of his mother, appeared…another mother – one whose face kept shifting back and forth between two dark haired, dark eyed women. One wore sweaters and hairpins and a cross, the other pearls and eyeliner. Both were his mother. They called to him, 'Gabriel…Gabriiiel!' Their arms outstretched to…grab or embrace him, he couldn't be sure. And he was torn between who was right, who was alive, who would punish him and hurt him the worst over being betrayed because he _had_ to choose! He'd already killed one mother! Her blood was all over him now. He tried to scramble back; while he moved, he didn't gain any distance, it was like he squirmed on ice with no momentum or leverage. He was stuck! They would get him and tear him apart under the guise of love. There was no one to hear, not that he could get much sound out anyway, though he tried to question to make sense of it.

XXX

Noise. _Huh?_ Peter waited a beat, playing 'Dream or Not Dream' with himself as he tried to sort out what had woken him. But there it was again, along with a fitful kick by his bedmate. _Not Dream._ Aside from the brief, startling blow, they weren't touching – he didn't remember touching Sylar at all earlier, having been feeling unsafe and unhappy when he'd gone to bed, huddling on his side and staying strictly apart. Sylar sounded distressed, his breathing ragged and forced. Peter reached out automatically with his foot to find the part that had kicked him, establishing the contact that was so important to him. Peter fumbled through his sleep-addled memory for what Sylar had told him to do if he had a nightmare. _'Throw a pillow at me.' Well, I'm in bed with him already, so …_ He took his pillow and nudged Sylar with it firmly, in the side. "Sylar? Sylar?"

XXX

The corpse beside him convulsed and a hand locked around his ankle – he could feel the pressure! Sylar or Gabriel, turned to see his mother's grey, lifeless face like a zombie, morph into Peter Petrelli's satanic grin. The…body (still his mother's, bloody clothes and a skullcap just barely attached, sliding around, leaking red) heaved itself to its side and began to drag itself towards him, working with the other mothers in reaching for his head to take his memories. Somehow he knew that was the point of everything. He also knew the process would be far more prolonged and agonizing than it had been before. He held out his arms, kicking, pushing the fiendishly strong and determined corpse away, and struggled against all three (four?) of them, trapped and outmanned in his frail child's form – it would fail him, his strength would give out and they would remake him into…whatever they pleased, he didn't know: something useful and special surely; someone who wouldn't kill his loved ones.

XXX

Peter let go of the pillow after Sylar hit his forearm, only to have the pillow shoved at him as Sylar flailed in his direction. He backed up, off the bed entirely to stand next to it, uncertain as to how intentional Sylar's attack was. In the dark, getting the pillow shoved in his face looked a lot like a violent rebuff – 'get away from me, NOW!' Despite how smooth a continuance that was with how little Sylar wanted his help, Peter waited before passing judgment. He knew that his own nocturnal actions were little reflection of his conscious desires. In the meantime, he turned on the lamp on the nightstand to see what was really going on.

XXX

Sylar gasped fresh air. He thrashed some more, feeling muffled in every way but the light burning his eyes even through his lids came from somewhere outside his terror and he followed it out, gratefully. He raised a hand against the light, panting and still panicked. It all washed over him a second time when he saw who stood by the lamp. Peter Petrelli, alive, in his own body, but looking him over all the same. Sylar stared back in horror, poised for the slightest wrong move (but even then, he wasn't sure he could hold it together). He felt his breath choking, his eyes still felt muffled but he couldn't stop, couldn't stop, could never stop and that's why he was here.

XXX

Peter saw the moment when Sylar truly woke, when realization dawned on him that he was in a bed and the nightmare wasn't real. Peter had had that feeling himself. Years ago, it had only meant waking or half-waking from disturbing or passionate dreams, rarely troubling his sleeping companion if he had one. But since his abilities had manifested, it had been better for him to sleep alone. When he had his memories and knew who he was, his dreams were more often violent and his waking from them left him disoriented and emotionally jarred. He could see that on Sylar's face now. Sylar, who didn't want to share anything with him of himself, had asked (insisted) on Peter sharing his bed for just this reason. At least on some level, Peter thought, Sylar wanted his help. He let out his held breath slowly, putting the pillow back on the bed before climbing on himself, careful and slow with his motions, telegraphing before committing and constantly watching the other man. Peter lay on his side facing Sylar. He reached out and touched him on the outside of his elbow, testing the waters. Maybe Sylar didn't want to be touched at all; maybe he wanted it as badly as it looked. When the contact wasn't refused, Peter scooted closer and raised his arm in mute invitation for a hug.

XXX

That tiny touch, meaningless by itself but made incredible by context, nearly broke him. He was so disgustingly weak, beyond pity and repair yet it made him feel…soothed, to the core, somewhere deep he couldn't reach inside himself. His throat ached so hard it made him cry more. Sylar let Peter do whatever he wanted then, he fell into the hug without even seeing it; he could only feel it. He wanted _out_ and _away_ and this solid human mass of warmth would do for now. It wasn't like he could do anything else right now but clutch at his companion's soft t-shirt, which was the most amazing thing he could remember feeling. He felt sure rejection was inevitable, though it was a good thing he wasn't being pushed away because he didn't think his grip would ever loosen.

XXX

Peter pulled Sylar into him, repeating the positioning he'd used at the police station, but this time they were a lot closer with neither of them in winter wear. Sylar was cradled against his chest, arms folded between them, face against Peter's chest and hands buried in his shirt. Peter's chin was on a level with the top of Sylar's head, tousled hair brushing his neck. His right arm was around the other man's back while his left was trapped between them and under Peter's body. He stroked Sylar's back slowly, thinking back to how hollow-eyed the guy had been after a few days of solitude. Sylar had implied he hadn't slept after Peter left the apartment. _Is he having nightmares now, even though we're in the same bed, because of last night's argument?_ Peter curled his fingers so it was his first knuckles rubbing up and down, feeling the other man's body shake with quiet weeping. He gave a brief, tighter squeeze with his right forearm and tucked his head to the side, pressing his cheek to Sylar's head, rocking them briefly side to side. Peter made a faint sound deep in his chest – the only sound he'd made so far. It was a whine of sympathy before he went back to merely holding. He moved his left hand forward for a little more engagement, even if all he could manage was a touch of fingertips on Sylar's right forearm. It was nice to give comfort and have it accepted, to do something for someone and have them … well, he wasn't sure if Sylar appreciated this or not, but at least he allowed it and that was something.

XXX

Sylar prayed his sobbing explained everything and nothing at the same time. He needed both, or…the reality of one and the illusion of the other. He was disgusting and he didn't know how Peter could touch him. Tears were to be ignored, punished at worst but it felt like such a pressure valve even as it hurt to breathe, to think, to feel. Sylar was sure he was hysterical – that was an excellent explanation if nothing else; he couldn't label it otherwise. The contact hit a part of his brain that was fucking ravenous and it devoured the proximity as he gushed saline and snot on Peter once again. The emotions cycled out of him until he was angry and he kneaded and tugged (both towards and away from himself) the man's t-shirt, as if trying to move the man himself. _I hate you!_ he thought vehemently. He meant it and much more, every flavor or hatred and friendship, competition, envy, rejection, pain, longing, lust and love within the word.

XXX

Peter switched to patting as Sylar grew restive and he leaned back to give an inch or two more space between them. He couldn't see Sylar's expression, but he could see the fists balled in his shirt and feel the fabric tight around his torso. His hand moved up to Sylar's shoulder, smoothing down his upper arm to where the t-shirt ended and bare skin began. His hand moved over it, stopping to clasp lightly just above Sylar's elbow. He gave a light tug like another invitation to embrace – waiting, watching, and letting Sylar process while also letting him know he was welcome and safe. He didn't ask any questions or demand explanations. This was not a time for either and anyway, the situation was obvious. Knowing the details wouldn't change anything, but he'd listen if they were offered.

Sylar was so human and fragile that Peter held and comforted him without a judgmental thought to Sylar's past. All that 'angry killer who had his reasons for all he did' routine – Peter didn't think Sylar was happy with those reasons. _Bad choices – just like me with Caitlin – things I still regret even though I know it was right. (Sort of.) Does he regret what he's done and just can't admit it?_ Peter gave him another squeeze, sympathetic to that, understanding the fear that could hold Sylar from sharing something like an 'I was wrong' with someone he trusted as little as he did Peter.

XXX

So much Sylar wanted to blame and hurt Peter – just for being here, for making him feel this way, for asking questions, for holding him now, for hurting him before. It was easier and simple, unlike what he felt now: complicated. At the same time, he wished to cling with grateful, pathetic need and hurting Peter would end this thing, which hurt worse and soothed him. He couldn't bring himself to pull away despite his own sense of morals and pride – both of which were in upheaval. A few more rough, going-through-the-motions tugs of Peter's shirt helped settle him, along with the invitation for the hug to continue. The direct contact made him hold his breath, unsure of what that meant: stop or…? It confused him so he quit tugging.

He did not want to know what Peter thought of him in this moment but he could deal with it another day, it seemed. For once, he just needed and for once, he was getting it. Sylar couldn't remember a time since Elle, all those years ago, when someone had held him while he cried and didn't push him away when they thought he should man up. He told himself that now with little effect. He liked where he was and he would pay for it later if he had to. Some strange olfactory sense was aware that Peter smelled comforting (because his nose was useless from the crying); the man was warm and Sylar was still tired, if possibly less tense than he was before. His upper arm, which had been doing the primary shirt-pulling, rested around Peter's ribs and back, keeping them in place. If he slept again, he hoped it would be better. His eyes ached so he closed them.

Day 35, January 14, Morning

Peter woke up with Sylar's head on his left bicep, his right arm loosely slung around the guy, Sylar's breath puffing on his chest. Their legs were similarly entwined. The smell between them was heavy, but healthy and human. He didn't mind. So much contact! He didn't tend to sleep this close even with lovers, but he wasn't a stranger to waking up like this from time to time – though it was usually more comfortable. He was hot, almost sweaty. His jeans were binding and uncomfortable, getting more every second … because, he realized suddenly, the close quarters and intimacy, combined with the biology of waking up, was giving him an erection.

_No!_ He wasn't sure how the two of them had become so close, but now that he was awake, he wouldn't stay that way. He pulled away as gently as he could, disentangling himself and moving out from under the covers. He sat at the edge of the bed, raking his hair out of face as he tried to recall the events of the night. He remembered moving and repositioning the two of them so dimly he might have been imagining it – more clear was Sylar cuddled up to his chest, sobbing. _What started that? Did it just happen? Did I wake up and he was crying?_ He seemed to remember Sylar making noises and thrashing, but the details and timeline were fuzzy. _Didn't he have a nightmare? I think that's what happened_. It fit all the information and had the benefit of being innocent enough that Peter didn't feel (very) bad about climbing all over Sylar in his sleep.

He stretched a little, stiff. So was his shirt. He looked down and picked at the suspicious, crusty spots on it, glad he could remember Sylar crying because otherwise his next guess about might have caused that was a lot more worrisome.

XXX

Whatever pillow he was pressed against was getting a promotion – it felt fantastic and unlike anything Sylar had ever experienced. It moved and made noise, waking up, so he became aware that it was a person but it lacked any sense of threat so he gave it no mind. He purred and reached after it, still half asleep, eyes shut. The movement away got his attention enough that he woke. _Peter…?_ his mind supplied cluelessly. Peter Petrelli had slept with him like that? Peter had been that close to him? Had that been something hard against him lower down? Yet the empath wasn't rushing for the shower or anywhere else – instead he sat at the edge of the bed, quietly and calm as far as Sylar could tell. _What does that mean? Should I pretend to be sleeping or…_ Asking questions was likely to start the day in an unpleasant manner and that decided him. He couldn't help himself, though. It was stupid, especially when he didn't know how Peter felt about any of it. A hand placed in the middle of Peter's back, rubbing there in a barely-platonic way, "Peter," he said almost as a question, though the implication was clear: come back.

XXX

Peter looked back at the touch, pulling one knee on the bed. Sylar looked a little rough, but easy on the eyes all the same – that face would be handsome even in the worst of conditions, he knew for a fact. Peter also knew what was being asked of him. _What kind of a lover would he be?_ Peter couldn't help but ask himself with that hand stroking his back. He couldn't remember Sylar ever touching him like this before – nice, intimate, friendly, not frightening and threatening with dark promise even if the potential was still there. His eyes held Sylar's. Both of them looked uncertain of where things stood between them after sharing hours in one another's arms. _Has anything changed? He still doesn't like me, does he? If we did … do something … it wouldn't change anything else. He'd still probably kill me when we got out of here; he still wouldn't help Emma and the others. I'd just be in even deeper than I am now._

XXX

Peter allowed the touch. Sylar pressed for more. "Lay down. I'll give you a massage," he appealed. Peter wore a shirt and it was interfering with Sylar's gutterbrain.

XXX

Peter reached back and captured the hand that was touching him, taking it down to the mattress where he trapped it for the time being. He glanced down, not sure what to do with it now that he had it, his hand loosely around Sylar's wrist. He ignored the offer and changed the subject to one he found less disturbingly tempting. "How do you feel?"

XXX

Both of them looked at their hands. Sylar felt a strange flutter of excitement and a slow tide of something warm about it. "Better." He didn't pretend to misunderstand what he knew Peter meant. It was honest; it just slipped out. He didn't regret it; it felt good – it felt good to feel good.

XXX

Peter petted the back of Sylar's hand a couple times, about as 'barely platonic' as Sylar rubbing his back. He wasn't sure what their relationship was, but he thought something had changed – more inside of him than Sylar, probably. He was losing that hard edge of hatred and the constant blame that he used as sword and shield against Sylar's humanity. He wondered if the events Sylar had needed comforting over included Nathan's death. Peter didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing, if it did. "What happened last night?" Peter's hand stilled and he watched Sylar closely.

XXX

Sylar inhaled slowly, deeper than before at the petting. He had no idea what that meant, none at all. It seemed a weird thing for one man to do to another but…he couldn't argue the feeling. Then it stopped and Peter turned on him with intent. Sylar tensed, wondering if having his hand trapped (and stroked) was some kind of overture to the hand being damaged if he didn't give the correct type of answer, a response he couldn't fathom at. He stared back at Peter. "I had a nightmare. You hugged me. I fell asleep." That was usually what Peter's questions were about with this sort of thing, right? 'How the hell did you end up in bed with me again?' Sylar…didn't know if he wanted to think about the other possibilities behind the question.

XXX

Peter gave a bobbing tilt of his head. _Yes, I remember that much, dork,_ he thought with amusement. "I was hoping for some details. I'm not going to put conditions on me being there for you when you're upset. That's not how it works. But if you're willing to tell me what was happening for you, I'd like to hear. I'd like to know what matters to you. That's what you want me here for, right?" He smiled a little, voice soft. "Slay the dragons, be a hero, keep the nightmares away? It's easier to do if I know what I'm fighting."

XXX

_No conditions?_ Sylar noticed immediately; then _(Yes, that's exactly what I want you here for)._ Firmly enunciating, he took his hand back and clarified his position…somewhat. "I am not a damsel in distress. I can fight my own battles and hold my own." Looking down at the recently freed hand, he reconsidered and changed tactics. "But I'll play your game. Assuming I wanted that, what do you want in return?"

XXX

_Sylar, a damsel in distress._ Peter had to really fight to keep his face serious for that mental image, despite how much he knew that everyone needed help at one time or another. "All I would want," he said slowly, not understanding the question, "is enough information to do a good job. And," he shrugged one shoulder self-consciously, "to know that I was doing a good job. If I was."

XXX

"That's it?" Sylar deadpanned in disbelief.

XXX

"That's it."


	93. Under My Skin

Day 35, January 14, Morning

"And I have to tell you…?" His question trailed off; Sylar was honestly uncertain of what Peter wanted him to divulge.

XXX

"When you're upset. What you're upset about." Peter glanced away, trying to think of how to communicate better. "Like if I wake you up, how would I know if you were angry and wanted to be left alone, or if you were sad and wanted," he gestured between them, "what we did last night. Otherwise I'm just guessing."

XXX

Sylar couldn't grasp how someone sobbing wasn't obviously upset but there were different rules for psychopaths who sobbed. He'd needed so he took. _(It was offered)._ It was a very sore subject and the only reason he spoke about it was Peter's near indifference to the occurrence – like it was somehow normal or expected. Maybe for Peter it was normal and expected; maybe mentally unstable people did that a lot or the medic's job involved it for all he knew. "And you're not going to do anything with the information other than…not-guess?" He remembered Peter bringing up the memories he said he wouldn't. It could have been so much worse. _He wants…an operating procedure. That's normal. I want the same thing from him. I won't tell him and he…lies – or says one thing I know will prove to be a lie…He lies to himself, so he lies to me. He's emotionally compromised to hell. When it's…obvious, I can tell him. I can always hit him._

XXX

"I don't understand." Peter was lying. He believed Sylar was asking if Peter was going to belittle him with whatever troubled Sylar's sleep the most, if he was going to make waking time into a more active humiliation than whatever happened in the nightmares themselves. It was so vile that to even suggest Peter might do something like that, that it was insulting. So he pretended he didn't get it.

XXX

"You won't…ask me to do things in the future because of this?" An obvious question and concern, but Sylar voiced it anyway. Deals with Petrellis often resulted in 'sin and dirty-work first, payment-as-agreed later' but the payment never came and he usually found out he'd been fucked over and used. The bitterness of that lingered. A smart person would omit any references to future repayment in this situation – it was time to see if Peter was that slippery.

XXX

"No." Peter looked at Sylar intently, torn between confused and concerned. _Has he in the past only been comforted based on what he'd do?_ The image that came to mind was a mother extracting a promise from a crying boy to clean his room, and not showing any sympathy until he agreed. It was so twisted Peter couldn't see it as a real scenario until he replaced the mother figure with his father. He swallowed, suddenly able to imagine it all too clearly. What would it have been like if he'd been raised by his father and a female version of his father, or a disinterested other parent? Angela, for all her failings, had been a loving mother and many times ran interference between Arthur and her youngest son. What if someone like her hadn't been there?

"That's what I meant by not putting conditions on it. And you don't have to tell me anything. Just like last night." He gestured at the bed again. "I'm glad you feel better. _That's_ what I get out of it." He waited a few beats, letting Sylar think about it, before standing. "I'm going to go clean up." He started around the bed, hesitating at the end of it. He touched a protrusion of blanket, beneath which probably resided one of Sylar's feet. "Thank you for letting me help you." He gave Sylar a long, steady look. "I have things I need, too." He nodded to himself and left for the bathroom, making his escape before he said anything more revealing. Peter needed to help people, wanted to, and even if it was Sylar, the last person on Earth Peter was willing to help, Sylar _was_ the last other person on Earth as far as he was concerned right now. He'd liked holding him.

XXX

Sylar stared at Peter's back. _Did he just thank me for…? And he 'has needs, too'? But I've been asking what he needs. (No. You've been asking what he wants. I think he was saying he needs to be helpful). I thought we established that he won't help me and I can't be helped. It doesn't say anything about him being trustworthy. (He hasn't done anything monstrous, either)._ So there he lay, busily thinking, feeling things out. It felt nice, non-threatening even if he didn't have many answers. _Does that mean he's moving in and sleeping with me full-time? (I should tell him putting out is 'helpful')._ Sylar smirked to himself. He could still smell Peter. It was clear Peter was a sucker for the 'playing sick and weak' act, especially when it wasn't an act. His headache felt a little better, probably due to endorphins and a seemingly successful arrangement. Sylar wandered to the kitchen, perusing the breakfast options with half an interest. He toyed with the idea of joining Peter in the shower, if the door was unlocked.

XXX

Peter stripped and showered, glad to be out of the grimy, damp, snotted-on clothes. He emerged, shaved, then washed his face and brushed his teeth. He was midway through his dental routine when he realized he had a problem – he had no other clothes in the bathroom with him. Under normal circumstances, in his own apartment, this was how it always was. Here, with Sylar, it hadn't happened before because he wore his dirty clothes downstairs to work out, then across the street to clean up at his place. But his clothes had never been more than a little sweaty in the past. He spat and rinsed, putting away his toothbrush.

He put his brace back on (for the last week, he'd been taking it off for bathing), wrapped a towel around himself as securely as possible, and set out. After a fruitless search of the guest room, he unwillingly paraded himself through the living room and exited to the hallway beyond. He called back, "I'm going to go look for clothes." There was an apartment at the end of the hall where he'd found the thick winter coat he'd been wearing and the shorts he had downstairs in the workout room. It seemed like his best bet, so he walked down the hall to start there.

XXX

_Well, I was wondering if I was supposed to take that as an invitation…_ Eyebrows raised, he stopped what he was doing and stared as Peter waltz out the front door in nothing but a towel (so he assumed). "Sure you need 'em?" he muttered, then louder, "Need a hand?"

XXX

Peter didn't answer. He was uncomfortable about the whole situation. It had 'mixed signals' written all over it. The fact that Sylar hadn't done anything (much) about the things Peter had done which could be taken as flirty weighed heavily in the man's favor. _Maybe … he's kind of okay?_ It didn't fit, but on the other hand, Sylar's behavior of the last few days didn't fit with him being a monster, either.

XXX

Sylar smirked. _Sure you don't._ Peter cleaned up nice, even for a casual…outing. He deduced Peter would return as soon as possible, successful or otherwise, or catch a cold, so he didn't worry. It was way more amusing than it was sexy, although it served as a reminder of how comfortable Peter was around him now. The empath was clean and Sylar wanted to dirty him up again. And smell him. Sylar plotted how to get more physical contact from Peter (who was giving more of his own accord without any manipulation or request) – he couldn't break down every five minutes to get attention, it just wasn't feasible or believable.

XXX

Peter returned wearing what he was sure were fashionable (within a demographic he'd aged out of ten years ago) cargo pants kept up with a belt that was on its last notch. The grey, sleeveless t-shirt was almost too small, which didn't make a lick of sense, but it was what he had found quickly. _It's better than a towel._ He knocked twice as a formality, then opened the door and came in without waiting for a response. He took the bath towel from his shoulder and slung it over the back of a nearby chair. "You, my friend," Peter pointed at Sylar, "are going shopping with me today and we are going to get some decent clothes." He stopped to evaluate how Sylar was dressed – in the sweat pants Peter had previously worn, and a t-shirt that was also too short for him, exposing a little more darkly-furred belly than Peter's eyes could pass over without pause. They paused now. _He's wearing my pants …_ After a moment, he cleared his throat, smiling awkwardly and coloring as he looked away. "Yeah … we've … definitely got to go shopping." Trying to change the subject, he moved into the kitchen. "So what's for breakfast?"

XXX

' _My friend'?_ _He puffed up at that._ _Foiled by…a teenager's clothes. Dressing the part? Acting our age?_ Sylar still looked him over, appreciating the tight shirt now (but it would be hell to remove in a pinch) and since he was doing that he caught Peter's look back at him…lower down, if he wasn't mistaken. _Mmm_. Breakfast was going to be hard. "We already have lotion," Sylar murmured to himself. To Peter, he said, "Strawberries?" and slid a plastic clam carton of them over the counter, keeping his hand on it an extra moment just to bother the other man and get a reaction. "They're an aphrodisiac, you know. Lots of seeds for fertility." _While I get my forbidden fruit._ He leaned on the counter and watched Peter intently, biting into his apple like he wished to devour his companion.

XXX

Peter chuckled. He looked between the berries and Sylar's face, Peter's hand touching the other end of the carton, but doing nothing else, waiting the extra beat until Sylar pulled his hand away. "Hm," Peter gave a blandly amused hum in response. He opened the noisy plastic and pulled one out. "Are they really?" _Don't they say the same thing about pomegranates? Of course, they have a lot of seeds, too._

XXX

"They were called 'fruit nipples' and everything." _This seduction is lame. Feed him then fuck him already. (Feed him what exactly?) Right._ The question was put on him originally – what was for breakfast. It sounded like Sylar was supposed to prepare it. "Toast, cereal, bagels,…pancakes?" He didn't offer up any of Peter's ridiculous 'hummus' and veggies because they still didn't make up a meal.

XXX

Peter shrugged, glancing around. Nothing was made or being made as far as he could tell. The strawberries would go great with pancakes, but he didn't feel like making them himself. "Maybe some cereal with the strawberries in it. That sounds good." He moved to get the milk and cereal, leaving spoons, bowls, and sugar to Sylar.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar said and turned to get started. "What's that hummus crap you got?"

XXX

Peter gave him a brief frown. "It's hummus. Ground up chickpeas." Or at least that was what he'd been told. He'd never made it himself, but he liked eating it. "You can mix a lot of other stuff in it to make it more interesting, if you want. Like salsa or bacon bits or chopped hot peppers or whatever." Not that he tended to eat bacon, but he was pretty sure the artificial ones weren't animal products. Little crunchy bits in the dip made him happy. It gave him a different experience to seek after, just like he was doing now with the strawberries hiding under the bran flakes in his cereal bowl. Sylar had fallen silent, so Peter let his thoughts be absorbed by the pleasant adventure of his food.

XXX

By the time Peter was nearly done with breakfast, Sylar had been thinking. He was horny. He wanted to get with Peter badly and his need was growing, fueled by the little man's every action. Peter liked having his questions answered (or so Peter thought), and Sylar wasn't really sure why he chose that question to answer other than the fact that it served his needs at the moment – a desire for more contact like they'd had in bed.

Walking up beside his seated…companion, Sylar laid a hand on his shoulder as Peter often did to him. It came to be a comfort to Sylar, to be able to touch in this way because it was unfamiliar to him and also all too familiar – almost incestuously so. Peter didn't give it much notice at first but as Sylar lingered, he paid attention. Sylar didn't immediately make eye contact about it, instead focusing on what he wanted to say.

"Remember when you asked me why I wanted sex, specifically, from you?" Of course, Peter probably didn't remember the actual question, though it surely lurked in his brain somewhere still (one of those silly excuses he made up to avoid or prevent sexual contact). That was the whole idea – that this answer was a surprise.

XXX

Peter had been lost in truly inconsequential thoughts about the tiny strawberry seeds he could faintly see at the bottom of his bowl, swimming in the last bit of milk. He'd been wondering if they were worth trying to fish out and eat – the value being not nutritional, but entertainment. Sylar's hand on his shoulder didn't register right away. It should have – Sylar intentionally initiated touching him seldom enough that Peter should have clued instantly. Perhaps it was the lingering warmth from spending the night comforting the guy – his defenses weren't up as they should have been. He looked up and listened to the question, blinking as he oriented to the new topic and pushed his bowl away a few inches. "Yeah."

XXX

Sylar couldn't tell if he was lying or if it mattered. "I want sex, specifically, from you, specifically, for lots of reasons: I am your brother, sort of."

XXX

_Whoa! Wait, what?_ Peter leaned away, drawing a confused breath and trying to figure that out. _Brothers having sex? Um … no, no._ Not that he hadn't thought about it a few times, but those were bad thoughts, not to be acknowledged or encouraged. Thank God he'd never shared anything like that with Nathan, or else Sylar would know it now. He said nothing, eyes locked on Sylar's, waiting to see where this bizarre revelation was going.

XXX

Sylar let him lean away, but his hand stayed in place on the shoulder. He was far from finished. (Honestly, the idea that incest bothered Peter was laughable). "So I feel brotherly towards you the way Nathan was but…some of his love wasn't so brotherly, Peter, you have to know that. I want to ruin you, possess you, use you, and protect you in ways Nathan never did and never could." As Sylar spoke, his voice deepened, growing rough, and his hand began to caress the Jersey knit of Peter's t-shirt collar and barely brush the nearby flesh.

XXX

_Nathan had those feelings, too?_ There was a half-second of speculation about what that meant before the rest of Sylar's words obliterated his thinking process. _Ruin … possess … protect …_ and the touch that was there so light that Peter wanted to strain for more. He had stopped leaning away without realizing it. The rumbling tone of Sylar's voice swept him up in escalating arousal. It was an answer, and a damn good one. It was specific to Peter and specific _for_ him. Sylar wanted _him_ – uniquely, specially, just because of who he was. It even explained away the incest angle, while leaving Peter tantalized by just what exactly Nathan might have felt towards him.

XXX

"I want to fuck you for revenge, against Ma, against Nathan and everyone. Take you from them and keep you." His fingers slid around the back of Peter's neck, under his hair as the man breathed harder and felt hot to the touch.

XXX

_Keep me? Revenge?_ Warning bells were going off in Peter's head, but it was difficult to focus on them over the sound of his heart thudding in his chest. His skin was tingling everywhere Sylar was touching him. He looked up at the man looming above him, dark and sensual. The contrast between the danger Sylar posed and the gentleness of his touch was making Peter's blood rush. His lips parted as he panted.

XXX

"I could have…had every living member of your family; I've…sampled most of them. I wonder sometimes if I should have fucked Nathan, so I could say I had the infamous Petrelli brothers but…I know what he was like in bed. I didn't miss anything. Now…I'm curious and very optimistic about you. You have such potential." He gripped the graceful column of neck, massaging it for now, a thumb stroking up the strong, visible muscle around the throat, over the artery. His other arm reached around to hold the far side of Peter's face. With that, he slid himself into Peter's lap, giving in to instinct. The rigidity against his crotch matched his own – it was a very good sign.

XXX

Desire turned to revulsion so fast it took Peter's breath away. Another word Sylar had spoken earlier and Peter had glossed over came back to him: _'use'_. Wedged between the infinitely more sexy 'possess' and 'protect', Peter had ignored it at first, but it was clear now how it fit in. He was to be 'used' for Sylar to get his revenge, 'used' for Sylar to complete his sick collection. It had nothing to do with Peter – he was expendable again, important to Sylar only because Peter was the only family member Sylar could lay his hands on at the moment. And once he was done 'using' Peter to torment Angela and whoever else he had it in for, he'd kill him and move on to another member of Peter's family. It wasn't over. Sylar was not 'kind of okay'. His recent good behavior was nothing but a sham.

Breathing shallow and fast, Peter lifted his chin, trying to pull together his thoughts in the face of Sylar caressing his throat and settling on his lap. He didn't know what to do and was momentarily frozen by the emotional whiplash. Revulsion or no, not all parts of Peter's body seemed to have gotten the message. He was still disturbingly turned on.

XXX

Sylar dipped his own head down to rest his nose and lips against the incline of Peter's neck and shoulder, cradling face and neck, inhaling deeply and sighing at that small victory. It was completely wrong how good Peter smelled.

"I _love_ forbidden fruit." Sylar's voice was a baritone, heated growl against his skin as Peter's Adam's apple jolted up and relaxed again with a breathy exhale.

XXX

_Oh fuck._ Peter deeply regretted every mixed signal, every word and action that hadn't been a firm shutdown of Sylar's desires for him. For a few seconds, he felt like this was all his fault – he'd led Sylar on by walking through the apartment with nothing but the towel, he'd given the wrong impressions by being too close when comforting Sylar after the nightmare (or maybe he shouldn't have comforted him at all?), or maybe it was the strawberries and he should have rejected them, or at least objected to Sylar's now-obvious innuendo instead of humoring him with that chuckle.

It was the unjustified guilt over the strawberries that changed Peter's mind. He was not responsible for Sylar's actions. He was not required to question his own motives or double-check the wisdom of accepting goddamn _fruit_ from Sylar. And Sylar knew all of this, or else it wouldn't be 'forbidden' fruit. He knew damn well where Peter had drawn the line and what was evidently attractive to him was crossing it. (That and the apparently irresistible urge to emotionally traumatize every Petrelli he could reach.) Peter's lip curled. His body stiffened. His heart was pounding for an altogether different reason now – rage.

XXX

"I want all your spirit and passion, everything you have to give. I covet it. I love a challenge. You're still my enemy and I want to play rough and see who comes out on top. If only you'd play along." He feathered fingers into the man's hair, feeling of it and mouthing his partner's throat because it wasn't a 'kiss.' "Just take what your body already wants. _Take_ _it_ and you can have it, Peter."

XXX

Sylar's body was too close to his own for Peter to drop him on his ass like he'd done on New Year's Eve. Although turning cold and acting disinterested would probably hurt Sylar more, it wasn't Peter's style. His blood was running hot.

He jerked his upper body sideways, away from Sylar's lips. "You've already taken the best part of me." And while Sylar was (hopefully) distracted puzzling out that Peter meant Nathan, Peter shoved him in the other direction, shifting his hips as much as he could to further the motion. He wanted to dump him, literally, and get Sylar away from himself. When the initial push didn't achieve his goal, Peter snarled, grabbed the back of the chair, and wrenched himself up.

XXX

That halted everything like nails on a chalkboard; Sylar's face showed surprise, not that the other man could immediately see that. He gave Peter credit and despaired at the same time that Nathan was (finally) a reason not to have sex. It was a better reason than 'liking/not liking' but it shut the door on any sexual acts with finality because there was no way around it. _And I opened my mouth and brought it up._ Sylar moved as directed, standing up quickly - sitting in Peter's lap while talking about Nathan couldn't end well and he didn't feel like getting kicked in the balls. Just as clear was the fact that Peter had been lapping up the attention, but not the words. Sylar backed up, hands at his sides at first, mostly looking at the floor. /"Most of what we are is what people expect us to be. If you take that away, nothing means anything. Who's to say I'm not all that because of you?"/ Sylar shut himself up; completely ashamed of how low and how personal that was to all of them, completely deserving, too, of anything Peter wanted to do about it. Just remembering that moment, Peter being dead, made his throat tighter than it already was. His erection fled. He didn't want Peter thinking so highly of Nathan and being so dependent, either. "No, you're not…" he tried, shaking his head.

XXX

Peter got to his feet and kicked the chair out of his way. It skittered off across the floor and fell over. The important thing was that it wasn't underfoot and nothing was between him and Sylar. He sort of wished they'd eaten something that involved a knife, but the one he'd used to cut the strawberries was over next to the sink. And anyway, he didn't want to stab Sylar – he wanted to yell at him. So he did.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" In a split second, he decided to ignore the recitation of Nathan's words from years before and keep the focus on Sylar, here and now. His wrath was less morally ambiguous that way. "I have 'potential'? Potential for what? So you can jack yourself off to thinking about killing my family? Huh? Or just rubbing it in Ma's face that we-" He cut off, shaking with anger, remembering how she'd clutched at his hand and begged him not to go. No longer yelling, but still fuming, Peter spoke haltingly, so angry he could barely get the words out, "She told me not to … not to try to get you. Was this why? Did she know you'd … 'use' me? It has nothing to do with ' _me_ '. It has to do with you finding a new way to hurt people in a world where you can't kill the only person you've got access to!" He waited a beat, chest heaving as he glared at Sylar's shamed face. _Be ashamed! Christ, you have_ so much _to be ashamed of!_ "You're fucking right – we're still enemies."

XXX

_Yeah…Why did I say any of that again? (Because he asked…?) What did you expect, that he'd find any of that appealing? (He's not listening! I just said what I liked about him!)_ Sylar was more hurt and saddened but those things didn't have an outlet; he didn't know what else to do, so he was angry. It wasn't his best vicious effort but it was still angry at being pinned down and judged. "Right, Peter. I'm hurting you _so much_ here. I'm really abusing you, aren't I? I'm sorry," he blasted his sarcasm, "but how is anything that I want any different than what you want from me? What is it you want to _'use'_ me for again? Does that have anything to do with me as a person or just my usefulness? I should probably be _really_ insulted. Did you offer to 'like' me for sex? No! Quit making something out of nothing, Petrelli! This is reality and using each other mutually is kind of fucking implied! I know what happens if I agree to your schemes. And, you know what?" Sylar pointed at Peter's sternum from a good six feet away. "You should really decide how closely you want to be associated with your family – you send nothing but mixed messages: 'they're such horrible people, I would never do anything like that,' then 'but they're my family and I love them and I'm going to protect them.' Just make up your mind!" Sylar inhaled when finished, panting a little from the tension. More calmly, he managed to add, "You….are and are not your family. They factor into almost everything, good or bad."

The horrible idea of being enemies (again) weighed him down. He- _they_ had been so close to something, even if it wasn't sex, Sylar desperately wanted it back, wanted to preserve it. "It's not black and white, Peter." Since Peter had shut up long enough to listen, more or less, Sylar pivoted and sat on a stool at the kitchen bar, half-turned towards the man. He scraped his fingers through his hair several times, elbow on the countertop. Morosely, he offered, "I'll stop talking. That always helps. Try to forget I said anything," he waved a lackluster hand to shoo it all away.

XXX

Peter stared at him, breathing hard through his nose as he had for all of Sylar's part, holding his tongue and listening. He didn't want to drop the subject as Sylar obviously desired. Peter wanted to keep arguing. Or, well, at least yelling and venting and getting some crap off his chest that had been suffocating him for way too long - even if he had to take turns with Sylar doing the same. He chuffed a startled laugh at Sylar's last statement. "Does that ever work for you? Huh? What else should I forget while I'm at it?" He waited to see how authentic Sylar was with the 'I'm going to stop talking' bit. There was no point in raging at him if Sylar wouldn't engage. Peter did not want an unresponsive partner.

XXX

Sylar managed to glare into Peter's eyes. _No, it never really works. How about 'everything'? Forget everything, if you can._ "I don't know. I don't go around making people forget themselves," he snipped. He ran his fingers through his hair more because it was helping and it was something to do. "Can't we be friendly?" he asked, half-begging, half-curious. It sounded pathetic, and it was, but Peter had some positive things that worked in his favor, comfort and care among them.

XXX

Peter scowled, nose wrinkling in disgust at the idea. He looked at the ceiling, the walls, the windows. So Sylar didn't want to fight. _Well, fuck,_ he thought in frustration. Then he shook his head and walked over to retrieve his chair. Returning it next to the kitchen table, but orienting it to face Sylar, he sat in it and slouched backwards, crossing his legs with one ankle on his knee. "No, we can't. Not right now."

XXX

The sneer wasn't a good reaction. Sylar bit his lip and looked away, nodding to himself about what that meant. The glance he sent Peter was hopeful as he sat instead of, well, leaving him. The man's answer earned an eye-roll, "Not this exact minute necessarily."

XXX

Peter took a deep breath and let it out, trying to be marginally less belligerent. "What I want you to do is save people's lives. What's your problem with that? Is it that you don't believe me? Or that you think there's a double-cross involved?" Here, Sylar's possession of Nathan's memories worked against Peter and he knew it. He'd tricked Nathan more than once, pretending to do one thing and then sucker-punching when his brother bought it. It was something they'd done all their lives, like those crazy wild pitches Nathan would toss him when teaching him how to play ball. It had set a tone between them – a high degree of betrayal was to be expected and tolerated among the Petrellis. Was that what Sylar thought Peter was doing? Sylar wasn't family. Peter was playing it straight with him.

XXX

Sylar's lips pursed and he crossed his arms. He had an answer to that, of course, and reasons behind it – good ones! – but none of that would require or inspire Peter to listen to all the parts of the explanation. Peter thinking a double-cross was unheard of was….was…well, it was stupid in the extreme. The empath was not that dumb; he must be making a point. _Why would anyone ever believe a Petrelli?_ He stared at Peter and didn't speak.

XXX

Peter waited … and kept waiting. Sylar clearly wasn't thinking it over or looking of the right words. He was clamming up now that Peter had asked something important. Frustrated, Peter put both feet on the floor, leaning forward to put his face in his hands. He muttered to himself, "You never answer my fucking questions. Why don't you answer my fucking questions?" He glanced up at Sylar and then looked off to the side, staring in the direction of the windows as he tried to reconcile himself to the fact that he couldn't wring what he wanted out of Sylar. The man didn't trust him (which even Peter admitted was justified) and there was no way to gain his trust. It was that simple. _Having sex with him w_ _ouldn't do it, either. Even assuming I was willing to._

XXX

Sylar's jaw clenched hard several times, rhythmically. "I do answer your fucking questions! I just did! You were ready to come just a minute ago until I started talking. I even said what I was going to do and told you which question I was answering! And you freaked out! That's why I fucking told you to stop asking me questions you don't really want to know about – you don't want to hear the truth and you get upset when I don't answer. I don't know, maybe you want me to lie to you. I thought..." He exhaled harshly, breathing for a moment. He needed to calm down from being under this much pressure constantly. Things had been fine (better than fine, actually) before he put his foot in his mouth and now Peter had even more reason to think he was a freak. "I thought you could handle the truth, some of it, anyway, because you keep asking and I know how you talk to people. I'm not 'people.' I'm…going to take a shower," he ended unhappily; still uncertain if Peter would be here when he was finished.

XXX

Peter's shoulders sagged before Sylar's diatribe. He wanted to argue back, but there was no way without making things worse. Also, Sylar was telling the truth. He looked up when Sylar paused, Peter's face mostly neutral and a little sympathetic. He frowned and hung his head when Sylar continued. He didn't call the man back when he left for the bathroom. It was as graceful an exit as any and they both needed to calm down.

Alone, Peter heaved a sigh. He pushed his hair back and then touched lightly along the side of his neck where Sylar had mouthed him. Weirdly, he wanted to push Sylar out of the bathroom so he could stand in front of the mirror and look at that spot, even though he was sure there was nothing to see. It wasn't like Sylar had bitten him, but it still felt funny and made his stomach flutter to feel of it. When his skin prickled, either from the memory of the intimacy or the exploring touches he was giving himself, Peter thought, _I am fucked up._

He shook his head, trying to shake it off and ignore Sylar's point about how aroused he'd been. He cleaned up from breakfast, retiring to stand in front of the windows and look out at the blank world. _There's nothing for me out there. It's all in here – between him and me. Focus, Peter. This is where the game is, where the ball is, where the meaning is – him and me. It's getting better … really … I think._

XXX

Sylar escaped to the bathroom. There he worried more about how things would be when he emerged, if Peter would still be there (it seemed likely); and he thought about how fucking close he'd gotten to Peter. Depressing situation or not, his dick was interested in the past seduction, the taste of Peter's skin, the warmth of him pressed torso against torso. He knew the empath wanted it, too; because he hadn't fought back until the very end, and his hands had rested against Sylar's hips for a moment. Erect again, he hustled into the shower, desperate to stroke off to the memory. His masturbation was quick and violent, his hand massaging at first, his penis throbbing harder every second. Grip tightening, pace speeding up, he literally jerked himself and fucked his fist. His fantasy of sorts was something vague about rubbing against his companion and hand jobs because he was unoriginal and it sounded nice. It left him dizzy in the fog of the water, twitchy, relaxing, and only half-satisfied. _The second fucking time_ …he noticed about jerking off in this suite. It was better than nothing, and he knew he shouldn't complain. What made it worse was Peter's matching desire. The rest of his routine was uneventful – shaving, brushing teeth, combing hair.

XXX

When Sylar left the bathroom, Peter was still standing there, hands on hips, staring out. He glanced over, took in Sylar's watchful face, and thought about how he looked in the man's eyes. Peter knew he was in a 'power stance'. Nathan did it nearly all the time but he usually softened it by opening his jacket and gripping his hips instead of using his fists. It wasn't one of his father's preferred postures, because it didn't tend to influence others in a positive manner. It came from their mother. She did it often enough, frustrated by things, fists on hips and lips pressed firmly together as she gave someone the full weight of her disapproval without saying a word. Realizing this, Peter dropped his hands to his sides and then reached out to put his hands on the window frame. He leaned into it, stretching and trying to relax.

"It snowed last night – an inch or two. It's hard to tell exactly from up here. I think I'll wait a little while before I go out." He wondered if Sylar still wanted to go with him. He wondered if he wanted Sylar to go with him. He pushed away from the window and turned back to Sylar. "I don't want you to lie. There's more honesty between us than I've had with most people for years. I don't want to lose that." He walked over and picked up the heavy book on brain injuries, then snagged his blanket off the bed. He swiveled the leather chair near the foot of the bed, the one he'd slept in once while waiting for Sylar to recover from dehydration. "Of course, part of the reason I haven't shared this stuff with people is because it's hard to hear. It's hard for me to hear, too. We have strong feelings about it," he said, trying to pick his words carefully to find ones that applied to his situation and what he thought to be Sylar's as well. "We're doing okay," he said prescriptively.

XXX

_Go out? The whole window thing? Is he…going alone?_ Sylar hovered in the entrance of the hallway. He wasn't sure where Peter was going to be.

XXX

He settled into the chair and made himself a nest of it, tugging over the footstool and draping the blanket over his bare feet. He opened the book to a spot at random, but he wasn't looking at the text. He watched Sylar to see how the other man would respond to Peter backing down from … everything, and just letting things be.

XXX

Several glances at Peter showed that while he appeared relaxed (and he might have been), the empath was watching him in a way that was both curious and careful. _You didn't say anything offensive,_ he thought of that. Sylar didn't have to understand why Peter would care if he was offensive. He did know that Peter retained some sense of politeness and manners, however misplaced they were in this world now. He appreciated that, the company, and the opportunity to cool off the subject. _Maybe he can learn,_ Sylar thought humorously to himself, pleased with that development. He ignored the looks and claimed the bed, right in the middle, with his own book. The lower blood pressure and stress, along with the orgasm and shower and other comforts, soothed his never-ending headache. He read slowly because he could; quiet time could be nice.

XXX

With no other interaction presenting itself, Peter read. Several pages of tiny type and heavy jargon later, he rubbed at his eyes and looked over to Sylar. Out of the blue, he asked, "Nathan had feelings for me? Are you serious?" He knew he should be angry that Sylar knew something so hideously personal (and probably untrue. It had to be untrue, right? What did it mean if it wasn't, though? Did it change anything?), but his burning curiosity overwhelmed his self-righteousness.

XXX

"Oh my God…" The book dropped to his lap as Sylar rubbed his forehead. _Headache's back, I see._ "I forgot how much you like to _talk_. And _pester_. And touchy-feely _everything_!" Peter. Always digging away at the one thing a person didn't want to think about or that one thing a person couldn't formulate to begin to talk about. Always with the morals and the emotions…Sylar understood so much better now, the role of elder, highly annoyed and frustrated brother. There were too many memories of that, all (or most) tinged with a reluctant affection. It was warming and sickening at once. "Why do you approach me like I'm a normal person with normal feelings and reactions?"

XXX

"I'm approaching you like you're someone who knows something very personal about someone I love … loved," Peter said very seriously. "They're dead. Me knowing this about them doesn't betray any secrets – it just helps me understand the person they were. You're the only one who can do this for me." He considered and rejected trying the guilt-trip angle that Sylar owed it to him or that the information didn't belong to Sylar in the first place – neither of those would help. The first wasn't true and the second was debatable, since Sylar had been given the memories on the order of someone who had more right than most to decide on their disposition, much as Peter might disagree with it.

XXX

This was one angle he'd hoped to avoid – divulging Nathan's secrets to the curious younger brother. It made Sylar an accessory at best or a dirty snitch at worst. Either way, he was a no-name portal to Nathan. Confusing was the part where he dreamed he owed Nathan any secrecy after the shit he'd done to his own family. The man was still an unfortunate side effect, a part of him, so…was it his secret to tell or not? Sylar pointed out the flaw in Peter's logic, "If Nathan wanted you to know about something, he would have told you, so that is technically a secret of his I would be disclosing."

XXX

_And you're going to disclose it anyway. Cool._ In response to Sylar attempting to guilt trip him instead, Peter gave half a shrug in acknowledgement and glanced up and to the side for a moment. That Sylar felt a need to point out the immorality of Peter's curiosity was ridiculous. He'd been happy enough to blurt the secret out when it served his purposes. When Peter looked back to Sylar, it was with practiced entreaty. _Spill it, man._

XXX

Harkening back to their…argument…discussion thing from earlier, Sylar realized another problem with Peter's ideas of 'fun conversation.' They were only fun for Peter. Big surprise. Sylar narrowed his eyes about the puppy dog-eyed manipulation. As an outsider, he noticed it (and still fell for it), and as the guy's brother…he fell for it hook, line and sinker. It was bizarre how easy it was for Peter to trick Nathan into believing a bald-faced lie – Nathan was desperate, eager for that blind, yes-man agreement to his awesome way of thinking. The younger man's deception should have been obvious, each and every time. "You just like to talk about things you can hit me over," Sylar determined.

XXX

Peter grimaced and hung his head. _Yes. The last time I pressed him to tell me stuff about Nathan ended with me choking him out to shut him up._ He sighed. The reminder took all the wind out of his sails. _Maybe I shouldn't ask? (But I want to know!)_ "I will do my best not to do anything. I will try, Sylar. I will really try."

XXX

"Oh, good. You'll try," Sylar droned sarcasm.

XXX

Peter winced at the reminder of Claude's words to him about 'trying'. He dropped his head the small amount he'd raised it, and kept his mouth firmly shut, ending the manipulations he'd used earlier.


	94. Rejection Bites

Day 35, January 14, Morning

_We didn't discuss what happens if I don't answer. I'll_ _choose_ _not to be insulted that you'd rather talk about Nathan's kinks than about mine._ "Fine, whatever," Sylar bit out gruffly. He already knew this wouldn't be pleasant; how could it be anything less when he inevitably spoke like he was Nathan on this of all subjects? This was his chance to shatter some of that rose-colored glass which Peter surrounded himself with. It was tempting and Sylar seriously considered it for a moment, then he considered the more truthful words he could use and avoid a beating. Peter…valued the truth, so maybe, this once, it would actively count for something. _(I can always play it off as a joke)._ "He raised you and you worshipped him; you were close, loved each other…He was horny," Sylar shrugged. "I'm sure even the blind and disabled find you attractive. It…occurred to him more than once, but nothing…big or obsessive or…serious." _Not too obsessive and serious anyway. Brotherly love and all that crap? Petrelli is as Petrellis do?_ "C'mon, Peter. If I didn't have every single one of his memories, I would have definitely said you two were doing something. You _have_ to understand that." _He does, doesn't he? Wait…What if he thinks that's…sexy? I don't want to re-enact…_ "I'm not going to be your brother for you. Ever. For any purpose." His voice and posture were taut with discomfort.

XXX

Peter raised his head slowly, listening with an intent face. He liked the compliment – clearly Sylar liked how Peter looked. He was trying to puzzle out what he and Nathan had done that led Sylar to think it was fair to accuse them of looking like they did more – not that Peter cared too much what people thought of honest displays of love. He knew there had been nothing inappropriate going on, and Sylar knew it, too. For once, him having Nathan's memories was useful. "O-kay," Peter said slowly in response to Sylar's last statements. Then it hit him what Sylar was implying. "Whoa. No. No fucking way, man. Never." _That would be sick. (And kinky.) And really, really sick._ Peter shook his head.

XXX

"You like dick; you love your brother…" It seemed like a natural conclusion. "Didn't _you_ ever think about it? With him? With Claire?"

XXX

"No, no! Not ..." _I'm lying._ He squirmed. "I mean … no. Not really?" _Why did I bring this up?_ "Not … I mean, not ..." He stopped and took a deep breath. _I'm making it way worse by not answering directly and plainly. I look guilty as hell and I never actually did anything wrong._

XXX

Sylar raised a knowing eyebrow and kept it that way.

XXX

"Okay, I thought about it a few times. But it wasn't something I should have been thinking about, so I didn't." That was true, at least as far as Nathan went. The occasional prurient appreciation of his form was unavoidable, but as Sylar had said of Nathan's memories, it wasn't serious or obsessive. It was more incidental. Claire, though, could not be characterized that way. "I didn't even know I was related to Claire at first," he mumbled. He lifted his head quickly with a sudden flash of anger. "Wait, are you implying that I fantasized to ideas of Nathan and Claire _together_? I'm not a voyeur and that's disgusting, anyway." He wanted to be vehement about that, but considering he'd just admitted to harboring immoral thoughts about his brother and niece (separately, thank you very much), so getting bent out of shape about the two together seemed indefensible.

XXX

"No, I wasn't," Sylar scowled at the implication and the idea, "But thanks for answering it anyway." The last part was facetious.

XXX

"Did … Wow, I don't know if I want to know this, and if I don't, then … I guess don't tell me. But did Nathan think of her that way sometimes?" Peter cringed to even ask, but he wanted to know. Had Nathan been that low? And what if he was? It was just a fantasy. Was there anything wrong with it? _Why am I even asking this stuff?_ "No, I don't want to know," he cut off any possible answer Sylar was going to give. "He's a human being. Whatever worked for him, you know, that was his." Peter stood up abruptly, kicking off his blanket, setting aside his book, raking back his hair, and stalking into the kitchen.

XXX

_Okay, this is awkward even for me now._ Suddenly his pillows needed adjusting. _I'll pretend I didn't hear any of that. Please keep my mouth shut! I don't want to know either!_ The topic and the inquiry was the source of awkwardness. This was stuff Nathan, king of denial, would have lied, cheated, and killed rather than divulge – it was that secret. While, yes, Claire did the same needy puppy-dog number as Peter, it was…different and as such, it didn't garner the same…'response.' Claire was his daughter, even Sylar had trouble distinguishing himself from that; she appealed to him on an emotional and protective level, and one of supreme guilt. Besides, Sylar knew she wasn't Nathan's type.

XXX

"I know he wasn't perfect, Sylar." He stood in the middle of the kitchen, not really wanting anything aside from the opportunity to run away from the conversation. _I need to go work out._ He was feeling antsy all of a sudden, but he knew why. Reluctantly, he returned to the chair. _This is how it started before, too. I got upset and started pacing, then eventually I charged him._

XXX

"You can say that again," Sylar muttered, eagerly hefting his book again when he was released from the conversation – and when Peter sat once more. He wasn't sure what he should think now that he'd so cleverly planted an appealing…not appealing? taboo in Peter's head regarding Sylar's sexual interests. It was an incredibly stupid correlation to make, literally shooting his efforts in the foot. Upset with himself, Sylar pressed a different angle. "Is that how you…justify things like that, I mean, sexual interest whether it's right or wrong: 'whatever works for them; it's not my business; they're imperfect'?"

XXX

Peter bristled, glaring at Sylar for a moment, teeth bared. Then he pressed his lips together and dropped his eyes, getting a grip on himself. _Wait a second – he's not saying there's anything wrong with how I justify things … he's just asking. Right?_ He gave Sylar a piercing look, deciding that was the case and his anger was misplaced. "Okay," he said slowly. "Yeah, that's … that's right, but I wouldn't say there's anything right or wrong about interest, necessarily. With Nathan, if he thought about Claire, I'd say we're not always in control of what we're attracted to, no matter how wrong it would be to act on it."

XXX

Sylar's head tilted immediately, blinking, as he tore that apart in his mind, looking to apply it to himself. He did nothing else for a good thirty seconds. _So…desires…interests are okay, it's the…actions? If I could- no, if I wanted to stop the actions…according to Peter's morals, I'd be okay? (That sounds way too easy and way too simple). And it sounds like I wouldn't get laid._ The mere thought of conforming or surrendering so Peter would, what, like him? was ridiculous. If he didn't pursue and push, there would be no sexual tension or advancement because Peter wasn't into him at all. Well, Peter would fuck his body in a heartbeat but he'd ignore the rest. Out of the confusion and hurt that caused, Sylar's eyes narrowed and he attacked at whatever he could – in this case, Nathan, always an easy target. "So incest is bad even for Petrellis; out of all the sins you've committed, that one still stands out. How does that work with your whole 'love thy neighbor and thy brother and anyone else you can fuck'? I mean, you've obviously forgiven him more than his seventy-seven times seven."

XXX

Peter's scowl came back. He propped up the heavy book that had been lying unattended in his lap since he'd returned to his seat. "What I decide to forgive my brother for is none of your business," he said sharply. He let the silence lie for a moment as he stared sightlessly at the book. "What are you getting at?" he finally asked, looking up. He wasn't sure what Sylar was implying – that Nathan had harbored thoughts about Claire and Peter needed to disavow him because of it? Or was it simpler, and Sylar was angry that Peter had forgiven Nathan for anything, ever?

XXX

"Oh, Peter, please," Sylar sarcastically pleaded. "If you wanted to say that and make it stick, you wouldn't have _fucking turned me into him_! It is my business. You should have thought of that before you – and mommy dearest – decided I should be the new and improved Senator Nathan Petrelli. See, this is where you lose the right to privacy and not answering shit that I want to know!" He was…angry, agitated, and directionless. _(What was I getting at?)_ A few short, nasal pants of breath focused him a little more. Passive-aggressively, he pretended to drop the whole thing and calm down, "I'm not getting at anything. You're perfectly okay with perverted thoughts by anyone." _Including me! Aha! I got you!_ "And it would be strange for you to consider sex with your brother and then be weird about having sex with other unlikely people." Sylar went back to his book, smirking slightly because he couldn't help it.

XXX

Peter bristled again at Sylar's sarcasm, his scowl morphing to a snarl. The only thing that kept him from biting back at Sylar immediately was trying to figure out what the hell Sylar wanted to know that Peter wasn't answering. By the time those few seconds of uncertainty had passed, Sylar was moving on to pretending it was no big deal. "What's-" Peter cut himself off. What he wanted to say was that Nathan, brother or not, was an enormously more likely sex partner than Sylar. One person he knew and loved; the other seemed to go out of his way to provoke Peter, when they already had so much between them that it was a marvel Peter didn't end it for both of them. He glared at Sylar, toying with the idea. It didn't have as many downsides as it should have. His features showed his lethal thoughts as clearly as they could have. _If I kill him and that kills me, then it will be quick and over. If I kill him and it doesn't kill me, then I'm still rid of him even if I'm stuck here. And it might kick me out of here, possibly without even killing him for real, out there. Maybe it would kick us both out and then he'd be pissed I tried to kill him._ Peter's expression shifted to a frown. His eyes dropped introspectively. _He'll feel betrayed then. He trusts me, some, not to kill him. I've told him I wouldn't_. Peter leaned back, pulling into himself and sighing as he gave up the fantasy of offing Sylar. He looked at his book, glum and quiet. _There has to be another way._

XXX

_No response._ Based on the glaring looks he was being given, Peter understood; he just…didn't respond. Sylar did take the glaring a tad more seriously than he otherwise would have, based on their past and more recent events and freaking Nathan in general. It was satisfactory, if not what he'd been after. Maybe Peter understood that was irksome and did so on purpose. _He didn't hit me. He started it by asking about incest, an act he detests, and Nathan, a touchy subject, so what did he expect?_

XXX

Peter read only long enough to prove he wasn't running off from the 'conversation', such as it was. Once that time had passed, he stopped staring at text he wasn't absorbing, and rose. "I'm going downstairs to work out."

XXX

Sylar's head came up. _That was his plan earlier, wasn't it?_ "I'm coming, too." Shutting his book after noting the page number, he scooted to the foot of the bed, closer to Peter. He could have easily drifted off to sleep reading there, but Mr. Activity wanted out and Sylar didn't question his need to stay with Peter. _Opportunities perhaps._

XXX

Peter frowned, but didn't object. Sylar could be wherever he wanted to be. Maybe he'd just read in the rec room, like before.

XXX

After a quiet elevator ride (he wondered if they took the lift because of Peter's politeness/medical awareness and the concussion), Sylar followed him into the exercise room itself.

XXX

Peter picked up his workout clothes from the corner of the room, where they were hanging on a bench to dry. He looked over at Sylar, trying to decide what to do. _I could go to the bathroom and change there. That's kind of prudish and weird. Or I could change here with him watching me._ Changing around others was hardly foreign – he did it every shift at work and regularly when he had been on the swim team or at the gym. But that had always been surrounded by people who weren't interested in him, or whom Peter didn't care were interested in him. Sylar had been in his lap earlier, nibbling on his neck. Peter reached up and scratched at that spot. He looked away, chewed his lip, then turned his back and began to strip as quickly and efficiently as his brace allowed. _He's not going to run me off._

Peter took off his shoes and socks, then the too-tight t-shirt and the too-baggy pants. He left his boxer briefs on, even though during a normal workout, he went commando. He pulled on shorts and a looser t-shirt. He looked at his bare feet, glancing over at Sylar's. Sylar had not moved this whole time, probably ogling him, but Peter didn't raise his eyes to see. He was considering the foot thing. He'd been working out barefoot because it wasn't like he was sharing the facilities with anyone else, and what diseases or foot fungus were they going to share in the unlikely event Sylar joined him? But it was rude. And at the same time, Peter very specifically only had the one pair of fitting shoes at the moment. _Well, if Sylar doesn't like it, he can go back to the rec room. The show's over, anyway._ Lifting his eyes to Sylar's face, he gave a threatening half-glare before moving to the equipment.

XXX

Sylar for his part, stood near the entrance, arms folded, peering around to see what was what. _He'd rather spend his mornings in here than…(staying in bed with me)?_ That's what it was – an escapist location. He didn't see the appeal. When he looked at the apparatus (because calling them 'machines' was too generous), he saw a variety of kinky platforms. He caught Peter's eye when the guy turned back to see where he was or what he was doing. Then…Peter started to strip. He was changing, of course, but…it involved stripping down to underwear. Sylar stared and stared. This was as naked, intentionally so, as he'd seen Peter with this pair of eyes. Peter had amazing skin and a somewhat prominent butt currently turned towards him in the almost-too-tight black boxer briefs. Sylar's hind brain didn't know what to say to that or how to articulate what he saw.

All this after the empath had been holding him earlier, letting himself be touched, allowing Sylar to sit in his lap and mouth him…If it was a clue or a hint, it made no sense. It was as mixed a message as any so far. It made Sylar's face heat up and his heart beat faster. _He's so…confident, so vulnerable. How does he know I won't do anything to him?_ Peter certainly acted like he didn't care, as if Sylar weren't in the room. _He's in a weight room. It has weights. He feels safe here? This is his place,_ _obviously._ The stubbornness, the capability, the challenge, the fearlessness, the vulnerability was a heady combination. He was making progress with Peter. With effort, he pulled his mind from the gutters, trying to focus on anything else other than the desire to bend Peter over, touch him, rub him, own him.

The glare he received was a completely bipolar warning. Sylar glared back on principle. _Yeah, glare at me, Petrelli. You're the one you started taking your clothes off of your own accord._

XXX

Peter straddled the bench for a chest press, one where he could put his forearms on the padded handles and avoid the problems of his right hand. It was why he did this one first, before he was sweaty, tired, and less careful. He did some shoulder stretches as he tried to watch Sylar and pretend not to be watching him at the same time. One wall of the room was mirrored, but Peter had his back to it at the moment. Eventually, he got over it and moved on with his routine.

XXX

Sylar circled the room, pretending to closer inspect the equipment like he didn't know what their purposes were. Peter wasn't acknowledging him, which was neither here nor there. He stole glances at the other man. "Do you usually work out alone?" Sylar asked, voice a little rough from…earlier. Peter really expected inhuman acts of restraint from him, not to make use of the toys all around towards evil ends.

XXX

Having finished with his upper body exercises while Sylar was poking around at things (or whatever it was he was doing – Peter was trying not to watch him and mostly succeeding), Peter had moved on to crunches on the incline bench. His knees were locked in place around the set of roller bars, head down the slanted board. He paused for a second, then finished the set he was on before answering. He didn't bother to sit up for the answer; he just laid back and stretched a little. "Yeah. That's how it's been for the last few years, when I had the opportunity to work out at all."

XXX

Sylar recalled Peter's comments about his own isolation because of abilities. _But he hasn't said anything about me being here. He wants an audience._ After all, Peter was a little pervert who enjoyed showing himself off. _He likes teasing me and I've encouraged it – is that good or bad?_ Sylar considered making another hand job comment just to watch Peter react and jump around like he had before. "You like that you can do whatever you want here, don't you?" Sylar looked up at him from beneath his brows, pausing his circling for a moment. If the Petrelli enjoyed the power trip, it meant one more thing in common between them and destroyed another one of Peter's excuses. Peter had a dark side and Sylar just had to find it and coax it out – another challenge.

XXX

That stopped Peter twelve reps into his fifteen rep set. He ended sitting up and gave Sylar an appraising look. _Where is that going?_ He'd heard the tone of voice. Now he saw the expression. At least it didn't look like his first, split-second fear, which was that Sylar's question was a prelude to showing Peter how easily Sylar could destroy his small control over this world. He still wasn't sure that wasn't what Sylar was getting at. With a quirk of his brow, Peter said neutrally, "I like getting what I want wherever I am." He gave a tilting bob of his head. "Doesn't always happen."

XXX

"How far would you go to get what you want?" At the other man's look, he amended with some annoyance, "Whatever that may be." Sylar continued circling the perimeter of the room, surveying its contents while he waited for the answer.

XXX

Peter lifted his chin as he surveyed Sylar. _He really doesn't know me. Or is it that he doesn't believe me and thinks I slack off when people aren't looking?_ "As far as it takes."

XXX

Sylar's expression was closer to a frown of serious curiosity than anything else. "How hard are you trying to get what you want here?" _Or is something else going on?_

XXX

"'What I want here?'" Peter snorted softly and finished the set before rolling off and heading for the machine Sylar was hiding behind. Technically, Peter still had his obliques to work on, but fuck that. He wasn't going to lie on the floor or tilt his upper body back and forth while Sylar watched. He wanted to apply a little more muscle than that (plus herd Sylar out of his current spot, or at least crowd him). Peter sat down and made adjustments for more weight than usual on the leg press. "I'm _here_ , Sylar," he said before starting the exercise. "And you're alive. A few weeks before I came to get you, no one wanted you dead more than me." He wrinkled his nose in dissatisfaction at how things had worked out and shoved hard at the weight, flexing his thighs to full extension. "So how hard to you think I'm trying, huh, Sylar?" He grunted with exertion as he kept moving the weights. "Would you ask your brother's murderer for _help_?"

XXX

Sylar stared at him a moment. He then vacated his spot, walking a wide circle around to Peter's right so he could see the guy. He watched some more, frowning a little. A lot more credit need be given to the Petrelli upbringing because sometimes Sylar was fooled that Peter didn't want to kill him. Maybe it was just Peter's Petrelli libido that was confusing things. Peter's phrasing was also open to interpretation: _I wonder if that's changed…He's not trying really hard, at least, not consistently._ Sylar's head came up as he straightened, multiple reactions, the least of which was anger, darting through him. He enunciated his displeasure, "No." _I don't have any brothers!_

XXX

_Of course not – because you're done asking people for help no matter how much you need it._ "Well, _I_ would," Peter said self-righteously, "because people's lives are more important than my ego."

XXX

"And anyone else's life is more important than mine," Sylar murmured treacherously, half under his breath, as he turned back towards the weights. He knew he was considering the dumbbells as blunt instruments in Peter's demise.

XXX

Peter had gotten a little too full of himself there. Something about the tone of Sylar's muttering drove that home, even if Peter didn't catch the words. "What?" He slowed down on his reps to hear better.

XXX

"Nothing," he snapped. _I wish there was one of those punching balloons._ Sylar hefted a pair of weights, a fifteen pounder and a ten pounder, morbidly considering the pros and cons of heaviness in a murder weapon. It was only speculation...for now. The subtle threat made him edgy and depressed, killing the good mood he'd had earlier. Peter, who would hold and comfort him, who wouldn't fuck him, who wanted to kill him still (because why would that ever change?), was tightening the screws of tension, not in a good way, and increasing Sylar's frustration exponentially. The empath's comments and casual disregard made him angry on top of it. "You don't seem to have any ego involved in killing me. Why is that?" Sylar turned his head enough to look Peter in the face, his own expression dark.

XXX

Peter stopped, brows drawing together slightly. _I_ do _have ego involved in killing him. Don't I? I didn't go after him after he killed Nathan the same way I went after Dad. I was stopping Dad to save people, to prevent a disaster; I was after Sylar because … that was personal._ He'd been a lot hotter after finding out about Nathan, plus more determined to get his brother back. "Other things are more important," he said vaguely, trying to work out if the attempts to kill Arthur and Sylar were parallel.

XXX

"Aside from that and being alone. We're the only living things here. Would you kill me if those things didn't exist?" Sylar was insistent, more curious than invested. He'd since turned his body to square off before Peter, his butt against the weight rack, arms crossed. "I already asked if you hated me and you barely made an answer."

XXX

Peter's lips pressed together and his face held the expression of concentration and thought from a few moments before. "If we were back among people and," he hesitated as he framed the scenario, "the carnival wasn't an issue? No, I wouldn't try to kill you. We've already talked about that." He reached down and sullenly adjusted the weight a little lighter, to something more manageable. "Assuming I had to go up against you again, for some reason," Peter waited a long pause before continuing, "I think I'd try to talk to you first." _Not that I'd probably be able to stop him anyway, what with all his powers._ "Would you listen?"

XXX

Sylar narrowed his eyes and tried to stare Peter down, waiting to see if he would crack. Sylar didn't move either. Peter didn't budge and there was no follow-up punch-line, so in itself, the statement was serious enough. Sylar's head tilted at the question. _Talking? We never did that. Do I want that? As much as I enjoy the surprises and the action…Would I trust him?_ "Would you be alone?" The probability of sneaky Petrellis creating a diversion seemed obvious.

XXX

"Yeah, probably." Peter chuckled drily. "I can't think of anyone else stupid enough to go with me for something like that." That wasn't entirely true – he could think of several who were brave and determined enough, willing to take whatever risk was necessary to stop Sylar. But he thought it would pad Sylar's ego to tell him how dangerous and unstoppable he was.

XXX

A shrug prefaced his reply. "I might listen." Peter was almost no threat by himself and Peter probably knew that. It put all the power in Sylar's hands. At this point, since he really didn't feel like himself or like much of anything except a fucking wreck, he wouldn't (or maybe couldn't) kill Peter on principle, or even as a default – not any more.

XXX

Peter hesitated a moment, then nodded slowly. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a hopeful, broken half-smile. "Good. I hope I'd have something useful to say."

XXX

_(Yeah…I hope so, too)._ Sylar silently agreed, surprised and disgusted with himself.

XXX

After a few more reps, Peter asked, "What sort of tact should I take? Like, with Nathan, he'd want to know what he was going to get out of it. Maybe with someone else I should make sure they understand the consequences of what they're about to do. What's the best way to talk you down from something I don't want you to do?" It was a bald question and Peter knew that, but sometimes just putting it out there was better than dancing around the topic.

XXX

Sylar gave a sour look at that. He had almost fallen for that. He straightened up off the weight rack. "Okay, sharing time is over. I'm not some half-wit you can lead around like that. I am not a normal person you can talk down and I'm sure as hell not Nathan," he said with some heat, pointing at Peter's chest. The reminder was a crude slap in the face. "You might remember that he's dead and I'm a walking weapon bank. You'd rather fucking fight me and die, or kill me, than talk anyway. We both prefer if that way, so let's just stick with what we're good at, huh, Petrelli?" Sylar kicked a medicine ball, aiming at the wall, but it was heavier than it appeared, maybe twenty pounds. It rolled, but it lacked momentum and pained his leg and the whole thing was irritating as hell. He marched out of the gym, slamming the door because he could. _Jesus! What would we talk about anyway? He'd just try to convince me to be a good guy, some peace-loving hippy. That'll go far. Why didn't he ever try talking before?_ He paced in the lobby, his footsteps and breaths loud in the large echoing marble room. That last thought he turned over in his head again and again because it was new and easier than thinking about any other times he'd tried 'talking.'

XXX

Peter kept his face impassive until Sylar left. Then he smiled in amusement. _Okay, that didn't work. Yeah, I know you're a loaded gun, that's why I asked where the safety was – apparently you'd rather I led you around like a half-wit than just get things cleared up like adults …whatever. At least he left me alone to do the rest of my workout in peace._ Peter rolled his eyes, then his shoulders, as he dismissed Sylar's antics. He made a mental note that Sylar's dislike of manipulation extended to the most overt and open of tactics – what Peter had been offering was hardly even manipulation and more of negotiation, but Sylar had rejected it just the same. Considering he'd just brought up a hot button issue for Sylar, the rejection was practically polite. He finished his workout and changed into the baggy pants he'd found earlier that morning, but stayed with the less-snug t-shirt he usually reserved for exercise rather than the too-small one he'd had on before. He looked around for Sylar, thinking it unlikely he'd gone far.

XXX

By then Sylar had formulated a new approach and he wanted to try that before the tried-and-tested 'beat Peter's face in.' Seated in the rec room, elbows on knees, hands barely clasped, he looked up at the sound of the door. "Why didn't you ever try talking before? By your logic, you expected to die either way." _You could have talked to me and you didn't?_ That almost…hurt with a foreign feeling of loss he could barely explain. "Early on it…wouldn't have worked but…later…Even when we were brothers, you didn't…" he trailed off, thinking about that problem. "Why would you suggest talking now? Nothing's changed."

XXX

"You don't think anything's changed?" Peter blinked at him, moving to sit on the end of the piano bench, facing Sylar, his right elbow on the key guard. He was sleeping with the guy and fixing him meals. Even if it was required medical care Peter should have been willing to give anyone, giving it to Sylar (and to the degree and duration) hadn't been easy. Did that mean nothing?

XXX

Sylar tilted his head, not appreciating the redirected question. He didn't want to answer it; didn't have one; and didn't see why his thoughts mattered, either. "You still want me to do something."

XXX

Peter regarded him steadily for several long moments, studying Sylar's face and the play of expressions on it. Finally he glanced off to the side briefly and took a deep breath. "I know you better than I did. I know you've … done the things you've done for reasons of your own. I don't understand them, but I think they are, and must be, understandable. Even …" He shrugged one shoulder. "Even Nathan." That one encompassed a lot of territory, but Peter didn't want to get bogged down. He moved on. "So whatever it is you're going to do, if I want to stop you, I have to see it from your point of view. I have to know why you're doing it. Then I have to help you … not do it, if it's something that shouldn't be done." He pursed his lips and shifted his legs tensely. "I'm not good at finding options, Sylar. But … fighting you … is not a good one. I don't _want_ to die, Sylar." At some point in the last month or two of living with Sylar, he'd started to see him as a person with autonomy rather than someone Peter could pluck out of Parkman's mind-jail and drag to the carnival to do his duty. Sylar had a choice in what happened to him and how things played out – that was clear.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed dangerously and he glared. The pressure of his rage built to a boil, straining at his muscles and demanding action, retribution for those belittling, mocking words. "As someone who never got his fingers wet, I don't think you can understand. I am _special_ and there is nothing you can help ' _fix'_! I don't need Nathan! I don't need you!" He stood and covered the few steps between them quickly. "I fucking warned you, Petrelli," he growled and snarled, grabbing at the front of the other's shirt, hauling him to his feet.

XXX

Peter didn't respond quickly enough to the shift in mood. He saw it – yeah – but he didn't expect violence to come of it. Likewise, when Sylar stood and closed with him, Peter straightened and leaned back, tensing, but not leaping to his own defense. Sylar had grabbed him the day before in the clothing store and done no more than vent at him. He assumed this was the same and let Sylar have his outburst uncontested.

XXX

Sylar drew his left fist back, punching Peter across the face. It hurt his hand and he shook it out but he held on with the other. "I fucking warned you!" he blamed. "Stop psycho-analyzing me! If you think this is my mind, then you're going to play by my fucking rules! I am Sylar! And you are a fucking _ant_ now, compared to me!" he screamed this at Peter and it felt good to do it.

XXX

Painfully, Peter discovered he had assumed wrong. _Ow! Fuck! Asshole!_ Not fighting back before had led to this – that stood out plainly in Peter's mind. He hadn't stood up for himself in the back of the clothing store so Sylar was taking it a step further this time. _Well, there's one answer for that_. He didn't want to fight, but Sylar was going to continue if he didn't fight him (either today or next time). He'd lost the last two fights – he _had_ to win this one. He wasn't in a good position; he knew that. The backs of his knees were against the piano bench, the piano to his right, the rest of the room to his left, and Sylar holding him off-balance and bent back. The only good thing was that he wasn't hurt too bad yet – smacked around a little and with blood in his mouth, but he wasn't even too rattled.

"Fuck you and your stupid rules!" He brought his left hand up between them and swung it out, striking the inside of Sylar's right elbow, throwing himself back and trying to force a fall to get free. It would be onto his back, onto the bench – that wouldn't be a problem. Having Sylar kick him while he was down would be.

XXX

The strike to the bend in his elbow wasn't strong or particularly painful, but it had the intended effect of startling him and loosening his grip a little since the muscles were tensed. Peter then tugged and twisted away. Sylar had been pulling back for another preparatory strike so he was slow in reorienting to grab at Peter and restrain him. Having the Petrelli loose was far more dangerous – he knew more hand-to-hand and he'd shown he wasn't afraid to use the rough stuff. Sylar tried to stomp on some part of him was he moved away, anything to slow him down. He immediately saw why that was a bad idea.

XXX

Some portion of Peter's shirt ripped as he fell. He tried to tumble off the bench and onto his feet, but it was a bad angle and Sylar was right on top of him, legs moving and feet threatening. Peter dodged, Sylar connected with the back of one of Peter's calves, and gravity did the rest to put Peter entirely on the floor. "Ah!" He rolled onto his back and kicked out wildly, hitting Sylar on the shin. He would have rather knee-capped the jerk, but he hadn't taken time to aim. Hissing as he pulled air in past gritted teeth, he pulled his foot back for something more accurate and debilitating, but Sylar was already out of range.

XXX

Sylar took the hit without a sound and backed off. There was no way he was getting close to Peter even though Peter was the one on the fucking floor. The adrenaline had him panting. It was clear Peter had thought he wouldn't be hit earlier – he thought Sylar was weak and tamed. It added to his anger. He was angry enough to want to kill Peter, but he wanted the familiarity of the fight to normalize everything. It was 'on,' like it had been at Mercy – do or die. "I didn't know when I killed Nathan, I'd castrated you," he sneered, watching the man rise to his feet. "Are you that fucking impotent without Big Brother holding your hand? Did he take your balls to the grave, too?"

XXX

"You seem real concerned with my balls, Sylar," Peter said as he took the opportunity to scramble upright. "I think you just can't handle the idea that I'm not desperate to drop trou for 'Mr. Special'." He had his balance and did a quick sizing up of the situation. All useful weapons – pool balls, cue sticks and the like – were on the opposite side of the room. The few books next to the couch weren't any good. To get to the metal chairs, he'd have to get past Sylar. So it was just him and Sylar, hand to hand. Peter knew his own weaknesses and he knew Sylar's pretty well. The last thing Peter wanted to do was hit Sylar in the head, or hit anything with his right hand, and he figured Sylar knew both of these. Which meant, of course, that was what he led with. Hand extended, he literally grabbed at Sylar's face with his right hand, forcing the other man to deal with it or get jabbed in the eye by the brace.

XXX

_What-?!_ Was Sylar's only reaction to having a hand shoved, not thrown, at his face. He leaned back (his height and Peter's reach didn't completely nullify the attempt) and smacked it aside. Just as he straightened to focus on the next attack, he saw the feint for what it was – or rather, he felt it. Peter's fist slammed into his ribs, grinding against bone and compressing the thin muscles. Sylar pivoted to present his front rather than his side and back, grabbing at Peter's shirt once more to swing at his face with his left.

XXX

That first solid blow was so sweet to Peter. He didn't think he'd landed anything in the last fight with that sort of impact, other than when he'd head-butted the bastard. He'd finally – finally! - been able to hit him with some power behind it. Sylar weathered it well enough to turn Peter's joy into frustrated rage. It should have counted for more! Then he got hit on the right side of the face again, this time nearly on his temple and enough to jar his thoughts once more. He couldn't let the guy keep getting head shots on him or he'd be as fucked up as Sylar. Speaking of which, he needed to take advantage of the man's unsteadiness, so he rushed him, trying to angle him into the back wall of the room where Sylar couldn't get away from him.

XXX

Peter struck him like a linebacker without any padding. The impact with the wall stunned him, hurting his spine, the back of his head, driving the breath out of him. Sylar struggled to recover and pushed at Peter's shoulders and body-mass as the guy clung to him. It was too close; why was Peter holding him? The question answered itself when Peter went back to punching his side, his gut, anywhere he could reach. Sylar couldn't breathe again – his side, back, head, and lungs all hurt.

He began to wrestle and writhe to get away and avoid the blows. If they hadn't been fighting, the proximity and intimacy would have been wonderful. For now, it was poisonous and deadly – where would Peter stop this time? Would he stop at all? Sylar was completely lost as to what emotion he should feel. Everything was a tangled mess. Lust, excitement, despair, depression, regret, hatred, frustration, he couldn't decide or decipher. He could hardly think. Weak and nearly curled over Peter's shoulder from the abdominal muscle contractions and gasps for air, Sylar bit him on the shoulder/neck join hard enough to mark and returned body punches to Peter's side. They weren't as strong as Peter's but hopefully it would do some damage or provide a distraction. He wanted all or nothing – to be destroyed utterly or for Peter to quit and…something better to resume. With his brain swimming like it was now, he couldn't process if surrender or continuing his efforts would get him what he wanted.

XXX

That feeling of wild exultation surged up in Peter again as it seemed like he was finally getting somewhere. Sylar felt like he was crumpling, but Peter wasn't about to let up because of something like that. He'd hold Sylar up if he had to, anything he needed to do to keep slamming his left fist into whatever soft spots he could reach, grunting with the exertion much as he had while working out. Between the adrenaline of the fight and the rush from the impression he was winning, he hardly felt the blows Sylar landed. He shrugged off the bite, but the sexual nature of it lingered in the back of his mind. Hadn't Sylar said something about wanting this from him? _I'll give it to him, all right!_


	95. Lobby Hobbies

Day 35, January 14, Morning

Each heavy blow contracted Sylar and held him in place, despite his own defenses and attempts to move away. Peter was winning; had probably already won, and Sylar's stupid, limited body couldn't keep up with any of it. His survival instinct flickered, contemplating accepting the inevitable as he nearly hung off/onto Peter's shoulder because the smaller man supported him, keeping him in place for his fists to target. Falling at Petrelli's feet was just not acceptable but it looked like that was going to happen, too.

XXX

_Stop._ Some voice in Peter's head told him to cut it out and damned if it didn't sound like Nathan's – tense and concerned, with that faux-calmness he affected when he didn't want people to know how worried he really was. _Don't do too much here._ It was that same voice – not the usual one of Peter's own internal dialogue. He hesitated, his body wound up tight like a spring, fist curled and Sylar's gasping-but-otherwise-dead-seeming weight hanging from his right arm. He let the man slide down to the floor. Peter backed away, reaching up to wipe at the blood coming out of his mouth. The right side of his face was numbish, his left hand stung along the knuckles, and his neck ached. His head was ringing, too, now that he noticed it. Panting, he reeled a little until he found the arm of the couch and leaned heavily against it.

"An ant, huh?" Peter got out, wearing a threatening half-snarl like he might still finish the business. He had a few things he wanted to say. "So it was an ant who went through a fucking snowstorm when I could hardly walk, to get you medical supplies to save your life? An ant who's been making your meals, taking care of you, fucking _sleeping_ with you?! It was someone _meaningless_ ," he paused to spit blood, "who was with you last night, was it, when you needed someone? That didn't matter, huh? None of that matters," he flung his arms loosely to either side, "because nothing's changed as far as _you're_ concerned and that's all that matters to you, isn't it? Well, you can take your fucking 'nothing's changed' and shove it up your ass, Sylar! If I don't matter to you, then there's no reason for me to be here."

XXX

Sylar pushed himself mostly upright to sit, on the floor, while Peter rested against the couch and ranted at him. It all sounded vaguely familiar, bits and pieces, something about Peter needing to be 'liked.' He was surprised not to have been dropped to the floor. His core ached and clenched, feeling like trapped gas, cramps, a side ache and no oxygen all at once. It wouldn't have been that bad but Peter, fresh from his work out, didn't give love taps – he put his all into it. Sylar coughed to get air, panting heavily. After all that and Peter was still trying to manipulate him, as if guilt was still a working trigger. Sylar was still angry – he wanted another go-round just to stop the talking. That or he wanted to scream until he couldn't hear anything anymore. He didn't have the breath to yell back at Peter. Yet. _I hate you. Why won't you finish it? You think you do all that for me? You want me to do something for you! That's the only reason to keep me alive!_ "And you expect a thank you," he croaked, glaring murder up at the Petrelli.

XXX

Peter snorted disdainfully. "That's the usual response, yeah," he snapped.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed. He was being given something of a choice, an important one, too. Perhaps he'd stumbled onto a way to make Peter talk about the underlying issue of whatever was bothering him – badger him, irritate and insult him, take a beating and then listen to the resulting lecture. Perhaps Peter's 'liking' issue stemmed from Sylar's 'ingratitude,' as Peter saw it. And if Peter felt 'liked', then…sex, right?

But the act of saying 'thank you' stuck in his craw. _Now you know what it's like to save someone's life, do a good deed, make a gesture and have it go unnoticed all because your intentions are evil. I didn't ask him to show up or help; I told him I'd be fine. He would be perfectly okay if I died except for the fact that he needs me to fix his stupid, self-made Petrelli problems. This isn't new, why does he think I don't know this game?_ "/What are you going to do? Beat it out of me?/" he rasped lowly, blinking and turning aside as he realized where that came from. That wasn't the response he'd wanted to give. Maybe he would get that second round after all, accidentally.

XXX

Peter hesitated, a 'Go fuck yourself' hanging on his lips as he processed where he'd heard Sylar's line before – at Mercy Heights, when he'd tried to get Nathan back. It hadn't helped then, either. "No," he grunted, feeling like he would have rather been hit in the face again than be reminded of that far more painful failure.

XXX

Clenching his teeth, Sylar remembered how Peter had wanted recognition of his victory at Battleship (not that the whole incident had ended much better). Peter liked the humiliation. And the domination. _It's just words,_ he coaxed himself. _I don't have to mean them. 'Thank you, sir; may I have another?' Right after a fight he wants me to thank him? But…that's the punishment routine, isn't it? I'm supposed to be grateful for that, too. I have to be trained to give a 'usual response.'_ Finally, the anger bled out of him and turned into despair. Some change of heart or through Sylar's own somewhat intentional foot-in-mouth, Peter no longer found him worth caring for as he had been so far. It was the desperation that made him want to continue the fight, just to feel something else.

"Thank you," Sylar said quietly, eyes unfocused at nothing, face blank. This wasn't how he wanted to express gratitude but that wasn't part of the choice.

XXX

_We're still fighting,_ Peter realized. _It's just that the blows are different._ "That's not what I want!" he burst out, coming to his feet. "You sound like you're thanking me for punching you in the gut," he said with disgust, turning and heading out of the room. He paced randomly in the lobby until the tension and the blood he'd swallowed combined to make him queasy. He went to the bathroom where he spat, retched, rinsed his mouth out, and examined himself. All of his teeth seemed fine. He'd just cut or bit the hell out of himself when Sylar had punched him. He wet a paper towel and wiped his face with it, pausing to run his fingers over the spot on his shoulder where Sylar had bitten him. _He could have bitten me a lot harder. Did he hold back because I hit him and disrupted him, or because he didn't want to take a chunk out of me? I need to sterilize that either way._ He rinsed his bruised knuckles and checked over his brace. Miraculously, his right hand had come through without being reinjured.

XXX

Again, Sylar could throttle him just for being the definition of frustrating. He sat there, immobilized by his own mind and its reactions. _Do you really expect me to thank you for manipulating me?_ He was grateful Peter removed himself to be illogical elsewhere; it was probably a good thing he didn't care where Peter went or if he was coming back. In this moment, it was a relief not to stress about that whole phobia. Several minutes passed alone, before Sylar pushed himself up. He ached, felt tired and used among a host of other indecipherable things. Peter had won, cleanly, with little effort it seemed, delighting in humiliating him then being upset when he didn't get his way (whatever that might be). Sylar was left alone after it all. He trudged to the elevator, then up into the suite.

XXX

Peter emerged to see the elevator doors shutting. It took him a moment to work that out and a quick glance in the rec room to confirm that Sylar had left. It made Peter a little pissy that Sylar hadn't waited for him, but then again, Peter hadn't told Sylar where he was going or when he'd be back. Maybe Sylar thought Peter had gone up already. That calmed him. If the guy could walk on his own, then he wasn't nearly as hurt as Peter had thought. _Or he's a lot tougher and more stubborn … which is likely._ With a shrug of his shoulders, he pressed the button for the other elevator car, thinking, _I need to go get the trauma bag anyway for alcohol wipes._

XXX

Sylar went to the freezer and got out some frozen tater tots. He couldn't deal with Peter right now, but that's what Peter would do, wasn't it – get out something cold to reduce the swelling? _That would be kind of funny if I have internal bleeding. How do you die from that, anyway? I can't remember._ His muscles were complaining because it hurt to do anything, even walk to the bed where resting was sure to be equally uncomfortable. And lonely. _Fuck everything!_ Sylar told off the part of himself that wanted care in spite of everything else. _He doesn't think I can take care of myself and he doesn't care if I can't. So the best way to get on his nerves is survive and be healthy. I'm not stupid enough to think something has changed; that's why, Peter! He's the one who won't adapt to this wasteland!_

XXX

Peter gave a couple knocks muffled by being the side of his fist rather his knuckles, then opened the door. He gave a quick glance in and to the side, even though Sylar was clearly visible and not in the middle of staging an ambush. Peter gave him a wary look anyway and moved to the wheelchair, upon which sat the trauma bag. He went through it for some gauze to pack his cheek with and wipes for his shoulder. That done, he glanced over at Sylar, wondering if he needed anything, and the reception such concern was likely to get set Peter off all over again. He straightened and walked closer, the wrapper for one of the wipes held tensely between right thumb and index finger. "Do you really not get it? You think I'm just trying to manipulate you with all of this?" He gestured around the apartment, indicating loosely the groceries, meals they'd shared, and cohabitation in general.

XXX

_What do you want?_ Sylar glared at the fact of the other man's presence. _(We've never fought here). Why let that stop anything?_ He tossed his make-shift ice pack to the bed, crossing his arms. Peter went straight to the medical supplies like he'd actually been hurt. The little man had a pair big enough to walk closer and address him again. Sylar bit out, "What else would you be doing? You don't think anything's changed either." He wasn't sure he was on board for psychoanalyzing their fights after they happened. In retrospect, allowing Nurse Peter to give him all those mental health tests was probably a bad idea.

XXX

Peter's lips tightened. It wasn't the answer he wanted. Rage boiled up inside of him until he wanted to hit Sylar again and again – that dismissive expression, like Peter and everything he'd ever done was worthless or worse – it ran all through him and hit most of his buttons regarding insecurity and inadequacy along the way. He thought maybe Sylar was right that there were ulterior motives involved and nothing he'd done was worth thanks. Peter could put an end to that. "I've been thinking," honestly, he hadn't – the idea had just now occurred to him, "that I had dreamed I'd blow up New York. I dreamed that over and over again. And you know what? I didn't – it didn't happen. So what, if I dreamed you saving Emma at the carnival? There's no reason that's going to happen either. Maybe it's even something I'm supposed to prevent, like blowing up."

Peter transferred the paper and foil wrapper to his left hand, curling it into a painful fist that did little to distract him from the fear he felt about his next words and all their possible consequences. It felt like he was giving up and he hated that, but he'd already been thinking Sylar wasn't the answer. He just hadn't gone so far as to make it real by stating it aloud. "I don't want your help with the carnival, Sylar, where I'd always have to worry if you were going to save everyone from disaster by having a little lower body count through your own mass murder. I don't want your insincere thanks when you don't even recognize I've done anything worthwhile for you. And you know what I don't want most of all? _**You**_." With a snarl and a huff, he threw down the wadded wrapper and left the room, not bothering to shut the door because he didn't trust himself to do it without slamming it.

XXX

'Don't want you in any capacity' was the clear message. 'Murderer' had been in it as well, so nothing had changed. Sylar still felt like a sucker. "We'll see about that when you need your ' _big brother'_ to bail you out of trouble! That's what always happens!" Sylar roared back, knowing Peter would be forced to hear him (even if the door hadn't been open). And now he felt like a fool, several times over. He'd somehow cornered himself and Peter had…denounced him, called his bluff, stripped his protection. He didn't buy it for a moment – Peter _always_ needed help and Peter _always_ wanted to save people. The empath giving up was unthinkable. It was just more manipulation. _He tries- tried that on Nathan a lot and it usually worked. I'm not stupid and I'm not stupid Nathan. He can't cut it on his own._ All the same, Peter was making valid threats for the time being. Without Peter's savior complex mission, he didn't need to keep Sylar alive or healthy. Sylar had no safeguard and thus no safety for the first time since Peter had arrived.

XXX

Peter stomped down the hallway in a snit. He'd paused and cocked his head just outside the door, listening to what Sylar had to say, but then continued on without a comeback. _Is that … is that another he-thinks-he's-Nathan moment?_ He shook his head, but filed it away as further proof that Sylar's slips were unintentional. Peter was frustrated, angry, and put out. He felt like Sylar had somehow manipulated him into throwing away the only lead he had to saving Emma and the others. Now – he had nothing. He ground his teeth and took the stairs, needing to burn off energy even if the back of his calf where Sylar had stomped him was trying to cramp up. That set his destination. After stopping by his apartment for warmer clothes, he headed to the YMCA for a very long soak in the hot tub, followed by a day of engaging exercise.

He found an Italian restaurant within a few blocks for an early dinner and took his time about preparing it, wondering if Sylar would be eating tonight. Sylar had both the concussion and possible internal bruising to discourage taking meals. While Peter thought the guy shouldn't go around punching him in the nose, he still spent more time thinking (worrying?) about Sylar than he thought he should. It intruded on his thoughts again when he walked back, hesitating outside his own apartment building and looking up towards the penthouse of the opposite building, where he'd last seen Sylar. _If he misses a couple meals or a night of sleep, it's not going to kill him._ With a resigned shrug of his shoulders, Peter went upstairs to his own apartment and hit the sack.

XXX

There was no way he was staying here tonight. Peter was upset about being caught and they apparently didn't need each other anymore. Taking his book, ice pack, Peter's pillow, and some food items, Sylar moved to the next-door suite. It lacked the same feel – it was bigger, emptier, less lived-in but he convinced himself those were good things. It was quiet on top of everything else, leaving him with bad choices and unprocessed emotion. He checked himself for what would become bruises. He lay down, tried to focus on reading and eventually succeeded. _This is peaceful. (And safe). I don't have to be around him if I don't want to be._ Peter might come back – probably would – and could say whatever he wanted then. _This is all just a game. Nothing is new._ His dinner consisted of water, crackers and cheese, choked down around his lack of appetite. His head ached fitfully and he fretted as he felt his body dragging him down to sleep. It was going to be a rough night.

XXX

Day 36, January 15, Morning

After breakfast at the diner where he'd eaten weeks before, Peter went by to check on Sylar. Even if he didn't want or need anything from the guy, Sylar was still a human being, and one who needed regular care and checkups for the time being. He gave the door a muffled knock with the side of his fist, avoiding putting his bruised knuckles to the wood as he had the day before. When there was no answer, he called out. "Sylar?" He beat harder on the door, then stopped and listened. No noise. He turned the knob. Unlocked. He went in. "Sylar?" he asked less loudly. There was no need to yell through the door now. A quick search showed the place empty – Sylar had not expired of a ruptured internal organ due to Peter's negligence. That was a relief. _The bed's mussed, but the dishes look the same._ He robbed the fridge for the grapes and picked up his heavier winter coat while he was there. Snacking on the fruit, he proceeded to Sylar's original apartment, where he repeated the same routine, also finding it empty. _If he's well enough to be out and around, then he's fine._ Peter went on with his day's activities – swimming, half-heartedly scouting for a decent clothing store and getting absorbed in the sporting goods store instead, and finally that evening, playing a few games of pool in the rec room.

XXX

Sylar squirmed awake, then started with a painful jerk. The noise wasn't coming from his door. The night hadn't passed pleasantly or quickly. He strained to hear if and when Peter left. It was unlikely the medic was being unusually creepy and waiting for Sylar to return so he could attack him. Soon enough, Sylar thought he left, after all, Peter had 'better things to do' surely. He spent his day moving very slowly as the stiffness set in. The nature of the Peter-inflicted injury meant it hurt to move torso/arms or legs. He showered, read, made a small lunch, took a nap, and mostly recuperated on his own. He was miserable. _I wonder what Peter is doing. If I'm lucky, this is all just a dream._

XXX

Day 37, January 16, Morning

Peter made the same rounds on the next morning, then lingered in the rec room for a lot longer, hoping to catch sight of Sylar. _I wonder if he ditched me? What would that mean?_ He found himself ambivalent about it. Being alone, genuinely alone, was hard to wrap his head around and he wasn't sure he wanted to go through the exercise. This was better than the cargo container – he knew who he was and why he was here and that his continued aloneness was a function of Sylar abandoning him (not like he'd expected better of the guy), Matt not helping him (whom he _had_ expected better of), and his mother … ( _yeah_ ). On the other hand, being ditched by Sylar meant being safe, and even if he wasn't making progress towards saving the carnival, he at least wasn't constantly beating his head against the wall that was Sylar's unwillingness to help. So there was that. _Two days isn't enough to worry. He's probably laying off, licking his wounds, waiting for his stomach to settle, and then he's going to show up out of the blue for a rematch._ Peter did his laundry and some grocery shopping, stocking up his apartment in case that ended up being the main place he would reside in from now on.

XXX

This time Sylar moaned about being disturbed from an already disturbed sleep. As soon as he realized what was going on, he shut up and lay still. He'd learned the 'stay close to known places' trick when he'd hunted and shapeshifted. People always looked near and far, but never the barely-removed distance. He wondered what Peter's second visit meant, and if Sylar decided to linger here, how many times Peter would check back, how long it would take until Peter gave up. _He said he'd never give up._ He'd finished the baseball book and the apartment came with a collection of dull encyclopedias. The first volume was huge and too heavy to lay on his gut to read, even with a pillow as a buffer, so he lay on his side and propped the thing on the bed to read at an angle. He didn't try to do much, though parts of him longed to be active and interactive. _I don't need people like he does. He needs his people. He has people, or he did. He said he'd never give up, so what does that mean for me?_

XXX

Day 38, January 17, Morning

Peter pushed the stairwell door open as he made it to the ground floor in his apartment building. It was the first thing in the morning … and there was Sylar. He stopped immediately, letting the door swing shut behind him. Peter tilted his head and shook out his arms, thinking the rematch was on and being grateful Sylar hadn't jumped him from surprise. When Sylar didn't immediately start anything, Peter dipped his head slightly and tried a cautious greeting. "Morning."

XXX

Sylar lifted his chin to that. It was brisk out, but manageable to work in.. "I thought you had a window project to finish," he intoned the statement, neither here nor there about it.

XXX

"What's it to you?" Peter challenged, not liking at all that Sylar had shown up to taskmaster him. It didn't help his mood that he hadn't given thought one to the storefront for the last few days. He felt guilty about that, didn't want to feel guilty about it, and so took it out on Sylar instead.

XXX

Sylar frowned, disappointed it was going this way already, and snapped back, "I told you you'd need my help." _That's the main issue here._ He wanted…an admission, something to revert things to their natural state; or at least how they'd been before (which Sylar would admit was much more tolerable and preferable than whatever this was going on now).

XXX

" _Your_ help?" Unintentional slips or not, Peter wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to rub Sylar's nose in it, given his mood and the subject matter. "No, you told me I'd need _my brother's_ help and I don't see him around anymore." He paced closer, angling his body somewhat and sizing Sylar up. "Now if you want to start shit with me, do it somewhere other than on my doorstep. I don't care what memories of Nathan's you have – you are not my brother and you do not get to show up and get on my case first thing in the morning." If he was in luck, Sylar would be intimidated after losing the last fight and wouldn't risk round two.

XXX

Bobbing his head forward once, Sylar sneered a little, "I think I just did." He saw the threat and matched it with his own scoping glance. (If all else failed, maybe if Peter beat him badly enough, he'd come back to the suite).

XXX

_No such luck. Well, I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to back down. Not here – this is my building, not his._ Peter gave him a wry smile in return. "Yeah, I know you did. Now you can get out of here and cut it out, or we can throw down. Choose." He squared off a few strides from Sylar, waiting.

XXX

_Like that's going to work,_ he thought at Peter. Sylar's face was amused as he spread his hands to either side of himself with a hint of a shrug. In doing so, he knew he'd manipulated Peter into the fight (while maintaining deniability, making Peter choose).

XXX

_Fuck._ It was the 'come at me, bro' gesture. Peter had already given Sylar a thorough look. The odds of this being a trick seemed low, which meant it was just a straight-up fight. He hated straight-up fights because they never were, no matter what. Nathan, interestingly, had been the one to drill that into him over and over. Life isn't fair, it isn't even, and no one gets what they deserve. He hadn't been able to convince Peter that it shouldn't be that way, but he'd definitely shown him it was that way right now. Since Peter had backed himself into a corner with his posturing, gambling Sylar would back down, he had to deliver now the man was calling him on it. Knowing full well he would get hit going in, he charged anyway. Another thing Nathan had taught him: _Better to take a hit you're ready for than one you're not._

XXX

It was more instinct than anything else. Peter had to approach him, so Sylar prepared to hit him first. He planted himself and swung for Peter's middle as just payback. With the man's forward motion, the sucker punch should put him down for a good while and ensure victory.

XXX

Prepared for it, the wind was not knocked out of Peter. The blow had hurt, but much of his falling back was staged, as evidenced by how he didn't actually go backwards, but rather down. He'd been planning on straightening and punching, but as long as he was down here, he wasn't going to overlook a target of opportunity. Just like Peter, Sylar hadn't moved away. He was right there in arm's reach, so Peter reached him. Still crouched in false gut-clenching, Peter jutted out his left fist, catching Sylar squarely in the groin.

XXX

_Ha!_ Sylar thought. Just as he was realizing that something was off, pain exploded in his groin. Sylar went down, clutching himself. The hit was solid, the fight basically done. _Recover…recover…Come on!_ But the nature of the temporary injury left him helpless and vengeful; Peter had him down and would kick the crap out of him now and that sucked.

XXX

Peter grabbed Sylar by the hair with his left hand, wrenching his head up enough so he could growl mockingly into the man's face, "Now _I'm_ concerned for _your_ balls." Twining his fingers into that thick mop of hair, he stood and tried to steer Sylar with him towards the door. Peter deliberately ignored the many options of inflicting damage at that moment that might have ended the fight entirely. His winning condition was getting Sylar outside, not beating the crap out of him.

XXX

_Whoa! Okay. Ow._ Sylar snarled and gripped Peter's controlling wrist to try to alleviate the spread of trauma to his scalp. It was embarrassing; it was sexy; it was 'fighting words.' He panted and grunted as he was dragged for the door, based on his warped viewpoint, having no option but to 'go with it' for now. It was valuable recovery time, which was stupid of Peter to give him. When they reached the door, Peter had to open it and then Sylar sprang into action. Arms and legs shot out, expanding his considerable reach to grab and catch at the doorframe and resist being forced outside. He clung and snarled more as Peter struggled to hold the door open, yank his hair and disentangle Sylar's limbs. And the minute Peter was distracted and committed to that, Sylar put his head between the other man's legs and rushed him at the knees and thighs. He released, not wanting to take him down hard, and let Peter stumble back until he fell back on his ass, the momentum laying him on his back.

Sylar then slithered up and over Peter despite the pain in his side from the previous altercation. He tried to get between the man's legs and keep those powerful fists out of action – mostly holding or pushing them aside. Once there (though the arms would be a dangerous work-in-progress), he began pushing his pelvis against Peter's, partially faking his low-voiced grunts but not his smirking grin. "You should be very concerned with my balls, Petrelli!"

XXX

"Oof!" Peter started to scramble backwards when Sylar climbed on him, but he was slowed by surprise at the tactic. It was a poor one, as was throwing him to the floor and not following through. _He's_ _ **not**_ _following through. Wait, he's not trying to hurt me?_ Peter's mind boggled. About then, he was distracted by the sexual and insulting nature of Sylar's attack, so he tried to punch him. Sort of. Not very hard. Peter was confused. _Am I supposed to be fighting him, or what? What the fuck is he doing?_ Sylar was struggling to stay in position and yet still keep both of Peter's arms from being useful. It was tough to do and obviously he was focusing on Peter's left, so Peter grabbed the front of Sylar's coat with his right. Sylar shoved the limb to Peter's left, across his body, but not before Peter managed to yank Sylar down a little closer. Before Sylar could pull away, Peter cut back with his right elbow, catching the man across the mouth. He might have split a lip, or he might have done nothing. His elbow was padded by heavy winter coat, after all, and Sylar had been moving away from the blow. Ever persistent, Peter grabbed at Sylar's front again with his right. One of these times, the bastard would open his right side. In the meantime, he taunted him, "They have little blue pills for that problem you're having, Sylar."

XXX

It was shameful how the aggression, mock-violence, tension, position, and then that elbow to the mouth turned him on. Sylar tasted blood, doubtlessly from the pressure of his lip against his teeth. They were definitely playing – _finally_ Peter seemed to understand that. His mouth gaped at a grin, at least until Peter spoke, the little prick. "There's no cure for Petrellis! And I am ' _having'_ my problem right now." Sylar pulled at the other man's clothes, wanting to see how the bite marks had healed (hopefully they hadn't). He couldn't believe Peter was allowing this much contact and outright molestation; it made his head spin and his dick hard.

XXX

"That's good! First step to curing a problem is admitting to it," Peter got out, still struggling around in what he regarded as a ridiculous semblance of fighting. There were things he could be doing that were a lot more effective than what he was actually doing, but he was biding his time, trying to get just the right shot rather than taking whatever he could at the moment. He wasn't losing ground, nor did he feel threatened or even too insulted by Sylar's antics, so he felt like he could afford the wait.

Finally, he got the shot he was waiting for and slammed his left fist into Sylar's side, as near the center of where he'd beat on him a few days before as he could get. Peter didn't think there were any cracked ribs there, but it had to be bruised to hell. He kept hitting that spot until Sylar did nothing but protect it.

XXX

Moments of getting his way evaporated with his air supply in an instant. His core erupted in pain, almost as bad as the initial injuries and the healing process of cramps and stiffness. He groaned between punches. Sylar curled over, or tried to, his face landing against the same pre-bitten shoulder, helpless once again.

XXX

Peter shoved the other man over and straddled him, tightening his knees to drive them into Sylar's sides as much as he could manage. He looked down on him and hesitated. It occurred to Peter that other than the expression of pain, Sylar looked fucking sexy – eyes glittering, skin flushed, mouth parted, and hair in disarray around him. And that Peter was on top of him in what wasn't far off from being one of his favorite sexual positions. _Erm. We're fighting, right? But I shouldn't hit him in the head. Well … then what the hell do I do?_ He grabbed Sylar's throat with his left hand because he felt like he needed to be doing something violent and aggressive, or else this was going to get awkward fast.

XXX

There was a significant pause (Sylar would notice later) from when he was flipped, breathless, onto his back and straddled and when Peter grabbed his throat. The assault had taken some of the virility from his erection but he was dazed enough to consider the sexual possibilities of their position. And then there was the grip on his throat, which, even if it didn't feel the same as before when he'd been choked out, was still a serious threat. Sylar froze, eyes a little wide, trying to gauge the point of that maneuver. If it wasn't a threat, then it was weak, low, and fucking _hot_. Sylar felt a resurgence in his dick, which was still more or less between Peter's legs.

XXX

Peter leaned in slightly, more a tilt of his upper body. He had Sylar's complete attention – that was good (and very sexy) – but he didn't know what to do with it. Again, he felt at a loss here, not sure what the point of the fight was if it wasn't to win. He needed to say something, though. "Are those windows really this important to you?"

XXX

Sylar left Peter's grip alone and reached around to grasp Peter's buttocks, one in each hand, and squeezed. His brain splintered into a multitude of thoughts: _Great ass. Peter's ass. Is he letting me grope him? Why isn't he choking me? Keep your hand there. I'm hard – is he hard? Fuck me in the damn doorway – do it!_ It took a few seconds to corral his mind enough to speak, purring around the interfering hand, "I could be distracted from them."

XXX

Peter grunted. It wasn't the answer he wanted; it wasn't a useful answer. Also, he was not at all thrilled with Sylar taking liberties with him. He gave a hard squeeze to Sylar's throat, as hard as he could, but brief.

XXX

Sylar's eyelids lowered with predatory interest and he rutted his erection up against Peter in response.

XXX

The thrust against his backside settled it – he was done with this weird, violent, 'toying with each other' thing. _What are you, like, five? (Or fifteen, rather.)_ Peter snorted and got up, standing and getting away from those gripping hands. As before, he passed on the opportunity to kick Sylar as he went, or even scare him with the threat of it. He stalked off several steps, which was inconveniently further into the lobby. His gloves and headband had fallen from his pocket sometime during the fight. They, also, were on the far side of Sylar. He glared at the escaped articles of clothing, then at the door out, then back to Sylar.

XXX

Of course, Peter got up and moved away, leaving him unfulfilled yet again. This time it was worse. It left him heart pounding with adrenaline and a boner, lying flat on the ground. "Fucking tease…" Sylar murmured, staring up at Peter. He wished for telekinesis to better shred clothing and pin the slippery empath down. Or maybe he wished for Peter to be interested, consensual, aroused at the least. Being turned on by a man was sick, yes, though it didn't rank on his list of sins. _He'd love it if I had shapeshifting._ Busily, he plotted ways to compel Peter's involvement.

XXX

Peter smirked at Sylar's comment. He liked the admission that Sylar wanted him and wasn't going to get him. The man was lying there panting with frustration and an obvious bulge in his jeans. He waited a beat, but Sylar didn't look to be in any hurry to get up. "No more fucking around," Peter insisted. "Get up and get out of here. If you burn this place for me, then I will take away everything about it that you want. The next time you're not looking, I will move somewhere far away and I won't move back." He was pretty sure that was the biggest stick he had available to swing – bigger even than, 'I'll kill you while you're asleep' because it was so easy for Peter to do, and cost him so little. He wasn't invested in that particular apartment, but having a boundary between them, a territory that was his and not Sylar's, was very important. _You like forbidden fruit? Let's see how fast this one goes sour on you._

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes and began to get up, taking his time about it just because – and his side was now aching constantly just like his head. When standing, his eyes turned to slits at the threat. He didn't point out his unique and exceptional experience in hunting people down (it would be vastly more difficult if the target knew he was coming and kept mobile, and there was no one to question about Peter's whereabouts). _I stepped in the fucking lobby – a common area…_ "Right, because _your_ building is sacred," he snapped by way of mentioning the broken door and being punched and choked in his own apartment. He had nothing to threaten with. Peter would be ambivalent about Sylar moving or disappearing; they weren't fucking; and Peter had taken away the threat of 'not helping' with his girlfriend. Sylar didn't think reminding him of just how miserable he could make Peter's life would be beneficial – Peter should already be very aware of that anyway. Bitterly, he continued, "So next time I'm supposed to wait in the elements with all the other animals because the fucking _lobby_ is _your_ space?"

XXX

He pressed his lips together and exhaled heavily. Peter looked away to stare at the door he'd come through, then the elevators, then around the lobby. "That's a good point," he muttered, but it was loud enough to carry. He shifted his weight, trying to make up his mind how much he wanted to take a stand on principle. _It's cold outside. What if it was raining? It'd be dumb to make him wait outside._ He looked at the double doors. Requiring Sylar to remain outside the second set of doors was insulting and impractical. _It's not like I want him to wait on me, but we're the only people here. Sometimes it's going to happen. It's not like he can call me on the phone._

He tilted his head at Sylar, regarding him finally. "Would you stay in the lobby and not go anywhere else in the building?"

XXX

"Yes, fine." That was…reasonable if not ideal. Sylar prided himself on being so negotiable this time.

XXX

"Okay," Peter nodded grudgingly. He was getting what he wanted (a limit, a boundary), but he wasn't 'winning' because Sylar wasn't being forced to leave. _I need to get over myself._ He sighed lightly and glanced up, conceding the point even to himself. "Okay, well, I'll get a chair down here later. I have some extra furniture across the hall from my apartment. But before any of that, I'm going to breakfast." He shot Sylar a steady, expectant look for a couple seconds, which was as close as Peter was going to get to giving an invitation to accompany him, then headed out.

XXX

Furniture was more than Sylar was expecting. It just sweetened the deal. He raised an eyebrow at…whatever he was being addressed with. "Alright." Apparently he was meant to come along, which was just as he'd said, 'alright.' It took him about two blocks to forcibly calm everything down: ego, erection, expectations. He focused on what he'd gotten out of the…exchange, such as it was. A deal, Peter hadn't hurt him up until the end, and a pseudo-invite to breakfast. _Does this mean he's caring for me again?_ Sylar wanted that back badly. "How did you sleep?" _Since you've been away…_

XXX

"I slept fine." Which was true, as far as it went. He wasn't going to admit to the feeling of purposelessness that had been eating at him. "How about you?"

XXX

Sylar shook his head in answer. His sleep had been plagued with nightmares, phobias and paranoia. He'd been alone, stupid, pathetic emotions all over. The whole process had been quite upsetting, which was probably the point. He still didn't know where he stood, where they stood.

XXX

"How are your ribs? Would you know what cracked ribs felt like?" Peter's concern hadn't kept him from hitting the guy there again, but he was still concerned.

XXX

"Bruised to hell, how do you think they're doing?" Sylar pointed out. "I probably know what it feels like…What does 'cracked' mean, medically speaking? Broken or fractured…?"

XXX

"Yeah, that's what I mean. I'm trying to tell if you have fractured bones or just soft tissue damage." He eyed the man. Sylar wasn't having any difficulty breathing, which was another signal the injury involved no more than bruising. Obviously, it still hurt, though. "Have you been taking your painkillers?"

XXX

"No. I haven't been doing much of anything. I need to do laundry," he said aloud. _I want to move back to somewhere comfortable, my apartment or the suite._ "I…" Sylar began again, sighed, then consigned, "Yeah, breakfast."

XXX

"So … you haven't been sleeping, haven't been taking your medicine. Have you been eating regularly?" Speaking slowly, Peter continued, "It sounds like you need someone to help you with keeping a schedule and managing self-care. Too bad there's no one in the city except _ants_." He gave Sylar a lengthy, unamused look. There was no way in hell he was going to overlook that Sylar thought his assistance was insignificant at best and self-serving at worst. He was sure if Sylar thought there was a larger world of people out there, that he'd be tacking on 'glory-hounding' as well. The diner was just ahead. Peter gestured at it, since otherwise he didn't think Sylar knew where they were going. "This is the place."

XXX

"I have too been sleeping and eating – just not…well. I told you I could take care of myself." Sylar snorted something of a chuckle. "That's really too bad, isn't it? But you are an ant, Peter. No more powers, remember?" He opened the door of the diner for Peter and gestured inside, "After you."


	96. Peter's Ponderings 3: Soporific

****Notes:**** This happens in the middle of the preceding chapter.

* * *

Day 35, January 14, Evening

They'd fought today. Peter had beaten Sylar, been bitten, engaged in a bit of yelling that would have been cathartic had Sylar seemed to have listened to any of it. But they were still talking past each other. He felt wound up and frustrated as he had all day, ever since Sylar had straddled his lap and showed such attractive interest in him. Peter sat on the end of his bed, straddling one of the corners. His shirt was discarded nearby, along with socks and shoes – pants were still on, though. His fingers traveled from mid-chest to his shoulder, feeling along where Sylar had gripped it as he told him about Nathan's feelings for him. It was a lot to process. Even though Peter had walked away from Sylar and his offer, he couldn't walk away from his own thoughts. He'd spent the day running from them, but he knew there was no sleep to be had until he dealt with them.

_'_ _ _Some of his love wasn't so brotherly, Peter.'__ That was what Sylar had said. What would that have been like, being with Nathan, in bed, intimately? It was somehow easier to think of now that Nathan was gone. Whatever Peter considered or fantasized or decided wasn't going to make for an awkward Sunday brunch. That ship had sailed, leaving him free to consider what might have been, had he been a passenger.

He rubbed his shoulder slowly, unconsciously recreating Sylar's touches upon him. Would Nathan have trod him as roughly in sex as he did in real (non-sexual) life? Would he have been as callous and falsely careless about Peter's feelings? Would fucking Peter have just been an extension of the older, wiser, telling-Peter-how-to-run-his-life brother that Nathan was? Or would Nathan have let down the façade? Would the intimacy have cracked the tough pretense and maybe in bed he would be … gentle, or even considerate? Was it possible? It seemed unlikely. He was Nathan, after all. His basic character wouldn't change. But what if Peter was the one who was dominant? Could that even happen? Peter wondered. Nathan was … soft inside. 'Weak', Peter's parents would have called it and it seemed preposterous that neither of them ever seemed to see that. They were too busy projecting onto their eldest son what they wanted him to be, Peter supposed. How would that 'weakness' play out in bed? Did, maybe, Nathan want to be topped? Topping and domination didn't necessarily go hand-in-hand as Peter was well aware, but with Nathan he was pretty sure the two would be inseparable. Would Nathan allow it?

Peter opened his pants with his right hand, pushing them down. He was suddenly hard – painfully so in the confines of his jeans. Finally free, he touched himself lightly. His lids fluttered as the fingers of his left hand, still lingering on his shoulder, moved up to trace the spots where Sylar's mouth had kissed his neck this morning, before their fight. "Mmm." He made a soft, unashamed moan. No one could hear him. Even if exploring with Nathan was impossible (not that he ever would have, he told himself, even knowing Nathan had had 'thoughts'), there was still Sylar. Peter had denounced the idea of doing Sylar-as-Nathan and such a thing still struck him as depraved, but the idea of doing Sylar-as-Sylar, Nathan's memories and all – maybe that wasn't so depraved. Certainly Sylar was eager to try it.

He stroked faster. It wouldn't take long – he could feel it. Something about this subject turned his crank so hard that it would take him little more than seconds. The skin on his neck, a little up from where Sylar had kissed him, was hot and tender from where he'd been bitten. __Sylar … Sylar did that__ _._ He'd done it when he could have done worse; done it instead of making any more effective attempt to avoid Peter's blows. It was like he'd exposed himself to the pain just for the opportunity – he wanted Peter that badly. Peter pressed at the sensitive flesh. It hurt. His dick stiffened further, if that was even possible. He groaned aloud, thinking he would come right then, but he only skirted the delicious edge before easing back. What else was it Sylar had said _?_ _ _'I want to ruin you, possess you, use you …'__ Oh yes. Peter wasn't going to allow any of that. It was dangerous, as well as stupid. But like with Nathan, what if there was another way? Sylar was probably just as hung up as Nathan about topping and dominance (letting him take anything even hinting at a superior role was likely to be disastrous for Peter), but that didn't rule out the opposite. It simply mandated it. And Peter … wasn't entirely unwilling to take it. (Particularly not in fantasy with his throbbing cock in his hand.) __'Just take what your body already wants.__ _ ** _ **Take it**_**_ _ _and you can have it.'__

Peter's hand on his dick moved faster. His breathing became strained as his peak came over him. The sensation and the thoughts blended together as the fantasy of being with Sylar lost coherence. It was a mess of images of fucking his ass, pushing him down and forcing him to submit, Sylar's flushed face, steaming and wet-from-the-shower body, the scent of him heavy in the bed they'd shared, eyes so luminous and dark and rich and expressive, lips questing hungrily for Peter's, Sylar's hands touching him with so much delicacy when they were capable of inflicting so much pain.

Peter came in a hot surge, gasping at the intensity of it. He almost never came that hard alone. Sometimes he couldn't even manage orgasm at all when by himself. He didn't want to think about why his subconscious found this to be such a turn-on. For once, the rest of his head was perfectly content to let it lie.

His hand dropped away from the bruise on his neck, which he'd squeezed and prodded on the way to his climax almost as hard as Sylar had bitten him to start with. He slumped back on the bed, panting and wiping the wet fingers of his other hand on the nearby shirt. He dabbed at himself half-heartedly, then lay quietly to enjoy the buzz. He was pretty sure he could sleep now.


	97. Pho Foes

Day 38, January 17, Morning

Peter's stomach turned to ice at being so casually, flippantly even, dismissed. He'd beaten Sylar when the man was at the peak of his powers and Peter had had only one – beaten him thoroughly and brought Nathan back from the dead in the process. Yet he was still nothing to Sylar. He looked at the door opened for him, to usher him inside where Sylar wanted him to be, where Sylar could make more demeaning, insulting conversation while Peter tried to eat and be peaceable. Seething inside, he looked back to Sylar and his eyes narrowed to slits, his face frozen. In a very soft, mild tone, Peter said, "You don't have any power here, either … Sylar." He put a slight emphasis on the man's name – Sylar, the all powerful, most special, whatever-the-fuck, was as powerless as anyone. _He has no power over anyone - including me._ No reason to keep Sylar alive, work with him, stay on his good side, or try to build a relationship. "Have fun with that." He took a long step backwards (no way was he turning his back on Sylar while in arm's reach, not in Peter's current, near-explosive mood) and headed off in a random direction. Anywhere was good, because they were all further away from the man he wanted to tear apart.

XXX

Sylar turned to watch Peter…leave? "What about-?" He sighed and huffed. He knew why Peter was upset but the Italian was so sensitive and overly emotional. Oh, how Nathan remembered dealing with this hot-and-cold bullshit. "Running away doesn't solve anything, you know," he called after him; this was one of Peter's favorite plays after all. _He's not…leaving leaving is he? He said that was…something about his apartment. Do I believe that?_ "Where are you going?" he had to yell louder to be heard as Peter moved away. _I believe he'll break a rib or two if I catch up to him._ Trodding, by himself now, he made his way back to Peter's apartment, out of curiosity, to see if Peter went straight home or took a walk or whatever. _How am I supposed to ever know if he's home if I can't come inside?_ The chair Peter had mentioned he would bring hadn't appeared yet, not that Sylar expected it now or ever. He lingered there for longer than he should have, feeling and looking like a pathetic lost puppy in the damp, gray weather. Sylar wondered if he was safe. Peter's most recent history was devoid of sneak attacks. _He'd better not be trashing my apartment again!_ That forced him away from Peter's building to check on his own apartment, though he wasn't happy about any part of this. When he got there, everything was untouched _. I guess laundry. I stink,_ he thought dully. The isolation was getting to him, the nightmares, his health (and his injuries). He could feel it all and he denied it because it made him dependent and needy in ways he couldn't satisfy. A boring hour or so was spent watching the wet clothes spin around and listening to the drone of the dryer.

Sylar managed soup, ate most of it. His surroundings were a comfort, his books, his bed, his clocks, if nothing else was. He didn't get very far into a book before falling into a disturbed sleep.

XXX

Peter walked off at a brisk pace, listening behind him and occasionally glancing back to confirm he wasn't being followed. That calmed him down a lot – the absence of the other. He didn't know where he was going right away, but before a block was up, he'd mentally reoriented to head to the hospital. It was a long way off and so would hopefully function to keep him and Sylar away from one another's throats. It was a place comfortable to him and probably not so much to Sylar. He'd hole up there overnight, negating the whole issue of Sylar being in his lobby or anywhere else in the apartment building where Peter didn't want him to be.

Day 39, January 18, Morning

Sylar was slow and stiff all over again. His head and side protested every movement. _Painkillers. That's what he says all the time._ Sylar took six Tylenol and didn't give a damn. They helped. It was cold and crappy out and it was time to check on Peter _. He came home, right? He doesn't think it's his home, but he got to ch_ _oo_ _se._ There was still snow on the ground but still no indication Peter had come around. _Fuck. Fuck._ This development spiked his anxiety considerably. _I didn't go inside! That was his whole problem, wasn't it? How would he know? He's not fucking here to police me!_ And with that, Sylar scouted the back entrance with similar results.

_He's somewhere._ The hospital, the Y, and the hotel were all possibilities involving a lot of walking. _He'd do that, kill me by walking, trying to find him. Fucking hilarious, Petrelli. It's a stupid way to die. I said I could take care of myself and I'm not dead yet. Why does he care? He doesn't, obviously, not anymore._ Desperately, he wished he could figure out what he felt about that. For now, Sylar was panicked and paranoid. "Peter!" he called up at the building. A sign of life….anything. The reality of being alone again was creeping up around him. Sylar tried to walk quickly through his side-ache but the Y was abandoned as well. _This isn't unusual. He's done this before._ The hotel yielded nothing. Sylar wandered after that, tense, mind racing unpleasantly until his stomach rumbled and he wanted to go back to his apartment to eat and get warm. The weather was increasingly windy as it blew bits of snow up into his face and everything felt icy. He walked by Peter's building again. _Tracks!_ The worry evaporated and even the wind seemed to calm down. The rest of his day was more comfortable, spent indoors.

XXX

Peter felt lousy the next day, stiff and sore and tired from bad and interrupted sleep in a pantry off the hospital cafeteria. For whatever dumb reason that had made sense at the time, he hadn't wanted to sleep in a normal bed in a patient room. By the early hours of the next morning, he regretted that decision, but was too stubborn to change it and too unsettled to sleep, anyway. His nightmares revolved around Sylar hunting him through the medical facility, a fear he couldn't convince his subconscious was unrealistic. So instead, it was Peter restlessly making the rounds through the unnaturally quiet, darkened halls.

He packed up a new bag of medical supplies, since the others were in the penthouse he didn't plan to visit right away. After that, he didn't hurry back – there was nothing to hurry back to. By now, Peter was concerned Sylar might be erratic, threatening, and miserable from all the factors currently plaguing him. Deciding what to do about it was the problem. Prevailing over his concerns was the belief that Sylar was well enough that Sylar wouldn't die from anything wrong with him currently (unless it was from his bad judgment in picking fights). Staying away from the asshole was probably best for both of them, or so he told himself. (That, and making sure he was equipped for the next bout of violence.) He made it back to his apartment in the late afternoon, approaching the place in indirect stages with a lot of careful watching down the empty streets. If Sylar was lying in wait for him, he wasn't doing it openly. As it turned out, he wasn't doing it at all.

Day 40, January 19, Morning

With a restful night of sleep in a good bed behind him, Peter was feeling more charitable the next morning. He thought about the battered storefront, but decided to work on something closer to home. He went to the apartment across the hall from his own, the one where he'd put the surplus furniture, and pulled an overstuffed chair from it. With slow maneuvering, he got it into the elevator and down to the lobby. He went back and made a second, faster trip with an end table and a coaster, in case Sylar had a cup of coffee with him or whatever. He set the seat canted with back partly to outside, where Sylar could watch both elevators and the stairwell door at once. Peter was pleased with the setup, and more with the idea of Sylar waiting on him. It was like he was important. He supposed that shouldn't amuse him, but the guy had been talking about how insignificant Peter was, so he didn't feel too guilty about it. He would have liked to have left a copy of Carnegie's _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ on the end table to passive-aggressively drive home the point, but he didn't have any books and didn't feel like trekking to the library just to be mean. Having eaten breakfast in his apartment, he returned to it now to pass the time toying with his guitar and working on stretching exercises for his hand.

XXX

The next day, Peter had brought out the chair, just like he said he would. There was much relief in that gesture. Peter was probably still angry – he hadn't come to see Sylar or check on him (based on the lack of footprints in the snow). He knew where Sylar lived. Sylar considered leaving a note but he had nothing to say that wasn't disgusting levels of gratitude for Peter's mere existence. It was such a fucking problem. He sat in the chair; he dozed in the chair. Peter came out late morning and startled him to death, Sylar jerking ungracefully and sitting up quickly, taking a breath. For a moment they stared at each other. He was glad, willingly grateful that Peter wasn't a creation of his sick mind (or maybe he was, either way, it was entertaining).

XXX

_Ah. There he is._ Peter's consolation in seeing the other man was closely followed by irritation and tension. What would Sylar do now? Why had he been waiting for him? Had he been taking care of himself? Was he going to start another fight? Peter's expression hardened as he studied Sylar, waiting to see how things would play out.

XXX

Sylar licked his lips, put on the spot by that look. _'I told you running wouldn't work,'_ was the first thing he thought to say. "Um…Good morning," he tried. Wasn't that what Peter always said to him? "You brought the chair out," he shrugged a little, justifying his presence before Peter could freak out about that (again).

XXX

Peter waited a beat, but Sylar said nothing else. Usually, an admission that someone had done something a person liked was followed with a 'thank you', but apparently the one highly coerced noise of gratitude Sylar had made under duress days earlier was all the man had in him. _Maybe I'm asking for something he doesn't have to give? (That seems impossible. He's human, after all.) Maybe the book idea is practical, not mean._ Peter's expression softened anyway. He nodded to the greeting. "Yeah. Is it comfortable?" He knew it was – he'd sat in it himself and he'd just woke Sylar out of napping in it, though that might be more of a statement on how little sleep Sylar had been getting recently than anything about the chair. If he couldn't get gratitude, then he could at least get confirmation that his actions were pleasing.

XXX

"Yes," Sylar hastened. "Very." He wasn't sure which one of them was being trained here, if Peter was being trained out of needing the groveling or if Sylar was being trained to give it. After debating the pros and cons of each, he noted that Peter did pleasing things either way. A simple thanks didn't cost much and Peter acted like he'd never said 'thank you' to him before when he had, several times. It was a simple trick to amuse Peter or to get what Sylar wanted. The secondary thing, the thing that really got him thinking was the completely needless gesture. Sylar had no need of a chair, let alone a nice one and a side table. _Maybe he's desperate. If I feed him, he'll stay, right?_ "Thank you," he said, glancing out the glass of the entryway.

XXX

Peter eyes widened in surprise and a little bit of a smile came over his face. Sylar had thanked him? And for real - not something forced out of the man at the end of a fight. Peter had been fishing for a compliment, but he hadn't expected as much as he'd gotten. Peter dipped his head and tried to play it cool. It would be embarrassing to make a big deal of it. He made a wave at the door. "Um, I came down to eat out. I saw this Vietnamese soup place on my way back yesterday. I thought I'd check it out for lunch." He paused for a moment, his voice turning guarded. "Do you want to come with me?"

XXX

_Soup?_ Sylar found that amusing. Peter was adventurous with his food, but he'd have to be, since he was a vegan or whatever. "That would be consistent with my diet," he replied, playing it cool.

XXX

They headed out. Peter turned south at the end of the block, following his mostly-filled-in trudge marks from the day before. With the north wind snapping at their backs now, he slipped on his headband and offered for conversation, "It's been bitter cold. It does get warm around here sometime, right?" He gave a half-chuckle and looked over at Sylar.

XXX

_Yeah, when you're around._ Sylar looked back at him, an amused twinkle in his eye. "Oh, it gets warm. It's New York."

XXX

"Do you do anything different to pass the time when the weather's good? Go to the park, lay in the sun? Nude sun-bathing maybe?" He stiffened, regretting that he'd already strayed into what might be interpreted as innuendo. "Um," he shrugged, trying to think of what to say to make it more clearly a joke and not a serious inquiry. "Because that's what I'd do." _Shut up, Peter! That's making it worse. (Even if true … Here all alone …)_ He shrugged again and awkwardly cleared his throat. "The restaurant's a couple more blocks up here on the left."

XXX

Sylar blinked. _It sounds like you missed me, too. I bet that's what you'd do, Peter._ "No, but we can certainly add it to the rotation," he promised smugly. _Does that mean he wants to see me naked?_ He shut up for a few minutes, ignoring Peter's flustered embarrassment to plot several ways to make that happen, should he feel the need to. He'd already had a few opportunities…"Do you like Asian?" he asked, referring to the food, "Or is it just something that appeals to your vegan…lifestyle?" He didn't know what the proper term in the correct tense was. The cold was more manageable with company and the promise of food. Sylar's appetite had been returning, with ebbs and flows, but he took it as a sign of recovery. His head hurt worse than his ribs now.

XXX

"Lifestyle?" He arched a brow at Sylar. "You've seen how I eat. It's not vegan. Technically, I suppose, I'm a 'pesco-vegetarian'. I'll eat fish. Anything that breathes water, is cold-blooded, doesn't have a complex brain – that's different enough for me. But pigs and cattle are mammals. Birds are close enough that I'm not going to eat one, not even a chicken. But eggs, milk, cheese?" He shrugged. "Anything that doesn't involve killing the animal, I'm okay with. People need to improve the living conditions, sure, but I don't see that boycotting the product is the answer. We _made_ animals for this stuff, like, over thousands of years. We can't just abandon them."

"In the big scheme of things, I'm going to put my efforts into people and avoid eating things I wouldn't want to kill." He remembered a disastrous and traumatizing hunting trip with his father and Nathan when he'd been a boy. When Peter proved unwilling to shoot the innocent creature they'd spotted, Nathan had wrested the gun from him and killed it himself while Peter protested. He remembered the scene so clearly: Arthur laughing and clapping Nathan on the back as they walked back, silhouetted along the darkening trail as Peter followed along, sniffling. In the photographs Arthur had taken of Nathan, holding up the limp head of the dead deer and mugging for the camera, a person could see Peter still crying off to the side, an unimportant bit of background whose feelings were as insignificant as the deer's. Peter had been utterly ignored by both of them after he'd failed the rite of passage his father had engineered for him. Dark thoughts and unprocessed anger at his family swirled in Peter's head. There were things he'd never be able to convince Nathan he was wrong about – important things! It felt so damn unfinished. He gritted his teeth. But none of this had anything to do with Sylar in the here and now. With an uneasy roll of his shoulders, he tried to put it away.

Peter opened the door for the restaurant and changed the subject as he went in. "Asian food's good. Most of the dishes are a mix of a lot of different things. I like that. And it's not that hard to stir fry stuff. I've done that before." The results were definitely edible, even with his cooking. It beat ramen noodles, at least. He'd had a wok in college, left behind by a girlfriend who had shown him how to use it. He wondered if the cooking process would work the same in a normal pan. "What about you? You mentioned your diet?" It seemed dumb that he was asking about food restrictions at this point, since he'd made meals for the guy. He recalled asking about allergies, but that wasn't the same thing. Peter was hardly allergic to prime rib, but that didn't mean he wanted someone to serve it to him.

XXX

"Asian is good. Healthy," he remarked. A pointed finger indicated his head, "My head, the concussion, doesn't exactly make for a big appetite. I had soup the other day." _When I was by myself. I said I wouldn't die, said I could take care of myself._

XXX

"Huh," Peter grunted, a sound of dubious approval that Sylar was at least eating. But what did 'the other day' mean? That the last time the guy had eaten wasn't yesterday? Shaking his head about that, Peter peered into the refrigerated cabinet in the restaurant kitchen. He looked at one of the small plates to the left, lifting it to examine the pair of spring rolls, presumably waiting for paying customers who would never come. But it was certainly convenient that Sylar's mental hell included prepared food. Peter wasn't going to complain, especially given how downright reluctant Sylar was to fix meals.

"I think this is tofu," he muttered, trying to make out the contents behind the cloudy rice paper.

XXX

"Spare me," Sylar responded sarcastically. He scanned the available ingredients, formulating a real, main dish even as Peter focused on appetizers or snacks. "If I let you pick out our food, that's what I'm getting, right?"

XXX

"Well, maybe. Tofu's not bad," Peter said with a degree of indignation. It was better than not eating at all, so he didn't think Sylar had much in the way of grounds to complain.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes at Peter's poor eating habits and trying to include Sylar in the cardboard diet routine. "You set the table," he instructed. Peter had mentioned soup, so that's what he'd be getting. Sylar wanted some rice since Peter had said something about that being a good 'healing' food. It sounded perfectly bland enough that he could add sriracha or other flavors. Between Nathan and himself, he remembered enough of what went into a pho soup – nutmeg, cinnamon, star anise, lime, those little crunchy things, lemon grass, ginger, fish sauce and a dozen other herbs.

XXX

"Hm," he said in vague response, eyeing the food he'd already found. Peter wasn't sure if that was really tofu he was seeing in the middle of the roll. It was a crispy-looking strip of something that was white on the cut part. It could have been chicken. Or it might be fried pork. Since he wasn't sure, he put it back, a decision that had nothing to do with Sylar's preferences. "Oh!" He spied something else and pulled out a similar plate, but these rolls clearly had shrimp in them. "These are good." He pulled out a second plate and took them to the table, craning his neck to see what Sylar was doing as he went.

XXX

_Why is he still here?_ Sylar wondered as he gathered the ingredients, getting irritated that Peter wasn't following a simple direction. Typical. _I'm trying to work here, and he's goofing off. (He just wants a spring roll he can eat). That's exactly the problem. And he's in my way. (Well, actually he's-) He will be in my way._ At last, Peter obeyed and wandered off. _(He's distracting no matter what he does)._ He heated the broth and added noodles.

XXX

Peter set the table, fetched condiments, and poured up drinks, as instructed. When Sylar joined him at the table with food for both of them, Peter was quietly delighted. _I was just thinking about how he didn't cook … um, I bet that's not a vegetarian broth._ His smile faltered as he recalled the hamburger Sylar had made for himself at the last restaurant, and Peter decided to simply not ask. It was probably better that way, even if it robbed him of the pleasure of having Sylar handle the cooking for a change. He started on his spring rolls instead, dipping one in and taking a hearty bite out of the end. He chewed three or four times, then stopped abruptly. He looked at the exposed interior of the roll, frowning at it.

XXX

"What?" Sylar prompted, holding his own roll, dipped but as yet untasted.

XXX

Peter finished chewing and swallowed. "It's, uh, not just shrimp. There's … I think there's pork in there."

XXX

"Oh." Sylar looked between the roll and Peter, trying to gauge where this was going. "It won't kill you."

XXX

Peter scowled at him, but he knew Sylar hadn't engineered the situation – at least not with the spring roll. The jury was still out on the broth. "It's not what I wanted." He sniffed at the roll, but the smell wasn't off-putting. "It's just a cold cut," he said, more to himself than to Sylar.

XXX

"Why would that make a difference?" Sylar bit into his.

XXX

Peter shrugged. "There are some pork products I can't handle. It doesn't have anything to do with being a vegetarian."

XXX

Now Sylar's face showed curiosity. "It doesn't?"

XXX

Peter took another bite and chewed slowly – like Sylar said, it wouldn't kill him, and it was already on his plate. He wasn't happy about it, though. When he was done, he dipped the open end of the second half of the roll. "You'd be surprised at how many EMTs and first responders don't eat pork."

XXX

"Ah," Sylar said, catching the reference to the similarity in smell between a human body burning in a car and a side of pork roasting in an oven. He finished off one of the spring rolls and pulled over his bowl.

XXX

Thinking about the number of dead bodies Sylar had been around, Peter said bitterly, "Or maybe you wouldn't be surprised." How had Sylar managed to kill so many people and still have a thriving appetite?

XXX

Sylar's face blanked. He stirred the broth along the edge of the bowl. Those small comments, clearly intended to bite, were almost as bad as the loud, direct declarations. He didn't appreciate the reminders or the memories. It cast him in the permanent role of sinner and outcast.

XXX

Peter huffed, irritated by the bad choice in spring rolls, his lingering suspicions about the broth, and how they had conspired to remind him the reminder of Sylar's past. "Ted … and Isaac … their brains were gone. What happened to them?"

XXX

Sylar's expression went from guarded to glacial. His fingers curled more firmly around the handle of the spoon. Now Peter was just pissing him off. "What are you implying?"

XXX

"I'm implying I don't know what happened and I've always wondered." He just hadn't previously felt irritable enough to ask something so rude.

XXX

Sylar made a slight, noncommittal head tilt. Peter could take it as a vague agreement or a mocking 'you'll never know.'

XXX

Peter finished his spring roll and pushed the other to the side. He wouldn't be eating it, anyway. "So what happened to them? Did you … wash them down the drain, toss them in a dumpster, eat them?"

XXX

That was gross and he had enough trouble eating already. "I did _not_ eat their brains," Sylar said between clenched teeth. His head was lowered and he glared up under his brows, doing his best to be intimidating.

XXX

Peter was less intimidated than he probably should have been. Familiarity had bred a degree of contempt. But he took the warning flag for what it was and changed tactics, trying to tone it down. He offered one of the less gory alternatives he'd imagined: "Did your ability transmute them?"

XXX

Sylar blinked once, then again. He lifted his head slightly. "What are you talking about?" he asked carefully.

XXX

"Well," Peter shrugged and gestured to himself, "I was put, entire body, inside someone else. We shared space." Sylar's eyes narrowed. _If I don't calm him down, I'm going to start a fight and it will be my fault. What does he like? Everyone likes being right. He doesn't have all those books because he's dumb._ Peter tried yet another tactic. "So it's not like abilities respect the laws of dynamics-"

XXX

" _Thermo_ dynamics."

XXX

"Right." Peter made an airy gesture as he let Sylar think he was an idiot. "And conservation of space and all that."

XXX

"It's mass, not space."

XXX

Peter nodded agreeably. As he had desired, Sylar was sitting up now and listening to him attentively, even if it was just to find more things to correct Peter over. He felt he was safe now to go back to what he really wanted to know. "So the brains were missing. I was wondering if your ability absorbed them or something."

XXX

Sylar's sight line made the short journey back and forth between Peter's eyes. Eventually he said quietly, "No, it doesn't work like that." As far as he could tell, what made sense, was his brain duplicating what he saw within the other's brains, gaining not only the ability but the understanding of it.

XXX

"Okay." Peter pulled his soup bowl over and began the customary struggle over getting enough noodles into his spoon or onto his chopsticks to eat in an at least halfway dignified manner. Whatever he'd been served, he was going to eat. He'd been irked about the food, took it out on Sylar, and then defused the situation successfully. He didn't feel he needed to keep needling the man. One taste told him it was not a vegetarian broth. He frowned and fished through it with the chopsticks, but found no actual meat. _He probably didn't notice what kind of broth it was. He was trying. He listened to me, to what I wanted, and he tried to give it._ Peter nodded once in recognition of the attempt, his face calming, and continued eating.

XXX

Sylar watched him for a few moments, then made a displeased face and went back to his food. "Claire asked the same thing."

XXX

"What's that?"

XXX

"If I ate them," he said, eyes on his bowl, disappointed in people and how they viewed him.

XXX

Peter paused, spoon half-raised. _Claire asked?_ "Wouldn't she know?" He was afraid to ask it, but he felt he had to.

XXX

"She asked me…during…" As he said it, Sylar realized just how awkward it was – telling this to the girl's uncle. And, remembering the teddy bear incident, _I hope he doesn't have a Claire complex, too…_

XXX

_Oh._ The emotional weight of that was so great, Peter didn't know what to do with it. He remembered Sylar making small talk while trying to cut Peter's head open in Mohinder's apartment. He rubbed at his forehead, then shook his head and went on eating, trying not to let it affect him. He needed to say something, so he said brusquely, "You were trying to kill her, Sylar. I can see that being something she'd want to know."

XXX

"I wasn't going to _kill_ her. As it turned out, I _couldn't_ kill her."

XXX

"Did she know that? Sounds like _you_ didn't." Peter's tension returned. All the possible ways Sylar's attack on Claire might have played out were spinning through the back of his mind. He tried to ignore them. If he knew the details, it made it more real, and he might have to _do_ something about it – something violent and stupid which wouldn't help anyone, so he was better off not thinking about it. At the same time, he wanted to know … hence the conflicted tension.

XXX

Sylar made another dismissive gesture and went back to eating. He didn't want to answer that. So many things going on in his head at the time, bleeding out, focused on his mission and the irony of it all…Having a conversation like that with a person who wasn't…dying (being murdered) had been…

XXX

Peter forced himself to relax, or tried to. Sylar seemed lost in thought. Peter wondered what he was thinking about, specifically. Maybe it was some pondering of the permutations of abilities, but Peter suspected it was something more human. Sylar wouldn't have come back to the topic after Peter dropped it unless it mattered to him on a deeper level. The answer came to him as a flash of inspiration. "She's the only one who's still alive. Is that it?"

XXX

Sylar couldn't hold back his grimace, looking away from Peter towards his own soup, but he did mute it somewhat. "Is … is that what?"

XXX

Peter watched the guilt being hidden away behind anxious and insincere confusion. He thought how hard it must be to have to deal with one of your victims, or the brother of a victim. How hard it must be to wake up every day, put a good face on it, and act cheerful and normal and something other than cringing with guilt and shame because you murdered someone close to the person you were dealing with. At times, Peter had wondered if Sylar was a complete sociopath, but he seemed to have normal emotions. Guilt was a good start. This didn't seem the right time to rub it in. "Nah," Peter gave a shake of his head. "It's nothing. How's your soup?"

XXX

Sylar had his suspicions about what Peter meant. He gave a shallow nod as if in agreement to the unspoken conversation, and said, "At least it's not tofu."

XXX

Peter made a strained chuckle. "Tofu's got a bad rep. You ought to give it a try sometime." _Maybe_ _try_ _living_ _without_ _killing_ _things,_ he thought snarkily. He pursed his lips, thinking about Sylar's 'I'm not the savior kind.' _What kind of person is he, then? He doesn't seem to_ want _to be a killer_ _._ "You didn't answer me earlier - have you ever considered trying a vegetarian … lifestyle?" He gave Sylar a quirky half-smile because of how corny he knew that sounded. "I'm serious about that. A literal answer is fine." He took a slurping mouthful of noodles, veggies, and soup, trying to figure out a way that 'Have you tried not being a killer?' didn't come out sounding like 'Have you tried being not gay?'

XXX

Sylar's spoon clanked in against his bowl as he took the time to turn and glare at Peter. The empath's whole hang-up about meat was the killing/murder/death aspect. In light of that, the question was very pointed. _Literal answer my ass._ "Like, eat more brains, save a chicken?" he snapped. "It would be stupid of me to kill people and be a vegetarian, wouldn't it? So, no. I never considered it." _At least I'm consistent._

XXX

_Okay, that didn't work._ Peter gave Sylar a very unimpressed frown for joking about people's lives, but otherwise he turned his energy to eating. Pho was a stubbornly messy food and he'd rather get more of it inside of him than argue with Sylar over ethics. Regardless of his attempt to be tidy, he was pretty sure his food was not all going into his mouth.

XXX

Sylar was stewing when he felt a few tiny droplets of warm broth flick onto his hand from Peter's wild noodles. He sighed, rubbing his forehead in the now-awkward silence. Of course, Peter would be intimidated and sulk, hating him and everything he stood for. "That's…not a reflection on vegetarianism. You just…have to think before you ask…questions. Everything comes back to that," he intoned, referring to his criminal history and violent tendencies. He meant it by way of clearing the air if not by way of apology. It sounded like an excuse.

XXX

_I_ _ **do**_ _think!_ But Peter said nothing for the moment, merely pursing his lips. After another spoonful, he said, "If I knew the answers, then I wouldn't have to ask the questions. You're going to have to deal with me not knowing." He pushed some bell pepper and a slice of squash into the broth already on his soup spoon with his chopsticks before using the sticks to pull up a wad of noodles. With a hint of faux innocence, he said, "I thought those were the rules or something – I do things and you adjust?" The food he'd staged went into his mouth.

XXX

Sylar stiffened and his jaw clenched. He did not appreciate the reminder that Peter could do anything he liked and was well aware of it.

XXX

"On a certain level, that's how it always is. We're the only ones here - of course we react to each other. From your point of view, you're having to adjust all the time. From mine … _I'm_ the one adjusting." Peter cocked his head a little, wondering if Sylar, smart as he was, could get the idea of seeing things from a point of view other than his own. On the other hand, he didn't have a history of taking others' feelings into account.

XXX

Naturally, that begged the question of what Peter thought he'd been 'adjusting' to thus far. Sylar was able to answer it himself: _Not having his food made and his dishes cleaned for him. Being alone. Dealing with me. (That sucks. He must hate it here)._ Peter didn't look at him or make more direct comments and it was a relief. Sylar put his head down and tried to eat his soup in a quiet, self-contained manner. It bothered him that an otherwise…palatable situation for him was so unbearable for his companion because Peter had to put up with him. Underneath all that was the implication that Peter wasn't happy with Sylar's adjustments. _He doesn't need me, he said._ "What do you think your biggest adjustment is? Besides you-know-who."

XXX

_Who?_ Peter blinked uncertainly at Sylar. _Does he mean adjusting to being around him, or adjusting to life without Nathan?_ It was the latter, definitely, though he wouldn't discount how problematic the former was. The corners of his mouth turned down. Avoiding putting his difficulties in any hierarchy, Peter instead mentioned the most recent: "For one thing, this isn't a vegetarian soup."

XXX

Sylar looked to his companion's bowl. "It's soup," he said, as if his statement would make the question (and any blame) disappear. "I didn't thi-" _No! That makes it worse!_ He cut himself off from admitting he'd been thoughtless, careless, and made a mistake even though Peter was aware. He stared at the bowl, wondering if Peter's empathy made his sensitivity to taste better than most, if all soup contained meat somehow, or if Peter was just joking and making things up. He didn't know the effects of meat on a vegan, hopefully not something like an allergic reaction… "That won't make you sick, will it?"

XXX

Peter studied Sylar's face, surprised to see Sylar cared (even if what he was caring about was probably just his ego, that he'd done something wrong and been called on it). "No," was all he said.

XXX

Sylar relaxed at that. He felt obliged to comment, "You didn't have to eat it."

XXX

"You made it for me." He shrugged, hoping this wouldn't discourage Sylar from fixing food in future. "It won't kill me."

XXX

Sylar knew he was caught then, stuck. They both knew who made the soup, and Sylar couldn't claim ignorance (especially not after Peter had mentioned it just prior). Perhaps Peter took it that way: Sylar deliberately being a jerk, which wasn't above him and neither was killing. It was a definite reflection of Peter's expectations and Sylar's failure to conform to the necessary 'adjustments.' He stared at his own broth, tense and working himself up to it. "I'm…sorry," he got out after a long pause. _It was an honest mistake. I can't tell if he knows that. I can do better._

XXX

Peter's brows rose. _An apology and thanks all in the same day? And he did make the soup for me._ He cleared his throat slightly and pushed the mostly empty bowl to the side. "It's okay. You didn't put any meat in it. I could tell you were trying." He gestured at the lone spring roll. "I didn't get it right, either. Happens." _A lot. More than it should._

XXX

He just nodded and gathered their bowls to transport to the sink. _How is that okay?_ It was one thing for Nathan to notice Peter had stopped eating meat at home and started ordering salads at restaurants, but Nathan also didn't care. The whole love-peace movement was important to Peter, so feeding him meat was like going against kosher (a big deal to those weirdos). It was rude and he knew that. _What if he's just saying that?_ Sylar's mind was busy as he gave the dishes and cooking tools a brief scrub with soapy water. _He's not holding me to a different standard,_ Sylar was shocked to realize. _He's not blaming me for my mistake, which was exactly like his mistake._ He glanced at Peter, looking him over for deceit. He found none, which didn't surprise him.

XXX

Peter rose and helped with clean-up. Once done, he put on his coat, fussing with turning up the collar before moving on to headband and gloves. "With the weather like it is, I'm not going to do anything with the storefront today. The roads should clear off eventually." He shot Sylar a checking glance to see if the other man was upset about it, or seemed to be reading Peter's concession to reality as giving up. "I think I'll go back and play some more music."

XXX

Still turning this new idea over made him agreeable to whatever, so long as he was somewhat included. _Music is good._ "Okay." A full mind and belly, company, music and the lack of tension was heaven, especially if he got a nap out of the deal, which was likely. _He's tolerating me today._ Sylar shrugged himself deeper into his coat and put hands in pockets to follow Peter out into the wind as it blew in their faces. _Maybe it's just not a good day to handle glass or big pieces of plywood,_ he thought, worried about Peter's commitment and his own interest in a building he had no attachment to. He still had questions, of course. "It's not vegan if it's had meat in it at any point, is that it? Like a chicken-base broth?" _That must be annoying, checking every product for contents. And even then, I think the_ _contents is_ _a flat-out lie or publicity scam._

XXX

Peter shot him a look. That was pretty basic stuff, but Sylar didn't seem to be messing with him, so he answered it seriously. "If someone had to kill an animal at some point to make it, then I don't want to eat it."

XXX

Sylar frowned at the sky a moment, looking for a reason to denounce veganism for Peter just for kicks. It seemed like an equal trade-off of healthy and unhealthy, what with all the minerals in meat and animal products and it clearly wasn't an easy way to eat (or for Sylar to cook for that matter). Talking Peter out of it was for their combined best interest. "Is that ironic or hypocritical that you 'don't eat meat' and you're gay? I thought that might be kind of a given." He smirked about that, digging for confirmation if Peter dominated or submitted during sex.

XXX

Peter snorted. "Nobody dies when I have sex with them, Sylar." _No, they just die afterward,_ _ **because**_ _you had sex with them_. Simone and Caitlin flashed across his mind. The horrible truth of that nasty inner voice made him suck in his breath and hunch his shoulders. "I'm done talking," he snapped, voice rough. Not sure how Sylar would take the suspicious and abrupt end of the conversation, combined with his tone, Peter added, "It's too cold," in as close to a normal voice as he could manage. Sylar, for once, obliged. Peter didn't register the incorrect orientation until a few minutes later, but he wasn't about to break the silence for it. _What is it with him and not getting things? He keeps calling me a vegan, too. (Nathan was the same way.) Is it the concussion, or is he just not listening to me?_


	98. Safe Words

Day 40, January 19, Afternoon

Peter was glad to get back to the recreation room of the Pegasus and out of the wind. It seemed to be getting worse, picking up the snow and throwing it in his eyes enough to make him thankful he had opted out of any outdoor activities. He shed his coat and headband gladly, settling on the piano bench as he worked off his gloves first, and then went on to unfasten the brace from his right hand.

XXX

Sylar settled himself in the couch, watching Peter muck around with his brace. It brought something more important to mind. "How is your shoulder?" he asked, voice deepening at the thought. He wanted to see it (he wanted to do a lot more - it made his mouth practically water to contemplate).

XXX

"What?" Peter glanced over, stretching his fingers carefully. "It was stiff for a while, but it's fine now." Between exercise, the hot tub at the Y, and the passage of time, it was all better. It was an odd thing for Sylar to ask after, especially in that tone of voice.

XXX

"The bite."

XXX

"Oh." Peter automatically reached up and touched it with his left hand, knowing the exact spot. He'd had a lot of fun with that spot and a slew of fantasies about Nathan and Sylar which were entirely perverted even by Peter's standards. He'd hadn't spent _all_ their time apart exercising and hot tubbing at the Y. He'd been relieved enough about the return of his sex drive after months of it being in absentia that he hadn't questioned it. "Oh," he said again. He'd never imagined Sylar might want a status update on the damn contusion.

XXX

Sylar stood and moved closer to view it directly up close. Oh, how he wanted to touch…He hovered over Peter, watching him dutifully move his clothing to bare his shoulder and his wound.

XXX

He hoped it looked normal. Peter sat there looking up at Sylar for a second too long, trying to figure out how to get by with refusing to show it, just in case it didn't look right after his manhandling of himself, and yet not lose access to any of Sylar's injuries when the other man needed medical care. He couldn't decide and there Sylar was looking expectant, so Peter took the gamble and pulled his shirt aside.

XXX

Sylar froze. It was much darker than it should have been, after nearly a week of healing. Sleepless, lonely nights had little to do with his paranoia (so he thought). There was only one answer. Peter was happy today, he'd been with someone else. Peter hadn't told him about this other person who'd…who'd _done things_ to Peter's mark – to _his_ mark on Peter. There was someone else here with them! He grabbed Peter by the lapels, yelling, "Who did that to you?! Who else is here?!"

XXX

The sudden attack took Peter completely by surprise. _I guess it doesn't look normal_ , was all his floundering brain supplied, along with contradictory mental messages to fight Sylar and yet not endanger his unprotected, still-healing, broken hand. He grabbed at Sylar with his left – his hand landing on Sylar's forearm, then his chest, then dropping a few inches and to the side as some presence of mind reminded Peter of where he'd punched Sylar before. It might still be tender, but all Peter was doing at the moment was targeting. His right hand was off and back, putting his body between Sylar and the injury that mattered most to him. Only at that point, with Sylar in his face waiting for an answer, did he try to process what was being asked of him. _Another person?_ "What?!" he answered in bafflement. "No one! Why would you think that?" He pushed on Sylar – not hard, just a strong suggestion to back off.

XXX

"It's darker than it was before! It's been almost a week! So how did it get so dark, Peter? Huh? There is someone else here!" He shook Peter a little, desperate to know the identity of this stranger who was definitely on his radar now, and possibly on his hit list. He felt crazier than ever. How had he not noticed this?!

XXX

"Wha-" Peter cut himself off from repeating the same 'what?' mantra that was going on in his head. "Okay, it's-" He racked his brain for how to explain this. Sylar shaking him wasn't helping. He considered fighting him off, stopping the questions with his fists, but Sylar was _asking questions_. Sylar wasn't necessarily trying to fight and that made it tough for Peter to make the transition to violence on his own. He brought his right hand around to grip Sylar's wrist and give him more stability while he pushed on the guy with the other hand. But Sylar seemed immovable unless Peter was willing to escalate. He wasn't, so he confessed. " _I_ did it, okay? It was me! Now let me go!"

XXX

… _?_ Sylar stared. _That's what he would say if he didn't want me to know someone else was here or that he was…fooling around. Or…is that a joke? I don't understand._

XXX

Neither one of them was moving now. _Better,_ Peter thought. But Sylar hadn't released him as ordered. He elaborated, hoping that would get the guy's hands off him. "I pinched it. Right there," he gestured with his left hand. "Too hard, obviously." He was embarrassed and angry, teeth bared, but eye contact uncertain as he didn't want to look Sylar in the eye for this. _What a fucked up thing to get interrogated over! What the fuck is wrong with him? This is not right._

XXX

Finally, Sylar blinked. "Why…would you do that?" The answer was so bizarre and unexpected that it served to viably distract him from the possibility of a third person.

XXX

"I told you: get off me!" Peter pulled the fingers of his left hand into a tight claw and jammed his knuckles into Sylar's ribcage on his lower right side. Peter had landed a few punches there the week before. Bones took longer to heal than soft tissue. Even if he was wrong about the spot, the twisting motion he put into it was enough to drive most people off. With his right he made a much lighter shove and only at Sylar's wrist. Peter was still sitting on the bench in front of the piano – hardly the best place to start trading blows.

XXX

Sylar grunted and slapped at Peter's hand, indicating his displeasure. He did step back and release Peter, though – his earlier continued hold had been due to shock and confusion. He glared, snapping back, "And I asked you a question! Several of them."

XXX

Peter got to his feet, left fist curled. Once again, there weren't any decent weapons on this side of the room. _(Probably should keep it that way.)_ He fumed anyway, glaring at Sylar and pacing back and forth uneasily, looking like he was on the verge of attacking, but in reality burning off restless energy to keep himself from doing exactly that. He still wasn't getting the right signals to fight. Embarrassing questions were not just cause for hurting someone. He stopped, hands loosely on hips, and looked at the ceiling. "There's no one else here. It's just you and me. That's it."

XXX

"I don't believe you," Sylar enunciated, focused on the dialogue. He wanted the real explanation or at least a good one. The denial of a third person's existence only went so far and the longer he had to wait, the worse this feeling of insanity would get.

XXX

Lips thin, he looked at Sylar. He remembered the man's questions early on about where Claire was and Sylar's belief the world was real. For Sylar, there was always the possibility there were other people out there. Peter had no idea what the bruise on his neck looked like. He knew where it was by feel and that was all he needed, so he hadn't looked at it for days. Did it look like someone had grabbed him? Or like a hickey? He exhaled heavily and looked off to the side. 'Why would you do that?' Well … it was a good question. Like so much that involved passion or lust or tangled emotions, it didn't have a good answer.

It did, though, have an honest one. Peter knew he had to defuse this. If he'd been alone for years and thought there was someone else here, he'd be berserk to know more, too. "I like a little pain right when I get off sometimes," Peter blurted out before he could lose his nerve to say it. "It was convenient. That's all." The scaldingly embarrassing nugget was out in the open now. Downside: Sylar knew. Upside: Sylar couldn't use it against him or freak out about non-existent other people. Voice quieting in threat, Peter said, "It's none of your business."

XXX

Sylar…took a few seconds to fully absorb that. It was just as likely to be truthful for all he knew. He also knew instinctively that it wasn't 'convenient.' Another person, one Peter found attractive, had purposefully inflicted the bite, unlike the broken bones in his fingers, which would have been more 'convenient' and much less personal. Sylar's head tilted as a slow smile bloomed across his face. "Right. Of course. I should bite you more often, if that's your problem. You let me know when you need a…re-application," he smirked, straightening as his ego inflated. _So that's why he's tolerating me today – he got off. And he likes some pain with sex._

XXX

Peter glared at him, but he couldn't see a way to shut Sylar down that didn't involve talking about something he'd never wanted to talk about in the first place. Instead, he returned to pacing until Sylar settled on the couch. Fortunately (for both of them most likely), Sylar didn't offer any further commentary on the matter. Peter shot him a few reproachful looks anyway before sitting at the piano and making a fussy show of adjusting his shirt so the bruise was no longer visible. He played much more aggressively than necessary, hitting the keys hard enough that every song made his broken finger ache even though he was careful not to actually use it. He made wincing faces at it between sets and stretched it gingerly. Eventually, he calmed down and spent the next few hours playing more normally (and less painfully).

Peter didn't repeat songs as much this time as he had in the past – he played one, then tried another and another, then back to the first tune, then a different one after it. If Sylar cared, he didn't show it. He dozed or slept or at least zoned out. Peter found it … soothing – the company and the presence, even if it was his brother's killer. He stopped playing to sit massaging the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, watching Sylar's recumbent form and considering how hard it was to see his as an inhuman monster. Sylar was so very human: _Biting, needy, grouchy, temperamental, murderous, threatening, arrogant, grabby,_ Peter paused in listing Sylar's attributes to adjust his shirt again, as though just thinking of Sylar pulling it askew had caused it to need attention. _He's a pain the ass._ It wasn't an entirely unamused thought. He took out his comb and worked over his hair, then rose and stretched his back. Replacing the comb, he started towards the door, thinking he'd go upstairs to scavenge for something to eat.

XXX

Finally, his sleep had been restful. Sylar curled up and didn't feel like moving; it was glorious. When the pleasant music stopped, he stirred and saw Peter trying to sneak away. He sat up and made a noise so Peter knew he was up, in theory if not in practice yet. "Time for bed already? You can sleep in the suite."

XXX

"It's not that late, as far as I know." Peter took a step into the lobby and looked out the front. It was dim, but that seemed to be due to clouds rather than dusk. "I doubt it's even dinner time." Frowning, he turned back to Sylar. "Besides, why would you want to sleep with me? You said I meant nothing to you." He knew he should provide Sylar an out to take back his hurtful comments, that he ought to ask something like, 'Has that changed?', but he didn't. He was still angry about the 'ant' comment, but he'd moved past venting. Now his voice was forthright with only a hint of bitterness.

XXX

"Oh, Petrelli drama," Sylar got up, passing Peter with an eyeroll. "Did I say that, exactly?" An eyebrow rose at him as he wandered around the lobby.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar's back a very unimpressed look. "You called me an 'ant.'" _Or maybe it was that I was an ant compared to him, but either way, I'm not going to let that pass._

XXX

"Like I said: I called you an ant. I didn't say you were meaningless or useless." And that was true.

XXX

"Yeah?" _Is he thinking of taking it back? Is there a compliment in there somewhere?_ Peter doubted it, but he wandered closer anyway, following Sylar in a general fashion towards the glass doors to outside. "How am I meaningful to you?"

XXX

A light bulb went off in Sylar's head. _Nathan never stroked his ego._ That was what Peter wanted out of his older, hero-worshipped brother (hell, out of his whole messed up family) – a little praise. _I wonder how easy he'll be to manipulate now_ _that_ _I know that?_ "You think 'the last person on Earth' is an insult; to me, it's accepted fact." His voice softened as he admitted, "I don't mind the…privacy."

XXX

Peter stiffened at first, taking Sylar's words as a threat. _Privacy – like he'd rather be alone and he wants to get rid of me?_ He relaxed then, responding to Sylar's tone and body language, _Or does he mean it's okay to be here, private, with me? He likes it that way? Why?_ There were a lot of possible reasons for that, too many for Peter to sort out. The easier route was to ask. "What do you mean by that?"

XXX

Sylar shrugged. "It's…You're here. Nothing will change that, except killing you. I won't do that, so you're…part of the world now," he winced. "Not like that, but…there's another person here with me. I adjust and it's preferable." He looked away to minimize how sappy it all sounded, pretending to be distracted by the clouds shifting outside. Companionship was preferable to being alone, that was obvious.

XXX

Peter turned his back on the outside, leaning against the glass. "Yeah, but what do you mean about the privacy, exactly?" There was something intimate and desired in the idea that someone valued the opportunity to be alone with him, but at the same time he was talking to a serial killer whose uses of seclusion didn't line up with Peter's.

XXX

"Years of being hunted gets...irritating. Having just one person to watch is a big improvement, probably the best I could ask for, and that never happens. And I have my own place."

XXX

Peter nodded slowly. It wasn't the compliment he'd hoped for, but it wasn't an insult. He gave a brief head tilt and lofting of brows. Well, it wasn't _much_ of an insult. Yes, Sylar had just implied Peter was here to kill him, but … "I think I know what you mean." He held up his left hand and gestured at his non-functioning watch. "I'm not on a timetable. People aren't going to die if I don't do something right away to stop it. If you have … pressure on you all the time, some place like this," he waved at the lobby and building, "lets you get away from it." He smiled crookedly. "Having only one person judging me is a big improvement, too."

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed for a second as he considered the part about judging, specifically, Sylar's judgment of Peter. Pressure he understood in spades – not having his ability riding him was a relief he never thought he'd have. "I think I know what you mean," he parroted.

XXX

"Come on." He pushed away from the wall and headed for the stairs. He tried to remember where he'd last seen a snack machine. _That's at the Y, not here._ Peter spoke as he went up the steps. "I got up to get something to eat – a granola bar, piece of fruit, sleeve of crackers, whatever." He pushed open the door to the second floor and went in the first apartment, figuring it wouldn't take long to turn something up even if Sylar followed him instead of fanning out to search on his own.

XXX

He followed him up, half-mourning the lack of elevator ride so he could irritate Peter with questions about hickeys. The company was phenomenally better than anything else so the slightest thing Peter did was of interest. It was soothing and normal.

XXX

Peter pulled a yogurt cup out of the refrigerator he had looked into and handed it to Sylar in an automatic gesture. Then he reached in and got a second one for himself. Spoons were next. Again, he handed one to Sylar without asking if he wanted it. _If I'm hungry, he's hungry. And he probably hasn't been eating well while on his own._ Peeling back the foil lid, he asked, "How's your head been feeling lately? You know, as far as the concussion goes?"

XXX

_Oh. I guess I can eat._ _Yogurt_ _is good. He made me that parfait, I think, a while back. Snack for him, dinner for me. I know I need to eat more._ He wondered what Peter would do with useless information like that, but he'd mostly accepted that Peter would ask things of that nature. "It's better. It hurts all the time, but my thoughts are clearer and my coordination has improved."

XXX

"That's a good sign. Have you had any problems over the last few days?" _That you're willing to tell me about?_ But he didn't add that. It was hard enough to get Sylar to talk about himself, even if these were the same questions Peter had asked him nearly a dozen times in the course of trying to take care of the guy.

XXX

He peeled back the foil in one piece and began to scrape the yogurt off the top's inside with the spoon, giving a shrug as he did. "Just the usual." He'd been miserable, and upset about Peter's lack of needing him for his grand mission. "What about you?" he asked slyly, looking up under his brow.

XXX

_I'll assume you mean you couldn't sleep, wouldn't eat, and have been paranoid the whole time._ Peter looked Sylar over, trying to gage if the guy was really hurting (and concealing it very well) or if he was as unaffected as he acted. _He grabbed me earlier because I had a bruise that looked funny. That argues against him being okay._ He sighed. "I've been fine." He hesitated before shrugging and admitting the obvious, "I was lonely, but here we are." Peter gestured between the two of them, trying to indicate he had company now and his need for it was part of why he was okay with spending time together.

XXX

_Hmm, yes, he was lonely._ He liked being missed even if _he_ wasn't what had been missed, specifically. He made do with the feeling. "Tell me more about this hickey interest of yours," Sylar smiled slightly, still most pleased with himself about that development.

XXX

Peter's brows drew together and he paused in the act of getting another spoonful. He waited until Sylar glanced at his shoulder even though Peter knew perfectly well that was what Sylar was referring to. "It's a bruise, not a hickey. All you did was bite me." He glowered briefly at Sylar. The next step in the conversation was obvious – Sylar would require him to defend or explain (again) why or how he'd bruised himself there in the course of masturbation. He wasn't interested in doing that, so he went on the offensive instead. "What about you? Why were you trying to bite me like that in the middle of a fight? And speaking of which, what's up with these fights you pick with me and then don't actually fight, but just … fuck around?"

XXX

"Don't complain – you enjoyed it." _Did he masturbate to the bite_ and _the play fight?_ "I enjoy playing, fighting." He said that without any shame, daring Peter to mock it. "You didn't fight me, either. My head and neck are still intact and I'm still walking around. I thought you finally figured it out." What a fun relief that had been!

XXX

Peter snorted. _I enjoyed_ winning. _He's taking a huge gamble that I'll play along with this._ "Ballsy move. Do you really think I'm going to be turned on by that? How's that supposed to play out? You lose either way. You know that, right?" Sylar _had_ to know that – or at least Peter wanted him to know it wasn't a game Peter was going to play by Sylar's rules, whatever those were.

XXX

That confused him. "How is that a lose-lose?" he voiced, knowing that it wasn't a lose-lose for him even if Peter wasn't 'turned on' by it. Plus, he was almost sure Peter had enjoyed sitting on him last time, with a hand on his throat.

XXX

"You either lose because I beat your ass, or you lose because if you get me down and," Peter hesitated, not sure how far Sylar would go, "I don't know, molest me or something, then you're not safe here anymore." He recalled Sylar taking it too far on New Year's Eve after tying Peter up. Although drink and time had left the details foggy, he knew he hadn't appreciated it, had told Sylar to cut it out, Sylar hadn't, and so a fight had started.

XXX

Now Sylar was lost. _I've only molested_ _him a few times. He's retaliated in his own way and_ _I'm not_ _se_ _nsing any lingering threats…_ "What do you mean, 'I wouldn't be safe anymore'?"

XXX

Peter set the mostly-empty yogurt cup aside and looked uneasy. He started to speak, then stopped, thinking. He hadn't considered the nature of his threat, mostly because he had no idea what he would do. It all depended. What he'd meant was worst-case scenario, that Peter would rather check one or both of them out of this nightmare hotel than hang around with someone who had sexually degraded him. The groping, hurried kiss, bite, and similar were things Peter could, would, and had dealt with without having to issue ultimatums. He supposed he was trying to warn Sylar off from possible escalation _. He should know better, how to act._ He shifted uncomfortably, aware that relying on Sylar's moral judgment was not wise. Even so, all he could say was, "Stay away from anything that's a violation."

XXX

_Okay…my safety isn't important. Big surprise._ Peter's reply was far too open and vague to be of any use. Normally, Sylar would let that slide and exploit the ambiguity but Peter explicitly threatening his safety was noted. More than anything, he did not want Peter to get creative in his tortures. "What do you consider a violation?"

XXX

Peter stared at him for a very long moment, wheels turning in his head. _Being raped. Having to suck your cock. Anything where I'm helpless while you fuck me over. Is there any point to listing that stuff out? Or does it just let him know what I'm most concerned about? He wants me. I don't know his boundaries. He doesn't know mine. I punched him in the crotch the other day. He dry humped me. Those were okay, but how would he know where I drew the line? Biting sure as hell didn't bother me (as long as he doesn't break the skin … or do it a lot … are we playing? This is about playing, not fighting, right?) Am I seriously going to lay out rules for this?_ Finally, with an expression like he didn't believe he was saying this, Peter said, "If I tell you to stop and you keep going." _Tell, or ask? Fuck that – I'm not 'asking' him to respect me! 'Tell' is good._ He thought for a few more seconds, then added, "It's not like I _want_ to fight with you, but I promise not to abuse that and try to call a halt to fights unless ... unless you're doing something I won't be able to handle."

XXX

He didn't buy it. _He_ promised. _Has he ever told me to stop and I haven't? Probably, I'm just not remembering it. So, stop is the magic word. How…mundane and rare. I won't know I'm 'violating' him until he says it. (Maybe he doesn't know? Unlikely). That's not helpful (but it is great for using the ignorance card)._ Sylar anticipated 'stop' being used for Petrelli cheap shots but he didn't exactly have a choice. Peter was looking at him like he expected a response. "Alright," with the return to his yogurt. After thinking about it, and without optimism, he asked, "Does 'stop' work the same for me?" _Will I believe him if he says yes?_

XXX

Peter swallowed back the 'of course' he nearly blurted out, thinking it over just as he had for the previous exchanges. All of this deserved careful thought, much as he suspected he was overlooking important things and maybe even being maneuvered into a verbal trap or some deal he would regret. But the agreement between them to honor limits – it was hard for Peter to see how that was a bad idea. "Yes," he said solemnly. "It works the same for you."

He picked up his yogurt cup again and scraped at the sides with the spoon. Cautiously Peter said, "I suppose I should stop choking you, then? Since you wouldn't be able to tell me to stop …" _This is really weird. I feel like we're negotiating fucking safe words. Which … we are, I guess. But we're not having sex, so … I guess they're still safe words._ He ate his last spoonful of yogurt and watched Sylar suspiciously, wondering if that was the 'trap' his subconscious was worried about. _This means everything is okay as long as neither of us says 'stop'. (Everything?)_ Peter's mind boggled on the possible repercussions – there were too many of them to process. He almost wanted to start shoving Sylar around just to see what would happen.

XXX

Sylar felt his insides coil with anger. _He never intended to stop choking me whenever he feels like it; all his shit was a lie. 'Stop' only works if I can speak, so all he has to do is make sure I can't speak._ He stabbed at his yogurt and lipped, "Whatever, Peter."

XXX

Peter hesitated at Sylar's obvious irritation. _Maybe he liked being choked? Didn't he say as much?_ He let it pass and moved on to a more important question. "How do I tell what kind of fighting we're doing – what's the difference between an all-out fight and this roughhousing? Or," Peter stepped over to toss is empty cup in the trash and spoon next to the sink, "are we agreeing we're not going to have all-out fights anymore, because we're in this together?" He looked wary, because although he understood the theory of not backstabbing someone every chance you had, Nathan never played with him that way. Whether it was throwing baseballs, showing him how to throw a punch, or family politics, Nathan always mixed it up, took him by surprise, and (one could charitably say he was trying to teach Peter that people would) take advantage of him letting his guard down for a second. Maybe it was Nathan's way of toughening him up, but it had left Peter with a very 'all-or-nothing' mentality on violence and interpersonal confrontation. When he let his guard down, he was purposeful in doing it, knowing the consequences, but when he decided to bring it, winning the fight was his only priority.

XXX

Finished with this poisoned yogurt snack one way or other, Sylar rudely clanked his spoon down next to Peter's and threw away the cup. "I don't know, Peter. You're the one who can't tell the fucking difference. You're the one who starts nearly every fight. And you're the one who goes full-throttle. There's no point in talking to you."

XXX

Peter pulled his head back, suddenly very aware that he'd left the brace for his right hand downstairs, sitting on the top of the piano. That was in his mind, but he bulled ahead with the conversation anyway. "That's the way I was taught to handle fights. If someone's going to hurt you, you hurt them first and as much as possible. You win. You stop them – no matter what."

XXX

Sylar spread his hands out at his sides, blithely inviting. "Carry on, then. I'm not complaining." He turned for the door, intending to go back to…whatever they'd been doing, the conversation ended. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, Petrelli," he muttered, looking boredly around the apartment. Just like that, something occurred to him. "Is that what this is about? Are you waiting for me to cry uncle, say 'stop,' and beg you or something?" He shook his head in disbelief. "Do you do that to all the bad guys or am I just special?"

XXX

Peter frowned at Sylar. _This is like the bruise on the bite mark – something small that shouldn't have mattered and he's blowing it out of proportion. I must have said something – maybe about the choking – that set him off. Didn't he do the same thing at the Taco House, before he had that breakdown in the police station?_ "No," he answered calmly. "You're special." Not that he would have minded a little begging from the bastard, but if his gage of Sylar's mental state was right, the last thing he needed was to be antagonized. Peter went on serenely, "You mentioned the suite earlier. Let's go up there. I think I left my book there and I want to do some drawing. I'm done with the piano for today." They weren't really lies – they were just convenient and well-selected truths, with the aim of getting Sylar into a bed and asleep again. A couple hours on the couch were good, but it wasn't everything Sylar needed, if Peter was reading the mood swing correctly. _I can slip out after dinner, or maybe before and just leave him sleeping._

XXX

_I'm special._ Sylar latched onto that. Peter had said as much before. He ignored the part where that might mean Peter treated him differently, didn't want to think about it. The relief he felt was familiar but it wasn't necessarily his own feelings. He remembered being completely confused and scared when he left the Carnival to show up at Peter's door and hug him tight like he was safe and his problems were over. Now, he wished he could do the same but that would make Peter leave. Anyway, the desire was repellant and weak. "If that's what you want to do, sure. Yeah," Sylar nodded.

He led the way to the elevator, wondering if he was still holding Peter back from his activities. _(Let him do what he wants. I'm not good company)._ He fidgeted in the car, a little worried about that. Once in the suite, he stood by the bed (assuming the intention was for him to lie there but hesitating) and asked, "How is your hand?" _He cares for me. I should take better care of him._

XXX

Peter had decided Sylar was fragile from five nights of broken sleep, so in the elevator, he stood quietly, let his mind wander, and kept his mouth shut. That way he said nothing that could be misinterpreted or require Sylar to go to the effort of a response. Once inside the penthouse, he snagged the sketchbook and walked over to the couch, glancing at the snow drifting against the glass of the expansive windows. At Sylar's question, he turned. "It's been a month." He looked down at the hand in question, lifting it halfway. "It still hurts. I can't do anything with it." Peter hesitated. He'd come to the conclusion that Sylar had intentionally avoided striking or harming Peter's hand in their last several scuffles. He appreciated that, but couldn't think of how to say it and be certain it would be well-received. Instead, he went with indirect advice. "I have to make sure I don't bump it until it's healed. That might be another three weeks or so." _Can you keep being careful that long?_

XXX

Sylar nodded. "Do you do anything for it at night? Do you have to protect it more when you sleep?"

XXX

"Yeah. I keep the brace on it so I don't roll over on it. I think I left it downstairs. I should probably go get that after dinner."

XXX

"Oh. Right." Sylar moved to the kitchen to take up the cooking duties. "Still need meat," he muttered as he surveyed the possible ingredients. Straightening, he looked back at Peter and asked snarkily, "You ate meat earlier today. If you were okay with that, then why aren't you okay with eating meat from now on?"

XXX

Peter snorted at the false analogy. He hesitated a moment, weighing the prudence of saying something inoffensive against his desire to stand up for himself. The latter won, of course. "Just because I've killed people before, Sylar, doesn't mean I should kill anyone who hacks me off." _Like you._

XXX

Sylar gave him a droll look, refusing to acknowledge Peter's implied threat. "Please. I was the one who sent the bullet into Arthur's brain, not you."

XXX

"He wasn't the only one."

XXX

Sylar raised a brow in question, wondering which of Peter's many violent altercations he was counting as an intentional kill. _Surely he's not thinking of when he released that disease? Killing someone with your own hands is completely different._

XXX

"So what's for dinner?" Peter asked, having no interest whatsoever in talking about having killed Nathan in a parallel universe.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed at the dodge. He understood perfectly the desire to simultaneously talk and avoid talking about those events. What he wanted to know was how much they had in common on the issue. "You'll see," he replied to be annoying back at Peter. He eventually mixed some veggies with rice and the damned hummus. "Come and get it," he called, amused with the double entendre. With plates, utensils and water, they sat at the table. Sylar stabbed a forkful of broccoli. "You know, it's strange. You're used to being around people and you'd rather have space and I'm not used to being around people and I'm around you a lot. I'm surprised either of us can stand it." From that perspective, they were both fairly healthy, alive and…mostly sane. _Maybe things do change. Of course they do – adaption and necessity._ He did not want to spend the night alone, so he was motivated to be solicitous.

XXX

_But I just had a snack._ _We both did._ Peter watched as Sylar went to put together a meal. He said nothing, though. This one was easier to decide on the side of prudence. He set the table, tried to stay out of Sylar's way, and sat down to eat a meal he wasn't very hungry for. It was another weird combination of foods, but it tasted fine. Peter shrugged ambivalently at Sylar's comment. "I've been going through a phase of trying to distance myself from people. It just seemed … smarter." _Who could I have gone to anyway? Everyone I should have been able to rely on turned on me. Would I have noticed what was wrong with Nathan if I hadn't been off to myself?_ Peter made an off-hand gesture at the world they were in now. "This is okay. Maybe it's good for both of us to have someone to be around." He looked around for the pill bottle. "You should take some ibuprofen with your meal. It'll help with your head and you'll feel better. I think I'll take a couple, too. My hand still hurts from the piano." He'd beaten on the keys too hard, which he'd known while he was doing it.

XXX

"Yeah," was Sylar's thoughtful reply about company. He knew it was good for them – it was a connection of sorts, after all. He swiped the pills from the counter behind Peter, sharing them out. _Maybe I should carry them around so I don't forget. Was his phase before or after Nathan? Before. I remember leaving him messages._ "What…um….what happened?" Sylar was proud of the conversational tone he managed. "It wasn't /me/. I mean…You weren't calling me back." _Me, whoever I was. He definitely didn't notice. Or care. He feels guilty about that. Did he kill someone recently?_

XXX

"No, I wasn't calling anyone back." Peter toyed with his mostly empty glass, letting pass Sylar referring to Nathan as 'me'. It didn't feel accurate, but Peter didn't want to argue it. Voice bitter, he answered, "What happened was that every time I tried to do stuff, it fucked up – and it fucked up for a lot of people. I was trying to keep my head down and not get involved." He waved a hand loosely at the world. "You can see how well that worked out. This is probably the best place I can be." He stood to help clear away the dishes and clean the kitchen, offering, "I'm going to draw for a while, if you want to get some rest."

XXX

It sounded good, so he didn't argue his apparent 'bedtime.' Peter was here and he'd always stuck around. Just in case he didn't wake later (or didn't want to leave the bed or just to 'be prepared') he got ready for bed, brushing teeth and changing into pajamas mostly. _I wish I was better so we could play_ , he thought muzzily. The tiniest sounds of drawing and breathing, the certainty of company soothed him to sleep quickly.

XXX

Peter curled up on the couch with the sketchpad, filling a page with geometric snowflakes, curves that were supposed to be drifts of snow and swirling wind, and finally circles and spheres as an exercise. By then, his hand was aching. Between the piano and the myriad inadvertent little motions he'd made with it without the brace to prevent it, even the painkillers couldn't damp it down. He fetched a beer, downed it in short order, and resolved to get something stronger in the suite – for medicinal reasons if no other. He looked over at the slumbering Sylar and figured this was as good a time as any to take off. _With any luck, he'll get a full night of sleep out of it._ Peter shut the front door behind him with infinite care, impressing himself by making not a sound.

XXX

He'd barely had time to start a nightmare of crushing emptiness when he woke up, alone. It made him sweat and panic before he could think. "Peter?" he called out, his voice echoing, "Peter!" _Is he still here? Is this a joke? Is he gone?_ Or worse, _Was he ever really here?_ There was no sign Peter had been here – his drawing pad was in the same place as before, the dishes were washed, there was no chair, no clothes, no brace, nothing to indicate Peter had been or might still be there. Sylar was standing in an instant; he didn't bother with his clothes, stepping into his shoes to check the guest and bathrooms. "Peter!" he yelled, louder, dreading the echo. The unreality was making him dizzy, the horror was making his blood run like ice. _Peter takes the stairs…._ _Did I make him up? Fucking Nathan! Fucking Parkman!_ _No!_ Sylar resolved not to be alone if it was in his power because he just couldn't be alone. He ran down the stairs, hitting the lobby with fading hope. _If Peter was here, where would he be? Did he hide? Let me be wrong!_ He was rushing for the door when he saw movement and heard a slight noise to his right – his shoe tread stopped him so fast he careened the other way.

There he was, casually hanging around the rec room, the vision (at least) of Peter Petrelli. "Peter," he breathed, letting his shoulders sag and air expand his lungs again like a parent who believed their child lost, only this feeling had been far more intense. With some haste, he steadily approached Peter to confirm his reality by touch. Peter saw him and turned. Sylar touched his shoulders and nearly fell on the smaller man, covering his shoulders and neck with his arms, tighter than he should have. _He's real._

XXX

Peter had heard the stairwell door bang open when Sylar entered the lobby. _What's he doing on the stairs? He usually takes the elevator. And he's usually quiet._ He set aside the cleaning supplies he'd just finished using to clean the floor – shortly after putting on his brace, he'd noticed the dark stain from where he'd spat blood on the floor the week before. He hadn't been able to make it disappear from the short-napped carpet, but it was less noticeable now. He rose and turned as Sylar came in, a flush of awareness washing over him that something wasn't right. Sylar wasn't stopping. _He's going to hit me? Tackle me?_ Peter's own hands came up halfway. _His face doesn't say he's going to hit me_. That was as far as he got before Sylar was grabbing him and pulling him close. _Oh! Hug. Got it_. Peter's arms finished coming up, patting awkwardly at first and then easing into it as he relaxed. _He woke up and I was gone. That's what happened. He's terrified._ Peter breathed out and hugged Sylar back, genuinely and warmly. "It's okay," he murmured into the man's shoulder.

XXX

_I thought you were gone. I thought you were never here. Why-? What did I-?_ As he stood clinging to Peter, because his hands weren't obeying the orders to release him, he said, "I'll make breakfast. You take good care of me; I can take care of you - be of use to you, convenient, be quiet…" The words were utterly pathetic, pitiful, disgusting, and anything decent he could think to say rushed out of him. Anything was better than the void. It frightened him to the core.

XXX

"It's okay," Peter repeated. "You're going to be okay." They were trained to tell people that, as paramedics and EMTs. No matter how bad it was, you were supposed to tell people they'd be fine. _Sleeping in my apartment isn't going to work. At least not tonight. He's panicked. It's like that dream I had of being stuck in the cargo container again – all alone. I woke up and he was there for me at least; it was so much better that way._ "You found me, okay? I just came down to get my brace," he lied. "I got a little distracted cleaning up. We can go back up now. Come on." He pushed away, finally, breaking them apart and getting them moving towards the elevator. He savored 'you take good care of me' as the small room moved them upwards, wondering if he was wrong to find that admission-under-duress as validating as he did.

Once in the apartment, he encouraged Sylar back into bed. Peter took the extra blanket from his side and a pillow, heading over to set up camp on the couch. He had made some resolutions to himself about not sharing a bed with Sylar anymore, but none of those included Sylar needing him this much.

XXX

The couch had always seemed far away but now it was dangerously so. Peter had snuck away from there before. _Will he stay this time? How can I be sure?_ Loudly, he pointed out, "The bed's more comfortable." Sylar swung the covers aside to make room for Peter. It wasn't paranoid if it had happened before; now it was just…protecting what was left of his sanity. He needed to keep in physical contact with Peter as he slept to be absolutely certain. He was so focused now, he didn't consider being refused and didn't know what he'd do if that happened.

XXX

Peter sighed. _This isn't going to work either. If my goal is for him to sleep, then I have to be over there._ He cast about the place for something that might pass as sleepwear, but there was none that was not already on Sylar's body. The best he could manage was trading his long-sleeved tee for one with short sleeves. After changing, he sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing jeans, taking off his socks and shoes as he went through his usual nighttime foot check and careful shoe placement. That done, he scooted under the blanket, for once not bothering with putting a layer between them. _If this isn't safe, then I'll have an even better argument for never doing it again._

XXX

Sylar lay on his side, facing Peter of course. When the empath was settled, he shut his eyes, yawned and pretended to accidentally extend his arm so the back of his hand rested against Peter's arm. After a few moments, it was allowed; Sylar slumped in relief of many varieties. The low ebb of pleasure and sleep took him again, better than before.


	99. Pillow Promises

Day 41, January 20, Morning

Sleep left Peter slowly, leaving him feeling warm and comfortable. His intention to get up was cut off as he realized his position. His bedmate – Sylar – had his face pressed to Peter's left upper arm, his nose against his bicep and deep, sighing breaths tickling Peter's skin. One of Sylar's forearms was folded loosely around Peter's and there was a knee resting against the outside of his lower thigh. Peter smiled despite the identity of the other, and moved his hand to settle over Sylar's arm just below the elbow. It was a nice way to wake up.

_He's a good sleeping partner. He doesn't kick or push. He doesn't mind me touching him – or doesn't seem to mind. He's not all over me. He doesn't run away from me in bed; he doesn't complain about me touching him. He doesn't sweat. He doesn't even snore. This isn't that bad, is it? It's not wrong to sleep like this with him, is it?_ Peter didn't want it to be wrong. After a while of lying there, basking in the simple human comfort of not being alone, he eased himself out from under the covers and sat up, one leg folded in front of him while the other dangled over the edge of the bed. He thought he _should_ get up completely, but it was harder than he'd expected to work himself up to it.

XXX

When Sylar woke, Peter was sitting up close by. He wished to be allowed to show his gratitude, his need. His hand reached out to caress Peter's lower back once again. That tiny taste of touch was a drug.

XXX

Peter turned at the contact. Disheveled bed-hair fell across part of Sylar's face. Muscular shoulders were bared by the sleeveless tee the man had worn to bed. _He's so handsome_. Large, dark eyes partly screened by the hair peered up at him hopefully. Sylar didn't ask him to come back to bed, but Peter didn't need the words to be spoken to hear the request. He was sorely tempted by it. He felt a yearning inside for the intimacy, the friendly contact, letting down his defenses and letting someone in.

XXX

Sylar hadn't moved but his fingers still did, back and forth, the backs of his fingers, then the pads over Peter's cotton t-shirt and he gazed at Peter, willing him to give in for both of them.

XXX

Peter looked down at the hand caressing him _. He did this the last time we slept together, when I woke up. He'd been afraid that night … and he let me hold him_. Contemplative, Peter reached for Sylar's hand and touched across the long, straight bones of the man's index finger. _He's letting me do this. (What else would he let me do? He's offered …)_ He passed over the bump of knuckle to the veined tendons on the back of Sylar's hand. He traced over wrist and forearm, losing himself in appreciation of the human form, letting his mind be blank of everything except the feeling. He straightened the wayward hairs of Sylar's lower arm, making things right. _This feels so right._ His skin tingled everywhere they touched. He raised his eyes.

"You are _beautiful_ ," Peter murmured, heartfelt. He meant nothing feminine about the word. He could have as easily described Sylar as magnificent, but that would have lost the sense of allure Peter felt for him, the desire he knew he shouldn't express. Peter curled his fingers around to the softer, silky-smooth skin on the underside of Sylar's wrist.

XXX

Sylar's breath escaped him and his toes curled at the touch to his index finger. The small, willing, gentle, sensuous gesture meant a plethora of things to Sylar's twisted brain (phallic, homicidal, worship, acceptance, eagerness) and it made his dick swell. _I'm so glad you think so, but you haven't seen anything yet._ Sylar's breathy exhale hid a moan at the fingers sliding around his wrist – such a slow, delightful torture!

XXX

The tingling spread from his hand, up his arm, and flushed his entire body. Peter had to stop himself from climbing on top of the man. He wanted to so bad – to get back under the covers and make love to him. _Sylar would let me, I know he would. He wants me._ The yearning inside was a conflagration now, burning him up inside and heating his skin. He was stiffening in his overly-confining jeans, every part of his body coming alive and online, ready to act. _No, no, no!_ he struggled to get control of himself while he still could. _He killed my brother. (He_ is _my brother, sort of.) That doesn't make it right._ This _isn't right. Don't do this. I won't do this!_

With an effort almost physical, Peter tore himself away and stood, breath coming harder than it should for such a small thing. It hurt. He moved away, around the end of the bed and stopped there to regard Sylar with hungry eyes and an erection that wasn't going away. He felt like he was trembling inside. He still wanted to go back.

XXX

Once again, Peter held onto his restraint and put distance between them. _He hasn't been laid in ages! Come on!_ Sylar flopped back with a sigh of frustration, eyes shut for the moment. He didn't hear Peter moving too far away…He opened his eyes to observe Peter devouring him with his own heated hazel stare. Sylar interrupted him, purring, "You are _delicious_. Literally," he added, referring to the bite he'd made earlier. Peter was completely hard, poking out at his pants and still not moving. _He won't come get it._ And with that, Sylar whipped off the cover to reveal his own proud erection tenting his pajamas. He stalked to Peter with one obvious thing in mind.

XXX

"No!" Peter reached out in an attempt to heel punch the oncoming man in the sternum. _This isn't going to happen. I won't let this happen._

XXX

The push was predictable; Sylar snatched the wrist and jerked it to the side before pressing himself into Peter, against him, their bodies flush and firm against one another. Peter was heavenly – warm, hard, aroused and shaking a little, and he was all Sylar's. In nearly the same motion, he kissed Peter, hard and full on the mouth, demanding what was his, owning him through his lips. He wanted nothing so much after that as to cram the little man against the wall and finish them off.

XXX

_Oh God_. Peter's trembling wasn't purely internal anymore. It took him a moment to figure out what to do. Part of him wanted to quit thinking and just go with it. The rest knew that was stupid, even for him. _He doesn't get to do this to me!_ Fighting his way free wouldn't work – anything that smacked even a little of fleeing would backfire. Instead, he reached up with his right hand, slow and non-confrontational, letting the kiss happen without much participation on his part while he moved his hand to Sylar's ear, giving a token caress of the man's stubbled cheek along the way. At that point, he grabbed, twisted, and yanked downward.

XXX

Sylar hissed angrily – his fucking ear of all things. It wasn't sexy or expected. Naturally, he reached up to hold onto Peter's hand as it held him as if that would help somehow.

XXX

Peter grabbed Sylar's shoulder and shoved down in the same direction he was pulling on the man's ear. It was a pressure point and a good one.

XXX

_At least it's not my throat this time,_ Sylar thought. His ear was well attached to him, so where Peter pulled (none-too-gently, either), he had no choice but to go. What upset him more was that the fun was over – he'd been this close to consummation; he'd been against Peter and his raging hard-on. The tugging sent Sylar to his knees, where he glanced up, anticipating a lecture or some insult. It was then he realized where he was. He looked at the man's groin, still engorged and positioned right in front of his face. Heat flooded into him again. He hated it; he lusted for it. It was degrading, dominating, and hot to be placed there. _Kiss you down here instead._ A leer spread over his face as he opened his mouth, licking the corner of his lips suggestively and looking up at Peter, angling his face in invitation and question.

XXX

For a perilous half-second, Peter was tempted. He'd had more than one fantasy that had included this scene. The x-rated part of his subconscious eagerly filed away Sylar's willingness. The rest of him shoved Sylar away, giving a huffing laugh. "Ha. No. Not today." _Dream on. Both of us._ He backed off a couple steps, then turned to go further, pacing in the transition zone from dining area to kitchen.

XXX

Sylar swayed back on his heels, still leering about his success, happy with today's victory. "Someday," he rumbled. He stood, with his dick stiff and non-participating companion. Intending to amp up Peter's sexual frustration, Sylar stated, "I'll take the bathroom," leaving Peter to figure out how and where to unload himself. He wasn't too concerned about Peter wandering away, no, not after that. Sylar sauntered to the bathroom, pausing to see if he was being watched. The door remained open while he began to strip. _He wants it. Badly. I don't think that was morning wood._

XXX

Peter stopped, put his hands on his hips, and leaned back as he looked at the ceiling. _I just made a complete fool of myself. This can't go on. I've got figure this out. I have to- (Is he undressing with the bathroom door wide open?)_ Sylar's shirt was off and those sweat pants (Peter's sweat pants, which Sylar was stubbornly not giving up and Peter, just as stubbornly, continued to see as 'his') were about to join the shirt on the floor. _Damn._ Without waiting for the rest of the show, Peter turned on his heel, headed to the front door, and left.

XXX

Sylar stepped into the shower, leaving that door open a crack as well, dousing his back with the lukewarm spray. A light groan bounced around the bathroom as he took hold of his dick, pumping it. He was completely swollen, aching after each rough stroke. His panting and gasping was probably audible over the sound of the shower – he wanted Peter to hear. The next time Peter would be under him, getting fucked and getting off. Sylar licked his lips for the taste, roaming his free hand everywhere that had been in contact with Peter: chest, abdomen, pelvis, even his balls. Fisting himself harder and faster, he didn't bother with the lotion obscenely placed on the counter. He was so ready all he had to do was thrust into his own grip several times before he spilled against the wet tile, gasping with the orgasmic rush. _Next time. Next time._

XXX

Downstairs, Peter's erection wilted. Whether it was his jarred emotions, simmering anger, or having left the presence of the biggest turn-on left on the planet didn't matter. Nor did he care. He hit the first floor and went to the workout room with a mission – to clear his mind and get some focus. After changing into the shorts and t-shirt he kept in the corner of the room, it was time for the heavy weights. Exercise was a stress relief. It had helped him cope with and get through things far worse than this, he reminded himself.

XXX

After a hazy soak, Sylar shaved, brushed, combed, and redressed. He checked the lobby level for Peter, finding him in the exercise room. Leaning near the doorway, he smirked in at the empath.

XXX

The sight of Sylar rekindled Peter's anger. He'd calmed down on most fronts, but the anger – he didn't know if he'd ever stop being angry at Sylar. Not wanting a repeat of Sylar's last conduct in the weight room, Peter snapped at him, "If you're in here with me, you're either going to work out or leave." There would be no loitering around, threatening and insulting him – not this time.

XXX

Sylar wanted to retort something like, 'you can't tell me what I can or should do,' but he was in a good mood. All he said was, "Bossy," and walked in. He began to stretch, for the direct benefits and for ogling Peter to make him nervous or aroused or get a reaction and just to watch him. Stretching legs, arms and back, he made a bit of a show of it, not that Peter watched. In fact, he looked kind of pissed. At the risk of further injuring himself, Sylar made his way in to one of the arm machines – he had no idea what it was called, although he could guess the muscles it was supposed to work. "Do these things have names?" he gestured to the entirety of the equipment.

XXX

He stopped and got his breath, irritated at being interrupted. "Yes, that one's named Robert," Peter said in a pissy tone. "That one over there is named Richard. He's a bit of a dick." With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he went on, "It's a … It's a pulldown machine. It works your lats." He hooked his head at one of the racks on the wall. "You can switch out the bar for handles and work your obliques with it, or do cable pulldowns for your arms."

XXX

Sylar paused at that, turning to give Peter a blank look at first. _Richard, dick…Someone didn't get off this morning._ Passing on several 'dick' jibes (particularly ones about Peter's interest), he smirked, "I don't think you've been here long enough to name inanimate objects. Besides, there are real people to be with." _Hint, hint._

XXX

No matter how much Peter tried to get back in the zone, it wasn't happening. It was no help at all that Sylar was staring at him so much. For a variety of reasons, Peter was very aware of when people looked at him and how. The looks he was getting were not conducive to maintaining clarity. That he couldn't even complain that Sylar wasn't working out only annoyed him more. He walked out to stand in the lobby, stretching his shoulder muscles and fuming.

When Sylar came out of the exercise room, Peter was on him immediately. He shoved him, fast and sudden to the middle of the chest and said, "Is this going to be your thing now? Every time I sleep with you, you make a clumsy pass at me the next morning? Because if there's anything you can do to drive me off, that's it." He cocked his head. "In fact, that is a _great_ tactic, Sylar. Keep it up. It's perfect. You can get used to getting all your sleep during the day." Lip curled and body poised, he waited for the riposte.

XXX

Sylar was more offended at the insult than the shove or the threats (for one thing, he had been getting most of his sleep during the day around Peter or sleeping poorly on his own). He rolled with the push and rolled his eyes. "Oh, the pay-attention-to-my-mouth, not-my-dick thing, huh? I'm supposed to pretend my 'clumsy' pass wasn't working? I tried being civilized – I offered, I flirted, but that isn't what you want, is it, Peter?

XXX

"I don't want _you_ ," Peter said softly, as if it was an afterthought to his very close scrutiny of Sylar's expressions and body language. Not liking what he saw, he chuffed. "Fine. Don't fight with me." He half-expected that by itself to provoke Sylar, and reached out (telegraphing it more this time, and not nearly as forceful) to push the guy again, before backing off a couple steps to sulk. _I wanted a fight, dammit._ He wanted it to be Sylar's fault and for himself to come out on top. He wanted to regain some of his lost dignity and a little violence seemed like just the ticket. Sylar wasn't rising to the bait. It disarmed Peter.

XXX

Sylar slapped at Peter's hands as they came in to push him. It annoyed him; he frowned. He wasn't going to take everything passively. Peter was being…immature. That meant he was upset about something, or everything, or Sylar in general, as usual. _I'm not to blame for everything._ His eyes narrowed to match Peter's glare. _I have to_ _be_ _the freaking adult._ "Fine, I won't."

XXX

"I want my brother back." He fixed Sylar with a steely gaze for a few moments. "But let's talk about what you can actually _do_ something about – if you want me to sleep in the same bed with you, then we have to work something out where the next morning does not include _this_." He waved his hand up and down, towards the penthouse and the workout room, meaning the whole fiasco of a morning. "I don't like it and if you don't help me fix it, then you can just be chronically short of sleep." He snorted softly. "You taking naps during the day certainly makes you easier to be around."

XXX

"Why do you always freeze up when I touch you?" Sylar snapped, quoting Peter's question to him from a while back. It went both ways and it was something that bothered him, that Petrelli, baby-boy, lovey-empath expectation that Peter could touch whomever however he pleased, yet Sylar was held to a double standard. He waited, a little tense and poised, staring in Peter's eyes.

XXX

_Do I do that?_ "That has nothing to do with it." Peter refused to let Sylar derail things, however much he wanted to explore that. "It sounds like you're unwilling to address the issue of keeping it in your pants and are trying to distract. That doesn't work for me."

XXX

"I have kept it in my pants! You know something, Peter? It's not always _my_ problems that _I_ have to _fix_ so you can be happy. Because you _almost_ putting out makes you easier to be around." He sighed, familiar with the argument by now: Peter would say, 'don't'; Sylar would say, 'but it works.' "For argument's sake, what do I get out of it besides sleep if I decide to quit pressuring your libido?"

XXX

"What you 'get out of it' _is_ sleep! If you don't promise to stop it, then I will promise to be unavailable." Peter squared off, being emphatic but not aggressive. "I am not in your bed because I want you, Sylar – secretly or openly – and yes, this is one of those things where you need to pay attention to my mouth instead of my dick. I have been with you because you're having nightmares and anxiety attacks when I'm not. You don't have to be alone anymore, but if you don't 'decide to quit pressuring my libido', then you will be." He lowered his voice slightly to underscore his point. "It's _your_ choice."

_I need to make it a choice where he's not losing face._ "I'd like it if you'd choose something where I'm not alone, too." _Pretend you're doing it on my behalf, to keep me company. Will that work with you?_ It was hard for Peter to imagine anyone didn't enjoy the opportunity to help someone else. Even Sylar.

XXX

"Promise…" Sylar murmured, pondering it. _You do want it, not me; and not for sex, or so your mouth says. (I wonder if he knows you can want to fuck someone without wanting them?). I want my cake and eat it, too – can I leave him alone when he's weak? I'll always have opportunities._ The empath's manipulation was clear, sensible, and appealing: _I don't have to be alone anymore._ He understood that Peter would sleep with him every night now, for the sake of Sylar's sleep and sanity. It was an improvement and it was a connection all the same. That it was sexless didn't negate his gratitude or, unfortunately, his compulsion to procure more than was offered. _Take what I have so I can keep it or he takes everything. I'm not losing anything. Ha, I'm doing it 'for him.'_ He wanted to protest being dependent on Peter, and about the 'anxiety attacks' but that's exactly what it was, even if he thought it was 'normal' after being alone for so long. Peter had allowed a hug this time, too.

Sylar opened his mouth, then shut it, several angles running through his head about how to spin this. He looked around the cold city to buy time. Peter wasn't asking him to quit seducing him entirely. "What happens if…something happens? If I…?" he hesitated around the word 'accidentally.' It wasn't like he'd ever slept with anyone to know what was normal or able to be overlooked during sleep. The outcome was obvious and not worth the question. Clearing his throat, he moved past it, "I choose to leave you alone in the mornings. I can be patient." Sylar looked his partner up and down with intent. "Let's...get breakfast, or something." He began moving aimlessly at first.

XXX

Peter cocked his head slightly, not liking Sylar's word choice or failure to finish his question. "It's not just the mornings – at night, too." He hesitated.

XXX

"Or at nights," Sylar amended with a small roll of his eyes.

XXX

_He either gets it or he doesn't,_ Peter thought, _and I don't think he really does or he wouldn't be hedging. Arguing more won't help. We've had enough excitement for one morning. I can be patient, too._ "But sure, let's get breakfast. First, I have to clean up. I'll do that at my place. I'll be back." He took off, pleased that had gone as well as it had. He hadn't offered anything new – he was still willing to provide medical care and, as necessary within that scope, comfort. _Hopefully, he'll make a quick recovery and we can go back to something more arm's length, safer. What I really want is just for him not to fuck with me while I'm trying to help him. That's, like, the bare minimum._ Peter went about a quick shave, brushing his teeth, and showering before returning to the ground floor to find Sylar waiting on him. He smiled at that, still pleased to have Sylar waiting for his company. _It's like I matter to him, whether he calls me an ant or not._

XXX

He huffed about the detour but walked with Peter to his building. He was irritated even though he'd 'won.' Peter's motivations and end games were unknown. It left Sylar wanting to rattle the other man's cage (or poke at the tiger), annoy him in return, and get attention and answers. He noticed the more glaring anomaly. "Why would you offer me a choice? What if I didn't choose what you wanted?"

XXX

"Then I wouldn't sleep with you," Peter said. "It's that simple." He pulled on his gloves before they set out for the diner a few blocks away. "I haven't for most of the last week. I don't want to be alone; you don't want to be alone. You have something you can offer me, Sylar …" He trailed off, not wanting to deal with what he wanted out of the man Sylar. The things he would readily admit to weren't nice or feasible – things he wanted Sylar to do (suffer, be tortured, apologize, confess, submit). The things he wouldn't admit to were things Peter wanted to do, usually to make the former list come to be. But since it was wrong to do those things and Sylar wouldn't respond as desired anyway, it was a dead end. He trudged through the several inches of fluffy snow, searching to the left to find an area where the wind had scoured it shallow, nearly to the road bed. He walked there, glad it had been cold enough before the snowfall that there wasn't a layer of ice under it like before.

"We don't have to be at each other's throats here." _That's obvious, but maybe it helps to say it?_ "It's kind of like eating. I know I don't have to, here, but not doing it … doesn't turn out well."

XXX

Sylar's eyes slid to the side, not moving his head as they walked. He was all ears but the climax was…familiar? The concept of peace and tranquility between them was bizarre, desirable in a sense, but mostly bizarre. Peter harped on it all the time, how Sylar was the enemy, not behaving, not allowing Peter to…to what? The man refused to take advantage and please himself in any way! And then he…and Nathan…remembered, Peter's infallible deniability clause. Not that anyone could blame the poor kid, growing up as a Petrelli (and some small part of Sylar still wailed about the blood and brains, denouncing it as something he was capable of); Nathan had it bad, too. _He thinks Nathan is alive, that Nathan can come back, that he can save his girlfriend and there are people around. I'm wrong because he can't face…_

"I see how you work, your brain," he stated, pointing at Peter's head. "/Your denial about the 'family business' or whatever you called it. Every step of the way you fought it, after how many times I told you to lay low. Ma called it your 'rose-colored glasses' and Dad called it-/"

XXX

Peter stopped in the street to glare at Sylar for the words that were obviously Nathan's. "' _I_ told you to lay low'?" he repeated, more offended than angry. "Why don't you turn that insight into how brains work towards your own? What's going on with you, Sylar?"

XXX

_You! That's what's wrong with me!_ "If you want to be so friendly with me, then fuck me!" He exclaimed, grabbing onto Peter's coat, both hands, with undignified desperation. A moment of eye contact before he released him, before Peter could smack him away or get upset. The pressure within him was building. "Just…fuck you. It's not even fair. You fucking Petrellis…" He devolved into angry muttering, shaking his head and walking apart from Peter. He wanted something, a fuck, a fight, time alone, an admission, a solution - something! The problem came from wanting things from his captor, enemy and attacker, when that same stuck-up person claimed complete ignorance of what he'd done.

XXX

Peter fought down a surge of adrenaline from being manhandled. The last time that had happened, he'd been punched in the face. He tried to bat Sylar away even as the other man was letting go. Wary now, he paid complete attention to the words, gestures, posture, and muttering. "You're hearing me, Sylar, but you're not _listening_. What I told you a couple weeks ago is still true – I didn't come here for your entertainment. You are not entitled to my dick, or anything else from me. You killed my brother and who knows how many other people? I don't want to be friends with you!" He started off down the road, letting Sylar be the distance apart from him that the man had already set. "Do all your friends have to fuck you? Might be why you don't have any," he snapped. _Is this the progression? He wants to be near me, then in bed with me, now he's going to insist on sex? What the hell is next after_ that _? Is this some twisted form of the Hunger, where since he can't take an ability, he wants to take_ me _?_ Peter shot a glance at his gloved hands, thinking about that odd tingling he had sometimes. _Does he have some counterpart to that working at him?_

XXX

Sylar snarled. _No, usually I have to fuck them!_ He didn't care what he sounded like. "Leave me alone!" _(Or I'm going to do something bad)._ "I have to be responsible for everything but you get to stand there and make all the rules, like you haven't done anything. You should try hitting my head some more, or choking me so I can forget everything, too!" Sylar was shaking from his own whiplash. It was so familiar, being hurt, angry, powerless, and told to forget what happened and keep going. The re-programming was a lonely, painful, time consuming process. Peter wasn't going to change; the constant nitpicking and complaints meant he expected Sylar to shape up. _(If only I could. If he didn't have to see my face…) He never has to do anything! It's like it never happened!_ Lips tight and jaw clenched, Sylar broke away from Peter, skidding on the icier parts of the road to cross it and get some distance. He couldn't eat with the faithless Petrelli and he didn't intend to go back for as long as he could manage.

XXX

Peter lagged, watching and wondering if he should do something. _Is this another thing like at the police station, where what he needs is reassurance? He's really upset. Should I give him space or stick with him? I'm pretty angry, too._ The content of Sylar's words was largely ignored as he committed the same sin of not listening that he'd just accused Sylar of. When Sylar peeled off for his own building instead of the diner, Peter asked lightly, as though they hadn't been half-yelling at each other moments before, "Are we eating at your apartment?" He wasn't that clueless. He wanted Sylar to either tell him off again or take it back, and Peter didn't really care which.

XXX

"Fuck you!" was the unimaginative reply, shouted over his shoulder. It was almost a relief to have an understood position finally, knowing his worth. Almost. Shouting off rooftops, kicking random buildings as he passed, beating the hell out of something was what he felt like doing, just venting the frustration at a world and a companion who couldn't hear him. Peter wanted nothing from him and it was a real problem. Sylar was left helpless to whatever whims Peter did want – talking, eating, pretending to work on the windows (yes, he saw now that was just a joke), all the fake comfort.

XXX

Peter shrugged, backed off, and went on his way. _Sylar's problems are not my problems. He's not making sense. (To me. He probably makes perfect sense to him.) I guess he's pissed I won't have sex with him. (Better angry and honest than smiling and scheming.) Am I safe? I think I'm safe._

He went to the diner and had a satisfying, if lonely, meal, then returned to the rec room at the Pegasus and reread about bone growth. He tried meditation and focusing healing thoughts on his hand. It felt numb and tingly and warm, but he wasn't sure it meant anything. It still hurt when he messed with it so he quit messing with it. He made a leisurely search of the neighborhood for a restaurant for lunch, settling on a burger joint he'd passed on previously, but since it was close, he figured he might as well check it out. He kept expecting Sylar to turn back up, but it didn't happen. He returned to the rec room mid-afternoon, playing the piano and then pool until hunger moved him again. He ate in the penthouse, wondering if Sylar was returning. _I agreed to sleep in the same bed with him if he'd cut the rest out. If he doesn't come back, does that mean he's not going to cut the rest out?_

Eventually, Peter gave up and returned to his own place for the night, uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping there and possibly being jumped by Sylar in the night. Once in his apartment, after some hesitation, he stacked cans in front of his door again even though he told himself he felt perfectly safe and wasn't worried at all.

XXX

Sylar walked aimlessly for a while. Eventually, he made it back to his apartment, uncaring if Peter were to ambush him there because the slimy Petrelli would get a real fight on his hands at last. Hours later, he was still stewing about it as he idly made toast for 'lunch/dinner.' _Focus. He's not worth it. Emotions make you sloppy. Make a plan. Find something he wants or give him hell._ So he plotted, nibbled, and tried to sleep. It was a rough night.

XXX

Day 42, January 21

The next day, Peter was slow to drag himself out of bed. He wasn't tired or ill, just depressed and uneasy. He went through his routine, though, because he was stubborn. He worked out at the Pegasus, he had breakfast at the diner, and he went to the Y to swim and soak in the hot tub until noon. He had lunch in a Starbucks, munching on their high-priced, high-calorie health foods (and washing it down with an enormous, over-sugared, over-caffeinated concoction he mixed up) until he was nearly buzzing with energy. Self-medicated, his depression was gone. Giddy, he returned to his apartment, snagged the guitar, and waltzed (literally, with the guitar as his dancing partner) into the rec room. Much enthusiastic and inharmonious thrashing of the strings ensued.

Late that evening, having spiraled deep into the inevitable crash that followed, he slowly climbed the stairs to the top floor so he could sulk in the empty penthouse. He made the bed and cleaned the place up before going back to his own place, equally slowly and still quite stubborn.

XXX

Sylar felt drained when he woke. Hygiene and a little food didn't help. He could feel the shadows and threats closing in like a waking version of his nightmares he had every night. He told himself he was okay if Peter wasn't real, that he wasn't real. It was better this way anyway. And if Peter was real, then Sylar's absence would hurt him. Eventually. The bastard needed to feel what it was like to squirm alone without knowing if his suffering would or could be eased. It was a message, because for all that talk, Peter paid attention to actions and contact. He read some and cleaned his apartment. In the evening he settled in to work on timepieces (he determined to get Peter's and fix it because denial of the world and of time itself wasn't going to be allowed to fly). The work was comforting and familiar even in times of stress and uncertainty; Sylar lost himself in the small pieces and the interwoven gears – things that made sense, things he could fix. He didn't leave the apartment. He avoided sleep for as long as he could. The emptiness of his bed reminded him that if he capitulated, he could pretend to be human and have company. Bundling himself tight, he shut his eyes and forced himself into more nightmares.

XXX

Day 43, January 22

Unwilling to spend another day wallowing (and Peter refused to consider why he felt like someone had dumped him), he rose early, worked out, ate, and moved on to the important mission of finding better clothes. He headed to the busted storefront to start with, thinking there might be sweats or something unisex inside that could serve at least as pajamas. Or maybe there would be a men's clothing store nearby.

He was distracted by the amount of snow that had drifted inside the store and spent the morning shoveling it out. The afternoon went by trying to find something to block the windows, but all he could scare up was cardboard or sheets, neither of which could he figure out how to affix to brick. He sat on the cashier's counter with a beer and a bag of trail mix for dinner, thinking about the hardware store and its contents. _It would have adhesives. That would work for the cardboard or fabric. It would have boards I could make into braces for plywood, which it would also have. But would they have a saw so I could cut the boards? I don't remember seeing any big tools like that. Is there something else? Maybe they sell something I could use as a brace?_

He munched and thought. At the end, he used cardboard propped up with pallets to block the lower half of the windows. It wouldn't do, but it was better than nothing. He went home (checking the penthouse first – empty) and hit the sack early.

XXX

_He's just like the rest of them_ , Sylar thought in despair. It was very depressing to realize. Peter thought of Sylar the same way everyone else did, treating him with some…irregularities (probably explained by the denial issue) – the medical care, sleeping with him, not mocking him about crying, the chair. He didn't know what he expected of Peter or from him, but not being tortured and pretending important events hadn't happened certainly wasn't it. He should have known better. _It's just a mindfuck. They do this for fun_ , he thought of the Petrellis, the indistinguishable group that they were. Sylar went to his building's roof for air and a view and some strange psychologically distant familiarity that didn't belong to him – the power of flight, Peter, and rooftops. Remembering that made him uncomfortable; Nathan faked his death on a rooftop, saved Peter from a sniper's bullet and jumping like a fucking imbecile, and had too many confessional conversations. Rooftops…didn't belong to him and if Peter saw him…well. He scanned the other roofs but Peter wasn't real. It was Sylar's own mind that judged and tortured him. It was too cold to stay long (at least, that was his excuse), having remained there to make a point to the imaginary hero. Sylar poked around the rest of the apartments not for the first time in three years, doing it just to do something and perhaps unearth an item of interest. He did find a little hand-operated music mechanism – the kind with the metallic comb-like teeth that struck on tiny bumps, making sounds like bells. The song was some sad lullaby but he wondered if Peter would like it. He saved it for a rainy day when he needed to bribe a man who wanted nothing from him. It was all so pointless.

XXX

Day 44, January 23

He was done waiting to see if Sylar would show back up. After working out and cleaning up, Peter went to the diner and made a breakfast of biscuits, eggs, and gravy. He packed it up neatly in to-go containers, put it in a sack with a couple fresh coffees, and marched it over to Sylar's apartment.

Where no one answered the door.

For a few minutes, he was worried. He pounded the door. He considered trying the knob. He knew how easy it had been to kick the door down. He knocked again, more politely this time, for all the good that did him. He banished his suddenly looming fears that Sylar had committed suicide or injured himself or was suffering some unknown and unexpected side effect of the concussion on the other side of the door, needful of Peter's help. _That's stupid and I'm just trying to give myself an excuse to break in there. I haven't heard him. He's not there, and if he's not there, then there's no reason for me to go in._

Sighing, he sat on the floor of the hall and ate his biscuit dipped in gravy until the biscuit was gone. Then, since he hadn't brought utensils (having expected to use Sylar's), he took his half of the breakfast and left Sylar's next to the door. He went outside and for the first time looked attentively at the tracks in the snow. _I'm pretty sure some of these tracks aren't mine. That means he's around. He's okay. He's not even avoiding me. He's just busy. (Yeah, right. Dream on, Peter.)_

Shaking his head, he went on with his day, returning to his mission of finding clothes. He found a men's formalwear shop (not helpful) and returned to the sporting goods store he'd seen early on (also not very helpful). There, like at the formalwear shop, he found things that fit him, but not necessarily what he wanted to wear. (Though he got a kick out of imagining Sylar's expression should he show up in form-fitting bicycling shorts.) Another evening passed and this time he didn't check the penthouse, but he still stacked up his cans.

XXX

Sylar found a reason to venture out, for basic groceries. It was just to see what, if anything, Peter was…make sure he was real. He saw the medic had been out based on the new footprints to the diner; he kept his distance. When he returned, he found food containers outside his door. At least the door was intact, but Peter had been around and had come looking for him. It only served to anger him. He hated being forced into more rules to suit Peter (who had cleverly figured out what and how to hold things hostage), he was sick of the frustration, and he detested the idea of charity. He threw out the food, whatever it was. Probably poisoned and definitely cold.


	100. Unacknowledged Confession

Day 45, January 24, Morning

Peter's mind was busy as he pumped iron the next morning. _I've seen his tracks, so he's around. He probably saw the food I left. He knows I came by. If he doesn't want to see me, then he'll clear out same as before, so if I go by, he's gone. But if he does want to see me, then he'll stick around to see if I come by just like I did yesterday. (Or he could come find me. That would be the polite thing to do. Not that he's polite.) Either way, I made the first gesture. If I come back today, I'm showing him that he can expect me to make the second even if he ignores the first one. (That's not good.) And I'm showing him that I'm not taking his distance for an answer, that I'm not respecting his space. (That's worse.) I wouldn't want him ignoring me ignoring him – I'd be sending a message with that and if he tracked me down anyway, especially a second time … yeah._

Ultimately, he left Sylar alone. Peter made himself a fruit salad, threw some nuts and yogurt in it, and spent the morning in the rec room, getting better at pool and tapping out some tunes on the piano.

XXX

Sylar went for a walk in the early hours. It hadn't snowed more, so it became a task to deduce where Peter had gone from the multitude of footprints. He wasn't in any hurry and he didn't exactly intend to engage Peter, but if it happened…It was more of a process of elimination than deduction now. It was closer to midday, at the end of possible locations. He heard Peter before he saw him.

XXX

How Peter didn't notice the sound of the door was a mystery to him. Sylar was _quiet_ when he wanted to be. The guy could have spied Peter sitting at the piano, drumming out a love song, and stealthily slipped away should he have desired and Peter would have never known. As it was, Peter caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and nearly overturned the bench leaping to his feet. Eyes wide, he waited to see what Sylar's appearance meant.

XXX

The empath's reaction was gratifying and predictable, though it wasn't the welcome he'd rather receive. "You're still here," Sylar remarked, still standing in the doorway. It was a relief and at the same time, it meant the Petrelli's issues were glaringly present as well.

XXX

Peter looked Sylar over, then reached out with his foot and nudged the bench back into position (and subtly out of his way). "Yeah, I'm still here. I told you I wouldn't leave." An offering of small talk seemed horribly inappropriate, especially given the prowling, antagonistic vibe Sylar was giving off. He'd been less creepy at Mohinder's apartment before he'd killed Peter for the second time. _No, this is more like Odessa,_ Peter thought, following Sylar's movements and saying nothing more. _I wonder what would happen if I threw us both off the penthouse at the same time, like at the stadium?_

XXX

_We have different definitions of 'leaving.'_ Sylar entered the rec room slowly, making a wide circle around Peter. He felt eyes on him. He wanted to know if his absence had made the right impression on someone whose head was thicker than a bunker door. For now he was calm about it. "Did you miss me?"

XXX

"I wasn't shooting at you." Peter sat down again, turning his back to Sylar and refusing to play the frightened victim anymore. He picked a simple exercise of practice chords, pretending to tune Sylar out and ignore him.

XXX

Sylar blinked. It took him about that long to understand what Peter was referring to, that it was an actual answer. It felt like whiplash – one minute Peter was all eyes and ears, the next, his back was turned, and Sylar was written off. _Why did he immediately think about shooting me?_ "You'd like that wouldn't you? That's right. I forgot. You can't say what you really want, can you?" Sylar sneered. He slunk over to drape himself over the side of the piano, hoping to bother Peter and get a genuine reaction out of him again. "I've been telling you from the beginning. Accept that you're here, with me, alone, and things will get easier. Your denial has never been healthy, Peter." _(He wouldn't believe Nathan was dead and look what happened after that shoe fell)._

XXX

Peter leaned back, hands still resting on the keys. The challenge about not saying what he wanted couldn't go unanswered. (The comment about denial, he ignored, which was its own form of denial.) "I don't want to shoot you, Sylar. That's way too impersonal," he said with a roll of his eyes. "It's not that I can't say what I really want to do to you. It just seems obvious and impolite." He gestured at Sylar with his chin. "You have an imagination. You figure it out." He went back to repeating the chords, disgusted with the topic.

XXX

Sylar breezed by the dismissal. "I've already imagined it all. I want to know the gory details." _(It helps). It will break him out of that stupid friendly denial he's in._

XXX

That stopped Peter again. The interruption was annoying, but the reason was more important than his irritation. "You really want me to tell you how I want to hurt you?" he said with affront. "What possible use could that serve?"

XXX

He shrugged, not really having a fantastic single reason or two to give. Perhaps it was difficult to explain. "It's…honest. It's fair. I want to know and you said you're a straightforward man. It's not like it's going to shock me in any way." _I've been honest with you. I want to know what I'm dealing with; what to expect._

XXX

Peter blinked up at him. It had never seriously occurred to him to disclose to Sylar (or to anyone) his darker fantasies about his brother's murderer. The idea of stating them out loud made him squirm. They weren't thoughts he was supposed to have. He knew he shouldn't have thought them, shouldn't have allowed them, shouldn't have indulged that part of himself. At the same time, he knew he was human, he loved Nathan, and that sort of fantasy was normal. He'd assumed it would run its course, if he'd assumed anything at all about it. He had never imagined he might be called upon to confess them to the person they principally involved. He'd boxed himself into a corner, though, by claiming he _could_ say it and then acting so superior about it. "Uhh ..." he said unhelpfully.

He looked down at the keys, half depressing a couple – enough to move the key down, but not enough to cause the hammer to strike the wire. "I … don't want to kill you. I just want to make you suffer … hurt. The way you've made everyone else hurt." He shook his head because that wasn't right. "No, not like that, because even if you had friends or lovers or relatives, they shouldn't be involved. So just you. Maybe maimed. Something you'd miss." He looked up at Sylar finally, Peter's expression guarded. He looked at those pretty eyes he'd thought so much about gouging out. _He'd miss those. And maybe he'd never be able to kill anyone again, or take their ability if he couldn't see what he was doing._

XXX

It pleased Sylar no end to have a viable answer at last, the damn truth finally between them! It was a victory, and a helpful one, too. At the same time, having it out in the open was…painful. The hatred aimed at him was pure and unavoidable now. His imagination had no trouble filling his mind with horrors and creative tortures that would keep him alive but make him long for death (again). Sylar's chin tilted up after a minute, maintaining the eye contact Peter had begun. He wouldn't look away or cringe like a guilty coward, not when he'd asked for this. It only highlighted and illuminated the problem making him feel ever more hopeless. With a voice nearing the breaking point of edged emotion, he hissed, "How is that any different from what's already been done to me?" _Any different from what you've already done!?_

XXX

"It's different because I haven't done it." Peter got to his feet, anger surging around inside of himself with nowhere to go. "I've had the opportunity, and I haven't!" His voice was hard, body tense. He grabbed up his coat and gloves, not sure where he wanted to go, but certainly away from here. He didn't want to face the moral dilemma Sylar posed – his moral obligation to seek vengeance against his brother's killer, and his other moral obligation to avoid harming people. Even worse, he didn't want to deal with how Sylar didn't recognize Peter's forbearance.

XXX

If he was in Hell, then Peter was coming all the way down with him, deeper into the pit. " _Yes, you did! Yes, you did! You did! You fucking did!_ " Sylar screamed at him as Peter tried to walk away from it once again. In his defense, it was a little beyond the Petrelli's usual denial.

XXX

_What? I did not!_ "Fuck you!" he snapped. The time for any meaningful conversation had ended. One thing about this whole play-fighting thing was it allowed Peter the idea that losing was not a death sentence. Not that he wanted to get hurt, but he wanted to put a fist into Sylar's face. Peter felt he'd treated Sylar so well it was virtually an ability all by itself, considering the man's very personal offenses. If Sylar didn't recognize any of that, then fine, Peter _would_ put a fist in his face. Snarling, he swung his left fist at Sylar's chin, expecting Sylar to make sure it didn't connect. It was only partly a feint, but as he'd expected, Sylar put his main attention into blocking it. Peter's solid kick to the shin went entirely unopposed. It wasn't the face shot he'd wanted, but it felt good nonetheless.

XXX

Sylar backed up an unsteady step before swinging a few punches of his own. The adrenaline was pouring through him. Peter was going to regret losing this, for fucking around with him, teasing him, for the stupid denial routine, all of it.

XXX

Peter stayed well out of range now, circling right and sizing Sylar up as though he was considering rushing him. He was trying to figure out how to best crack this nut. He was obvious enough about it that Sylar said, "Finish it, Petrelli, finish something you've started!", so Peter lunged at him … and kicked him in the other shin instead of committing to the bull rush.

XXX

Sylar made an inarticulate roar at that and smacked Peter solidly across the head. He wanted to rattle that dopey little brain around until it started making sense! He readied himself to land another punch and he didn't plan on stopping. It wasn't any kind of self-defense or preventative method for the maiming threat – this was reality, fairness, and making a goddamn point. He would not be ignored and so easily slid under the rug any more.

XXX

Peter jerked back and down, getting hit on the side of the face and then had his shirt grabbed by Sylar's other hand. He wasn't sure what Sylar was planning with that, so he twisted away, the taut fabric slipping out of Sylar's grip before he could tighten it. Peter got his balance. He should have probably been thinking of a strategy, but instead he was just responding. It turned out to be better that way.

XXX

Sylar stepped forward, advancing and attacking aggressively, swinging at Peter's head with his long arm that took a while to unwind. It worked before, so it would work again.

XXX

Mind empty and hands lightning quick, Peter grabbed the guy's wrist, side-stepped, and yanked him forward, following the path of momentum just like he'd been taught years ago. _Hey, that worked!_

XXX

Sylar fell forward flailing onto the couch. He didn't panic. His plan was to bounce up and to the side in case Peter was following him…The dark leather cushions were soft and didn't provide a solid platform to push off against…

XXX

Peter came down with a knee to the back of one calf as Sylar was trying to get back up and slammed his right forearm across the back of Sylar's neck to force him back down.

XXX

Sylar face-planted on the leather couch and couldn't draw breath for a half-second, long enough to get disoriented in the middle of a fight. This was worrisome. If Peter got him down again – Peter who was stupid enough to punch him in the head – if he was lucky, it would be a quick death. It wasn't over yet.

XXX

Peter grabbed Sylar's left wrist with his free left hand, applying pressure with his right to keep Sylar's head down. He still wasn't sure what his endgame was here, but immobilizing the guy seemed like the best plan. The judo throw had worked – maybe he could manage a pin.

XXX

Sylar thrashed – tried to kick, roll, heave him off, and turned his head to breathe. He tried to get his free arm under him somewhat but not too much or that would trap both arms if Peter applied weight. He sought to push off and twist away from the inevitable hold. They were all useful actions that made sense in context, but none of them stopped Peter from twisting Sylar's left arm around behind his back. Peter wrenched the wrist upward and the fight was over. Sylar gasped and involuntarily cowered down away from the pressure. He was stuck. He couldn't twist away forward with the couch blocking him and the right side he could escape to was blocked by the back of the couch and Peter's other hand. He was panting, sweating, and drooling ungracefully. Sylar was enraged beyond forming words, sensible, witty or otherwise. It took him long, tense minutes to give up.

XXX

A few moments after Sylar went limp, Peter lowered his wrist a few inches, but didn't let go. _What did he say? 'I did'? What the fuck have I ever done to hurt him that he didn't bring on himself? The concussion?_ But that didn't make sense. It felt earlier. Sylar had had a chip on his shoulder from even before that. Sylar had started that fight for some reason, after all. _At Mercy, he wanted to crucify me … it must be before that_ _, too_ _. He was impersonating Nathan before he was going to go after the president – was he after my whole family? I didn't do anything to him! Or is it that we stopped him, Nathan and I? He killed Nathan for it, and now he's after me, is that it?_

Keeping his grip firm on Sylar's wrist, his right forearm pinning the guy down, he asked, "What was it I did?"

XXX

Peter was fortunate he had Sylar incapacitated. Sylar was angry enough to strangle him and beat him to a pulp. "As if you didn't know! You violated my mind! It was the one thing I had left! First your mother, Parkman and Bennet, and then you! After you said the Haitian did the same to you!"

XXX

_Oh._ "You-" Peter stopped himself from telling Sylar that he'd started it, brought it on himself, had to be stopped from whatever megalomaniac scheme he was pursuing. "The Haitian," he said softly, to himself. Rene had wished Peter a better life, had told him so before wiping his memories. He'd seen it after regeneration recovered them. Given the horror show that was Peter's family, it would have been a kindness if it had worked. It was certainly meant that way. He refocused on Sylar. "I don't blame him. He thought he was doing the right thing. The people I get really pissed at know they're doing wrong and do it anyway." His hand squeezed on Sylar's wrist without his conscious mind having anything to do with it. "What about you? Did you think it was right to kill all those people?"

XXX

Sylar adjusted his position slightly, tilting his head up and forward to roar wordlessly at the arm of the couch in frustration. Panting then because Peter was pushing on him and actively holding him down, he turned his head to the side to growl. "I already answered that, Petrelli, and you're an idiot if you think I'm going to talk like this. Go ahead. Break my arm or worse. I'm done talking."

XXX

"No, you didn't think it was right," Peter said. "The one thing you had left was one more thing than you left any of your victims." He let Sylar go, not willing to break his arm, dislocate the shoulder, or whatever 'worse' was. From his position on his knees behind Sylar, he pushed off from the guy's shoulders to get to his feet, then took a few quick steps back to get some distance between them. He didn't expect Sylar to come up swinging, but it was a definite possibility.

XXX

Sylar felt the push and spun around, crouching to watch Peter skitter away like he should. His glare couldn't be any more intense. This was the worst possible outcome, where Peter refused to acknowledge the event for what it was, his involvement in it, and Sylar's feelings; where Peter could continue to deny everything like it never happened. He truly hadn't expected he would have to fight and argue about this. Peter, who cared about everything and everyone, yet this was…pleasing, acceptable, not worth noticing, deserved?

It was unthinkable that Sylar of limited morals would take responsibility for his actions – assaulting Claire, killing Peter, Nathan, Arthur, and many others – and Saint Peter could not or would not own up to one singular deed. He wasn't expecting an apology or an offer of help, on the contrary – Sylar wanted the acknowledgement that he'd been deeply, irreparably, heinously wronged. Of course, no one else had ever validated anything done to him. _(This is hopeless. How do I live with this?)_ He should have known this would happen; why would this time be any different? Why would Peter be any different?

His face twisted in horror and disbelief. He hadn't wanted to think his unworthiness, his just desserts, the maiming, the torture of every kind, being inhuman, monstrous, unfixable, and hated beyond measure; he didn't want to think about living with someone who thought that of him, treated him that way, and expected him to ignore it, accept it, and act perfect and normal and behave. More than almost anything, Sylar did not want to go back to that way of living. It wasn't really living.

His voice shaking, but clear, he said, "This is not about me, or any of them. It's about you and what you did." What few, broken and mismatched mental marbles he still possessed were about to be scattered to the wind if Peter…continued this way. The darker, deadly part of him was barely held in check, waiting on the result.

XXX

_It's not about you? That's a nice way to parse it,_ Peter thought with sarcasm. Maybe it was a defense against the strength of Sylar's wrath. _This is a fine time for him to pick something out of context, like I mind-wiped him for no reason. (Did I?) No, I was saving Nathan. (Trying to. Failing.) That doesn't matter; what matters is that I tried. I couldn't_ not _try_. Peter straightened, relaxing a little from being quite as combat-ready as he had been. Regardless of how angry Sylar was, they were talking now and not trying to kill each other. They were making progress. He took a few deep breaths and tried to clear his head _. But he's right. This isn't about Nathan, either. It's about me and what I did to him, to Sylar. From Sylar's point of view, that's all it's about. He doesn't care about Nathan. He doesn't care about any of the others. He cares about himself. (That's not entirely wrong.)_ Peter frowned, the beginnings of a scowl on his face. Tensing again, he said, "I did that, yeah." His teeth parted only the bare minimum as necessary to pronounce the words.

XXX

Sylar felt something wild rise up from deep inside him, like relief and the desperate need for answers and healing at once. His hands shook against his thighs; he was still leaned forward to hear everything. "And?" he prompted more firmly than he felt – there was more and now he was sure Peter knew it, too.

XXX

"I killed- tried to kill you?" Peter looked uncertain, not because he didn't know what he'd done, but because he wasn't sure how to talk about it. The regeneration didn't make Peter's actions any less of a murder attempt and he knew that. _Would I kill to save Nathan? In a heartbeat. Especially Sylar. (Because he deserves it?) No one 'deserves' it. (Then why did I do it?) Nathan._ That was the answer, without need of further justification in Peter's mind, but he still struggled with the principle. _(It's wrong to force people to provide organs to let others live, even when the donor would survive. You can't even force blood donation. So how does that make it right to kill Sylar so Nathan could live?)_ "It wasn't … right." _But I'd do it again anyway. (If I thought it would work.)_

XXX

That wasn't good enough. Peter's hesitation was telling and Sylar needed to hear this. He was still too tense, terrified though there was no threat. It wasn't like him to put things in such black-and-white terms, but he refused to let Peter dodge this. "You knew it was _wrong_ and you did it _anyway_ ," his voice took on an edge, demanding the truth.

XXX

Peter didn't have anything he could say to that. A sudden urge to run flashed through him – to escape this painful, embarrassing, infuriating confrontation physically, but that was cowardice, wrong, and would only make him smaller than he already felt. He swallowed, knowing he'd either paled or flushed because his blood pressure was wonky and the room was threatening to close in on him. He wished he could sit down, but the couch was past Sylar. Sylar, who was waiting for an answer. "Yes," he said simply, because there was no defense he could or should mount to that – trying to remove Sylar's entire being was more thorough a maiming than any gouging out of eyes. It was truly 'something you'd miss' and it was obviously something Sylar _had_ missed, as he spoke of the period as traumatic and not merely some painless but disturbing blank spot in his memory like he'd have if he'd been anesthetized or otherwise unaware. Peter stood there too defeated to even look guilty.

XXX

Sylar breathed once and couldn't again. Still, every answer was not enough, he knew it never would be, but that didn't stop him from chasing it. The trembling fluttered in his gut now, some horrible feeling just waiting to burst somehow. He didn't know where that simple admission left him. Why would gentle, caring Peter rape what was left of someone's soul when he knew it was wrong? "Why?" he rasped because his throat was tight. "You wouldn't do that to anyone else. You think it's wrong," Sylar panted a moment before screaming from his very core, "SO WHY IS IT OKAY FOR YOU TO DO IT TO ME?!"

XXX

Peter recoiled a step from the scream, studying Sylar warily in case that was going to be followed by anything physical. He finally answered, "It wasn't. I know it wasn't. I thought I could get Nathan back. And you were the one who'd killed him. I wanted you gone. I wanted him back. That's all I cared about. More than right or wrong." His face turned sullen. He didn't like being shouted at. He'd admitted he'd done wrong. Being verbally abused for it wasn't something he was going to allow. He knew he could either stand there and take it, leave, or do something about it. _Fuck him. If we're going to talk this over, then we're going to talk it over. We're not going to scream at each other from across the room._ Peter headed towards Sylar, steeled for another potential fight. This one would be over something so stupid as whether Peter could sit on the couch. Arriving there, on one end, he sat and gave Sylar, who was sitting too close for his comfort, a shove on the shoulder. "Get over," he ordered.

XXX

Peter advanced towards him and every rational and irrational fear about having pushed Peter too far; that Peter would maim him again in the same or different ways overwhelmed Sylar's awareness. How quickly things reverted to a hopeless and pain-filled existence. He barely managed not to cringe, tried not to regret having asked what he had done, and sitting in the middle of the couch, he knew there would be contact. Sylar stared him down and weathered the…push? to his shoulder…It made little sense. Before Peter could make it worse, Sylar shoved back in defense and in doing so, put some space between them. He was breathing irregularly but that seemed to be the end of it. For once, he really didn't want to be beaten today, not on top of all the rest of the hurt he felt.

XXX

Peter weathered the push in return and sat himself down on the end closer to the piano, where his stack of medical books rested next to the arm of the furniture. He went back to what they'd been talking about. "The drugs were to restrain you while I tried to figure out what I could do, but then you attacked me and we got to fighting and …" He shrugged. "I got angry. I didn't care anymore." Quietly, glancing down at the floor, he said, "I just wanted you gone and my brother back."

XXX

For the moment, Sylar sat with the Petrelli, on a couch in an isolated world. _That was never going to work. I don't think he cares. This was never going to work either. Nathan will always be more important than anything, right or wrong. I fucking hate Nathan. I hate him, too, for not having_ _a_ _brain to think with! (I hate him for not knowing it was me; I hate him for not trying to save me)._ One thing was clear – he couldn't just sit here with this…person. He began speaking, softly, standing to loom over Peter and waiting until he had the other man's attention. "That was never going to work. Your precious brother is gone. You are just like me, just like your faithless family, doing any crime to protect that worthless bastard; only you don't have the decency to kill the people you hurt. Don't you ever try to judge me again." Sylar left him there, hoping that hurt like a boot to the balls because it was no less than Peter the hypocrite deserved.

XXX

_So much for talking it out. He doesn't want a fair exchange of ideas – he doesn't care._ Peter's eyes narrowed as the other man stood over him, trying to be intimidating (and generally succeeding – the last time Sylar had been upset and in his face, Peter had been punched for not taking him seriously enough so he was paying a lot of attention right now). But he found some of his fire at the idea he and Sylar had some moral equivalency, or that Nathan's death and all of Sylar's other murders made Sylar superior. "People who are hurt can heal!" Peter called out at Sylar's retreating back. "The dead don't!"

XXX

"No. People who are hurt suffer, regroup, and come back after you without learning their lesson. They just…suffer." Sylar's shoulders were slumped. He was morbidly depressed about what that meant about him, about Peter, Nathan, his mother, Elle, about life, about being a monster…People didn't heal without help. Nathan would have had help - he _did_ have help - but every time the bastard wasted his chances, abused his helpers, and rejected the aid. Nathan chose to die, for Peter and Peter couldn't be grateful about any of it. All Peter wanted was to add to the layers of scar tissue from previous maiming, as if that was a mercy or a gift to be alive and feel the hatred, pain and loneliness - as if that would allow him to 'heal.' Sylar couldn't begin to phrase how sick Peter was for wanting someone alive forever to torture and persecute, to purposefully inflict suffering with his desire to 'maim.'

XXX

Peter snorted at how ludicrous that was. It flew in the face of his entire profession as an EMT. The more he thought about Sylar's accusations, the more incensed he became. _I am nothing like him_ _!_ Peter got to his feet and said, "I was trying to save a life when I tried to kill you. Yes, it was wrong, but what I was trying to do wasn't. That's not the same thing as going around trying to take abilities for the hell of it, because you want them or they make you special or your ability is driving you to do it and you never do anything to stop yourself! I _will_ judge you for that!"

XXX

"Playing God isn't a sin if you're a Petrelli," Sylar sneered. He was not a person and he never would be; trying to convince his enemy of that was futile. "Your motivation and intention for killing someone is no better than anyone else's – what matters is that you killed someone and _that_ is what you will be judged on. You can trust me on that." _I know the truth._ Weathering Peter Petrelli's hypocritical delusions would continue, just not today. He'd had more than enough and he left hurting far more than he had when he'd arrived. Wishing to be numb, he trudged home where he sat on the couch, staring at nothing, trying to think of nothing. The effects of someone vehemently believing he was worthless and deserving of torture or replacement, and hearing it so openly, still paralyzed him inside. _I thought I was over this. He's been brainwashed; he's the hero, of course he's always right._

XXX

Peter shook his head, but didn't do anything else to call Sylar back. If he was going to be damned for making a last-ditch effort to save his brother's life, prioritizing that life over that of Nathan's killer, then Peter would accept his sentence without argument. That Sylar couldn't or wouldn't see that boggled his mind. _I've mentioned it. I've told him straight out. Why the hell does he think I'd pick him over Nathan? Nathan_ is _precious to me, but he says it like it's sarcasm._ Frustrated, he gathered up his guitar and the book on bone injuries, and retreated to his apartment. Neither of them brought him any comfort. What there was to be had he got from cuddling with Mister Bear. _Sylar doesn't even relate to stuffed animals without abusing them – why would he do any better with people?_ What was left of the day was quiet and drear.

XXX

Day 46, January 25

The next day Sylar was fuming. How many times did he have to tell Peter that he wasn't responsible for everything? That intent didn't matter? That they were the same? That there was no mission? That he did Peter a favor? And yet it was Sylar who had to take the abuse and listen to talk of being maimed because it was 'right.' _I want to fuck with him and get a connection, be friends, but he…? I have to ignore everything he does and try to suck up to that fucking Petrelli?_ Peter's stubbornness was legendary – he was the ultimate immovable object. It would be like talking to a wall, which might actually serve him better. It was left up to him to capitulate or struggle, brainwash himself for the good of their survival or continue to hurt himself with no hope of success. It wasn't a choice because it was being forced on him, as he knew it would be. _And he wants me to like him._ Sylar went for a very long walk, so long that Peter wouldn't catch up to him even if his footprints were visible. _If I'm lucky, I'll catch frostbite and die; it's not like he'll kill me._

XXX

Peter stayed in his apartment building all day. It seemed like the best way to avoid running into Sylar. When he needed space, he went to the roof and paced it. He tried to motivate himself to make a snowman, but it didn't seem right in a world that didn't have any people in it (aside from the two obvious occupants). It would seem like he was trying to make a companion for himself and that wasn't the case. He knew where Sylar was if he wanted to go talk to him. The simple fact was he didn't want to. So he made snowballs instead and practiced throwing them against a neighboring building, or dropping them over the side to see them disappear in the snow below or splatter when they hit exposed pavement. He told himself there was no point in trying to work things out with his brother's murderer. When he held onto that thought, he threw the snowballs harder and faster and further, and they sprayed into pieces against brick of the far building in a satisfying way.

XXX

Day 47, January 26

The third day, Sylar tried desperately not to think about his fate. Insanity was inevitable, just more of the same he'd had all his life. _If Peter Forgive-and-Love-All Petrelli can't see any value in you then there isn't any to be found. But I already knew that, didn't I?_ It felt like the constant stress and unseen threats were killing him, bit by lonely bit. It was a waking agony and when he slept…well, he very nearly hadn't slept. _I have a very good imagination; 'something I'd miss.' My mind, my sanity, my sleep…_ He went for another long walk, shorter than yesterday, but it left him too much time to think. Sylar found himself wandering through random rooms, scavenging for distractions. He began to hope he wasn't 'real', either, that this was all just another type of torture, perhaps self-inflicted. He tried to sleep in the unfamiliar building he'd found, on a forsaken couch, because there wasn't any point in going back.

XXX

Peter moved back to the Y for the morning, doing his workout there instead of across the street at the Pegasus. Even though the big emptiness of the YMCA still bothered him, he didn't think he ran the same risk of bumping into Sylar as he would at the Pegasus. The repetitive exercises left him bored and sore, tired across his chest and back in a way that even a long soak in the hot tub couldn't dispel. _Maybe I need something with more of a goal?_ For the afternoon, he sought out the tallest building in the city again, scaling the stairs as a test of his endurance. Every aching step up was a step away from Sylar, away from the stupid situation Peter had put himself in, away from confronting the fact that he didn't know how to get out of it. He didn't care about the view from the top, but the vista was inviting for other reasons than scenery. _What would happen if I just picked a direction and headed off? That wouldn't really be 'leaving', would it?_ He sighed. It would be and he knew it would be. It was a long, cold, and spooky walk back through the dark. His body hurt from overexertion and his mind felt numbed by the lack of human interaction. _If Sylar only sees me as a threat and I don't have any use to him as a companion, then when will he get rid of me? It could be any time._ He peered at the shadows and thought he should be frightened by the prospect. He felt resigned instead. _It's not my decision to make. It's not like I'm going to change my mind about Nathan or letting Sylar fuck me or whatever._

XXX

Day 48, January 27

Sylar spent too long in the shower, feeling catatonia or claustrophobia, a listlessness coming over him. His thoughts were consumed with ways to die, wondering why Peter refused to torture him outright and kill him and be done with it – then he would remember that pain was the goal. Like it had before Peter appeared, it felt like the windows were full of judging, prying eyes. He'd tried to explain everything to Peter and it counted for nothing. _I already asked him to end it. Am I…supposed to make him do it? Engineer it? Help him do it?_ He was still voiceless in a world with one as he was in a world with none or with crowds; usefulness was a joke with a captor who abstained from inflicting his justice as he saw fit. He went back to the couch, covering his face with the scratchy couch pillows to shut it out, gripping one to his chest and crying until he fell asleep again.

XXX

It blew freezing rain all day, except for the brief periods when it relented and blew thick, drifting snow instead. Even though the Y was only a few blocks away, Peter opted for the Pegasus, thinking and hoping Sylar would be as deterred by the weather as he was. For Peter, it was across the street. For Sylar, it was a block down. Hopefully, he'd stay away. Peter remained alert and wary in any case, never able to lose himself in exercise or music the way he wanted to. The tension was ultimately maddening. He caught himself more than once simply sitting, still and poised, mind blank as he listened to the rattle of sleet against the windows ... and waited for the return of someone he didn't want to see.


	101. Library Trip

Day 49, January 28

Home Depot was his destination and plywood his target. Head reeling, ribs aching and seizing, he dragged a few sheets of plywood through fluffy yet slushy snow no thicker than a few inches. His hands grew cold and tired, even through the gloves he'd brought from Depot to help with slivers. It took him longer than it should have and progress was slow. Peter would honor nothing he said. Peter wouldn't fix it, so it was left to Sylar to come behind and fix what he could. _He'll say I made him break the store in the first place. I break things. (So does he)._ When he arrived, he saw that Peter had taken some actions - placing cardboard around as best he could. Sylar stared at that for a moment, pissed off some more and relieved at once. _He can care for things, at least_ _._ He managed to prop the plywood up and cover the lower parts of most of the windows, where the snow was likeliest to creep in. Hammer and nails hadn't entered his mind even though he knew it would be a better result – he couldn't risk having them on him or leaving them around for Peter to find. Eating hadn't been a priority, but his stomach was growling, so he opened canned salmon for protein back in his apartment. He was dead tired, and weary, but his bed would offer no comfort in sleep. Avoiding it meant reading on the couch until his eyes closed.

XXX

The day was warmer, much warmer, than the previous one. Lured by the dazzling sunlight and a sense that he needed to focus on the important goal of getting on with his life, Peter ventured out to the grocery store and then into some of the environs near it, just poking his head into places, finding a barber shop and a tire store. _Why would there be a tire store if there aren't any cars? Huh._ Laden with food and supplies, his trip back was difficult. He'd opted not to take a cart due to the slush everywhere, and it was difficult to carry everything he wanted without a pack. He managed, though.

After a tasty lunch of Swiss cheese and pecans between a couple slices of oat bread, he took off his brace and examined his hand in detail. He wasn't sure how long it had been since it had been broken (and probably re-broken in their fight outside the storefront), but he was thinking it had been about six weeks. It still twinged, but that was all it did. It became sore fast when he played the guitar, but he _could_ play the guitar. He spent the day practicing, trying to remember tunes and lyrics and jotting down notes when he thought he had them right. He wasn't sure what he might do with the rest of eternity here in Sylar's head, but making music and expressing his feelings through it was something that appealed to him. He left the brace off for the rest of the day, thinking he might be okay from now on to wear it only while he slept.

Day 50, January 29

Sylar went to his roof to see if there were any signs of life. All he saw was snow. He would have to get closer, but not too close. Checking for footprints had proved ineffective as Peter apparently walked in his own tracks. He was weak and barely cared for his own safety but paranoia won out. Circling around Peter's building at a distance, he waited and watched, out of mere curiosity if the stupid vegan still lived, if he looked normal or if he schemed. He saw Peter a few times and he looked as normal as he ever did, unconcerned about anything but whatever mini-mission that occupied his silly thoughts. Eventually, Sylar would confront him but there was nothing to say for now.

XXX

Peter stomped his way up to the Y on another mission – a better way to deal with the desire to punch Sylar in the face. Much of the slush had cleared off. What was left had refrozen overnight into patchy ice, which he avoided, taking his time to walk in the clear areas. It wouldn't do to fall and screw up his hand again. After working out, he spent most of the morning fruitlessly exploring every nook and cranny of the YMCA. He could have sworn he'd seen a punching bag here, but he'd either been wrong, or his mind was playing tricks on him again. He pondered it over lunch and set off for a new destination. In the sporting goods store, he found what he was looking for almost immediately – both a full length boxing bag and a smaller speed bag with a wall-mounting platform. The activity of the afternoon was getting everything to the rec room of the Pegasus. He worked into the evening hooking them up, using a ladder and tools he found in the custodial closet. There wasn't room to put them in the workout room and he didn't really want them in there anyway. The rec room was spacious enough to allow plenty of safe maneuvering.

For days now, he'd ignored the idea of seeking out Sylar. It wasn't difficult, given he expected Sylar to be unstable, short of sleep, paranoid, irritable, and dangerous, as well as abusive, sexually aggressive, and unpredictable. Sylar was in that uncomfortable period of being healthy enough to pose a danger to Peter and not so ill that Peter felt he had to deal with the risk to ensure Sylar's survival. Sylar would get better as time passed, or so Peter hoped. Since his hand was better, he hoped Sylar was recovering as well. Curiosity was beginning to nag at him, along with loneliness. Peter took a few practice jabs at the newly hung bag with his left hand, not daring to test his right on it yet. It was the same with Sylar - more time was needed. That meant he needed a new project.

Day 51, January 30

Peter packed his messenger bag, dressed warmly, and headed out early. Today there was no workout. He hiked off down the street in what he hoped was the same direction as the music store. He had written down the identifying information about the piano, the dimensions of his guitar, and recovered his sketchbook from the penthouse prior to making a quick reference drawing of the spank plank. If he was going to work on music as a goal, then he needed to get his instruments in order. It was a long walk with a lot of detours, but he found the place by early afternoon. He only spent an hour or two browsing the wares and investigating the surprisingly capacious back room. He grabbed a few obvious things – a tuning kit and a set of tuning forks, some new sheet music, and a book of classic rock songs – and headed back while the sun was still up. He wanted to fix the route in his mind, something best done while he could see landmarks.

XXX

Sylar had watched enough yesterday to know where Peter had spent most of his time. Today, it seemed, Peter was going elsewhere. Trying to follow Peter to some unknown destination, keep eyes on him and remain mostly unseen didn't sound like fun. Instead, he wanted to see what Peter had been tearing up all day yesterday in Pegasus. _Probably a crucifixion device. How many elements is that? Nails, cross, maiming, divine retribution?_ It baffled him still how Peter could state his desires (only when pressed) yet he refused to please himself, except in ways that mostly uninvolved Sylar. He strolled into the Pegasus, headache intact (but lessened) and short of sleep as always but his back was healed and his toes and ribs nearly so. Mostly he was considering what kind of message he could leave his wayward companion, what of his annoying projects he could fuck up.

The rec room had not one but two punching bags. Sylar walked in slowly and stared, thinking about this development. Obviously Peter wanted them, and yes, it was probably healthy, and just as obviously they were intended for Peter's use. _I wonder what he put in the exercise room then…_

XXX

Peter had not expected Sylar, but on retrospect, he should have. It was, after all, just a matter of time before they sought each other out again (Peter wouldn't characterize it as running into one another, as he knew it wasn't random – things never would be, here). He jumped a little – more of a twitch, really – and kept moving towards the piano as he'd been before he noticed the room wasn't unoccupied. He gave Sylar a brief, weak, and uncertain smile, wondering how things were going to turn out.

XXX

_Fuck_. Sylar turned around quickly at the sound of doors. He hadn't meant to get caught and being caught meant he'd probably have to engage in some conversation with a deluded Petrelli.

XXX

Sylar looked as surprised at seeing Peter as Peter was to see him. When Sylar said nothing, no greeting or other acknowledgment of his presence, Peter paused next to the piano and offered, "Hey. How are you doing?" in a mix of cheerful and cautious. He opened his bag to drop off the clear, thick plastic bag that held the tuning kit, and then joined it with the wooden box for the forks. He headed over to the couch to set down the bag next to it, thinking they might sit and talk. He was watching Sylar nearly the whole time, though, with the manner you might watch a trained lion who was at liberty in the same room with you – no matter how well 'trained' the animal was supposed to be, it was still not a tame lion. There was no such thing.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed and he tensed all over. _How am I doing? Like he cares? Why ask?_ The realization that life would continue as Peter wished was a bitter one. _Of course, everything is normal and happy for him. I have to play along_. Posture and expression relaxed through strength of will; Sylar worked up a polite reply, "Fine." _I'm not fine. Nothing is fine!_ "You must be feeling better," he gestured at the punching bags and whatever Peter brought in just now. _It's my world; why does he get to have toys?_ "What's in the bag?" _Maiming tools, if he cornered me on purpose._

XXX

Peter shrugged at the 'feeling better' comment. _He must think I'm hitting that thing with both hands. I wonder if I should make sure he knows I'm not there yet, so he keeps playing it safe with my hand?_ "Hm?" Pulled out of his thoughts, he glanced back at his bag. _I don't have to tell him that. Why does he want to know? Does he think I've taken to carrying a gun or something?_ For a moment, he wanted to refuse just because, but he thought better of it. _Don't feed the paranoia. Just tell him._ He squatted next to the satchel and opened it, showing off the remaining contents. "Not much. Just some music and new songs, my notebook, some food, and a pair of socks." The food he showed was a green apple and a plain bagel, the bagel having been left uneaten precisely because it was plain. There was also a pencil, a tiny bottle of machine oil, a couple empty baggies, and a piece of peppermint candy in there, but he didn't detail everything.

XXX

Like it was a competition, Sylar blurted, "I put plywood over the windows at the store. You remember the one." _Does he?_

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter said, dropping the flap of the bag and standing up. There was a lot confrontational in Sylar's tone. Peter declined to rise to the bait. "That's a good idea. I couldn't figure out how to attach anything to the brick." _And where did he get plywood, anyway? I looked all over the place._

XXX

Sylar snorted, "Don't patronize me. You have more important things to do." He jerked his chin at the piano. Badly he missed his…ignorance, when he could sleep next to Peter or hear his music. He didn't think it would ever be like that again. "So do I." Sylar made for the door to escape whatever failed conversation this was and the suppressed feelings. _I do have better things to do,_ he assured himself.

XXX

Peter didn't want to be left. He wouldn't have minded spending the evening alone. In fact, he'd planned on it. But having Sylar show up and then actively ditch him was galling and painful, especially when he'd been absolutely alone for an entire week. He didn't want to admit it, but it was getting to him. "Yeah, I'm uh," he got out quickly, "I'm going to have dinner. Do you want to come up?" _Yeah, okay, I'm desperate enough to ask him to stick around even when he's in a bad mood. He doesn't look too good, either. Maybe I could help him, get a good meal into him? He could sleep in the penthouse after … I could sleep on the couch._

XXX

Sylar turned but didn't square off, scoffing, "Said the spider to the fly." He gave Peter a half-bemused, disbelieving look up and down. "That's really what you're going to go with?" After that, he chuckled. If he went willingly it saved Peter the effort of tracking him down and dragging him wherever he was wanted. Leaving Peter alone, knowing he'd been working in here for days, after the talk of maiming… "What do you have up there?"

XXX

_What the hell does that mean?_ Peter was baffled. "Food," he said after a few moments of hesitation and a piercing look. "The same stuff that was there before."

XXX

Sylar frowned. A quick rundown flashed through his head, assuring him that there wasn't any real 'maiming' potential in being poisoned, aside from paralysis (thank you, curare) and possible coma. "And that's how you're going to play it," Sylar muttered to himself, facing forward. Of course Peter wouldn't answer; that would take all the fun out of it. The only question was: to go quietly or start a war? He did honestly consider going quietly, after all, Peter didn't think much of him. But he still had to put up with the rest of Petrelli's bullshit and ill treatment so Peter had earned no such compliance. "We can have dinner somewhere else. I'm not going up there," Sylar jerked his chin to indicate the floors above them and the suite. _Which way is he going to go?_ Peter had two bags and had only revealed the contents of one.

XXX

Peter tilted his head, an expression of confusion and wonder playing across his features. _You think this is going to work for you? You don't get to boss me around, Sylar, no matter how shitty you feel._ He took off his coat and tossed it to the side of the couch, sitting down and digging into his bag for the bagel. He picked at a little flaky bit of it that he could peel off from where the bagel had been cut. "Okay. Suit yourself." He ate the crumb he'd separated from the hard roll. "The pickings aren't as good down here, but I'll let you have the apple. There might be a piece of candy in there, too. I don't remember if I ate all of them or not." He wasn't about to let the sleep-deprived serial killer set the terms of their interaction. Peter could be talked into eating somewhere else, yes, but not in Sylar's current tone of voice – hostile mutterings included. _I'm not_ that _desperate._ Besides, he'd spent a lot of the day walking and didn't want to go much further. Before Sylar could finish ditching him (something Peter saw as inevitable now), Peter fired off, "Why? What's wrong with upstairs now?"

XXX

That was not the kind of response he wanted, nor was it a desirable attitude. Sylar got the impression Peter wouldn't be going anywhere and that left only Peter's food for Peter in an attempt to snub him. Peter received a viciously sarcastic look. "Because you've had all week to put who-knows-what up there. Did you really think I'd go like a lamb to slaughter?" With that, Sylar turned on his heel.

XXX

"Huh." Peter frowned, turning the bagel restlessly in his hands after Sylar left. _He's really paranoid. He's going to kill me one of these days and think it's some kind of idiotic self-defense. Is there something I can do about that? Should I … get defenses, or move further away? Would that do any good? I think the only thing I can do is call his bluff and go on like he's not threatening to kill me. Because if he does, he does, and if he doesn't, he doesn't. I don't see what I can do either way._ Huffing, Peter stowed the bagel, uneaten, put his coat back on, took up his bag, and headed over to his apartment.

Day 52, January 31

The next morning, he was sitting on the curb across from Sylar's apartment. He had no plan, didn't think he needed one. The extent of his 'planning' was that he'd brought a towel to double up and sit on, and an insulated mug for his hot, heavily-sugared coffee drink. But as far as Sylar went, Peter figured this was all a 'play it by ear' thing that planning wouldn't help.

XXX

Sylar looked and felt rough. He came out around nine (late for him, but his head and lack of sleep still gave him trouble). The second thing he saw, aside from the weather, was Peter Petrelli sitting on the curb opposite his building. It was creepy and foreboding, stopping him in his tracks for a moment. _He's getting closer. He's not waiting. Oh, good; he even came prepared to stalk me._ It wouldn't stop here, Sylar knew that much; it was only a matter of time before he would be waking up in the middle of the night to see Peter standing over him in his apartment, just watching and waiting before…Peter wasn't being subtle. He obviously wanted attention. It sucked that Sylar had to cross the street to address the pest – standing on his side of the New York roadway and speaking wouldn't be audible. Doing so, he stood just on the curb about four feet away from Peter, not circling like he probably should have done. He turned to look at the nurse. "What? What do you want?"

XXX

"Waiting for you." Peter glanced up at him, not too happy about having to crane his neck up, which he figured was Sylar's intention. He ignored the feeling for now, though. Sylar was, at least, not openly hostile. "I wanted some company. What are you doing today?"

XXX

_Yes, I can see you're waiting for me. (Is he that desperate?)_ Sylar couldn't discern some clever threat from the truth, whatever that might be. Perhaps Peter did want company – his past behaviors lent likely credit. _I was going to see where you were, what you were doing, and what's in the Pegasus. Can't check on that with you around. I have to have something to do…Why else would I be out? Do I want him around?_ "I'm getting new books and checking on the windows." _It's not like I can tell him he can't come along, even if I wanted to._

XXX

"Cool. Mind if I come along?" He gathered up his towel and stuffed it into his messenger bag.

XXX

Sylar shifted, waiting for Peter to stand. "Do I get a choice?" he asked mostly rhetorically and by then, Peter was up and they were walking. _I need new books if I'm alone. No, I need them anyway._ "Don't you read anything?" It was almost an accusation. He'd seen Peter reading a few times, but nothing of real substance apart from the medical texts ( _I need to look at those, too_ ). Projects alone couldn't amuse an active bachelor, not when he forsook his window project.

XXX

Peter shrugged off the first question. Sylar was a big boy. If he wanted Peter to fuck off, he could certainly tell him to do so and Peter would. But the other question, and the tone, caught him by surprise. He pulled his head back and regarded Sylar with momentarily narrowed eyes, before chuckling to himself and rolling with it. "No, man. That's why I usually had to let Hesam do the driving as an EMT – I couldn't read the street signs. Have you seen how many letters there are on some of those streets? I mean, 'Wall Street', I can pretty much figure out, but 'Schermerhorn'? 'Schenectady'? How do you even spell those?"

XXX

That caught Sylar off guard. Their interactions of late had been tense (for Sylar at least). Illiteracy would explain some of Peter's problems…Yet he wondered if this was some kind of test, because Nathan had helped teach Peter to read; and Arthur had crammed all sorts of dull text into Peter's hands and quizzed him after. Surely Peter was playing dumb now. It had Sylar huffing a chuckle under his breath.

XXX

Since he was getting a good reception, Peter continued the joke. "Yeah, it's amazing I could even dispense medicine without killing people. I only made it through college and training on my good looks and family ties." He mugged briefly for Sylar, making a point of the two things that had done more to wreck his education than it ever did to assist.

XXX

Peter commented on the obvious. Sylar gave him a more amused glance for it, as if to say, 'I didn't say anything; you said it, not me.' Peter could just as easily slept his way through college and training, or perhaps that's what he meant…The part about not killing people was considerably less funny. _In his day job, if he does kill someone it's an accident and I can't go a few days without killing someone, is that it?_ It wasn't fair, never would be.

XXX

They walked along in silence for a few strides, long enough for Peter to decide the joke had run its course. He went ahead and answered Sylar's question. "I like adventure stories, dramas – that kind of thing." At least that was what he liked for pleasure reading, which was what he assumed Sylar was after. "Sometimes biographies, if they're well-written. I like stories about people … people doing things that matter."

XXX

Sylar sorted through several theories quickly, trying out the best one when he saw how the pieces worked together. He didn't bother to hide the surprise in his tone as he looked towards his companion. "Biographies - is that why you ask me questions? About myself?" Not that he thought anything he did 'things that matter' in Peter's metaphorical book. He wouldn't deny he'd affected Peter, especially recently with Nathan or maybe he didn't understand the statement or had gotten the theory wrong. It made sense, though, and now he was curious.

XXX

Peter shrugged, then dipped his head in a single nod. "I like to get to know people, you among them." _What if no one's ever asked him about himself? So maybe it's not a thing of him never having to answer for what he's done, as much as not knowing what to answer because he's never had to think about the question itself?_ He turned that over in his head.

XXX

"I know that, but it makes sense now." Nathan had forever been on the receiving end of Peter's emotive inquisition. Sylar had been confused why he was considered interesting enough to be interrogated, given that Peter still had difficulty listening and accepting. His reality was easily dismissible. "What have I done that 'matters'?"

XXX

His brows rose. "Are you putting me on?"

XXX

Sylar wondered if he'd misunderstood or spoken out of turn, but answered his intent, "No."

XXX

Peter snorted. "You tried to kill the president of the United States! You were _one_ handshake away from it. And everything else you've done?" He raised his brows again, this time tilting his face down to exaggerate the effect. "Sylar, you've changed a lot of lives. Maybe not for the better," he glanced off to the side for a moment, then back before continuing, "or not always for the better, but it matters either way." His tone was not a condemnation, but simple statements of fact – Sylar was a big deal, and such a big deal that Peter didn't even question whether Sylar could save the carnival. "You're extraordinary."

He took a few more steps before turning while he walked so he faced Sylar more directly. "The power you have magnifies the impact you can have on people's lives. It's like the owner of a company – all his employees depend on him for their paychecks. Their families depend on him. You," Peter pointed at Sylar, "when you do something, with the abilities you wield, it has a ripple effect, like that whole 'stepping on butterflies' theory. You matter, Sylar," he said as he looked away. "Everything you do matters." _I know how hard that can be. If I'd trusted Adam just a little bit more, just a second longer, I would have killed nearly everyone. (But not Ma – she would have made it.)_ It was not a comforting thought.

XXX

Peter had his undivided attention, even as Sylar frowned a little. It sounded like everything he'd ever wanted to hear except that it came down to having- no, being a negative impact. He brought about change but…the cost was high. _(I wonder if he's saying that like I matter because predators and killers are necessary…? Every hero needs something to fight. And how can I be extraordinary when I'm barely a person to him?)_ Whatever the unhappy, truthful reminder, Peter's words boosted his ego and he didn't think for one second that Peter lied about anything – either as a reflection of his own desperation or some measure of belief that Peter knew what he was talking about. "That…wasn't what I meant, but it's an answer. An…accurate one," he amended quietly to try to inject some gratitude for the sentiments. "You sound like Rebel - Micah. Did you ever meet him? He said something like that to me once."

XXX

_Rebel Micah – does he mean that kid at Kirby Plaza?_ Peter thought back, barely remembering a curly-headed slip of a boy at the edge of his peripheral vision. He'd been pretty distracted at the time, so much that even his famous memory for names and faces was strained. He knew at least a half dozen other people named Micah (one of whom was a girl named Myka) and a few who went by Rebel, but Sylar had said 'him' and seemed to think he would be known to Peter. That suggested a special, which narrowed it down to the kid. "I was told he was at Kirby Plaza, but ..." He shrugged, shaking his head. He couldn't bring the face into focus in his memory. "What did he say?" _Maybe that will clear things up_.

XXX

"He said…Danko, Nathan, Bennet, Building 26 didn't know me, didn't know how special I am. Deluded kid said I could save all of you." Sylar shook his head. Even with Rebel's ability, he didn't know how Micah knew the things he did. It just meant Company, Building 26, Pinehearst, whoever, had underground files no one knew about. Damn them. "He said anything to get me to rescue him instead of kill him. Guess it worked. You would have liked him." Realizing he was divulging a lot about himself, he changed the subject, clearing his throat. "It's a big library. I'm not even close to reading through it yet. You'll find some important biography."

XXX

Peter looked over at Sylar's face, reading a distinct desire to not talk about it. He wanted to know one more thing, though. "Is this Rebel – Micah – you're talking about the same person who was texting Claire a few months ago, right, giving her advice on how to avoid Homeland Security?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar affirmed, recalling the chase of Rebel from both Nathan's and his own perspective.

XXX

"He's not deluded." Peter let it go at that, looking away as they walked and not showing any intention to continue the line of conversation. _He rescued Micah, then, if I'm understanding it right. He's done that sort of thing before - like he said on New Year's Eve, he's died trying to save people, me included. He can't seem to see that in himself for some reason._

XXX

The question 'how?' was poised on the tip of his tongue, ready to spring out, ill-advised. But Peter Petrelli would say he was here, offering a chance to 'save all of them' (or at least, a fair number including average, unspecial citizens and Peter's special not-girlfriend lady friend). And they thought he, Sylar, was crazy. "What I meant earlier was why don't you spend your time reading here? What's the last book you read - for pleasure, too, not that one about windows or any of those medical texts you keep dragging around?"

XXX

Peter was stumped by that, glancing over at Sylar a couple times like he expected an explanation for the question. _Why …? Why would I be reading here? The books aren't even real_. He looked off down the road, seeing the library building in the distance. It looked real enough. He knew it would be full of real-looking books. _Well, I suppose I_ could _read here. Even if they're books out of Sylar's memory, they're probably ones I haven't read_. Sylar's other question was easier to answer. "Outliers. Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers." He was quiet for a moment as he considered how to phrase the next part without taking the conversation into areas he wasn't sure he wanted to talk about. He finally continued, "After that thing at Coyote Sands, I started looking around for more information. I'd stumbled onto Suresh's book before, so I thought maybe I could find something else. I was trying to understand why I felt so different. Though I don't know if you'd call that reading for pleasure. What about you?" He clarified, "What kind of reading do you do, I mean."

XXX

"I always read for pleasure," he shrugged. What did Peter think his library of an apartment was? Homework? Then Sylar's brows furrowed as he reviewed two sets of memories. "I thought you said you'd always felt different? Even if 'growing up Petrelli' wouldn't help anyone's sense of normality." A brief grin chased over his features. "Since you liked Suresh's book, I bet if I ever wrote one you'd devour it." The idea pleased him, especially recalling how Peter had literally shown up in his – Nathan's – office, talking far too loudly about flying and waving Chandra's book around like Peter had just found religion and this was his Bible. Sylar recalled that /he'd said something about getting Peter some drugs or therapy, just before their mother had been detained for stealing socks of all things. Oh, how right and how wrong he'd been/.

The point was that Peter would proclaim such work, and hold Sylar's word up like the gospel truth, and…through Peter it would have to be well received by Sylar's enemies. He craved that kind of reception, the acceptance, being useful and part of a group that had formerly shunned him in extremis. It would never happen because there was only Peter to read and judge such a frivolous idea. "I guess that might involve…telling my side of things," here Sylar's eyes slid over to his walking partner. "Talking about…unpleasantness. I don't know that the hero wins, so it wouldn't be your cup of tea."

XXX

Peter shrugged. "Why are you so sure you know what my cup of tea is?" he said slyly, reaching over to nudge Sylar on the upper arm in jest.

XXX

Sylar's jaw clenched, he glanced at Peter, but he didn't otherwise react. _Incest, rape, torture, and murder sounds like a good read to you? You already won't listen to my side of anything, so yes, I do know what your cup of tea is_ , he thought, maintaining the cap on his steaming reactions.

XXX

"Some of the most fascinating books I read were Catton's series on the Civil War. I liked how he told the story – and it was a _story_ , not a history. He made figures like Grant and Lee and Burnside into people instead of generals. None of them really 'won', because no one wins a war like that – it wasn't the point. What I liked was understanding how they came to make the decisions they did, why, and what they did afterward. I liked reading about how it affected them. They did … remarkable things, for what they thought was a good cause. I'd love to read your side of things. You've said you had your reasons."

XXX

Sylar felt his ego being thoroughly stroked at the idea of denying Peter's thirst for information – about abilities, about Chandra, about Sylar's background. He didn't doubt Peter would reject any of his 'reasons.'

XXX

Sylar didn't give him any response for his interest in the man's past, so Peter moved on to a different topic. "I don't think I said I'd always felt different. I mean, yeah, to start with, everyone feels like no one else really gets them, but it wasn't until a few months before I got my abilities that I started feeling something big was going to happen to me. I was coming up on graduation and ..." He shook his head at how naïve he'd been, but even simply remembering that period was making his step lighter and back straighter. His face relaxed. A smile started to form. "I thought I'd made it. Like I'd passed some test and it was just beginning for me – though I didn't know what it was that was going to begin. I _meant_ something. I was on my own. I was going to be someone other than a lawyer. Nathan was … he knew what Dad was, he was going to do something about it … _we_ were going to do something about it." His smile became brittle and he slowly slumped back into the same present-day Peter who was more cynical than optimistic. "But then … I exploded, nearly blew up New York and definitely burned Nathan almost to death, Dad wasn't even really dead, Ma had tried to kill him, Christ. Growing up Petrelli, yeah ..." His voice trailed off as he looked away. He looked up at the big library building blankly, remembering that the last time Sylar had tried to lead him here had ended with Peter threatening him with a sword. _Maybe this time will turn out better._

XXX

Sylar nodded, having nothing to add. Remembering how jubilant Peter had been then and how withdrawn he was now…It made him uncomfortable now in addition to having nothing to say for himself (or, perhaps, for Nathan). /And Nathan's feelings of relief and severest guilt about almost betraying their 'dead' father./ _I don't want anything to do with his relationship with his brother (Peter's or Nathan's?) Either!_ He felt tired inside about it. It seemed unfairly difficult to procure what he needed, and what he wanted. _He said he wanted company. That counts for something, doesn't it?_ Sylar sent a brief glance at Peter as the neared the library. He wondered if he should be protective of one of his favorite haunts, nervous to bring Peter into a peaceful place.

XXX

Peter took several quick steps as they neared the top, a sudden thought having crossed his mind: _Yesterday, he thought I'd spent my time laying traps for him. What if he thought that because that's what he's been doing for me?_ It seemed stupid and untrusting, but Peter had been backstabbed enough by those he trusted most that paranoia was never too far away. He wasn't going into the library first – not if he could help it. He went for the door a stride before Sylar could get there.

XXX

There was an impasse at the doors. Peter was positioned to open the door and thus follow Sylar. Sylar hesitated over whether to make Peter to enter first (safety precaution, insulting him as vulnerable, even feminine) or to take the lead (claiming the right between men to enter first or accepting the vulnerable role as someone who needed to door opened for him). After a short, knowing look at Peter, he took the lead and the supposed honorific of going in first; after all, he wasn't afraid of Petrelli. Perhaps Peter was finally being smart and recognizing Sylar as he should _(Not likely, but he should)._

XXX

Peter noticed but ignored the way Sylar paraded inside like he owned the place. He followed a few steps behind, glancing up and to the sides cautiously, then around the place. _He got plywood at the hardware store. He could get a lot of other things there – dangerous ones. I don't see a trap, though. Of course, I wouldn't see a good one. (What would he do with me if he 'trapped' me anyway? I'm already trapped here and he knows that.)_ Deciding he was as safe as he was going to be around Sylar, Peter hurried to catch up. The place was cavernous and it echoed weirdly, reinforcing how empty it was. He'd never been fond of libraries anyway. This one wasn't earning any points in Peter's book. It was as unsettling as the Y without the benefit of being full of things Peter was familiar with and liked.

"Where are we going now?" he asked, dogging Sylar's heels like he was afraid he might lose the guy if he didn't.

XXX

Once inside, Sylar didn't have to wait long for Peter to sidle up to him. His smirk was smug at the question. "You've never been in here, have you?" _Even though I showed him the way._ The library was gloriously huge, multiple stories, and large, varied sections. It was quiet. It was heaven. At least, it had been quiet before Peter tagged along.

XXX

"I've been in libraries before," Peter said defensively. The words got out a second before he realized Sylar was speaking of this specific place, whereas Peter had taken it generally. It made him sound stupid and unlettered, like his previous comments about not being able to read street signs weren't so much a joke, but possibly true. He pursed his lips.

XXX

Sylar led him to the kid's portion, ensuring that Peter saw where he was headed. "Don't break the spines or dog-ear the pages. I will know if you do. Enjoy!" he cheerfully hazed, clapping Peter on the shoulders as he moved past on his way to his own sections.

XXX

Peter looked over the shelves of thin, colorful books, some with titles big enough he could read them from here. _Fits. Sure, he thinks it's an insult, but I'll bet they have a lot of good books here – probably more that are fun to read than I'll find in the normal fiction. The same idiots who make fun of kid's books probably think Melville or Tolstoy were good authors. Or great ones. You know, you're not much of an author if people can't choke down what you wrote._ He huffed, spreading his arms helplessly. _I don't want to be left here! I'm not looking for books. I'm looking for someone to hang out with._ Jaw clenching and aching a bit, he wheeled and jogged to catch up with Sylar before the bastard got away from him. "Where are you going?"

XXX

_He wanted company. No ditching him today, I guess._ Sylar rolled his eyes without a surplus of feeling and paused. It sort of counted that he was desired and that made a difference, to his ego at any rate. He wanted to shush Peter into a lower volume on principle, though. "I'm going upstairs to non-fiction," was all he turned to say, expecting that Peter would catch up again if he wanted to. It was both strange and slightly familiar to have a shadow like this; he'd only had something similar was with Elle (barely) and with Luke, playing the older brother/favored uncle/father figure role. "The library has Bibles, history and science books and comic books." _In addition to the_ _kid's_ _books._ "You'll find something to keep you busy." _Because I don't know if I can play tour guide and keep you entertained. I haven't had to use self-control this often in a long, long time. (Can he understand that?)_ Once more, he glanced at Peter surreptitiously.

XXX

Peter frowned, looking around in dismay at the rows of books he was not at all interested in. He looked back at the kid's section. _I'm not going to stay there. Not here. This place is creepy. He might sneak up on me and scare me._ He looked at Sylar again. Vulnerability and loneliness hid behind Peter's eyes. "You don't want me with you. I get it." He shrugged. He got it, but he didn't like it. _He didn't want me around to start with._ "I've got to get back and work on that piano. I'll see you later." Swallowing his disappointment, he turned to head out.


	102. Library Finds

Day 52, January 31, Morning

Sylar sighed and truly rolled his eyes. _Can't take a joke. Everyone pity poor Petey._ It solidified Peter's goal for the day – companionship, even if it was Sylar's. Peter's companionship also belonged to Sylar. _I don't see how what I want suddenly plays any part – didn't I say that earlier? Why take a hint now, Petrelli?_ "No, you don't." The piano project wasn't viable and that was equally amusing to point out. "You can't walk into a library and not leave with a book." Just saying that aloud sounded sacrilegious to his ears. He said it like it was one of the rules, but really it was just common sense, wasn't it? They'd walked all the way here, why not take a book? "We can even stamp the card if it will help your conscience," he included, gesturing for Peter to come back and walk with him once more.

XXX

Peter came back slowly. _You actually want me around?_ He wanted to ask that out loud, but it was a ridiculous question. And unwise. Ridiculous because Sylar had no one else to be with, he was human, of course he wanted someone around. _(Of course. Just like it was 'of course' he wants me gone.)_ Peter would do even if Sylar would be just as happy to punch him in the face. Unwise because it sounded pleading, which wasn't entirely true. Sylar might be just as happy to coexist with violence between them, but Peter was not. The piano really was a lot more attractive than being the butt of Sylar's mistreatment, should it come to that. "Okay," he said quietly, glancing around the library again. Just grabbing a book and running wasn't what Sylar was offering. He was suggesting Peter stick around. That was nice. Peter came back to Sylar's side and waited for what would happen next. This was very much Sylar's ball game.

XXX

"What do you want – Bible, biography, romance, comic book?" Sylar managed to say the last without so much as cracking a mocking grin. He reiterated his pseudo-invitation as a sort of tour guide once more, offering to take Peter to his desired section _._ _If he's this desperate, I wonder how easy it will be to manipulate him into thinking I 'like' him?_ That was the next tactic to take, assuming he could fake it well enough. He couldn't deny that the idea of fooling around in a library was a taboo turn-on. ( _And he likes being watched)._

XXX

Peter considered the choices briefly. _Why does he keep mentioning the Bible? Does he think I need to read one? Comic book's loaded, too. And then there's romance. Those are weird choices. I'd rather re-read Journey to the Center of the Earth._ "Uh, a biography, I guess." The question felt uncomfortably like a trap or a test, but since Sylar was including one of the categories Peter had already said he liked to read, he went with that instead of insisting on an adventure story.

XXX

Peter didn't fall for any of it and that amused him. _He doesn't want to be left alone even for a moment._ That was most gratifying, whatever pain he still held against Peter. Poor clarity from earlier meant that Peter hadn't understood the offer, "That's up on the second floor, too," Sylar pointed to show their mutual destination. He felt stupid to have to say everything aloud when he himself thought his words and actions sufficient. _He does nice things for me; maybe this is nice for him? And he likes to chit-chat about nothing important_ _,_ "When was the last time you were in a library?" _Does he know the proper etiquette for a library?_ Sylar worried.

XXX

Peter followed Sylar to the elevator. "Um …" He thought about it. "I've never taken a medical call in a library … None of the EMT training required going to one for books or anything. Most of the nursing school stuff was class work or interning or lab stuff." He scratched at the back of his head. "I guess five or six years ago, when I was in college." As they left the elevator on the second floor, he said, "I did a lot of searching when I was trying to find something on specials. It didn't occur to me that abilities might have been around for a long time, like my parents might have them," Peter glanced at Sylar and chuckled ruefully. "I thought it was something new, like a mutation or maybe something epidemiological." He caught himself and immediately dumbed down his language out of habit. "I mean like it was a transmitted condition, like a disease, but you know, like a disease that's a good thing." He waved at himself, getting freer with his gestures as he relaxed a little. "Which for me, with the way I was 'catching' abilities, I guess it did kind of work that way." He frowned, trying to think of a way that this didn't sound like 'Peter the magical disease vector'.

XXX

Sylar blinked at the unfamiliar word and at the reminder of their differences. They'd both been somewhat intentional about their search for abilities but Peter's required no effort to acquire. _A disease. That sounds like something Nathan would say; and something Arthur would want._ Gabriel hadn't considered the familial history of abilities, either, since his 'parents' had obviously been less than special and he'd wanted to attribute his own specialness to himself. Still thinking, he mused aloud, "You're not far wrong. It is a mutation, technically speaking."

XXX

He was distracted from those thoughts by their arrival at the biography section – several rows of stacks, neatly ordered shelving full of hundreds or perhaps thousands of titles which were mostly meaningless to him. The best had names of the people they featured visible on them, but even then Peter didn't always know who they were. Others had vague, ostensibly descriptive titles that merely obfuscated who they were about. _How do I pick something out? Is he going to leave if I take too long? He might, and it doesn't matter what I pick. Wait, what's that?_ On the end of a row, he spotted a book with forbidding, snowclad mountains on the cover and the exciting-looking title of 'Alive!' _Maybe some arctic explorer? That's fine. It might be like Call of the Wild, except about people. At least it doesn't look boring._ He took it without further examination and turned to Sylar. "I'm good."

XXX

Sylar had leaned himself against the end of the shelf, looking into the aisle to watch Peter and his process. It was anticlimactic. He turned and led them to the non-fiction history section, aiming for another baseball-related book because the first one had been a hit with Peter (no pun intended). _Maybe I need a biography of some New York baseball player…but Peter's probably read them all._ There might be more options in other sections.

XXX

"Do you spend a lot of time here?" The huge structure was vacant in a way that went beyond mere emptiness. It gave off an abandoned feeling, the absence of usual patrons giving it an unsettling vibe. Peter would just as soon take their books and get out of here.

XXX

Still scanning the shelves, Sylar answered, "Oh, yeah. I could spend days here. It's more comfortable in my apartment, but I'd stay here and pick a bunch of books. It's wonderful. A totally quiet library? Any book I want for as long as I want? It's heaven. I mean…I guess it's creepy because there are no people. The…atmosphere is different." Because libraries were supposed to be quiet, it didn't seem that shocking a change, especially since there were no people here anyway. He did miss the camaraderie with complete strangers who gathered with one purpose and a single appreciation or goal. It was as close to a welcoming community as he'd ever found.

XXX

"Yeah, the atmosphere is really different." Peter didn't sound pleased about it. He followed Sylar until the man found an area that appealed to him – at least he started looking at the books themselves rather than just the numbers on the ends of the rows. "I'm going to find a seat," Peter said, not wanting to hover over Sylar while the other decided what to read. He located the nearest seat, none too comfortable, and settled in to wait. He assumed they were going to be here for a while. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he'd left his apartment with no more than an oversugared coffee for breakfast, so intent had he been on not missing Sylar this morning. He cracked his book, but didn't read enough to see who or what it was about. Instead, he kept his attention on Sylar, though he tried to be discreet about it by continuing the pretense of reading.

XXX

Even with a goal in mind, he still wanted to absorb the experience and at least glance at all the titles. Sylar nodded to Peter (his duty complete in getting the man a book) and went back to his own search. It took him several minutes before he felt Peter's prolonged attention. A quick side-glance told him that Peter had been watching him. The reason for it escaped him, unless it was similar to his own staring – Sylar was the only person to look at, just like Peter was for him. It didn't mean anything (not when Peter did it, anyway). Mystery solved, Sylar made a note to pick up a good mystery to read before he left. He found some baseball texts – statistics, specific teams, coaches, players, World Series', even seasons. It wasn't as relevant as he would like it to be. 'Baseball and Philosophy' stood out at him as more of a personal interest; 'The Great Book of Baseball Knowledge' and a few others would be more useful.

XXX

"Have you eaten breakfast?" Peter asked after Sylar selected a pair of books.

XXX

"Huh?" Sylar was broken from his reverie. _(What is he asking me about?)_ "I had a small one, yes. Took the painkillers," he murmured, going back to poring over the front and back covers.

XXX

"I know you said you like the quiet here, but I'd like to take the books somewhere where we can get a bite to eat and read there." Peter phrased it carefully, respectfully, and indirectly. He was hungry and felt out of place here, but at the same time he didn't want to ditch Sylar or get ditched. _He's still looking at books. Maybe he's not done? Should I shut up and leave him alone?_

XXX

_Like a book club? (I assume they ate food while they read or something)._ That sounded like an excellent idea to suit the needs for food and information/entertainment. Perhaps his appetite was returning. Reading together, maybe sharing interesting portions (and food) sounded like the ultimate reading experience. Providing…Peter didn't get food on the books or lick his fingers before turning pages. It made him shudder to think. "That's fine. I need one more book before we go," he decided. Sylar paused for Peter to stand and follow him back to the elevator. He was in the mood for a fictional mystery – they tended to be a more gripping read than one bent on preserving facts. On the ride down, he asked, "What does Emmy like to read?"

XXX

"Emmy?" It took Peter a moment to realize who Sylar meant. "Emma!" he said emphatically, not quite willing to go so far as to glare at Sylar, but he wanted to. "I don't know. It never came up." He shifted uneasily, grouchy about the name thing.

XXX

Sylar gave him a look that clearly said he thought Peter was falling down on the boyfriend duties if he didn't know what his own not-girlfriend liked to read. _But I'm here, having to lead him to books and make him take one; he hasn't been reading on his own and he never was particularly fond of it as an activity. He prefers…activity. (Like fucking his girlfriend, I bet. I'll revisit that later)._ "You probably never read any baseball books, did you? You didn't need to," he remarked without judgment, with more envy. Sports and access to sporting events came easily to the Petrellis. Peter wouldn't be a helpful guide in what to read on the subject. He complained for both of them, "They never write books for swimmers." _Probably because Peter was busy fucking half his swim team._

XXX

Peter raised a brow at Sylar's odd statement, 'You didn't need to'. _What does that mean?_ About the swimmers, he quipped, "That's because they get the pages all wet and the ink tends to run." He smiled a little, deciding to ignore the, 'you didn't need to' and all it implied. "I read a couple rule books for baseball when I was a kid." He looked at the titles of the books Sylar had picked. "Those look interesting," he said politely. His eyes went to Sylar's face. _He's reading those for me!_ His eyes widened slightly at the realization. Peter looked back at the books before leaving the elevator and watching where they were going. _He's reading those so we can talk about baseball. He wants to talk to me about something and he's going out of his way to find something other than abilities to talk about. Wow._

XXX

By then, they had entered the proper section and Sylar was scanning for a mystery book. Sylar straightened quickly as an ugly thought came into his head. _Does he think I like murder mysteries or that it has something to do with…?_ He sent a self-conscious look towards Peter. "Is this going to offend you?" he asked with an edge and a wave to indicate the section, being partly sarcastically rhetorical.

XXX

Peter was standing there barely avoiding staring at Sylar like the man had grown a second head. "What?" he asked, then went on after Sylar's wave at the books, "No, not at all." His first assumption was that Sylar thought Peter thought he was taking too long. Peter turned and firmly fixed his attention on the shelf to his left, examining what looked like a Sherlock Holmes spin-off. A few moments later, it occurred to him that maybe Sylar meant the material, in that mysteries and criminal dramas could be taken as researching how to get away with things. _It's not like he needs it. Other than the Company and people with abilities, I think he got away with everything. He flipped a SWAT van and snatched Ted right out of police custody, after all, and that was back when he was just getting started._ Peter shrugged. _Maybe he's reliving glory days. It's just a book._ A book Sylar seemed to have settled on, too. Sylar made his choice and they started for the exit.

"Why do you keep getting Emma's name wrong?" Peter asked as they paused near the door to adjust coats and jackets. He popped his collar and put his headband on. "You know what it is."

XXX

"Unless you go fucking around in my head, again; my memory will never be bad enough to forget her name. Obviously, I do it to bother you." Sylar was a little gleeful to voice this.

XXX

Peter frowned at him – not severely, more like thoughtfully – and followed Sylar out into the cold. _So he's teasing me. Is that playful or mean-spirited? I suppose it could be both._ "Let's go to that diner we started to eat at before," he suggested, jerking his chin in what he thought was the right direction. _'Fucking around in my head' – there's no reason why I would. (Not now. Not unless it would give me back Nathan.) He's concerned about me doing it. (Because Nathan's not dead? No, probably because he thinks I think Nathan might not be dead. He's smart.) He said I should take it all when he broke down in that police station here. 'You violated my mind! It was the one thing I had left.' And he hates manipulation and being lied to. If Nathan's not there, then yeah, that's something to be scared of. I should reassure him, but … I can't. How do I know where Nathan is or how to get him back?_ Peter felt a sudden lump in his throat and an itch in his eyes. _This is like that thing with Caitlin._ He shook his head. _I don't want to fuck it up (again), but I don't know what to do. And here Sylar's getting baseball books so he can talk to me. He's trying to be considerate while I'm over here thinking that yeah, maybe there's some other form of brain-murder I can do on him to get what I want._ He stared down at the cover of the book instead, eyes perceiving the letters without his mind being able to assemble them into words. He walked with Sylar on auto-pilot, hoping the man was taking him to wherever they were headed.

XXX

Peter was quiet all of a sudden. That was odd. Sylar kept checking him to gauge his mood. Offended; thinking; focused (which Sylar could appreciate if it was mission-focused on either food or reading); hunger? Perhaps it was all of them because Peter looked sad and withdrawn. _Offended, then. (Reminding him of murder is a great conversation starter_ , he berated himself). On top of that, he didn't know if he was supposed to revive the conversation (whatever the topic had been) or let Peter alone. It wasn't a horrible walk, but he was aware he'd done something wrong and that wasn't exactly pleasant, either.

XXX

As they approached the diner, Peter tried to pull himself out of the low mood he'd fallen into. There was nothing he could do about Caitlin or Nathan in his current situation, so he put his attention on his interactions with Sylar. _Last time we came here, he was insulting when he opened the door. He acted smug about walking in the library when I opened it for him. 'Obviously, I do it to bother you'. So that's the game, huh?_ Peter let Sylar get to the door first and open it. As Peter walked by, he reached out and clapped Sylar twice on the shoulder. "Sometimes," he said in a friendly tone, "I do things to bother you, too." He shrugged out of his coat and hung it over a chair, tossing headband and gloves on the table.

XXX

Sylar was too lost in thought to notice Peter doing anything out of the ordinary. On instinct, he opened the door first and was too slow to react better. He saw Peter's hand reaching up, at a normal speed but that made no difference, while he was stuck holding the door. Sylar straightened and froze. It wasn't a blow or a grab of any kind but the contact anywhere near his head or throat had been…He allowed the firm shoulder patting because there was nothing to really be done about it (and hoped he wasn't as wide-eyed and stiff as he feared). Peter was so casual, friendly, and pointed about it that it tipped the balance of suspicion. Sylar narrowed his eyes, which went unnoticed at first as Peter walked in and Sylar followed. "That doesn't bother me," he lied. _I told him that already!_ Since Peter had already homed in on a weakness, Sylar tried to divert the attention by issuing a more general challenge, "You're going to have to do better than that."

XXX

_Uh-huh. Right._ He looked over to Sylar to give him a smile. Peter went behind the bar and flipped on the waffle iron. "I'm going to make waffles. Do you want some, or are you making for yourself?"

XXX

Sylar smirked back, like getting Peter to make breakfast was a 'win' for him. "No, go ahead and bother yourself on my behalf. I'll watch."

XXX

Peter snorted. "You like watching me be bothered, huh? That's kind of a dangerous habit." He poured batter, then got out plates and some fruit, setting them next to the double-sided waffle iron.

XXX

"Not as much as you might think." Sylar settled in at the bar. _I'm still alive and…mostly fully-functional, so he's not as dangerous as he'd like to think._

XXX

The bastard was too smug about Peter's restraint for his liking. Peter snagged a strawberry and chucked it at Sylar without warning. "You like getting me wound up, then you're going to have to deal with the fastballs."

XXX

Startled, Sylar ducked way too much and too suddenly because he couldn't see what was being thrown and he had enough time to react to the words. "What is it with you making messes you never clean up?" he said sharply and defensively, glancing behind him at the bruised fruit on the floor. _Such a waste._

XXX

Peter sighed. "That hurts, Sylar," he said honestly. He wasn't unaware of the ruined storefront, or the kicked in liquor boxes in the pub (although he'd cleaned that one up), or a score of other events in his life where he'd made a complete fuck-up of things. Sylar didn't even know the half of it. Peter shot back, "What is it about you provoking me so much?"

XXX

"We've already gone over that." He looked Peter up and down. "I like you hot and bothered." It only challenged him further, to find the pressure point to…relieve all Peter's ongoing stress. The challenge was as delicious as the payoff was sure to be.

XXX

_You like me off-balance and upset, you mean._ Peter rolled his eyes and threw another strawberry at him, slower this time and more obvious.

XXX

Sylar snatched it from the air, checked it, and made a show of eating it.

XXX

Peter watched, face neutral. What Sylar was doing was sexy, and attractive, and he was telling Peter he was interested in him. _But I'm a challenge to him; he's intimidated and he wants me weak. I'm not going to fit inside someone else's shadow anymore. If he's going to poke at me, I'm going to poke back._ He was still watching Sylar's face when the waffle-machine beeped. Peter turned to unload it.

XXX

Sylar was very pleased with himself. After he'd lost Peter's devoted attention to the damned waffle machine, he slunk into the kitchen to cut up the fruit and gather other food items. With laden plates, they returned to the table.

XXX

Peter settled into a chair opposite the one he'd put his coat on, thinking about what strategy he should use to get under Sylar's skin. He lifted his feet to rest rudely on the seat. He pushed his headband and gloves in front of his coat in preparation for Sylar sharing the same table with him, and pulled over his plate after Sylar delivered it. He tore off a bit of waffle with his fingers and ate it. He had eschewed butter, syrup, or whipped cream, going with a plain waffle with a bunch of fresh fruit on the edge of the plate. He cracked open the book, holding it with his left hand. It would be weeks before his right hand had the dexterity and strength to hold it the same way, one-handed, so that hand was left for page-turning and waffle-pinching. He read.

XXX

Sylar took his indicated place, pleased that it had been cleared for him. He had a lightly buttered and syruped waffle with fruit on the side. It smelled delicious and his awakened appetite rumbled after what felt like an age of being nauseous. They needed to stock the Pegasus suite with better food- That was when he remembered that he wasn't going back to the suite, or anywhere else, to sleep with Peter. He made a face and went to cut more waffle just as Peter tore off part of his own waffle, stuck it in his mouth and then turned a page – all with the same hand. He gaped for a moment. "Peter!" he hissed. "Wipe your hands before you turn pages. That's what napkins are for." _Rich and well-mannered my ass! I can see why they had such a handful with him, everything they tried to teach the little barbarian and he just refuses to use it. It's a wonder they could take him anywhere._

XXX

"Oh?" Peter asked with faux innocence as he briefly sucked the tip of his right thumb, index, and middle finger in lieu of using the napkin. He rubbed them together afterwards. "I thought you said I had to do better than that. Is this good enough?" He turned a page with his newly licked fingers, deliberately slouching a bit further and tossing his hair out of his eyes like an insolent teen.

XXX

Sylar stared at him, withholding his jerk and violent reaction at the book abuse. More than good enough, you uncivilized punk. It went against every rule. He was so enraged for those initial seconds he had time to review his options: ignore it, verbalize Peter down a notch, grab the book to save it, make demands, try and rationalize with him…maybe slam his hand on the table and tell him off…From somewhere, he knew what would get Peter to behave but it was counterintuitive to what he would normally do, what he wanted to do. Sylar wanted to rip the book away from him and never let him near another again; to let this pass was to encourage more of the same, challenging Peter further. Nathan – damn him – knew what to do. Sibling logic. _He's the one acting like a child,_ he rationalized. _He just wants attention_. Sylar could understand that since he knew how much it hurt to have it taken away. He raised a judgmental eyebrow; face unamused, and went back to reading his own book, though he was still prepared to enact any of the other more active options.

XXX

Peter snorted. When that didn't gain him anything, he rolled his eyes and made a loud, huffy sigh, then wiped his fingers pointedly on the napkin. He put one of his feet down to change his posture to something a bit more adult. During this, he shot Sylar several looks, waiting for a reaction. That he didn't get one was a mixed victory. _That got under his skin alright._ Peter smirked and went back to reading.

XXX

Sylar reluctantly relaxed with a small sense of relief. _He wouldn't know a good book if it hit him upside the head – which still might happen._ Peace was restored and he congratulated himself for the successful slyness of that distinctly Petrelli maneuver.

XXX

After the table of contents, acknowledgements and foreword, Peter's brows pulled together and he looked at the teaser text on the back of the book. "Oh," he said softly, a dismayed expression coming over his face. "This isn't about the Arctic or the Himalayas or anything like that. I've heard of this. I think they eat each other in this book." He blinked at it, grossed out and yet fascinated at the same time. He blanched and looked over at his companion: Sylar the serial killer whom only a week ago Peter had implied might have eaten parts of his victims.

Peter cleared his throat, gave his head a single shake, and forged on in the book. "This is going to be interesting," he murmured.

XXX

Sylar chewed and raised an eyebrow. The Arctic or Himalayas reference meant nothing to him at first. A glance at the cover showed that it could have been mistaken as the topic of the book. It still didn't seem like much of a biography…Peter seemed surprised now and explained it. Sylar's face was cloudy and suspicious to the point of glaring. _Is he studying serial killers or something? (That's not what a serial killer is – does he know that?)_ The man's surprise could be fake. "Do you have some obsession with cannibalism you'd like to get off your chest?" he asked, not sure what tone he should take or how personal he should take this; hopefully the question would answer some concerns and clear up Peter's intentions as he intended to finish the book despite the discovery, it seemed. He could fathom the human interest, Peter's investment was…unexpected, being a nurse and humanitarian. _This will be interesting._ Sylar looked forward to interrogating him about his thoughts on the book upon finishing it. Surely Peter would have some scathing condemnations about morality in emergency situations, since he enjoyed judging others on similar things. He itched to snatch the book away and read some of it for himself.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar his best disapproving look, learned from his father. "Says the man who tried to bite a chunk out of my shoulder last week." Peter blew air from his nose and added, "You take 'eat me' to a whole new level." He picked up a grape, considered it briefly, and popped it in his mouth. Peter waggled his brows up and down before thoroughly wiping his fingers on the napkin as Sylar had said he desired.

XXX

Again, Sylar waited to see exactly how Peter intended those words. He didn't recall being in any particular 'trouble' over biting Peter before…Then, with the flirty behavior, he grasped the joke. Or was it in invitation? The breath left him as he recalled Peter having stroked himself off and pinched the bruise for pleasure. _And_ the lack of 'firm' denial in the eventuality of sucking Peter's dick when he'd been on his knees in front of that erection. And the last time they'd consumed strawberries, Sylar had got in his lap and confessed all sorts of sexual deviancy. In a deep voice, he rumbled with a flirtatious head tilt of his own, "I'm known for being…thorough."

XXX

A nervous flutter ran through Peter's gut. He colored and smiled, looking away to try to hide it and to get a better handle on himself. The idea of Sylar's 'thoroughness' had the porny part of his mind going wild for a few seconds. "Yeah, I'll bet," Peter said weakly, shooting Sylar one short look before trying to bury himself behind the too-small paperback. Even then, the image of Sylar on his knees, demonstrating just how thorough he could be, was running rampant, doing battle with the moral part of his brain – _if I'm not doing anything back, then it's just a domination trip, right? That's not really wrong … (Of course it is! And it's not like I'm not going to do anything back. This is stupid. And dangerous.) And hot._ Peter cleared his throat, shifted in his chair, and kept his eyes glued to the page until he finally started registering the words printed there.

XXX

Not wanting to let the tension between them slip away, he mocked with a little challenge, stating, "I give you….three maybe four days until you quit. The realism and gore is probably too traumatic for you." This wasn't Peter's sort of book at all. Coupled with being alone and with his most hated enemy, it wasn't going to do good things for Peter's head, either. Sylar recalled Peter's nightmare about being stuck in a cargo box for weeks and he could understand that kind of thing so vividly that he didn't want Peter to undergo it – or undergo more of it, here, half-alone. _Yes, definitely too realistic and traumatic._ "Um…wouldn't you rather read something else?" he suggested, changing to yet a different tone than he'd yet tried, just as genuine as the others but with a better purpose. "Baseball book?" he offered, sliding it towards Peter.

XXX

"Ha." Peter shook his head at the baseball book, but he was glad of the distraction from his libido trying to make an end run around his conscience. Feeling a need to defend himself against the accusation of being soft (which wasn't even a bad thing to be), he said, "Three or four days until I'm done with _this_." He waved the book he held to indicate how quickly he'd finish reading it. " _This_ is a book. It's nothing like the real thing and I've seen plenty of that."

XXX

_You have not seen intentional gore like that a lot and you have never seen cannibalism_ , Sylar rolled his eyes. _Fine. Do come crying to me because you gave yourself nightmares._ He exhaled a huffy sigh. _I could always hide the book…_ As was typical, Peter was more interesting than any baseball book. Sylar kept glancing at him as he dutifully read. It was…pleasant, rare, unanticipated. It made it easier to bear his pain and burdens with this kind of companionship, which he'd never had before. It had been a very good idea of…theirs – his books, and Peter's food. It seemed so heart wrenchingly mundane and normal, like he was acceptable and normal himself. "This was a good idea," he said clearly, then continued immediately with, "How is your hand?" because he'd noticed (not for the first time) that Peter wasn't wearing his brace but wasn't fully utilizing the limb.

XXX

"Eh, it's getting better." He flexed it slightly to show his range of motion. On the last two fingers, it wasn't much – they bent noticeably, but that was it without hurting like hell. There was no way he was going to make a fist or hold something securely. His middle finger was somewhat better. His thumb and index finger were fine. "It'll probably be a few more weeks before I can do much of anything with it," Peter said, hoping Sylar would take the hint and continue to avoid doing anything that might delay healing. Peter had noticed Sylar was going light on him – he didn't attribute the lack of re-injury to luck. "It's nice to be out of the brace, but I still have to be really careful with it."

He read for a while and finished eating, getting sucked into the story despite the stilted style of writing. "This thing reads like a textbook," Peter muttered at one point as he finished off the last bit of waffle. One waffle and some fruit wasn't enough to fill him up, so he set the book down and went to make another one. "You want another waffle?" he asked as he poured batter on one side.

XXX

Sylar snorted, amused at Peter's luck and doubly amused because Peter had sworn to finish it. He looked up, "Yes, please." In light of perfectly cooked breakfast, he thought, _I guess he can't screw up waffles with an automatic machine._ Many appetites, it seemed, were returning today.

XXX

He turned and leaned on the counter as the waffle cooked, eyes taking in Sylar's form until the other looked up at him. _There's no way I wouldn't do something back._ Peter gave a slight smile and said, "You're right. This is good. It's nice." Softer, he added, "I like it," then turned to pretend to mess with the controls on the waffle iron. _I am so fucked._

XXX

It was cute to watch Peter's consistent naïveté. Sylar had every intention of 'reapplying' a bite mark, as he'd promised. The only question was 'where' – the 'when' was also undecided, but it wasn't nearly as interesting as the location of the next bite. _Come with me to get books, read them, make me breakfast, obey me, seduce me,_ oh, yes; he was ready to pounce. Sylar feigned studying, if not reading, his book, "You must have done this all the time with your…fuck buddies and college friends. Is it weird to be doing it with me or are you pretending I'm someone else?" he asked casually.

XXX

The term 'fuck buddies' got a frown. "Those are my choices – it's either weird, or I'm pretending? I think I'll go with neither. This feels comfortable, finally." _Aside from the flirting, which is making me tense._ He opened his mouth to say something else, but the waffle iron beeped. Peter loaded both steaming, aromatic waffles onto his plate and brought them to the table, pushing the top one off onto Sylar's. "I've eaten and read and spent time with other people in the past, yeah," Peter said, sitting and pouring a light drizzle of maple syrup on his waffle. He picked up fork and knife. "None of them were you, but this is okay. We're not at each other's throats. I don't know about you," Peter tilted his head for a moment, lifting a bite of waffle on his fork, "but I could do with more of that." After chewing and swallowing, he added, "It's been a long time since I've been able to – to spend time with someone - if anything's weird, it's that."

XXX

Sylar thanked him for the waffle, buttered it and gave it a decent amount of syrup as he listened and watched carefully. He didn't know what to make of the non-decisive answer, but Peter did seem to be comfortable. That was…good, he supposed; it meant he was safer and more likely to be treated well. Ironically, that led to the next point – being at each other's throats. _You were the one at my throat. So I must be 'behaving' well enough for him...to be comfortable. At least in this moment. We've been apart for nearly a week. He's desperate. I'm not doing anything much different._ In the end, it was neither here nor there, he concluded. He didn't count the obvious things, like avoiding Peter's family or abilities. Sylar shrugged and cut his waffle bite by bite to preserve the syrup, "Always weird for me." Peter was using proper utensils this time. Before his second bite, he added in a low mutter, "Regardless of what face I'm wearing," and went back to reading. Spending time with someone could be good or bad; the good interactions were never automatic for him and he couldn't accept it without wonder.

XXX

Peter gave him a slightly wide-eyed, wary look about 'what face' Sylar was talking about. _Nathan wasn't able to spend time with people? Or does he just mean that he's been on the move all the time for the last few years, just like me? That's probably it._ He turned to his book, leaving the matter at that.

It was about thirty minutes into reading before Peter had to put the book down and get up, too unsettled by what he was reading to go on without a break. His lips were pursed, expression frozen. He went behind the bar, pretending he needed coffee to replace the milk he'd finished with his waffle earlier. He returned to the table with a full cup, steeling himself to continue. To Sylar's look, he answered soberly, "The plane crash," as he picked up the book again. Images of that night danced behind his eyes – Noah, Nathan's body, the parachutes, the drone of the engine – so many unprocessed, shut-away moments. His chest ached. If there was cannibalism in the book, which he understood there was, he suspected it would upset him less than the so-much-more-mundane event of the plane going down. He swallowed tensely, rubbed at his eyes, and focused on the page with an effort.

XXX

Sylar frowned after he chanced to look up at Peter's pale, upset face. He'd wanted to see what the man was getting up for. The empath's color and expression leant his motions and activity a nervous atmosphere. _Plane crash_ , repeated in his head, connecting only with the incident where Claire caused the plane crash (and death or escape of others). Sylar supposed he couldn't blame her too much: she was young and inexperienced, naïve, and indestructible and unaware that danger would affect those she might have been trying to save (or so Sylar assumed). There was the story of Nathan publicly 'dying' in a freak plane crash but he'd been long since dead by then. "What did happen with that?" he asked, partly because he didn't understand what could be so upsetting. Peter had seen people die before – he'd died before himself. Nathan's life had been so hectic and then dangerous; he'd never received the time-consuming, completed report of the incident – who caused it and how, how many bodies, post-crash bodies, escapees?

XXX

Peter braced himself, tense and unhappy. He didn't feel it was a memory Sylar was entitled to, despite how much Peter wanted to share it with someone – anyone. "Which one?"

XXX

Sylar clarified the real event, not the book, "The plane crash with Claire and Tracy. What ability did you have then?"

XXX

_Oh._ Peter relaxed. He hadn't even thought about that one, so overshadowed had it been in his mind by the other. "I … had a couple. One after another, that is." He took his seat, remembering himself as the cause of the accident. Claire had been helping them escape. It was his incompetence that turned it into a disaster. "The last was freezing – Tracy's ability. I didn't know it when I got it. I was being knocked around, into people, and I couldn't control the transference. I didn't know how to do it intentionally yet and the drugs were still muddying everything up for me." Including his judgment, he supposed, but he treated that the same as he had when he'd told Hesam that he should have been stronger – in the plane, he should have been smarter. He licked his lips and swallowed, finding himself unwilling to confess to his role. He didn't want to hear from Sylar what he told himself. "It was pretty fast – the crash. A few people were out of their seats, unstrapped. I don't think the guards survived. It was amazing the rest of us did." _Or at least as many as did._ He didn't know the body count. He fidgeted with the book.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar said noncommittally. He didn't know how those drugs would work on regeneration, but based on the survival of normal people like Bennet and specials like Claire and Peter, he could assume it had little affect. Peter might not have known if he would survive. That would have been…intense. For Sylar, brushes with mortality had become mundane and expected. But falling out of the sky in a huge, weighted 'flying' coffin, with no control must be one of those natural fear instinct occurrences. Or perhaps Peter was used to falling when he tried to fly – intentionally or otherwise. With a wry expression, he went back to his own book; not entirely satisfied with the details but not interested enough to press it.

XXX

Peter had been reading for three or four hours total when the hard seats of the diner began to bother him. He was stiff, tired of reading, and where he should have been hungry, reading about the expedition making their very personal decisions to cannibalize the dead had left him nauseous instead. _So this is how Sylar's been feeling since the concussion and I've been trying to shove food in him the whole time._ He smiled faintly at the how unpleasant that must have been to Sylar. _All things considered, I think he's been as cooperative and compliant as he could be._ Reading about people cursing and screaming at those who tried to help them, and subsequently dying because of it, helped put a few things about Sylar's recalcitrance in perspective. After standing and stretching, Peter said, "Hey, let's go back to the rec room. If you want to grab lunch, go ahead. I want to sit on something softer and that couch sounds perfect."


	103. Worth Dying For

Day 52, January 31, afternoon

Sylar looked up and checked his watch at the mention of food. _Already? I guess it is_. They would have to return somewhere eventually and moving for the comfort of reading was reasonable. "Yeah," he answered and went into the kitchen in search of an apple if he was so lucky. He found some and grabbed two dark Red Delicious. He let Peter get the door again, carrying his books. "I was going to check on the windows," he reminded Peter. If he let it slide, he had the feeling Peter wouldn't do anything about it.

XXX

"Huh?" Peter looked at Sylar blankly, then glanced back at the diner windows. _They're okay. What windows is he talking about?_ Peter got it then. "Ah, right," he said in a subdued voice. _I should have remembered those. Does he think I've done something with them in the last few days?_ He hadn't. He'd barely thought of them. The fate of a particular storefront Peter had smashed in an early attempt to strike out at Sylar wasn't something that weighed heavily on his mind when he and Sylar were on the outs.

XXX

Sylar oriented them towards the store. Of Peter's book, he said, "You're still reading it. Or is that because you didn't take any thing else to read?"

XXX

"It's good." Peter looked down at the book he was carrying in his left hand, then stuck it into his jacket pocket with some careful positioning. "It's really … engrossing. It doesn't just say what they did, but how they worked it out with each other, what was important to them, and how they justified things." He shrugged his shoulders ambivalently. "And some of them didn't agree with the rest. Sometimes people made decisions that led to them dying and ..." Peter shrugged more intentionally this time, "and that's okay. The author, here, he supports that and the … dignity … of their decision. How people choose to die can be a beautiful thing when it's a decision a person knowingly makes. It's interesting to see that." He gestured at the book. "A lot of people don't get that." It was a point of view Peter hadn't pondered in years, since he'd been a hospice nurse. There was a large element of that job which involved helping the dying's loved ones allow the transition with love and respect, rather than fighting it every step of the way. Not that there weren't times to fight – Peter had become an EMT so he could find those opportunities to wage war against death and pain and suffering. But sometimes fighting wasn't the answer. None of what he was saying was about Sylar or Sylar's choices, though he knew it was probably inevitable that Sylar would see parallels.

XXX

_No gritty details? No wonder he's still reading it then,_ Sylar thought with disappointment. Then his head tilted as he thought about that – making decisions that led to either starving, hypothermia, or being killed. None were great options but Sylar had been forced to come to terms with such 'choices.' It captured his interest, as did Peter's thoughts and…dare he say it, expertise on the matter. There was something very important he didn't understand and very much needed to understand about what Peter was trying to say. "What do you mean, 'the dignity of their decision'? How is choosing how you die a beautiful thing?" Perhaps there was some kind of acknowledgement or validation about his own choices, poor and limited as they were, hidden somewhere in the conversation. Maybe it said something about his own death and the ones previous.

XXX

_It's better than having it chosen for you._ But Peter didn't say that. He didn't want to start a fight and anyway, Sylar's question was a good one. "If a person dies," he started slowly, "in an auto accident or of an unexpected stroke, then they don't get a choice. It happens. But a lot of people have the opportunity to decide how they want to die – where, when, and why. They can't control _if_ it's going to happen – because barring abilities, it will – but they might have a little control over the circumstances. It's the last thing they have. How they choose to use it is precious." He gave Sylar a long, searching look before going back to watching where they were going. "The people in the book – the ones who chose to die – did it for different reasons. For a few, early on, accepting help or medical care was too painful and too frightening. They refused and they died and that's not wrong. I like that the author didn't imply it was. People get to choose. Later, some of the others decided they wouldn't eat the dead. They knew it meant starving to death. The rest tried to talk them out of it. Some eventually changed their minds. A few didn't and died because of it. They died for their principles. That's something they should be honored for. It's special." It was what he wanted to do, someday, somehow. In Peter's darkest moments, he thought finding a cause to die for would be better than going on without Nathan, with his mother looming in the background, all alone with dangers on all sides. But then he thought of Emma and the wall of photos of people he'd helped. It kept him focused.

XXX

Peter's speech made sense, mostly in ways that didn't immediately apply to Sylar (or Nathan, so he hoped). It was…just a subject, one Peter didn't abuse. Then again, it was probably one of those things the nurse held to heart. For as many deaths as Sylar had caused, he hadn't given much thought to his own death – not until Hiro had made his prophecy. He was supposed to die alone. But he'd died many times and then had regeneration. Was it too much to consider that Hiro had seen one of those deaths instead of his true end? Peter was here now, so did that mean he couldn't or wouldn't die? It seemed unlikely. The possibilities of time travel, its would-be-trampled butterflies, the thin fabric of reality and its warped nature overwhelmed that train of thought. Nathan, on the other hand, had spent his last days doing good things, trying to set everything right, even attempting to mend bonds and ask forgiveness. Peter had said he loved him at the last. Those memories, those feelings made Sylar squirm with discomfort. It was so much easier not to know any of that.

Moving on, he agreed with what Peter had to say. Dying for one's principles, however misguided, he supposed, was better than going out in a selfish blaze of glory to prove he could withstand the fire. Upon review, his principles didn't amount to much and neither did his sacrificial attempts. His thoughts turned back to the story at hand and he wondered how one would cannibalize a frozen body. Only if it was…less than frozen. He grimaced. "Do you think that…excuses them?"

XXX

"Well," Peter reached up to touch the book fleetingly as if that helped him remember what was in it, "they talk about that a lot. They didn't kill anyone. They didn't contribute to the deaths. Those who were alive talked about how they'd gladly give up their own bodies for the others if it meant some of them might survive. They were all Roman Catholic and … I didn't actually know this, but apparently there's no direct prohibition against cannibalism. I suppose there's stuff in the Old Testament, but there's stuff in there about not eating lobster or pork, so it's not that." Peter waved away the technicality and returned to the question, "If they had to do it to survive and they had no other choice, then … yeah, it excuses them. It wasn't something they did lightly. Just because some of the others made a different choice doesn't mean I think all of them should have chosen that. That's what makes it beautiful – it shows what each of them was willing to die for, and what they were willing to live for."

XXX

Sylar side-eyed him. _Really? No one 'contributed' to another's death? I guess that would imply intent to eat a person._ That was a little surprising, to think that the people in that situation were not thinking of survival in its most basic and bleak forms, backstabbing each other and killing others for advantage and even sustenance. _They were better people than I am. That probably goes without saying._ "I know what you're talking about it, but it's strange to hear you talk about death being beautiful. Usually you advocate living life to the fullest." He dutifully ignored the elephant in the room. _I wonder how that relates to suicide in his eyes?_ "Technically, that's suicide to choose not to eat and choose not to live," he remarked to see if that prompted anything from Peter.

XXX

Peter shrugged and said soberly, "It's what we live for that's important. Sometimes, it's even worth dying for."

XXX

It didn't take them long to reach the storefront. Whatever snow had been there had since melted and there was no real ice. Sylar checked Peter with frequent glances to see how he was taking this. "When are you coming back here?" he didn't bother dancing around it. It was a test but it meant that Sylar would be doing Peter's work and figuring out how to really get under Peter's skin as punishment.

XXX

As he looked at the mostly-blocked windows, Peter's right hand was buried in his jacket pocket. His left hung loose at his side. He thought about all those sketches he'd drawn in the notebook and the various windows he'd seen in the hardware store. As far as he knew, there was nothing available that would properly or fully replace the commercial panes. His mind showed him how the place could be remade – with stained glass on the top of the middle opening, one of those round, prefabricated pieces. Under it would be one or two of the largest residential windows he could get – something that could be opened to let in the air, even if that wasn't practical in a clothing store in an imaginary blend of New York and Los Angeles. It could be lovely, with each of the three tall, vertical openings filled with color and improved functionality. It would solve the issue of not having commercial panes. There was only one problem: "I think I'm going to have to learn how to be a bricklayer. Or a mason or something." He walked over and pulled out his right hand to feel along the existing brick. "I don't know how to get the windows anchored without rebuilding this." _Or tearing it up._

XXX

Sylar hadn't considered bricklaying, or other mediums aside from plywood and other planks. He gave Peter credit and approval for the idea, yet still offered his own, "I know there's…holders that you can attach to glass, like for indoor mirrors. Or if all else fails, there's always caulk and glue." He didn't want to leave the plywood there forever. "You do know what caulk is, don't you?" he asked with a barely hidden smirk. It wasn't the innuendo (not entirely anyway), but rather the likelihood that Peter clueless about a basic handyman tool.

XXX

Peter chuckled, then played obviously dumb. "Yeah, it's a," he held up his left hand with thumb and forefinger making an 'o' shape, "hard, tube thing and when you pump on it, white, sticky stuff comes out the end, right?" He honestly wasn't sure what colors caulk came in, but that was unimportant for the joke.

XXX

A snort and a chuckle greeted the joke, but it answered the question. Satisfied, Sylar squeezed the back of Peter's neck as they turned back for the Pegasus and their apartments. The reactions to his touch were most gratifying. "I'd be happy to show you how it goes." That was intentional innuendo.

XXX

At the touch, Peter tensed and nearly missed a step, pulling in his breath in anticipation of being jerked around and hurt. A second later, he knew the contact was friendly, or close to it. Nathan had handled him this way. _I wonder if Sylar knows that? Or is it unconscious on his part?_ Either way, Peter let it go with a relieved sigh. He let the familiar gesture give him a moment of mental comfort even if it was from a disconcerting source. He gave Sylar a casual shove to push him away. "I'm sure you'd be happy to show me that, but I think I'm cool." He waved at his pocket. "I have my book about people starving to death and eating each other to keep my mind on other things." He smiled as he said it, but he hoped Sylar got the point. _I suppose I shouldn't make jokes about laying bricks or filling in seams._

XXX

Sylar smirked back. _He needs some nasty book so he doesn't act on temptation?_ Immediately Peter had unknowingly made the book a target, or a deadline. "You need a book to keep your mind pure and moral?" It was definitely a compliment. He eyed the pocket that hid the book. "Three or four days did you say?" Now he mostly teased as was allowed in their…rules: it wasn't night or morning and he wasn't even touching the man; Peter would have to hit him (or present other distraction) to shut him up. "I'll be sure to clear my calendar."

XXX

Peter laughed lightly in response. "It sure helps." He changed the subject to something other than his libido, which had woke up in the last few weeks and so far found little in the way of suitable outlet. "So when we were back in the library, you mentioned the Bible to me twice. Why was that? Do you think I need it?"

XXX

With a roll of his eyes, Sylar answered with some realist sarcasm, "The Bible is a great way to confuse you, screw you up, and keep your mind busy then." He was a bit taken aback that Peter had noticed the secondary reference. Two times could be dismissed, and it was usually the third or fourth repetition that caught attention. "I mentioned it because it's so painfully ironic. I think you think you 'need' it." By that, he wanted to convey his disapproval.

XXX

Peter tilted his head, surveying Sylar. _What does he mean by that?_ Peter shrugged. "I haven't read the Bible much." And with that, he left it alone. The possibility of religion being a touchy subject was bigger than his curiosity about Sylar's meaning. For the rest of the walk, Peter watched the buildings, the dripping, melting snow, and Sylar as the other man walked to his side.

XXX

Sylar met that look with a frown of his own. _Yes, you have. You've read it through at least once, which is more than most people_. Any Petrelli lawyer (or would-be lawyer in house Petrelli) would know the stories and morals in the Bible. The answer satisfied Peter, or if it didn't, Sylar didn't care. They were nearly there, so they were quiet for the rest of the walk.

XXX

When they arrived at the Pegasus, Peter stomped snow off his shoes and took off his coat. He hesitated inside the door to the rec room, eyeing Sylar, before taking off his wet footgear. His socks were still mostly dry, as a quick inspection revealed, but the open air would help dry both shoes and the few damp spots on his socks. He gave the piano a long look, but decided to forge on with his reading. He pulled out the book and took the end of the couch that put his right hand on the arm of the leather furniture. He flipped through the book, trying to remember what page he'd been on before.

XXX

Sylar watched the foot-checking display, mostly thinking Peter a weirdo for wanting to go barefoot in winter. _Why not leave your socks on?_ But he dismissed it and waited to see what Peter was going to do and where it would leave him. Sylar glanced between Peter and the piano several times, seeing the decision being turned over in his head but apparently reading some more won out. _Maybe he can focus on something for longer than fifteen minutes,_ he thought hopefully. Peter claimed his spot on the couch and Sylar followed, claiming the middle cushion just because. It was within the rules and he pleasantly anticipated any excuse the man would make to request or demand more personal space. He kept his face ambivalent and kept his attention on baseball.

XXX

Peter looked up when Sylar settled in next to him. The guy was close. It didn't bother Peter, but it registered as unusual, given that he could see the other end of the couch beyond Sylar with there being no obvious reason why Sylar had passed it up. _Unless he just wants to sit next to me._ Peter smiled to himself. _Maybe it's like when I touch someone in bed with my foot – I want to be close, that's all._ It made him warm inside to think Sylar wanted to be near him. "Take your shoes off. They're probably wet."

XXX

The smaller man said nothing about the proximity. Sylar internally crowed about that small victory. Peter wanted to talk about…shoes? _Was that what that was about earlier?_ Sylar hadn't thought much of it; it wasn't his apartment floor or carpet in question here. Curious, now, he leaned over and turned his feet about to determine their dryness. They were wet and his feet were cold but he couldn't tell how soaked the shoes were. Bent over and self-aware, he lingered before deciding what the hell – Peter was barefoot and wouldn't be doing anything Sylar couldn't do. If it was a plot, it was a silly one. Sylar removed his shoes and set them down away from Peter; then snugged his back into the couch and propped up his book. _They'll dry that way, I assume._

XXX

"What about your socks?" Peter leaned forward, looking at the articles in question with a proprietary interest. "You should take them off, too, and let them dry out."

XXX

_What about them?_ Sylar didn't move, warily watching Peter peer down at his feet or socks, whatever. _I guess they'll dry better off my feet. But then won't my feet be cold? Is frostbite a big deal where he comes from?_ Slower this time, he moved to strip off his socks, laying them over his shoes with a checking glance at Peter, remembering his shoes being stolen before.

XXX

Peter continued to eye Sylar's feet. "How are your toes doing? The one that you bro- stubbed?"

XXX

"Are you worried about me?" he asked, leading and amused in his tone. _Or are you just bored?_

XXX

Peter looked between Sylar's toes and his face, trying to judge the question. "I'm worried about your toes," he said finally.

XXX

_Ah_ , he thought, with a 'c'est la vie' attitude. "My toes are fine. They don't hurt anymore." _I could probably run on them. I'm not going to tell him that._ Before Peter could ask the whole rundown of injuries and their symptoms, he continued in a somewhat put-upon voice: "I'm eating better and my head hurts a little less; the nausea is only at the start of a meal or smelling some things; sleeping is a literal nightmare and it always will be; my ribs only catch sometimes for certain movements." He raised an eyebrow at Peter, daring him to ask something else.

XXX

Peter leaned away slightly as he listened. Sylar had his complete attention. _Sleep is still the problem. 'Always will be' – implies it always has been and the concussion doesn't necessarily have anything to do with it._ Peter gave a curt nod. "Thank you," he said, heartfelt. He appreciated the voluntary disclosure and took it as a complete report of everything Sylar was willing to tell him. Peter moved around in his seat a little to settle himself, finally crossing his legs so he could tuck his left foot under his right leg. It put his left knee out to the side, where it touched Sylar's leg and then pulled back for a few seconds. Peter had the book open by then and had found his place. He waited, poised for the moment, to see if Sylar would allow the contact or would move away.

XXX

Sylar stared a moment after Peter had turned away, almost disbelieving that the subject had dropped so quickly. _No psychological background quizzes you feel the need to put me through?_ Peter's self-serving interest didn't inspire Sylar much; he tolerated the illusion but didn't confuse it for anything but Peter worrying his only toy would die. That at least was something he could understand, because he felt it himself (though Peter was more likely to get lost or escape). With Peter occupied, Sylar hefted his own book even as he had no armrests. Before he applied himself to absorbing the text, now that he'd sat so close to Peter, he wasn't entirely sure what to do about it or with it. There were so many rules, he practically dreaded the proximity. _We're just reading. We can do that, can't we? We did it before and it was okay. This is normal; it happens all the time (I think)._ Then it was Peter who touched him! On…accident? Sylar didn't move, but watched from the corner of his eye the knee that poked him. If it was an unspoken message for more space, it was poorly given. It didn't seem to say that, because of its politeness. He waited to see what would come of it, all the while pretending to read.

XXX

It was allowed. _Yes._ Peter let his left leg relax so it leaned slightly into Sylar. That was good. It was what he wanted. That it was Sylar in particular had its downsides, but it hardly mattered for the simple, visceral, I'm-with-someone-and-they-accept-me vibe he got out of the touch. Especially here in this weird mental prison, having spent days with no one for company except Mister Bear – for Peter, this was a handshake, a peace offer and acceptance, in addition to tangible proof of companionship. He went off his near-constant DefCon of the day and careful monitoring of both himself and Sylar. Unsurprisingly, he was drowsy within minutes.

He fought it off for a while because the couch wasn't where he wanted to take a nap. Plus he was hungry, his right foot was cold, and the book was engrossing, but those weren't strong enough to keep his lids open. He flexed his knee slightly against Sylar, then lay his book down on the arm of the couch, leaned back into the corner of the couch, and shut his eyes. _Maybe I just need to take a moment to refocus ..._

XXX

He noticed out of his peripheral Peter doing…something other than reading. When Sylar looked, his companion's eyes were shut after he'd made himself comfortable. _Maybe he hasn't been sleeping well alone, either._ Sylar rested his own shut text on his leg and stared. He allowed his vengeful thoughts free rein for the moment, wishing for abilities so he could fuck over Peter's mind just like Peter had done to him; or perhaps touching the man while he could, for several kinds of satisfaction and comfort. He eyed the knee that was willingly, and perhaps purposefully, touching him. _(I suppose that means he trusts me)._

XXX

_Sleep is a nightmare …_ It was the last thing he remembered thinking, turning over Sylar's words and letting his brain free-associate off them. In his dream, it was Nathan sitting next to him, not Sylar. At first, they were passengers in an airplane flying dangerously low over the Andes. Then they were in the cockpit and instead of flying over the snowy mountains in South America, they were in the night sky of the northeastern U.S. It was the plane that had carried Nathan's body to the ground. As Peter realized that, he turned suddenly towards Nathan, hands groping. _We have to get out of here!_ "Nathan?" His voice was faint and broken, but it wouldn't have mattered if he'd shouted – Nathan was already dead. The corpse was strapped to the pilot's seat just as Peter and Noah had arranged, head lolling to the side. The sewn gash in his throat had torn during the positioning and was leaking. "No!" Peter's hand jerked. _There has to be something I can do! Wait, Jeremy's power! Didn't I have it when Nathan died?_

XXX

Peter was twitchy. _He must be really tired and really out._ As cute as Peter looked while sleeping (such a nostalgic, deceptive thing); it was boring. Sylar went back to reading, occasionally glancing at the odd spasm from Peter.

XXX

The timeline didn't make any sense in Peter's dream, nor did it need to, as he recalled briefly having Hiro's power, too, around that same period. _Maybe I'm here because I went back in time and teleported into the plane at just the right moment?_ It was a bizarre long shot, but he couldn't let it pass without trying. He grabbed at Nathan, straining at first to move his hand, managing only a frustrating fumbling. The plane was nosing down sharply, which only made him more sure that he'd come back in time to save his brother. The timeline fit – this would be after his original self and Noah had parachuted out. He redoubled his efforts, struggling against g-forces more powerful than they had any right to be. _I've got to do it. I_ have _to do it! I have to!_ His breath caught and his chest burned and finally ( _finally!_ ) his hand shot out and grasped Nathan's wrist. His fingers dug in. It felt so real! _Now!_ He tried to use his ability, to channel the healing into his brother's long-dead body. _What if he's been dead too long?_ He tried to look into Nathan's face, but Peter found his eyes were shut. With iron will, he forced them open. Everything shifted around him like vertigo, fading back and forth, and when it stopped, it was Sylar, not Nathan, that he had hold of.

XXX

He ignored Peter's somewhat fitful sleep – deep for a mere nap so soon after closing his eyes. That is until Peter managed to reach over and grab his wrist, check it with a squeeze, and then tighten until he had a good hold. "Wh-?" he began to voice, forgetting that this nutball was asleep (right?) Already he was raising the arm to shake Peter off. _No touching!_ he thought ironically; _Not when you're asleep or whatever the hell it is you're doing. You_ _don't_ _randomly grab people when they're reading! (I know he said he was clingy and weird in bed, but he_ _'s_ _napping!)_ "Hey, Pete!" he said, firmly enough, but the empath was dogged, leaning towards him and attempting to pull at the limb as if he couldn't bear to let go. "This isn't funny. Knock it-…" Then it felt like he'd been hit in the head again…sort of. Dizziness, vertigo, limbo, something, had the room towards him and past him, moving his perception but his body stayed still. He dropped the book. _What the hell?_ He'd felt that before somewhere…"Petrelli!" he barked and started grabbing at Peter's hand, intent to get it off.

Peter came to finally and Sylar was glaring, expecting a very good answer.

XXX

Peter's eyes widened. Breathing suddenly turned into something his body couldn't do properly without supervision. "No..." His eyes shot down to his grip on Sylar's wrist, then at his own arm, Sylar's arm, and back to Sylar's face because he was having trouble believing this was the guy he had hold of. _Where did Nathan go?_ "Nathan?" His voice was small and uncertain. No more had the sound left his lips than he let go, scrambling backwards in a ridiculous, but effective, flail of limbs, up and over the arm of the couch so he could take several unsteady strides away. He hit his right hand on the way off the couch, grunting at the sudden pain. It only served to underscore that he was really awake. No dream of Nathan being alive – only this waking nightmare: Sylar here, and Nathan gone. _I should have saved him! I tried to save him! Why didn't it work?!_ He couldn't tell if he was upset about the dream or what he'd done to Sylar at Mercy Heights, winning him back a few precious minutes with his brother. He'd wanted so much more. _Why didn't it work?_

XXX

"What is your-?" Sylar said just as Peter whispered that pitiful name – _Problem. The question answers itself._ He sighed. It explained nearly everything. He was grateful for the space Peter clearly needed and it was safer to give and leant over to retrieve his book, and then Peter's, which had been rudely knocked down. He chose to stand to do that, rather than reach awkwardly over the arm, so he walked around the corner of the couch and deposited both books on his side of the couch. Assuming that Peter would or could handle his nightmare, flashback thing was a mistake, as was taking his eyes off the man. Sylar had time to turn around, put his hands in his pockets, and see Peter pawing at his hair, pacing wildly and that was nearly his only clue that something wasn't right.

XXX

Peter paced in agitation, but this time his upset wasn't wearing off. The thoughts of the dream jumbled together with the book he'd been reading and the situation he was in. _Those people in the crash never gave up! They kept trying to the end, even when it meant they were starving to death and having to eat the dead. And what have I done? I've given up, quit trying, sitting here reading next to the asshole who killed my brother! I can't do that! I haven't tried everything yet. What if there's another way and I just haven't tried it?_ Set on doing something, anything, to reach Nathan just as he had in the dream, he rounded on Sylar. "You took my brother from me! You _took_ him!" He reached out with his left hand, having no idea what he was going to do but it was better than doing nothing. He'd woke up using his ability. It worked, sort of – maybe there was something he could do with it, like shove Nathan's soul out of Sylar's body like future-Peter had shoved him out of Jesse's. This whole place was a mental construct, after all. The only real failure was not trying at all. "I want him back!" Teeth bared, he tried to put his hand against Sylar's chest.

XXX

Sylar was so irritated at that point, intolerant of Peter's bullshit, and plagued by his own angry repressions that he didn't fuck around. _Get off me, weirdo!_ He had both hands out of his pockets when he saw that was a bad idea to keep them there, and his left hand shot out and tagged Peter's face as he tried to…do something. With Sylar's longer reach, he won the contact battle and had hopefully ended it. The control valve on his emotions was perilously, shamefully damaged, "We don't always get what we want," he snapped and sneered, referring to both of them.

XXX

"Ow!" Peter snarled at Sylar for the punch. It hadn't even been delivered with much force – it was more like a slap with a fist, disparaging and disrespectful at once. All it did was piss him off. "I don't need you conscious," he said, swinging for Sylar's head with everything he had.

XXX

Sylar had time for the reaction of confused concern about what kind of threat that was, but had no time for thoughts. Peter was stupid enough to swing for the head; he guessed it and saw it coming. Sylar was ducking and bringing his arm up to block and interfere with such a fatalistic blow. Peter's fist connected with his forearm and slid past it to clunk into his forehead at a reduced speed. Sylar was breathing fast and completely on edge, stunned and angry. _You don't need me alive!_ He swung fast and hard and without regret. "I don't need you conscious, either!"

XXX

Peter was already conducting himself poorly in the scuffle, but then he made his worst mistake – he hesitated. _Don't hit him in the head._ He hadn't, not hard, but he sure had intended to. It was only Sylar's reflexes that had saved the other man from a brain-rattling blow. _What if hitting him in the head concusses Nathan, too? (What if it kills Sylar?)_ That last was a startling, though real concern, even if minor. As if to knock that thought out of his head, Sylar punched him again and Peter didn't defend against it a lick. His jaws snapped together over part of his tongue, biting into it savagely although the 'padding' was probably what saved his teeth. He made a noise of pain and staggered back, grabbing at his cheek and wondering if he'd severed part of his tongue. _That would be bad._ It made him angry all over again and he went back to the fray, swinging with his right as a distraction.

XXX

Peter didn't go down or seem ready to quit; Sylar was straightening and watching around the time Peter righted himself. The little man telegraphed a right-handed punch or whatever he could approximate. Sylar was only too happy to let the idiot hurt himself. The wounded hand even came at him flat; it slapped against him more than anything else in self-defeated momentum. After that, he didn't give Peter a chance, batting away a weak body shot with his right, he swung left into Peter's chest, enjoying the satisfying connection. It had been foolish of Peter to start shit with only one good hand. Peter was reeled into Sylar's left blow to his head. It was awesome karma after having his ass handed to him with all the trauma to his ribs previously. He was in fine form and Peter was going down.

XXX

_This is not going well._ Peter knew that, blearily, even if he didn't regret having started the fight. He'd had to – he still felt he'd had to. It was for Nathan – it had all been for him. He wished he was giving a better accounting of himself here, but he could barely see through the blinding pain of whapping Sylar in the face with his broken hand. The other strikes Sylar was landing weren't helping either – the body blow wasn't good, but it was the repeated head shots that were the real problem. Peter had taken them pretty much full-on without juking and dodging to dissipate their force. The last one made the room wobble so much that he had no choice in falling to the floor.

XXX

Sylar laughed and climbed onto Peter, trapping the man's left arm against his body and his right arm against the floor with a knee to the bicep. He settled in and watched Peter groggily attempt to figure things out. A few well-placed slaps served to humiliate, wake up, toy with, and show Peter the massive error of his ways. It felt so good to win, soothing his deep anger at being ignored and devalued. "I told you not to mess with me, Petrelli. You keep pushing, not listening, always thinking you're better than me. Well, how does that feel?" Another smack resounded off Peter's face.

XXX

Peter let loose an inarticulate, enraged noise. _This is terrible. I have to get free._ _Soft spots, maybe?_ He twisted his left arm up between them and tried to whack at Sylar's groin from below, but the angle wasn't right, not to mention his complete lack of leverage. All he could do was ineptly hit Sylar's buttocks with his fist.

XXX

"You little prick!" Sylar grumbled at the attempted groin-shot. Even Peter, for all his big speeches about morality and fairness couldn't manage a few rules or even common decency – not to Sylar, anyway; and certainly not when it suited Peter's purpose to bend his own rules. Sylar wound up his right fist and let fly, snapping his target's head around to the side.

XXX

He shook his head, which caused everything to wobble. _Fuck, that's not good._ It felt like his eyes, or his brain, sloshed around at that. Peter shuddered, but he still had fight in him. _What do I have left?_ If his left arm was useless, then he'd go with his right. He tried to wrest it out from under Sylar's knee. Sylar, seeing the attempt, bore down. The pressure left an agonized trail across the muscle, but Peter still freed himself – or at least that limb.

XXX

Another right-handed punch landed while he gripped Peter's hair. "Nathan's dead! He's not coming back! You're dealing with me now! ME! Learn some fucking respect!"

XXX

_I have to stop this. I'm not going to lie here and be abused at his whim._ Peter's contused brain tried to recall if Sylar had any injuries at all worth accounting for – something Peter could exploit – but he drew a blank. _I've fucked this whole thing up._ His tongue was swelling and filling his mouth with blood so fast that he couldn't even talk his way out. He grabbed Sylar's wrist and yanked as hard as he dared, given that his hand might have been rebroken earlier. It at least gave Sylar one less fist free to pummel him.

XXX

Still, Peter would not quit, wouldn't submit, or even, apparently, know when to play dead and admit defeat if even for the sake of survival. It didn't matter that it was probably a defensive move, but being handled like some inhuman thing and treated worse had left its marks. He peeled off the weak, broken-handed grip and pinned it easily. Two, three more punches closer to the middle of Peter's face wracked his knuckles until Peter relaxed and lay still for a moment. Triumphant, he rose to his feet, standing over Peter.

XXX

There was nothing he could do; nowhere he could go. The thin carpet behind him wasn't enough padding to soften the effect of Sylar's blows. He took the full force on delicate facial structures not designed for such battering. No amount of willpower or determination or strength of convictions could prevent the damage. He broke, or at least his body did. He lurched and was finally able to move – Sylar wasn't on him anymore, but Peter wasn't aware of it. All he was aware of was that he was finally able to roll over, and just in time. He vomited blood and bile, enough that it would have worried him if he'd been able to think. He couldn't, though. There was nothing but a haze. He tried to rise on trembling arms.

XXX

He watched long enough to determine that Peter was still alive and mobile. The empath was thoroughly defeated, helpless, and no longer a threat for the time being. Leaving Peter to spit up all over himself was fitting lesson enough. Sylar left him to his own devices, needing space to cool down in his victory, sleep better, and hope for…change from a Petrelli.

XXX

Peter knew there was some reason why he should be on his feet, some reason that his life might depend on, maybe even Nathan's. He couldn't do it, though. Reality didn't care about his hopes, dreams, intentions, or desires. His mouth burned, his nose felt wrong, blood was pattering down under him with rapid, pittering drops – his blood. Another wracking wave of nausea dropped him into his own mess. Sylar's words from what seemed like so long ago echoed in his head: 'See? We're not going anywhere. We're trapped here forever.'


	104. Reluctant Caretaker

Day 52, January 31, Evening

Sylar walked for a while. It was the blood and gore on his hands and the sweat making him itchy and sticky in the uncomfortable cold that drove him to his apartment for a shower. This time, he'd been the one to walk away with barely any damage. Peter was a nurse and he'd take care of himself. It was exactly one of those brutal life lessons that Sylar, and sometimes Nathan, were familiar with. It was necessary for Peter to figure out that he was completely alone, that he needed Sylar, and he could no longer afford to fuck around with the closest thing to a person that he had. _Why is Nathan so much better than me? Is Peter…brainwashed?_ Sylar frowned at that new line of thought but refocused at the sting of the shower water on his knuckles.

XXX

After a while, the pain receded enough for Peter to form a plan: he would go get his shoes, and then he would leave. It wasn't much of a plan, but he wasn't that good at planning anyway, or so he told himself, so it was probably best that it wasn't too complicated. He started crawling towards the wall. His eyes had swollen shut, but the wall did not seem like something that would be too difficult to find. When he reached it, he turned left. By the time he'd reached the corner of the room, he'd lost track of what he was looking for. A little more crawling brought him to the piano. He put his hands up the side to figure out what it was. It wasn't until his fingers hit a high note by depressing keys that he comprehended where he'd ended up.

_I missed. The fucking wall. Little plan. Just a little one. And I couldn't do it. Not even that. Missed. Wrong way. Must have turned the wrong way. I'm such a fuck up._ He collapsed into the corner between the piano and the wall, miserable and feeling so much self-loathing that it made him nauseous – or maybe that was from too many head shots. _I like the piano. Where was I going, anyway? Might as well stay here. To die. Sleep. Whatever. None of it matters. I can't do anything right. Why would I be able to do that right, either?_ In a very vague way, he tried to use Matt's ability to leave, to get away, to shut everything out. The pain that blasted him was as bad as anything Sylar had landed on him. He doubled over, whimpering and then retching from it. _No, no, no!_ He cringed into his corner, pawing at the side of the piano in a vain attempt to get away until the agony faded. Then he just rested there, struggling to breathe around a tongue swollen to fill his mouth and a nose clogged with blood. He panted, blind and aching and defeated by his own inability, depressed and utterly without hope or goal.

XXX

Sylar went about his routine, bandaging his knuckles the way Peter done so carefully before. _I should count as a person to him, too_ , he remembered how important it was to Peter that he tend to him _. Things are different here – he has to understand that. I need him and he needs me. I'm sick of being fucked over._ A half peanut butter-jelly sandwich was his light dinner, his appetite gone as his thoughts jumped from unpleasant thing to unpleasant thing. His neediness was disgusting, stupid and pathetic after he'd won – he had no need to crawl back and sleep together with his enemy in their suite. He tried to read, stopping and staring, fidgeting. _I should be content here, like this, with him. Why does nothing work?_ Sylar found himself worrying over everything. Tonight's nightmares consisted of a clock he couldn't fix and desperately needed to while everyone he knew hovered over him and tortured him with abuse, deprivation, and electricity because he had no usefulness.

XXX

From Peter's point of view, hours might have passed, or days. He'd never been sharply aware of the passage of time here in Sylar's world, not the way Sylar was, and now he was concussed and suffering head trauma. He was hungry and stiff and wretched. He wanted nothing more than to fall down a hole into insensibility. He wasn't even sure where he was. His confused mind threw up strange scenarios: He was in the cargo container. It was dark and he was chained to the wall, unable to move. His whole body ached, but especially his head. Or he was alone in the crashed airplane he'd been reading about so recently. He was starving and he'd smashed his face in the impact. Sylar was lurking outside, looking for victims. The only thing Peter had to eat was Nathan's corpse. He retched again at the thought. The last scenario was just as bizarre and unreal as the rest – he'd leaped into Sylar's mind and they had battled one another off and on for weeks, but Peter had lost everything and was now huddled in a corner of Sylar's brain. There, he wept over Nathan's passing. He would stay there until the end of time itself while his body rotted and decayed, forgotten in Matt's basement. In all of the possible situations, he was helpless and hopeless, consumed by pain and grief, unable to process or move forward. What consciousness he had kept running on a hamster wheel of doom, unable to step off the treadmill and think anything productive.

Day 53, February 1, Morning

The next morning, Sylar was ready, hungry (in case the invitation to eat arose), and curious. He wanted to be uncaring about Peter as it would make everything easier. He was weak and dependent and…couldn't benefit from it. So long alone continued to affect him at every turn. He went to the Pegasus on a misty, overcast day of biting cold. A lucky glance in at the rec room showed that Peter was there – still? again? Scowling at whatever was going on, he drew closer and tried not to smell both vomit and blood. When he came around the piano to see Peter, he grimaced. Peter's eyes were bruised and swollen shut; his nose and mouth had bled with a few cuts to his face; the floor, his shirt, and face was a crusted mess; his lip busted, and he wasn't reacting or moving, probably blissfully unconscious. Sylar's stomach wasn't happy (and neither was his nose), but he'd developed an iron constitution after cutting into brains. Peter looked like death and hell warmed over; he clearly hadn't moved all night. Well, this was his regularly scheduled, unavoidable wake-up call. Sylar nudged him with his foot. It garnered less of a response than he would like. "Peter," he said at normal volume.

XXX

He heard a voice. It said his name. _Which reality am I in? Which timeline? Am I still in the plane? In Sylar's mind? Is the plane in Sylar's mind? Is the cargo container there, too?_ Something pushed on his leg and it stirred him out of his befuddled stupor. Peter literally peeled his face off the side of the piano, blindly turning in the direction of what instinct told him wasn't a friend. Alarm coursed through him as he finally began to take note of his horrible condition. He was defenseless. He raised his hand, but there was no saving bolt of electricity to drive off the intruder. He batted and kicked instead, then tried to wedge himself more firmly into the corner, turning his back to the threat and covering his head. His clothes, stiff with dried blood and worse, crunched as he moved. "Go 'way," he slurred, his tongue clumsy, huge, and painful in his mouth. _I have never felt this awful for this long in my life – and things are about to get worse._ It made him want to cry in frustration, if nothing else.

XXX

Peter…held out his hand like some kind of attack and after that devolved into a fit of attempts to fight Sylar off. It was only making his job more difficult. "Peter, knock it off." He grabbed Peter by the shoulders of his shirt (moderately clean as it was), too impatient to wait for the man to right himself, and instead, hauled with the intention of bringing him to his feet.

XXX

"No!" Peter tried to pull away from the hands that sought to move him. _I have to fight!_ He kept his left hand up to protect his face and tried to use the right to shove at … whoever. Sylar, he assumed, but it could have been someone else. _They might take me to the lab, or the plane …_ His legs were steadier than he thought they would be, although his ability to tell up from down wasn't working. He hit his hand on the wall or Sylar, recoiled violently from the pain into the side of the piano, and fell back to the floor. His chest heaved as it felt like the room was spinning. He switched hands, cursing himself for having forgotten which one needed to be protected. _I can't do anything right!_

XXX

Peter was acting like a complete child. Any little thing was setting off overreactions. "Get up, Peter. No- use your legs," he commanded, grabbing him this time under the armpits. Like a child. _Did I hit a reset button on him yesterday or something? Why is he acting like this?_

XXX

Peter tried to shove Sylar away one-handedly, but he was blind, Sylar was not giving up, and Peter was beginning to fear that he'd piss the guy off and get another beating. He could hear the irritation in Sylar's voice. It grated on Peter's ears and gave him a new spike of anxiety. It would be so easy for Sylar to hurt him and although Peter didn't fear death, he didn't want any part of more pain. "No," he tried again as he was forced to regain his feet, but this time his physical resistance was limited to uncooperative stiffness. _There was a word … a word that meant something …_ "Stop," he said. It didn't make any sense that that word would help him with anyone, but he tried it anyway.

XXX

Finally, a word that made a bit more sense. _He'd better not puke on me._ Peter's bell had been thoroughly rung, so Sylar stayed put with his arms under Peter's, holding him up with the thought that Peter needed a minute for reasons unknown.

XXX

Everything stopped. Peter even held his breath for a few seconds, waiting … but yes, it had stopped! "Stop, stop," he repeated, both hopeful and inane, his voice weak with relief. As soon as he had his breath back, Peter reached out tentatively to touch at whatever portion of Sylar was closest. That seemed to be his chest. _Didn't all this start with me reaching for his chest?_ He flinched and moved his hand up, finding a shoulder. _He's tall_. "Sylar," he said unnecessarily, but it made him feel good to have put a definite label to the person. _He didn't hit me for touching him. (You mean he hasn't hit me again yet. I'm sure I didn't get beat up like this on my own.)_

XXX

Peter feeling on him was what made the most sense: panicked and hopeful fumblings, trying to see his surroundings, his rescuer with touch alone. _He's totally blind. And he'd been here all night because…he can't see and he can't smell._ It was sick, but it was part of what he'd been looking for, being needed by Peter, which was one of the causes of this conflict. No one else was going to (Peter needed to know that), and no one else could if Peter was unable. "It's me," he said in response to his name.

XXX

_Yes, okay, got that._ Peter's brain managed to work that out – this was definitely Sylar. He nodded brokenly. His head hurt with the motion and it felt like the floor tipped. He wanted to sit down again, but Sylar had hold of him. It being Sylar, and him settling on that as a positive identification, did nothing to ease his nerves. The only thing that would have upset him more would be to find it was Arthur holding him. He stood very stiff and still, trying to work out what he should do.

XXX

Sylar understood what Peter must be feeling and thinking, none of it nice. "We're going up to the suite," he explained and began to turn his charge. He would clean the hell out of his coat later.

XXX

_Why?_ Barely articulate around his tongue, he said, "I can die here or there; it doesn't matter." He tried to pull away, preferring the coziness of a corner of hard floor, wall, and piano to wherever Sylar of the annoyed voice and unyielding hands wanted to put him. An annoyed Sylar was frightening in Peter's current state. There were too many things that could happen, Sylar was too unpredictable, and Peter couldn't process it all. It would be safer just to stay, and for Sylar to go away. _If he thinks I'm a pain in the ass, maybe he'll just leave me here._

XXX

Sylar had free reign of expression since Peter couldn't see it. He rolled his eyes, "Uh-huh." He wondered if he didn't know something important that Peter did about his condition. _He said the first twenty-four hours are crucial. (And I left him here. He could have died?) He was moving when I left! How was I supposed to know? He's alive now and he's not going to die on me because he's lived this long._ Sylar got his arm under Peter's right – thinking ahead that the left hand would be useful for feeling things out and holding himself up, and it was easier to get him out of the corner. Hugging Peter to him to prevent any crazy squirming that would result in Peter taking a header, Sylar tried to pace their steps together for ease of motion given their height difference. Peter was stumbling all around, barely helpful but not exactly deadweight; he was jumpy, too.

XXX

Peter resisted passively, moving only as required, unhappy about each step. He felt very unsafe in the open air without the wall and piano close at hand, without the floor supporting him in a way that he was unlikely to tip over and fall. Now he had only Sylar to cling to, an untrustworthy support at best, and so Peter went along haltingly, constantly fearing that at any moment he would be dropped.

The first step on the marble tile of the lobby nearly caused such a fall as Peter yanked his bare foot back and Sylar was forced to take up the slack. "Wh-?" When the world stopped lurching crazily, Peter stuck out a foot to test the flooring. It was cold and slick. He pressed on it; it held. _That's the lobby. Okay, that makes sen-_. Sylar pushed him forward sooner than he would have liked. Reluctantly, he went.

He twitched at the dinging of the elevator and again at the sound of the doors opening. He recognized the sounds, at least, placing them and stringing together a mental yarn map with stickpins at 'piano', 'rec room doorway', and now 'elevator entrance'. _Why are we going somewhere?_ He balked again, declining to take a step into the elevator car until Sylar manhandled him into it. As Peter was keeping his hands close to his body and had a horrible sense of balance, it wasn't that hard to do. _I don't want to be in here!_ It sounded close and small. Peter shrank from it, which was tough – it was everywhere. _First it's too big, now it's too small._

Peter reached up and touched his face, feeling over contours that were hideously unfamiliar. He could imagine it, though, from faces painful even to look on at work. Auto accidents were the worst. _My eyes …_ They were puffy and huge. _Should I try to peel a lid back and see if I can see? That's dumb – I shouldn't do that_. Wanting to hide, just get away and turn his back to everything, he made another half-hearted attempt to shift away. Sylar would have none of it, so Peter stood with his hand over his eyes, breathing unevenly.

XXX

Once in the elevator, Sylar didn't let Peter slink away as the man indicated he wanted to do with all that leaning. He didn't want to put Peter down, have him be sick in more places they would have to clean, and not be able to get him up again or have to deal with a struggle in a moving metal box. _Maybe he doesn't know where he is?_ "We're going up to the suite now, Peter. We're almost there," Sylar repeated himself and enunciated in case something was wrong with Peter's ears, too. "Just don't puke," he muttered, hefting Peter at the ding of the doors and started down the hallway.

In the suite, Sylar set the table chair out for Peter, sliding him down into it. "It's a chair. Sit down and I'll be right back." He'd spotted the most-convenient medical bag. _Maybe that was a good idea for him to get that._ Though it was yet to be seen if there was anything in it that Sylar could use or that would be of use to Peter.

XXX

Peter almost fell off the chair the moment Sylar's hands left him. He wasn't quite sure what happened – it wasn't intentional. He just kept leaning in the direction support had been, then had a sudden wave of vertigo as he felt himself going down. "Whoa!"

XXX

Sylar had been about to walk past and get the bag off the wheelchair. He heard Peter exclaiming and saw him leaning towards the floor. A quick step-and-a-half back had both hands on Peter's shoulders, righting him and applying some pressure so Peter could…tell which way was up or whatever. "Sit. Sit until I'm done. You can lie down after."

XXX

The tone of voice was still harsh. Peter pulled away from it, tense under Sylar's hands. He shifted his feet so they were further apart – maybe that way he'd notice if he started to tilt again. By chance, one of them brushed against something. As Sylar walked away, Peter's toes explored the thing. _Another chair leg? Or the table – the chairs are near the table. I'm at the table in the suite._ He thought about the layout. He could remember it, but he already couldn't remember how far or even if Sylar had pulled the chair any distance from where it had started. _My short-term memory must really suck._ He reached cautiously to his right, finding the table with only a minor bump to his right hand (accompanied by a grunt). He hung onto it as firmly as he could.

XXX

He waited a beat to see that Peter could sit on his own. To be fair, a chair required more balance than a corner. Sylar brought the medical bag over to the table in front of Peter. "This is your medical bag, the one you brought here from the hospital?" _What happens if he doesn't remember? What happens if his brain is_ _mush_ _? What if he doesn't get better? (No, no, no. I can- I have to fix this. I will fix this)._ He opened it without waiting for anything Peter had to say.

XXX

Peter heard rustling consistent with one of the canvas trauma kits he'd lugged from the hospital. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to answer or not, so he didn't. He turned his head in the direction of the sound. _Is he going to hold me accountable for what's in there?_ A weird vision of Sylar standing over him like an angry drill sergeant, forcing him to disassemble and reassemble his medical kit while blind, came to mind. Peter wasn't paranoid enough to take the fear seriously. _He's probably going to do something for me. I hope? Or maybe he's hurt, too?_

XXX

There was no answer. Sylar tried another question as he went through the bag's contents, "Do you know what's wrong with you?" He lifted out the fabric scissors ( _never thought I'd be happy to see scissors_ ), a band-aid, some alcohol wipes, and injectable morphine and tablets of other basic drugs like Tylenol and Ibuprofen. It was a good start. _I should give him credit – something he is prepared for. (I wonder if the IV will help?) I wonder if he can answer._ What's more, there was nothing sinister in Peter's go-to bag.

XXX

"I …" _Is this a trick question? Is it safe to answer?_ He breathed harder and leaned away, far enough that he had to grip the table harder when his equilibrium tried to overcompensate for the motion. He didn't remember the fight itself – something about trying to get Nathan back and not wanting to give up – but he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't connect two and two. He and Sylar had been arguing. Now he was in a world of hurt. They were not unconnected. He tried to go through what he knew of Sylar and his personality to figure out what he needed to say, if anything. _Can I trust him not to hit me if I don't give him the right answer?_ He remembered putting his knee on Sylar's leg and feeling relaxed in the man's presence for the first time in a long time. That was very recent. _Was that what the fight was about? I let my guard down? Is that what's wrong with me? Or is it that I wouldn't give up on Nathan?_

XXX

Looking over his new 'tools' with the occasional glance at Peter (it was pretty pointless to look at him except to be sure that Peter was still upright and conscious), he persisted. "What are you feeling right now?"

XXX

"Tense. Upset." _Anxious. Scared._ Peter hesitated, waiting to see how that would be taken. He was so tired of being on edge.

XXX

Sylar huffed. Of course, Peter would take that as a literal, emotional question. So he clarified, "Are you okay? Does everything feel normal?" Not for the first time, he wondered if Peter was being intentionally avoidant.

XXX

_He's angry. If he gets angry enough, he'll hurt me. (Or maybe he'll leave?) Thinking is hard. Way harder than it should be._ "Um … I have a concussion," he said slowly, putting together his symptoms. Then he was ducking his head and flinching from something- It felt like the air movement right before something touched you, but Sylar was in front of him; the 'motion' had been from the side and rear. After turning to face that direction for a few seconds, Peter decided it was nothing. Sylar might punch him in the face, but he didn't think the man would fuck with his sanity. He faced Sylar again, his neck aching with the movement. "I'm … uh, no, things aren't normal."

Peter swallowed and his stomach churned. _I should give a report of myself. That's what he wants. If I was a patient and he was the paramedic, what would I tell him?_ His breathing slowed a little from the frantic pace it had been keeping, as he applied himself to the task. _My ABCs are okay. So it's cause of injury next, right?_ "I think I was in a fight … with you. I woke up with … um," he reached up to touch at his face, "my eyes swollen shut. I can't breathe through my nose. My face hurts a lot. I don't know if I have broken bones in it. My teeth are intact." He paused a moment to check that. Most of Sylar's blows had apparently been to the upper part of his face, but he could pick up the raw meat taste of his busted lip, so not all of them had been. "My tongue's wrong, but I'm not choking on it." Most of his words were clumsily rendered, but he was managing. He swallowed again. That was difficult and painful. "I'm nauseous. I have to urinate." That was a good thing, Peter supposed. It meant he hadn't gone on himself while unconscious or in a stupor. "The rest of me feels okay. I mean like hands and arms and stuff. My balance is fucked. I can't think." _That's not a very good report._ He worried over that, but he was already exhausted from what little he'd said and the mental effort in putting that much together. He sagged in the chair. "My right hand hurts like hell," he added, since that probably wasn't apparent to Sylar and he thought it needed to be said. He didn't talk about how he still wanted to go hide in a hole.

XXX

"That's good," Sylar said aloud, arms folded, hip against the table as he watched Peter and catalogued injuries. He was about mid-way through categorizing what could be treated and how when he realized how that sounded and hastily corrected it, "I mean: that's what I needed to hear, not…necessarily good that it…happened." A concussion, tongue, eyes, the hand, and a trip to the bathroom. Thankfully most of it could be treated if not outright cured, even more fortunate was that Sylar had taken so little damage that he could treat Peter. "I'm going to cut your shirt off. Just stay still." That was the first order of business and it was done only with a sense of purpose and little notice of the human form beneath the garment. _(Is this how it is…was for him? Sick people really aren't sexy)._ And seeing Peter's eyes like that…It was gross to look at on anyone, but Peter's beautiful eyes weren't there to…watch him and react to him. It was as if more than part of his face had been erased.

XXX

Peter stiffened. He could sense Sylar's proximity, like there was a buzz from him, or maybe it was the same way the elevator car had felt small and the rec room had felt big. He felt Sylar was close before the man touched him. He drew back and even with Sylar's announcement, Peter put his left hand out to find him and help keep track of him. _Why is he cutting off my shirt? Do I have injuries under it?_

XXX

Sylar put his right arm into Peter's hand without thinking about it much. It would make everything safer and smoother. With his left, he guided the scissors down the front of the disgusting shirt, parting it in half until it was only connected to Peter around the shoulders and arms – those were cut next. The crust of filth cracked and fell to the floor in the wake of the scissors; he would have to clean that up later. Sylar stepped back carefully, "I'll be back in a minute." He took the shirt to the kitchen, balling it up then throwing it into the trash. He got warm water started in the sink and brought several hand towels from the bathroom to wet them.

XXX

Peter touched over Sylar's arm tentatively – the one with the bicep pressed to his palm so neatly that Peter assumed it to be intentional. He was still careful for a moment, waiting for withdrawal. When there was none, he relaxed a little and let his hand rest on the muscle, gaging the tension in Sylar's body by how he moved. When Sylar moved away, Peter listened as the man busied himself. He felt of his own body idly – chest, abdomen, sides – relieved not to find anything out of place. He was scratching at a few crusty spots near his collarbone when he heard Sylar draw near again. He went back on the defensive immediately, leaning away, breathing harder, and half-raising his left hand in front of him.

XXX

"I'm back," he announced himself, thinking of that line from Terminator as he did. "I don't know how much you can understand, but I've got a wet washcloth first, then some alcohol." Sylar pulled out the other chair, placing it in front of Peter. Sitting there, he said, "Upper chest," before wiping with the towel. The mess came up fairly easily, fortunate so Peter wasn't scrubbed raw. It was strange to return the favor like this – not the beating, but taking care of someone to this extent. He remembered that Peter hadn't been happy about that.

XXX

_Caitlin's cloth wasn't as warm._ Something inside of him broke at the realization of the parallels. There were differences, for sure – he wasn't tied right now and didn't have any abilities, but here he sat, bloody, shirtless, helpless, memory compromised, unable to flee, and being tended by someone involved in how he had ended up this way. The tiny consideration of waiting for the water to warm up rather than going with a cold cloth made Peter huff out a breath that was half a sob before he gathered it back up and got control of himself. The kindness seemed to clear his head for a moment. _He doesn't have to clean me at all. It's not like I'll get an infection. Caitlin did it because she thought I might talk. She said so. He's not doing it for that. I don't think he expects anything of me._

Peter's left hand found Sylar's elbow and touched it as tentatively as he had the arm earlier. _Hey? Okay?_ At first he was just tracking the limb as Sylar scrubbed at his collarbone, neck, and other areas that didn't have bruises on the other side of the gore. He wasn't shaken off. _It's okay._ Peter cupped Sylar's elbow and settled in there, holding him. It came as an almost physical rebuff when Sylar finally pulled away from him.

XXX

Sylar turned the portion of the towel frequently as he moved up towards Peter's face. He was careful but it was difficult to be gentle with a towel and as much gunk as Peter had on him. He didn't think anything of the contact when it didn't interfere with the cleaning. It served the purpose of allowing Peter to 'see' and anticipate Sylar's movements faster than Sylar verbalizing it. It also meant that his care was being accepted, not that Peter had much choice. Peter was considerably more relaxed now, not so twitchy _. I wonder if that's because he's choosing to touch me and that helps him or because I'm treating him, cleaning him, whatever._

With most of the undamaged stuff cleaned, that left Peter's face. The washcloth was…well. Sylar took up the second cloth, "I'm going to the sink again." He stood and wet the second towel, leaving the first in the sink, then sat across from Peter.

XXX

"You don't have to do this. Thank you," he spoke, voice small. He held his hands in his lap, guilty for imposing, especially on someone who hated him as Sylar did. _I'm putting Sylar in the same fucked up position I was in with him. It's wrong._ "Listen, I ..." He was so tired – of being tense, of being afraid, of trying to think and keep up with what Sylar was doing and why. "I don't think you should do this. There's … there's no point, Sylar."

XXX

Sylar noted that Peter was aware enough to thank him. "I think I should do this. I know what I'm doing – more or less." He wasn't going to argue with the concussed 'patient' as he supposed Peter was. It required patience more than anything, and something of a kind disposition to do this job; he would manage it. _I guess taking care of Mom all those years might come in handy._ This was considerably different. Since it had helped before, he placed Peter's hand back on his arm. "Doing your face now."

XXX

_You know what you're doing?_ What _is it you're doing? Does any of it_ mean _anything?_ Peter struggled with the questions that bubbled up in his mind. In the meantime, Sylar had put Peter's hand back on his arm so maybe that was an answer all by itself. The contact came as a relief so thorough it was physical. It was a tie between them and Peter wanted to believe it was something more than merely functional. He rubbed Sylar's elbow and the back of his arm, feeling the cloth under his fingers and guessing at what Sylar's shirt looked like.

Peter lifted his chin and occasionally pulled in his breath a bit more harshly when it hurt, but otherwise he stayed as still as he could and let Sylar work. When he moved up to Peter's eyes, Peter took his right hand from the table and put it on Sylar's shoulder. _Whoa. Whoa. Ow. All of that hurts._ His lips tightened and his fingers shifted on Sylar, but he kept his grip pressure light and didn't complain verbally. He didn't want to be pushed away or resented for taking what he needed to get through this. He was so vulnerable he ached with it. Hanging onto someone was what he needed to stay sane.

XXX

Sylar kept the contact between skin and cloth as light and brief as he could, going up around Peter's mouth and nose, cleaning the few facial cuts, then up around and even over his eyes because it had to be done. "Easy. Almost done. Almost done….There. Finished with the towel." Next was a quick wipe down with some alcohol wipes involving some sting. "Here comes the alcohol. It's going to hurt for a minute." Peter's skin was sensitive and raw more than open and bleeding per se.

XXX

_Alcohol? Does it need alcohol? I don't think I need that in this world. Maybe it needs the astringency?_ Peter flinched when it hurt. "Ow," he said with affront. Feeling betrayed, he took his hands from Sylar and put them in his lap again, hunching unhappily, corners of his mouth turning down. This pain was different from cleaning his face. It seemed unnecessary. _How much of what I think is going on here actually is? Does he care if he hurts me?_ Sylar's voice had been no different than any other time during this – workmanlike and uninflected. His body had not seemed to relax from Peter's touch, but merely to tolerate it. It set on ear Peter's idea, with the warm cloth and the contact, that Sylar might have some regard for him, some sympathetic impulse. _He said he'd take care of me and that I wouldn't like it. Is that all this is? A duty? (What else would it be? He hates me. I hate him.) I don't want to be in this world if that's all it's ever going to be – him hating me, me hating him._ He felt miserable again, looking down the barrel of a gun to endless fights and impersonal care-taking, if any at all.

XXX

"All done with that." He put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "I want to try to get you into a bath, wash your hair out, okay?" Sylar had been thinking about this. A shower was out – Peter couldn't stand, couldn't see, and probably couldn't wash himself or figure out how to. Sitting in the shower would put hot water on his face more likely than not, so a supervised, nonsexual bath was the best idea. And if Peter was coming to bed, the sheets needing to be washed notwithstanding, he was going to be clean. Sylar told himself it would make the smaller man feel better, too.

XXX

"I don't need a bath," Peter slurred. "This is stupid." He knew he was sulking because of the sting of the alcohol and a perceived rejection of a supportiveness that probably hadn't been there to start with. Petulantly, he shrugged off Sylar's hand. "If I don't mean anything to you but someone to not be bored with, then go away."

XXX

Sylar had noticed the withdrawal but couldn't guess at the cause until Peter voiced it. Sass at this point was ridiculous, but when someone was concussed (he'd discovered) things didn't always need to make perfect sense. "It's not stupid. You have vomit, blood, and snot in your hair and the only way to get that out is a bath." Sylar put his hand on Peter's lower back, not trusting his ability to stand or walk but allowing the illusion of freedom since that was apparently important.

He went slower as the hallway to the bathroom was confined – the bathroom wasn't small (this was a penthouse suite after all), but two grown men, stuck together by necessity made it trickier. The bathtub was separate from the shower stall, so there was a ledge to the tub where Sylar would probably sit (or lean over). "I'm going to…" and here he –they – hit a snag. Peter had to urinate, with a broken hand, dizziness, and no balance or sight. "Um…You need to piss, so…I'm going to take your pants down, okay?" He held Peter with both hands on his ribs, standing in front of him, ready to catch or guide as needed. Peter's hand had been led to the ledge of the counter to assist with this. He waited for some kind of response.

XXX

"No," Peter said firmly. He knew he sounded as pointlessly irascible as any elderly patient intent upon trying the patience of the nurse. But like so many elderly patients, he wasn't getting what he wanted, emotionally, out of the exchange and this was the only defense he could muster. "Show me the toilet and I'll sit and do it." He struggled to recall the layout of the bathroom and to parse it from all the other bathrooms he'd been in lately. It wasn't a room he'd tried to memorize. Getting to a toilet was something he needed, though. The bath – he wasn't too sure of. _I'm too tired for a bath and I can't be that dirty. Just prop me up in another corner and I'll be fucking peachy._

XXX

_I can't 'show you' the toilet – you're blind._ Sylar exhaled, not necessarily angry or frustrated; he was more at more working through the various problems Peter felt compelled to present. "Okay, fine," he agreed a little to quickly, knowing Peter was aware enough to want privacy…and that Sylar had just made what must seem like an attempt to molest him. With a flush of embarrassment, he added, "It's better if you can do it yourself anyway. It's behind you a half step and to your left."

XXX

When he was done with the toilet, Peter wanted to argue about the bath. He wanted to fight – for his dignity, his rights, and maybe a little respect. Peter wanted to be more than a patient. He wanted to be special. But he was so tired from being on the defensive for so long, from having his one moment of what he'd thought to be kindness directed at him thrown into question, and, well, the concussion. He wanted to turn off his brain and fuzz out again. Sylar was not letting him. Peter sighed dramatically. _It doesn't sound bad, really – lying in warm water. Maybe I can fall asleep in it. (Maybe I can drown in it.)_ "Fine," he said, clearly not fine.


	105. Understood Needs

Day 53, February 1, Late morning

When that was finished, he brought Peter to sit on the ledge of the tub. "The water's going to go on." The suite was so swanky it filled up with lukewarm water rapidly. "Towels are around here somewhere. Then I'll see about finding you clothes." _Anything to get his sweatpants back. (I think they're back at my place…Ehem)._

XXX

Peter pushed off his jeans, then hesitated. All he had left was his underwear, having been barefoot to start and Sylar having cut off his shirt. _Do I want to be naked in front of him? (Do I want to take a bath in my underwear? I have to pick one or the other.) I'd rather not take a bath at all. (I don't think he'll let me do that.) I could fight him. (Uh-huh. That would hurt. And it wouldn't help anything. I might hurt him and I shouldn't do that.)_ With another sigh, this one annoyed, Peter started to push down the black boxer briefs. He'd been naked in front of plenty of others. Sylar could just deal with it.

XXX

Sylar caught the motion and quickly instructed, "Just leave those on." _Is…What was that about?_ He kept his eye on Peter now, having heard multiple sighs in addition to the recent bratty behavior.

XXX

_Okay. That settles that. He doesn't want to see me. (I don't want him to see me, either.) What would happen if he did see me?_ Peter didn't want to find out if his exhibitionism kink could overwhelm even the most unsexy of situations with the most undesired of partners. He climbed in the tub with care, difficulty, and more than a little wobbling. He could feel Sylar's hands supporting him at moments, which was helpful even if he still mentally begrudged it.

He sat in the water. It was nice. It was warm. He ran his left hand back and forth through it. _My knuckles don't sting. He didn't clean them. Did I never hit him? My right hand hurts. That must be what happened – I hit him with my right, or he hit it, and then it was all over. He climbed all over me. That sucks. That's not how it's supposed to be. 'That's not how it's gonna come at you at a game, Pete,'_ a memory of Nathan's advice informed him. Sylar was pouring water on his head and Peter tipped it cooperatively to allow it. _Yeah, right, Nathan. This isn't what I thought I was 'ready' for when I said that at your funeral._ He gave up his internal dialogue with the depressingly recent past. Peter touched at his eyes, worrying over them, and then carefully traced his nose, trying to tell if it was broken. He let Sylar do as he would, enjoying the contact, the fondling of his hair, and the warm water. He tried leaning against the side of the tub and trying to sleep, but Sylar kept annoyingly pushing him upright and continuing to mess with him. He made whining noises to protest the mistreatment of not letting him doze and adopted a put-out air for all of a few seconds each time. _Isn't he done yet?_

XXX

The hardest part was getting the water onto Peter's head and keeping it off his face. Nothing would hurt more than 'hot' water sliding over already abused and swollen skin that needed to be left alone. Sylar managed it by tilting Peter's head back and placing a protective hand over his forehead and temple to encourage the water to bypass his face. Peter was helpful with that much and he was quiet for it. Knowing it was probably very wrong, he allowed himself to enjoy touching and caring for Peter in this way – fingers in his hair, hygiene ritual, cleaning him in an intimate setting. It was strange, forbidden, and wonderful. He noticed a bump on the back of Peter's head and worked around it. When he'd finished with the shampoo (apparently taking longer than he should have), he tried to briefly clean the rest of Peter's upper body about the time his patient began to try to lie down and rest in the tub. Sylar was proficient at this part and didn't linger, draining the tub and guiding Peter out.

XXX

Peter leaned against the wall and dried himself in the most skimpy of fashions, which meant he dragged the towel across his skin like … once. Everything seemed like too much of a bother. He was exhausted and now he was warm and probably as comfortable as he was likely to get standing up. If he'd been able to combine those with a feeling of safety, then he would have already been passed out. As it was, he felt very irritated by his companion and wanted to drive him away so he could get some rest. "Why am I even here if you don't care?" he blurted, wiping at his wet underwear with the towel. _I don't think I should sleep in wet clothes. What do I do about that?_

XXX

"Because you can't care for yourself," Sylar stated, kindly leaving out the word 'clearly.' "You need to eat and rest so you can heal. You aren't going to get that covered in muck in a corner or asleep in the bathtub." He'd kept his eye on Peter, not as dry as he should be, looking exhausted and copping attitude whilst leaned against the wall. Said attitude wasn't quite bad enough yet to remind Peter he'd agreed to accept medical treatment from Sylar as needed.

XXX

"No," Peter said with what he thought was unusual clarity, "I mean why am I here, in this world, if you can't help me? If I die here, then maybe I'll get out, and if I don't, then at least I'll be dead. I won't be here bothering you anymore with my … issues and things."

XXX

"Are those my only options?" Sylar said wryly and with distaste. "Don't take it personally; you can't help me, either." _Or you won't, either way._ He'd had enough of Peter's goofing around, so he took up the towel and set about finishing drying Peter, a little wary of being attacked for some reason. _Everything is about him._

XXX

Peter didn't notice the towel slip from his fingers, but he stiffened when he was scrubbed with it. Startled, he lashed out with his right hand in a heel strike that whiffed through empty air. Then he realized Sylar must have gone to a knee to dry his bottom half. He hesitated. _Do I fight him? Fuck, I'm so tired! All he's doing is drying me off. Why am I fighting with him over this?_ Peter deflated and leaned against the helpfully supportive wall again. _I should trust him. He's doing right. It's okay. I don't need to fight back against everything … or anything. It's not the same thing as giving up._ He reached out and felt around in the air calmly until he found the edge of Sylar's hair. It was just a faint, skimming touch before he pulled his hand back, fearing Sylar might find it inappropriate if he continued. _I should trust him,_ he thought again. _Does he understand what any of this means to me? Or why I fight?_

"I'm serious, Sylar. This isn't something I haven't thought about before … or, even, tried." He waited for a beat before relating an example, "That night, Noah and I were up in the plane with Nathan's body, staging that crash that you might have seen on the news. When we jumped out … I almost didn't pull the cord. It would have been simpler, easier … to just go … with him – fall, you know? Maybe he'd … he'd be there, like he always had been. Like I always wanted him to be." Tears leaked out under his puffy lids. "I stayed because I thought I could do something. What can I do here, Sylar? I could still go …" _I'm in a penthouse apartment here. I wouldn't even have to go far._

XXX

Sylar paused, crouched down as he was, towel in both hands working at Peter's legs that couldn't stay dry because of his dripping underwear. He stopped and stared up at Peter. There was a lot to process. _He crashed that plane? With Noah? No autopsy report? Wouldn't a car wreck have been easier? I…He's always been…like this. Suicidal,_ _dramatic_ _,_ _rash, depressive, whatever it is. (Has he been like this the whole time…or have I ignored it?)_ In many ways, he understood it, personally, empathically; Peter's loss mirrored some of his own, as did his reactions to it – Peter had finally snapped yesterday. Sylar stood and obeyed his instinct to touch and ground his companion, placing a hand on neck and shoulder even as he frowned unseen. It explained so much – Peter's craziness, lack of logic and planning, his disregard for Sylar and his own personal care, among other things. And now Peter was crying, in pain, tired, fucked up and hurting. It was wrenching and Sylar didn't know how to fix it or even how to go about comforting a murdered man's brother. _He acts like he needs me to comfort him but he won't accept some things from me – how do I know which is which?_

Peter's confession made him worry for other reasons, selfish ones, like concern that he'd be left alone because Peter couldn't take it or handle the 'tough it out and get used to it' trial Sylar had been putting him through. _(If anyone is supposed to die here, it's me – he said so!)_ It kept coming back to his own unmet needs while having to bow and scrape to please Peter. It made him angry, feeling helpless and burdened. _Why is he telling me this? (He wants something that I've been overlooking. He thinks I can do something about it and he doesn't have any other choice but to trust me right now)._ "What do you want that I can give you?" he specified the realms of the possible to avoid the obvious answer that had started the fight before, 'I want my brother back.'

XXX

Peter adored that hand on his shoulder – it was sympathy and comfort and well-wishes all in one. It didn't still the tears he could feel trailing down his face, salty tracks that stung. If anything, they fell more plentifully. "I want to make a difference, Sylar! I've been here two months and sometimes it feels like I'm still on Day One. I'm tired of things not changing! I'm just so fucking tired …" His lean against the wall turned into a beaten-down slump. "Can I have some recognition from you of the hole you've put in people's lives? I need something to help me see you as a human being. I need to know you realize I care about … my brother, other people, Emma, what's happened and whatever is going to happen. If what I care about doesn't matter to you, then I don't have any reason to be here."

XXX

Sylar supported Peter with a hand on his chest/shoulder in case the slump was Peter abruptly falling to the ground. _Fucking me would probably 'make a difference.'_ Once more, Peter's frustrations were blamed on Sylar's inability to provide…general happiness for his only companion. _The world doesn't change – it's my fault. He can't live up to whatever he wants to do – it's my fault for holding him back. What about his fault? We already covered that,_ Sylar mused with a bitterness so foul it hurt. Then, at Peter's words, a tiny butterfly of hope struggled free. _He wants to see me as a human being? (I don't know that I'm the best person to help with that…)_ "It comes at a price, Peter," he grated out around a suddenly gruff throat, "I have things that matter to me, too." He'd ceased to look at Peter's pathetic, sniffling face and went back to drying him and trying to avoid his own stupid reactions. "I know it's never been like that before, but it is now."

XXX

Peter tried to make sense of that. _A price? Why hasn't he told_ _me_ _about it before? Things that matter to him … but … he's not saying it's a price_ I _have to pay. Maybe it's a price_ he _has to pay. And he doesn't want to. Or he doesn't think it's worth it, or would work._ "I'm not going to give up, Sylar. Whatever it is, we can work it out; we have to. Together, you know? Or not at all ..." His voice slurred badly at the end. Sliding down the wall to the floor sounded very inviting.

XXX

"Wrap the towel around you. You're going to sit on the bed. I don't think this is a good time to talk about this," he tried to deflect the painful, necessary conversation. _(Is my throat going to act up every time we try to talk now – or is that because he tends to go for my throat every time I try to say something important?) Goddamnit_ , he shrugged it off. Sylar still couldn't be sure Peter was even mentally competent – it might be like talking to a drunk who wouldn't remember it sober.

XXX

Peter carried the towel that was handed to him, but wrapping it around himself was too much. He went where Sylar led him because it was easier than arguing. "Sylar, I don't-" He couldn't put together the words. He couldn't even put together the thoughts. "I need to know," he managed, not sure what it was he needed, but sure there was something unresolved here. "This isn't finished."

XXX

When pressed again, Sylar sighed and gripped the clean and dry pair of underwear he'd found for Peter. Standing in front of him like this, even blind or especially when blind, was disconcerting; Peter couldn't see him – the nuances were lost and Sylar was a poor translator. "I don't know about all things being equal but I can guess that they matter to us equally. At least, that's how it has to be for anything to work. And it's not-" he stopped before he said he didn't not care about Emma or the Carnival or whatever Peter wanted him to be involved with. He didn't care, not really. There was no evidence other than Peter's claims and a half-baked, unreliable dream. "I think you're wrong, but I understand that it matters to you," he eventually summed up, leaving out his own feelings, plans, involvement, and even leaving out the part about it making no sense. He'd thought his own arguments about it had implied understanding; Peter probably needed that frustrating hope and pesky validation that eluded most people, including Sylar.

XXX

Peter swam through the words with the greatest of difficulty. It was like swimming in concrete. Whole phrases went missing on him. There was too much said, but then something snagged his attention and finally connected. "You understand me?" he said hopefully. "I want to understand you, too," he said in the same tone, looking up where Sylar's voice came from and making an abortive gesture towards reaching out to him. "That's what it's about … that's what it's all about ..."

His intentions to say more were cut short by Sylar taking the damp towel from him and replacing it with a set of dry boxers, along with the identity of the thing he had given Peter. When Peter just sat there, Sylar gave directions. It was the eventual tug at his waistband that got Peter to moving, pushing Sylar away and changing his clothes on his own. His head hurt with the motions, but he knew he would rest better in something dry. His mind stumbled over something about temperature ranges and hypothermia. As far as he could tell, Sylar had moved away for the time being. He might have been watching, but Peter had the sense he was not. Changed, he laboriously pulled himself upright again, wondering if they were going to keep talking. "Equality, right?" he murmured, trying to recall the conversation.

XXX

"Lay down. Come on," Sylar herded him up into the bed, unexpectedly wrung out and tired himself. He wanted to be done. This was the point in his limited 'humanity' where things started falling apart because he couldn't maintain it. He wasn't patient or gentle enough; not smart, understanding, experienced, useful, capable enough. _I can't even take care of you for a few hours,_ he thought in despair. _I know it doesn't seem to matter to you, but I do it anyway; because that's all I can do._ Sylar saw that Peter was too far gone to eat; his motions clumsy, his mutterings finally insensible. He tucked the little man in. _I do the best I can, Peter._ The last was emotionally complicatedly tangled, _Damn you._

XXX

With difficulty, Peter found a position that didn't put too much pressure on the side of his face, nor on the back on his head, which was also tender. _My shoes …_ "I don't have any shoes, Sylar," he tried to say, but his words might have been too slurred to be intelligible. He lifted his head and tried to focus. "How will I get away if they come for me and I don't have any shoes?" His voice was clearer this time, but even he could hear the whining tone of exhaustion in it. He was too messed up to realize Sylar wouldn't know what he meant even if he got the words out right. _It'll be okay … he's here … He came back for me._ He let his head fall to the pillow. His breathing evened out as he relaxed. _I haven't given up. He understands me. We'll talk more … later._

XXX

Sylar frowned, coming back to put a hand on Peter's bundled form. "No one's coming for you," _Unfortunately_. "It's just me." _That isn't very comforting for him, is it? I guess I'm the only one coming for him. (To save him or end him?)_ he quietly asked himself, discomfited at his own self-honesty. At least Peter seemed to be realizing his predicament and this was the long-expected fallout. The empath slumped and hushed, hopefully asleep, so Sylar patted him and moved away. _This is good, right? He's finally getting something into that thick head of his._ Sylar understood it all too well, having had to come to these realizations of letting go of hope without companionship and thinking about it every day for four years. He had to try and consider things from Peter's perspective, where family and friends were left unaccounted for. _(Is that better or worse than my case of knowing no one was coming for me? Hopelessness is easier to accept)._

Sylar checked him a few moments later but he was out cold. Peter didn't (yet?) have the phobia of losing his partner in such a large world – and he was asleep. Sylar went downstairs to bring up the man's shoes, coat, exercise clothes, and all the books. While he was there, he looked for the man's brace, then dug out the mop bucket and some soap for the mess in the rec room, applying it and leaving it to soak. He'd want gloves to handle the actual clean up anyway. Back in the suite, Sylar swept up the floor around the table, cleansed the sink, threw away the towels and closed the trash bag. He snacked on some cheese and brought his book with him to lay beside Peter to pass the time.

XXX

If time passed, Peter wasn't aware of it. He only knew that at one moment he was alone; the next there was someone there. He didn't know how he knew it, because the bed wasn't moving as far as he could tell. Maybe he felt the heartbeat or breathing through the mattress – something biological and largely subconscious. He reached for the person. They weren't close. He crawled across the bed, gingerly because he seemed to be hurt to hell and back. Thinking about the injuries (and the weird fact that he couldn't get his eyes open – was he dreaming?), he remembered believing he'd had a fight with Sylar, then a meaningful talk, and this must be Sylar he was going to now. It must have been a good talk, because Sylar's presence was desired.

Peter sank down next to him, slipping uncertain fingers around Sylar's elbow, and pressing the upper part of his forehead to the man's bicep or deltoid. "Don't leave me," he said, the emotion of his words resounding on several levels. It was the pathetic, pitiable plea of a boy who had waited days and sometimes months for his hero to return for such brief visits, not the declaration of the solitary person fate seemed determined he should be, what with his broken relationships with his family, fragmented love life, and abilities that strained all attempts at even casual friendship. He didn't have the strength to deal with it alone. He was unguarded at that moment, and sad. There was so much to grieve, he didn't even know where to start. After a few undignified, painful sniffles, he fell back asleep.

XXX

Peter stirred after a while. There was no way for Sylar to know if he was conscious, dreaming, or what, but luckily it didn't matter at the moment. He allowed the touch, placing his hand atop Peter's as he thought before speaking. _(If it was possible…if I had the chance, would I leave him here alone?)_ Peter had already expressed that he thought it was wrong for anyone, including Sylar after the things he'd done, to be left alone in a place like this. Certainly Nathan wouldn't leave him; the very idea was insulting, unthinkable. Sylar…still felt that Peter needed to suffer his due punishment for dehumanizing him and hurting him where he could not be healed. Both of them knew what it would do to Peter if he were ever abandoned in nearly any capacity. Peter was weak that way, but he was strong or brainwashed in his ability to see it. _Maybe he does need a brother after all. And I'm not saying it's me or that it has to be me – but he's clearly very dependent. One of us was right_ _: '_ _the world hasn't seen anything yet_ _. I remember him saying he wouldn't leave me, either (of course, I didn't believe a word of it). I still don't believe him about anything – what he says, what he wants isn't possible; it never has been. (That wasn't the question)._ A long minute or two after Peter had made his…request, Sylar answered it. "I won't leave you." He petted the hand on his elbow now. This was…allowed; Peter wanted it as well as needed it, so it wasn't Sylar's perversions. _He was good to me when I was injured._

The rest of the day and night, he didn't wake Peter, not even for painkillers on a very empty stomach. He would be clueless with anything injectable. So he did his best to comfort. Sylar took it further when Peter….sniffed and whined in pathetic need or genuine pain; Sylar stroked at his back, upper shoulder and arm because those areas hadn't been hurt, "Shh."

Day 54, February 2, Morning

It was thirst that finally woke Peter. He groaned slightly and rolled away from Sylar. His brain was not functioning too well. Neither was the rest of him. _What the fuck is wrong with my eyes?_ He touched them. His right hand ached. _And why am I sleeping without my brace?_ What had led up to 'now' was fuzzy. He remembered talking with Sylar and Sylar … tending him. Peter tilted his head back and lifted his eyebrows as much as possible. He could just barely see the narrowest sliver of the world. _Huh._ He turned his head back and forth, recognizing the penthouse and recalling that Sylar had told him that was where he was going to take him. _Oh hey!_ Peter realized suddenly, _My eyes themselves are okay! I can see! Fuck, what the hell would I have done if I'd been permanently blinded? … I suppose that would have just been something to adapt to. Glad that's not an issue. Can I find the bathroom like this? There will be water there._ It was tiring to hold his face like this, though, and the energy he'd gotten from the realization was fading. He felt his way along the edge of the bed, pausing at the corner of it and trying to take his bearings. _If I just keep following the wall, I'll get there eventually._

XXX

Sylar had been up and around, gathering up necessary things like more clothes, food, and ice for when Peter woke. It was nearly twenty-four hours since he'd put Peter down to sleep and naturally he'd readied himself for bed and slept alongside Peter. It was the surreptitious, shuffling noises that told him something was different than Peter's other stirrings. "Peter?" he called when he opened his eyes and found his companion gone. _Uh…I didn't think I needed to restrain the concussed, suicidal, sleepwalking blind person. Literally falling asleep on the job here._

XXX

Peter hesitated for a moment. _Sylar? That's Sylar. We slept together._ It seemed stupid, but Peter felt a need to remind himself of these things. Some of his memory seemed fine; some did not. "Sylar," he answered, but without the questioning tone. He wasn't sure what else to say, so he continued on to the bathroom, following the wall and taking care not to run into anything along the way.

XXX

Sylar exhaled, very relieved that Peter was around and alive. Whatever Peter was doing, he likely needed supervision if not help. Sylar was down the hall in seconds. _I never claimed to be a great babysitter, but I did think I'd do a better job than this. I mean…a day and he's barely moved or spoke and then this._ Peter was already in the bathroom.

XXX

_I've had ass that tasted better than my mouth does right now. (Actually, I would not put my mouth on an ass that tasted this bad.)_ Although his drive to get to the bathroom had been to drink, once there he became preoccupied with cleaning – first his mouth, then his nose. He felt over the tender, swollen, lumpy parts of his tongue that he'd bitten at some point. He could recall it having been so large that he'd liked to have choked on it. Comparatively, it was much better. He rinsed his mouth repeatedly, then drank from his cupped hands as thirst reasserted itself. His stomach was not thrilled with the new contents and roiled unhappily. Peter stood at the counter, feeling of the counter top and wondering if he was going to vomit into the sink over something as minor as a little water.

XXX

Sylar loomed in the doorway, a protective presence, frowning as he assessed Peter's balance and capability to be in there alone. With a mental shrug, he voiced it, "Are you okay to be in there?" _He made it this far._

XXX

"Hm?" Peter turned, having zoned out and forgotten Sylar was there. "Yeah, yeah, I think I'll be fine."

XXX

That wasn't totally believable, but he allowed it. "Are you feeling any better?"

XXX

Sylar's words were tiny prods just as they had been the day before, each phrase requiring more mental energy than Peter thought it should. He felt along the counter to where the toilet was. "Yeah, better," he said distractedly. "I'm going to use the toilet." 'Go away,' was what he wanted to say. It wasn't until he had his boxer shorts down and was sitting that it occurred to him: _There is a door. I could have shut it._ He didn't have much urine to pass anyway, which was not a good sign, he knew. _I need fluids._ Returning to the sink after, he washed his hands, rinsed his mouth again, and took another drink, as big a one as he dared. He ambulated back to the bed, thinking, _Lie down. Get some more rest. Worry about fluids later._

XXX

"Ah," Sylar said and went to hover in the hall. Peter emerged after a while and returned himself to the bed under Sylar's watchful eye. He approached to place a hand on Peter's shoulder, confirming to himself that Peter was somewhat alright and to Peter…well, he didn't know what he was trying to say. "I'm going to get you some food. It's been a while. You might feel nauseous but do your best."

XXX

Peter automatically put his hand up at Sylar's touch, finding the man's hip and returning the contact. He remembered being patted and comforted in the night. _Was that a dream, or did that happen?_ "Okay," he said agreeably. "I will." For someone who had been kind to him, he'd definitely do his best. "What am I going to eat?"

XXX

The reciprocated contact had Sylar exhaling with surprised, pleasant feelings. _That's definitely sick – enjoying this. He didn't mean to touch me there._ He lingered a moment. _I never said I wasn't…perverted. He knows that._ "Soup," his voice had changed, softening or something equally stupid.

XXX

Peter nodded and felt of his right hand after Sylar moved away. It was swollen and tender, but there was no protruding bone or other sign of horrific injury. "What happened?" he asked. "With the fight, I mean – how did it start?"

XXX

Sylar was in the kitchen, heating the stove, and getting out a mug for the soup since anything with a spoon wouldn't do. "You started it and I finished it." By now, he knew that was an insufficient answer for the curious and stubborn Petrelli. "You came at me, saying you wanted your brother back and that you didn't need me conscious."

XXX

"Hrm," Peter grunted. He could vaguely remember that – or more accurately, what Sylar said fit with what shadowy memories Peter was able to recall. _I_ do _want my brother back. But … I didn't need Sylar conscious? What was I going to do?_ He had the feeling his ability had something to do with that, but he couldn't connect the dots. Feeling over his hand again, he asked, "Do you know where my brace is?"

XXX

"I looked for it but it wasn't downstairs. I don't know where your apartment is," Sylar smirked at the future necessity of knowing where Peter lived. It was a half-truth, since there were many ways of finding out which exact apartment Peter used – but those ways depended on Peter using the apartment, being there, traveling to and from. "I brought your shoes and exercise clothes up. We can always tape your fingers."

XXX

"My shoes?" Peter said hopefully, perking up. "Good. How long has it been since the fight?" He felt over himself, belatedly realizing he was mostly naked. _Sylar must have changed my clothes … Oh._ The vulnerability that implied frightened him – not the nudity so much, but his helplessness and lack of memory of it. Again, he remembered his back being petted in the night. It seemed like less of a dream and more like something that really happened. _He's been okay with me, right?_

XXX

"About two days. Do you remember anything?" Sylar felt both dubious and hopeful and some of it leaked into his voice. _That would suck to beat him up for nothing. Of course, talking to him is usually like talking to a deaf person. Talking to anyone, really._

XXX

_Two days._ Honesty seemed like the best policy. "I remember some. Are you angry at me?" It was an important thing to know, especially when Peter was not in a position to protect himself from that anger.

XXX

The soup was warm and the question should have been expected. With Peter it was emotion based, 'are you _angry_ at me?' and in the now. Sylar shrugged as he poured the lukewarm soup into the mug. It was another thing to struggle through answering. _(He can't hurt me)._ And how honest should he be here? He always harbored…things like that, the anger, hatred, pain, need, hope; the mess of it all was what drove him to a more refined, elevated goal. "I wish you wouldn't ask me things like that," he muttered, bringing the mug and a napkin to Peter. "I have the mug here, give me one of your hands," and guiding them together, then sitting himself. "It should be the right temperature. And if you have to get sick, I have a trash can standing by."

XXX

Peter took the soup, cupped it with his left hand and made a few small prods with his right to get it positioned as he wished. He had not heard most of Sylar's muttering and had the feeling he wasn't supposed to. That was bad. Did Sylar resent him – for starting the fight, for having to care for him, for both? _I might be okay if he just left me alone. (Key word: 'might'.)_ But he didn't want to be alone, quite aside from the safety considerations. "Am I safe with you?"

XXX

"Yes, I suppose you do have to ask that of the resident monster," he snapped. It was a ridiculous and insulting question after he'd tended to Peter for a day, never mind any deals or reasonable vulnerabilities like blindness. Just as Peter had complained, it was back to square one. "You'll never understand me with that attitude. Just…accept what is and don't…don't push it, Petrelli." He felt like he was embellishing what he'd said yesterday, about…understanding, but this time it had struck a nerve. Like Peter hadn't done anything monstrous recently or ever. He wanted to stand and be away from this annoying source of words, but Peter was blind and he wasn't so upset that he'd forgotten his charge. After several harsher breaths until it deepened, he finished more calmly, distantly noting that it was both better and worse to communicate with him when Peter couldn't see, "Obviously, you're safe. I haven't been taking care of you, not so much as fucking with your head, just to hurt you some more."

XXX

Peter quietly and cautiously pulled into himself, raising the cup in front of his face as he hunched his shoulders. The words were hard to comprehend over the sound of threat in Sylar's voice. _Yes, he's angry with me. No, I'm not safe_. He sipped his soup. It was tomato. He liked tomato, even if his stomach had different ideas at the moment. _I can't throw up. I shouldn't make things harder for him right now. Be a good patient, get better, and get out of here._

XXX

"Just…tell me what I need to do for you right now." He'd softened his voice near to a whisper after the sickening twist of watching Peter cringe and clam up. _Still a monster. And he wants to erase everything and get along. He really does._ It felt like his stomach, heart and lungs all dropped with stillborn hope. _It won't work. Treating me like anything other than what I am has never worked. He can't do it. I can't do it, either._

XXX

Peter nodded slowly. Sylar's change in tone worried him _. Is it false hope to think he didn't mean to scare me? (Maybe he was just being defensive?) I'm not a threat right now._ Holding the cup with his left, he reached out in Sylar's direction, feeling along the bed until he found Sylar's knee. He brushed it for a moment and then leaned back, dizzy from the small tilt it had involved. There was no comment (defensive or not) or pulling away from the gesture, which reassured Peter enough for him to speak. "I need … supervision … so I don't do anything stupid. Obviously I need help with anything that requires seeing."

It was easier to put his mind towards this – how would he deal with himself as a patient. Simple modeling of symptoms and treatment were something drilled constantly in both nursing school and as an EMT. _'Subject is presenting these symptoms, what's the diagnosis? What's the treatment?'_ "Um, I need an ice pack regimen to get the swelling down. I need some painkillers because this hurts like hell and I'm going to be a problem for both of us if this goes on for hours." He knew he'd get irritable and lash out eventually. Clearly, that would be very bad. "I don't think you have the patience for it and I can't … shouldn't drive you off. So, medicate me. I should have some morphine in the bag if the pills don't do it, and I don't think they will today."

He tried to recap for Sylar's benefit. "Um … ice packs, six hours or so; painkillers; let me rest; make sure I don't get dehydrated like you did. Keep my head elevated." It occurred to him that he'd slept flat in the bed. At least in the corner, he'd been propped up correctly. He sipped some more soup, forcing it down and trying very hard to be compliant.

XXX

_That's all?_ Sylar wondered. It sounded…easy, provided Peter was drugged thoroughly enough. Meanwhile, he'd have access to Peter and all things Peter-related. "Okay. How much morphine?" _Does that mean he trusts me?_

XXX

Peter tried to remember what formulation he'd selected. _It's injectable. It's standard, right? I didn't get anything weird, did I, with a higher concentration?_ "Uh, ten maybe? Milligrams, I think? I know intramuscular is fine." _That would be a stupid way to die, or get brain damage_. He struggled to weigh his risks – annoying Sylar, or inaccurate dosing – both of which were rife with uncertainties. He didn't know and so he held his peace.

XXX

Sylar nodded, "Alright. I'll get the stuff." He patted Peter's shoulder again, gratitude for his cooperation (even after being snapped at) and something of an apology for that (even though it wasn't his fault) and as a momentary farewell. He gathered up a fresh syringe, morphine, an alcohol wipe, three ice packs, a bottle of water, tape and the elastic wrap. Using pillows to prop Peter on Peter's usual side of the bed first, he set about doping him up – into a vein on his right arm.

XXX

Peter had forgotten how deft Sylar was with a needle, something he had reason to appreciate soon enough. The more rapid onset of the narcotic was a relief. An intramuscular injection would have had the same effect, but spread over fifteen minutes or more. This was immediate. He still hurt, which was another relief – it meant he hadn't been mistaken in the dosage and the bottle was standard – but the drug took the edge off and that was what he really needed. He settled in as Sylar arranged him, declining the offer of taping his hand, but accepting the ice packs readily. He ended up with one behind his head between skull and pillow, one lying loosely over his right hand, and the last required wrapping his head with an elastic bandage to protect his eyes, then he had to hold it with his left hand whenever it slipped from its precarious balance. "I should probably take something anti-inflammatory, too," he said near the end of getting him situated. "Maybe ibuprofen?" _If I can get the swelling down, I'll be able to see and I won't need so much help._

XXX

_I thought of that earlier, something for his nose…More meds, but I won't argue an anti-inflammatory and ibuprofen is low stuff._ He brought it back and pressed the pillows into Peter's hand, the bottled water into the other. Peering into the mug, he urged, "Try to drink some more soup." He left Peter's spare clothes alone for now.

XXX

Peter swallowed and sighed softly. He remembered his thoughts from a few days before about him urging Sylar to eat while the guy was concussed. The memory came with how Peter hadn't eaten lunch the day of the fight, unsettled by the gruesome details of his book. _I need the food, he's right, and I don't want to be the sort of patient I wouldn't want to treat._ With determination, he took another sip, then another, until he thought he'd drank as much as he had before. There was still a lot left in the cup, but he handed it back. Any more, and he'd risk throwing it all back up.

XXX

Content with his work and with Peter's progress, he got food for himself, then freshened up and returned to sit next to Peter (after snagging the rest of the pillows from the guest room). With Peter's eyes the way they were, it was impossible to tell if he was awake or conscious – there was no eye motion at all due to the swelling. It was a little disconcerting but it didn't matter much as Sylar read to himself. _It's a good thing I can read for days. I should have left that clock here, the one he found and gave to me. Maybe I'll get it later. I can see why he might like doing this. There's nothing else to do and it's easy work if your patient behaves._

XXX

Eventually, Peter felt the mattress depress as Sylar joined him, which Peter found comforting. Seconds passed. Noises. A page being turned. Time passed again. Another page turned. Peter adjusted the ice packs and wondered about Sylar's reading speed. _Could I use that to figure out how often I should shift the ice? But do I have the concentration to stay focused on that? I don't think so. It's too long to just sit here and do nothing but count and listen. What was I reading before all this?_ He remembered the book and the story of the Andes survivors, as well as the message he'd taken from it – a reminder that he shouldn't, couldn't give up. _That's what started the fight. I wasn't going to give up on Nathan._

"What do you mean when you say Nathan's dead? You and I have both been dead before." Peter asked it calmly. The dampening of pain, the quiet, and the soothing chill of the ice packs had taken the edge off emotionally, as well. "I thought Dad was dead for a long time, but he came back." _Couldn't Nathan?_

XXX

He'd barely gotten into the book when Peter spoke. _What was that about not annoying me?_ he thought wryly, _And what a good time to ask more of_ those _questions – when you're already beat to a pulp. (At least it's safe to talk)._ Sylar pursed his lips in distaste. "I mean that he's dead and you buried him." A…complicated thought struck him, one that invoked very mixed reactions. _What about Claire's blood? Some kind of healer? No! I'm not encouraging this. Damnit! No wonder he doesn't believe me when I tell him it's over. (Like some people should stay dead? I'd be one of them). Survival of the fittest. (Who am I to judge? That makes me no better than Peter playing God)._ He shifted and frowned heavily.


	106. The Truth About Mercy

Day 54, February 2, Morning

"How do you know he's gone?" Peter asked, undeterred by Sylar's statement. It was a crazy world indeed when 'he's dead and you buried him' wasn't a guarantee of someone's passing.

XXX

Sylar gave him a look of disbelief that went unseen. _Really?! If you really need to hear me say it…_ "Because I killed him and watched him die."

XXX

Peter pulled back and made a restless motion with one leg. It hurt to hear. _You stayed and watched him die? (Why would he do that? Was it to make sure, or … was there … some kind of … dignity to it, something spiritual or honoring him?)_ He'd heard that some hunters felt that way – a oneness with their prey, and a respect that seemed bizarre given they were inflicting death, but Peter's hospice training had taught him that people had a lot of different ways of dealing with the end of life. It left him curious about Sylar's way. He took a deep breath. His thoughts turned back to Nathan. "What was it like when he was there, with you, in your … body?"

XXX

That had his jaw clenching, lips tight, body tensing. He took a few moments to…not snap at Peter again. "That's…very personal." _Doesn't he know something of what it feels like? He's been put inside someone else's body before!_

XXX

_Yes, it is,_ Peter mentally agreed. He could hear the tension in Sylar's voice. He put down the ice pack that had been on his face and carefully extended his left hand to find Sylar's shoulder. He touched briefly before pulling back and replacing the ice pack. Some seconds passed as Peter considered what he knew and what he didn't know. _I also don't know what Sylar knows and doesn't know. Are they just blank spots for him when Nathan was in control, or was he along for the ride like I was with Jesse?_ "Do you remember what he said to me," he swallowed roughly at the memory, "at Mercy Heights? And what happened there?"

XXX

"/You said we'd made it through all the craziness; we'd make it through anythin'.// I tried to tell you…And you hugged me. I…made you let him go. /I told you to accept that I was gone; that you had to carry on for the both of us. Fight the good fight. You've always been everything good in the world. And I had a feeling the world hadn't seen anything yet. You can do anything, Pete. Anything. Remember that. I love you./" Sylar groaned and squirmed away. It felt like dying, killing himself, killing a part of himself and having to continue living a half-life, saying goodbye forever to a deeply, truly loved one who didn't belong to him – wrenching, agonizing, tear-filled, foreign, voyeuristic, unwanted, pathetic. It gutted him, closed his throat and he found a tickling, wet trail on his cheek, another about to start. Every twisted bit of it was true and that was almost worse. "Fuck," he growled, clapping his book closed, and standing to rake an eternally frustrated, shaking hand through his hair. "Of course I remember! I made you let him go! Fuck!"

XXX

Peter listened with wonder, hope, and horror as those familiar words were recited to him nearly verbatim. _He's … slipping,_ he thought numbly. _His identity slips when it's emotional. That's when … Nathan surfaces._ He swallowed again and pulled away, caution provoking him to bring his knees up halfway when Sylar left the bed. _Nathan's voice … he even sounds like him, as much as a different throat can._ Peter sniffed, unable and unwilling to hold his emotions at bay. To have his brother so close! It was such a reminder of him, like a last voice message saying exactly what Peter wanted to hear. And he had no power to reach out and grab Sylar and make him into the brother he'd lost. Hearing that voice and those words, the inflection and the meaning, Peter had a flash of empathy for his mother, for how and why she might have done what she'd done with Sylar. Even just the shadow of Nathan's presence was more comfort than the gnawing, empty void of it. Yet he knew it was pointless – Sylar was not Nathan. Trying to force him to be was a violation to both of them. Frustrated tears of an aching heart trickled down his face. He covered his face with the hand that was holding the ice pack, letting it slip in front of his face so the towel wrapped around it would dry him. For a while, he was quiet, breathing unevenly and occasionally snuffling.

XXX

Sylar paced to the kitchen, swiping at tears he couldn't be sure were entirely his own. He was angry at Nathan, Peter, Angela, the Petrellis in general, Bennets, and Parkmans, at himself…And it fucking hurt and he didn't know why. He'd been helpless to help himself for as long as he could remember, let alone helping Peter. It was fucked up to deal with this with Peter and Peter with him. Even his limited empathy got that loud and clear through unmistakable irony. Sylar dug out a bottle of water for himself and tried not to slam the door of the fridge. He wasn't sure who he was most angry at (or who he should be most angry at). Basic things like giving Peter space or holding Peter with his bloodied hands was so convoluted and he was supposed to have the answers. _Morphine isn't going to cut it,_ reminded him of his constant failures to fix people, heart, mind, and soul. So he had to listen to Peter cry, and mourn, and hate him through those already fucked up eyelids. As it wound down, he crept back into the bedroom, bringing Kleenex because that much was needed, sitting at the middle-edge of the mattress on his side of it. There was everything and nothing to be said; Sylar didn't know where to start. He pressed the tissue box against Peter's left hand.

XXX

Peter twitched at the impersonal touch of cardboard. He felt over it, knowing Sylar was trying to give him something. Finding the tissues, he nodded and pulled the box over. He made a motion to move in Sylar's direction – for contact, a hug, anything - but aborted after only a few inches. He couldn't see the other man's reaction. He didn't know if he would be received well, and it was obvious Sylar was saying something about Peter's countenance. Since there was no shift, word, or motion during his few seconds of immobility, Peter pulled back, turned away, and cleaned himself up.

When his tears had dried, Peter still had questions. "What do you mean, 'You made me let him go'?" There was hurt and uncertainty in Peter's voice, along with a little suspicion. Although Sylar had said nothing of Nathan's desires to stay or go, the way he phrased it made Peter wonder what would have happened had Sylar not interfered. _What if Sylar had left Nathan alone? Could I have talked him out of leaving? Is he still there, but Sylar's keeping him from … being?_

XXX

_I guess that is the next natural question. Is that what I'm supposed to do? Give him answers?_ That certainly seemed to be the pattern, one that Peter wanted and this time it wasn't going to end in a physical fight. " _ **I**_ was there on the roof with you. But you're so stubborn. You got it into your head that it was Nathan up there and you wouldn't shake. So…I faked everything to get you to accept what…had happened." It was uncertain how much blame could even be laid upon Peter, who'd done what was desired and expected of him by growing attached to what he saw as his brother. Angela would have known that was needed. There was no Nathan without Peter's say so.

XXX

_He faked everything? What was there to fake?_ It didn't make sense and so Peter ignored it. "I know you were there," he acknowledged. "I know it happened. I want to know what Nathan was … feeling when he died that second time, at Mercy?" He hesitated, wishing there was some way to implore the information from Sylar, hoping the man would give him what he wanted. He had to know, and Sylar was the only one who knew for a fact: "Why? Why did he go?" His voice broke slightly with the final questions. _Why did he leave me? On purpose … rejected … again._

XXX

Sylar stilled in horror. _Is that the problem?!_ "It wasn't him at Mercy! It was me! All of it. He never came back – it was all me and my abilities and your mother and Parkman. It was my body; anything you did you did to me." He did not apologize for the emotional outburst. Sylar moved into the bed, reaching out to touch Peter's arm and will understanding into him. It took a moment to calm down from his own struggle.

XXX

Peter was shaking. He had no idea how to react – recoil, attack, sob? He was frozen in place, realizing now what Sylar meant about faking it. Precious last moments Peter had treasured with his brother were … false. So false! He wouldn't say they were a lie, because it … _it was exactly what I wanted to hear from Nathan and he never said to me._ Tears started flowing again in earnest.

XXX

In a quiet, strained narrative, Sylar continued with what Peter wanted and needed to hear, "Nathan died at Stanton. From…what I've gathered…he died to protect you because the two of you weren't winning – weren't going to win and he knew that. You were the vital key for success, if you got the right ability from me. You were in the middle of being electrocuted to death, so he attacked me and…sacrificed himself to save you and preserve the plan – save the president. He…was a soldier and he was there to perform his duty. He didn't think twice about it, Peter."

XXX

They were comforting words. It was so strange to hear them from Nathan's killer, stranger still to think that had been Sylar 'faking it' at Mercy – hugging Peter, holding him, seeming to struggle from one identity to another, refusing to save himself, and saluting Peter as Sylar sauntered off after the fall. Peter couldn't begin to sort his emotions. He didn't try. He just let his heart pour out his misery. There were so many jagged wounds in his core that needed to heal, and this – this was a start. It was (and it felt like) the truth. He fumbled with a fistful of tissues and then turned towards the only other living being here. It occurred to him that Sylar might not appreciate being made to witness Peter's distress, but it was only a second of thought to conclude he didn't care what Sylar did or did not appreciate in this matter. _If he doesn't want people upset, then he shouldn't kill the people they love._ Peter huddled close to the man, held on to him loosely, and was gratified (and surprised) that Sylar had enough patience and empathy to endure it. _Nathan wouldn't have._ It made Peter cry all the harder to think such things.

XXX

Sylar shifted up and around to be sitting against the headboard, following Peter's lead as he wished to scoot closer. He went so far as to lay an arm around him as he sobbed his guts out. It left Sylar definitely feeling…something. Like regret for hurting Peter this way. It was extremely uncomfortable. Parts of him even thought to take advantage of Peter's obvious weaknesses – because Peter was weak now, on the inside. Seeking comfort from Sylar meant that Peter was accepting some things, perhaps even his own weakness.

XXX

He felt weak after grieving – tired, like sleep was half-claiming him already. _Nathan never … he never said that to me. It wasn't him. He never said it._ That was one of the hardest things to take. Nathan's actual farewell, according to Sylar, was no less noble in dying for Peter and Peter knew how much like Nathan that was – infinitely more like him than pointless suicide (by falling, of all things). Peter could see that now, but it still hurt to know Nathan hadn't said those words to him.

He pulled away from Sylar and tried to clean himself up. The tissues were sodden. He dropped them to the floor next to the bed on his side and plucked new ones. _Sylar knew Nathan better than anyone in the world. Did he pick those words because they were likely?_ He sighed, despondent, because he knew in his heart Nathan would have never said something so unconditionally supportive. _I should have known._ "I saw him in the future," Peter said, turning back towards Sylar, "the future when I met you, or you-as-Gabriel. He was … he was everything he was turning into when he was around Dad at Pinehearst. That's … that's part of why I forgave him." He gave a short, hopeless laugh. "Maybe it was just his destiny to be an asshole, you know? It was just … how he was. I wanted so bad to know why he was that way, but there's no answer to it. Later, I knew I had to accept it, and to learn to love him anyway." Peter touched his mouth with the impulse to cover it in horror and grief. "That was hard, though. And almost as soon as I did, I lost him again, and I didn't even realize it."

He gathered himself. "There's one last thing I have to know - is there any way to get him back? And I don't mean through you, or in a way that would … hurt you. Just, you know, can he be recreated somehow, or time travel, or … I don't know. I never imagined what happened would happen, or even _could_ happen, so I don't know what else is possible." _Please? If there's a way, I'll do whatever it takes._

XXX

Sylar pursed his lips. "As much as I think he shouldn't be brought back, that's not what you're asking. Not in this world. There are no bodies, probably no bones or ashes in the graves…I don't know, Peter. I don't know what you'd get if you tried with his body." If Peter believed in a soul then it seemed hopeless as Sylar pictured something like a zombie. "That's not my specialty and I don't- didn't have any abilities that would…bring that about. I do know that…whatever you get through me isn't Nathan. It's like…a home-movie instead of a real person. Don't try it…Please."

XXX

Peter shook his head slowly, letting it droop. He didn't argue about Sylar's opinion of Nathan's right to life or the unreality of where they were. _None of that matters - it's the same as Caitlin._ He felt his eyes prickle with moisture again at the futility of it all. _Am I ever going to stop crying?!_ He tried to get a hold of himself and seemed to succeed. _Emotional lability is a known symptom of concussions,_ paraded through his mind. He recalled Sylar's moodiness from when the man's similar injury had been fresher, though Sylar's manifestation had been heavier in the area of irritability than melancholy. Peter sighed, realizing he could breathe more or less easily through his nose again – somewhere in the process, his clogged nasal passages had been cleared. _Small victories_ , he thought wryly, trying to give himself a boost. "I'm tired, Sylar. I'm … I'm going to go to sleep." He fussed with getting his ice packs arranged.

XXX

Sylar decided to change the ice packs. "I'll bring new ones," he told Peter softly as he plucked away the old packs, somewhat melted. Again, Peter didn't seem to need his clothes, more food or water – though more water was highest on the list. Sylar taped two cold packs to Peter's head (eyes and back of the head). Because he could, he stroked Peter's hair into a neater arrangement and returned to his own side of the bed.

XXX

Once settled, Peter found himself stuck there. If he moved at all, an ice pack would dislodge, but he sure as hell didn't want to sleep … the way he was. "Can you come closer?" he finally asked, moving his left foot and hand towards Sylar and then back to Peter's own body. "I'd like to … touch," Peter said awkwardly. He was pretty sure he'd mentioned that back when he'd tried to warn Sylar of his sleeping habits. Peter wanted it more acutely at the moment than usual.

XXX

Sylar was not about to turn down an explicit invitation such as this. He scooted and slouched down to be more even with Peter. Rolling onto his side to face his companion (because Peter couldn't see him and Sylar could stare as much as he wanted), he extended a hand to rest it on the other man's arm. Peter reached out with a leg to further the contact.

XXX

"Thank you," Peter said, meaning more than just the physical contact. He slept.

XXX

In the afternoon, propelled by a full bladder, Sylar snuck out to get more supplies – more clothes for both of them, ice packs, and better food – balanced meals – for when Peter could handle it. When he returned, Peter was still out. He read some more about baseball – the rules and history of it, completing most of the book. It was fortunate he had more than one book to read. Soon he'd be able to discuss his understanding of baseball with Peter. When his eyes needed a break, he would look at Peter or out the window. It was less disconcerting when Peter had an ice pack over his eyes – the rest of him was unmarked, normal. Peter slept quietly this time, making Sylar feel like a bit of a voyeur to watch him sleep for days, alone, just the two of them, but it was comforting to be allowed this and watch over him.

Around ten o'clock, Sylar got ready for bed after making himself dinner. He fretted about Peter's food and fluid intake, or lack thereof. He woke Peter gently, and helped lift his head to drink from the water bottle. After that, he slid between the sheets and laid a hand against Peter's back until he fell asleep.

XXX

Day 55, February 3, Morning

Long hours later, Peter woke. This time, he had a sense of the passage of time. If what he could see looking around the room was any indication, it was just dawning outside. He could get his eyes open more than the day before – well enough to see and move around, assuming he wasn't picky about his field of vision. He didn't feel like doing so, though. He tugged at and rearranged the pillows he'd been propped up on, moving over closer to Sylar, who was facing away. Peter didn't quite spoon. He kept most of a foot between them and folded his arms in front of himself. He touched Sylar briefly on the back, thinking something warm and disjointed about it having been Sylar who said Peter was everything good in the world. He didn't trouble himself to sort it out. Dozing was more important.

Sylar was facing him now. Peter struggled to get his eyes to open correctly before remembering that was not yet to be. If he relaxed, he could still see, albeit a narrow slice of the world. The room was well-lit with morning light. Sylar seemed still asleep, so Peter spent his time looking at him. _He's handsome. I'm mostly naked here, but he hasn't taken advantage. I think he's taken good care of me. Of course, maybe he just wants to hear me snoring._ A slight smile creased Peter's face. _Did he really say those things at Mercy Heights?_ The smile faded as he thought about it. _It doesn't have to mean anything. He was saying them as Nathan, saying what he thought I wanted to hear. That's probably all it was – flattery, essentially._ He sighed and reached up to scratch at an itchy spot at the corner of one eye. _Nice flattery, though. It worked. Maybe Nathan could have said something like that – he did at Kirby, after all. But then after Pinehearst, he was so angry – 'That's not what I would have done!' – would he have left me to die? Dad already had (and Ma, twice, or three times if you count the suicide mission of being given a gun and sent to deal with Arthur in his … (lair?) base, with me having no abilities). What would Nathan have done?_ He rolled over onto his back, made restless by uncomfortable thoughts. _Guess I'll never know._ He turned his head to look back at Sylar. _He'd know._

_If that wasn't Nathan on the rooftop, then it wasn't Nathan in my apartment, either. He came to me for help. He tried to kill Ma, but didn't. He showed up at Mercy to kill me, but … didn't._ Peter's eyes tracked across Sylar's features with curiosity at that tiny pattern. He rolled back to his side to get a better look. _He didn't kill Matt, either._ _Did he go_ _to Matt for help, just like he did with me_ _?_ _How many people has he asked for help? How many times has it not worked out?_ Peter thought about his own efforts to find assistance and how he had been swiftly reduced to booking a ticket out to the desert, and counseling Claire about the correct manner of shooting him in the head. _And I … I had more resources than he did. Jeremy, in that house, with his parents decomposing; Ted, who'd lost his wife to cancer; Claire … didn't have it easy, either – a lot of us have trouble. We need help … compassion. And now,_ he thought as he reached out and touched Sylar's bare forearm, skimming it just lightly enough that Peter could feel the warmth of his skin, _he just wants someone to sleep where he can hear them and I have to have the crap beaten out of me to make me do it._ "I'm a real pain in the ass, aren't I?" Peter asked softly. His lids slid shut and he didn't fight the slumber that took him.

XXX

The combination, however slight, of foreign touch and talking woke Sylar though Peter appeared to be asleep again. _He wouldn't fake that if he can't see, right?_ Sylar had been asleep too long, but it was mostly, actually restful and Peter didn't snore despite his damaged face. He lazily lay in bed, looking at Peter, the ceiling and out the window. _I wonder if he needed something and couldn't wake me. He's so needy, even when he's not injured._ He thought about that – his own capacity to deal with neediness, his own view on it, how best to handle it. That got him upright and into the shower, leaving Peter to sleep some more. He hardly dared to let relief sink in that he might be free from his greatest fear and it weighed on him, a worrisome undertone to everything he thought and did. Quietly going about his routine of shaving, combing and arranging hair (this time with his own products), and changing clothes, his mind continued to wander as it typically did. _Even if I do care for him, give him answers, and behave myself, none of that means he can see me as a…person. He still can't see that he did anything wrong. I'm asking too much as usual._ He looked sadly at himself in the mirror. _It will never be fair, will it?_ When he came down the hall, Peter was awake, sitting up. "Morning," Sylar greeted.

XXX

"Morning," Peter responded, listening to Sylar pad around. He scratched idly at his upper chest. The rest had done him a lot of good. "Are there other clothes around here?" _Ones that aren't filthy with blood and stuff?_

XXX

"Yeah." Sylar kept his mouth on a tight leash from any comments about that. He'd left the other man's clothes on the chair that had been on Peter's side of the bed. Gathering them up, he deposited them next to Peter. "Sweats, shirt, pullover, socks," he identified them and backed off only as far as the foot of the bed. Since Peter had made it to the bathroom on his own yesterday, he would probably manage garments alright, provided he was sitting. "Can you see anything today?"

XXX

Peter felt over the clothes, tilting his head and looking at them with what vision he had. _They look clean._ "Yeah, I can see a little, but it's kind of hard to keep my eyes open. They feel so heavy." He tried a quick drill of covering one eye, then the other. "I can see out of both of them, okay as far as I can tell, so that's good." After dressing, he followed the edge of the bed to the corner closest to the dining area. There he hesitated. _I don't really feel dizzy. But that's not necessarily something I'll get a warning on. What would I tell someone else to do?_

XXX

Improvement, but he was not the nurse here. Sylar asked just in case, "Do you want help walking to the table? For breakfast."

XXX

His lips pursed. He was not happy about needing help to walk across the room. _I'm not that messed up, am I?_ "Yeah," he answered. _It's probably safer that way. And safer still for Sylar to think I need it. (Yeah, right, I'm doing this for Sylar's sake.)_

Peter took Sylar's arm and followed to the table, where he let go and took a seat while Sylar went on to busy himself in the kitchen. Peter shut his eyes, listened to the sounds, and spaced out until something was placed before him. He looked at the bowl of oatmeal with mild surprise, realizing belatedly that he'd come to the table out of habit instead of need. _I'm not hungry. And anyway, I haven't brushed my teeth, or worked out, or …._ He sighed slowly. _No, I'm just coming up with excuses. I'm sure it's good food. He made it for me. I should eat it. (I would have preferred applesauce.)_ "How long has it been since the fight?" He picked up his spoon.

XXX

"Almost three days." _I guess that's the only way he can keep track of time, really._ "It's oatmeal. I suppose you could drink it, but I don't think you'll make too much of a mess if you use a spoon. Did you want raisins or…jelly in it?" He remembered little Peter liking something in his oatmeal.

XXX

"Raisins, please." _Then I can pick them out special._ Peter nodded slowly about the passage of time. _If it's been three days, then I really need to eat. I don't feel like it, though. Oh, wait!_ "Zofran. There should be some in the bag. It's for nausea. I got it for you."

XXX

Sylar had seen it when looking for morphine _(Maybe he needs more of that, too?)_ but had since forgotten it like an amateur. _The guy with the concussion remembers more than you – that's pathetic._ He brought the vial, a fresh syringe, and an alcohol wipe because even if there were no germs, Peter thought there were germs and Peter was the medic here. He prepped the arm closest to him, Peter's right (again) after putting it on the table. "How much of it? Ten milligrams or whatever?"

XXX

"You're going to … Yeah, you are." _Aren't you supposed to push that stuff slow? Is that what I did when I gave it to him? Well, that was in an IV bag over a half hour or so, right? (That was New Year's Day.) But then there were other times … Was I doing it wrong, or am I remembering the wrong drug?_ "Um, yeah, I guess." Peter watched the injection. _I need to get better. This sort of 'I don't know' is okay with an anti-emetic, but the narcotic could be fatal._

XXX

Sylar nodded, loading the syringe and pressing the needle home. "I think you need to drink as much as possible today. You've slept a lot." _And you only went to the bathroom twice in three days._ His biggest hope (for the man's medical condition at least) was that Peter either knew if he was dehydrated or not or that Peter could be easily hydrated. "How are you feeling today?"

XXX

He noticed that Sylar's touch was gentler and more lingering than it had been before. _Does that mean anything?_ He liked it. "Spacier than I want to be," he answered. After Sylar moved away, Peter still didn't eat much, but he believed he picked at his food with more enthusiasm than he would have otherwise. He worked at drinking. _I have to drink enough to pee. That's the rule._ "But I can see. I can get around. I've had hangovers worse than this." _I'm sugar-coating it. (Is that wise?)_ "I definitely need some more downtime before you should cut me loose." _Meaning: don't ditch me because I'm high maintenance. Not yet at least._

XXX

Sylar left the 'spacy' comment alone since the man had reason to be. He noticed the amounts of food and water intake. _Cut him loose, huh? Is that how he sees it? I wonder if he forgot our agreement._ The other big question was what Peter remembered about their previous conversation and Peter finally grasping important facts. He was legitimately concerned that Peter's memory had lapsed over something so potentially life changing for Sylar. "Do you remember anything from yesterday?" He didn't deny he leaned forward on the table, momentarily forgetting his own raisin-free breakfast. He didn't know what he would do if Peter couldn't remember and returned to his flawed mission of retrieving Nathan through Sylar.

XXX

_Yesterday._ Peter tried to focus. That was harder than it should have been, so he spoke his thoughts aloud. "I'm not sure what yesterday was, specifically. There's now, and then there's what happened since the fight, and there's what happened before it. I had some bad dreams, then … you. We talked. Different bits of conversation are there." He swallowed, remembering one conversation almost entirely. It felt like the most recent. "I asked you about how to get Nathan back … and how he … left. I remember." He sighed and turned away with a pained, distant expression. After a minute or so, he continued with a quiet and grave voice, "He died at … at … at the Stanton Hotel." He felt his eyes water. "I don't know how to get him back. It's not p-possible here." He wiped at his tears with the back of his hand, changing the subject to something less depressing. "You said you understood me, I think." He turned his face back in Sylar's direction. "Do you?"

XXX

Sylar exhaled and slumped back into his chair. He didn't care if Peter heard that or even if Peter thought the conversation of yesterday was some concussion-induced nightmare. Against all odds, Peter had absorbed it despite the head trauma. _(Or maybe head trauma – or even being blind – is what helped it sink in?)_ Peter was looking at him now, more or less, though he didn't think he was being seen in every sense of the word. He took his time breathing and slowing his jumpy heart. "I said I understand that he and your friends mean a lot to you." _I still don't agree that any of it is right or possible or that I should be involved in any way._

XXX

"Yes," Peter said. "Yes, they do _." So that, at least, was real. The cargo container stuff is probably bunk, and probably that airplane stuff, too._ "My … people," he continued soberly and with great emphasis, "are _very_ important to me." He got his eyes open to look at Sylar, tilting his head back to do it. "Claude didn't believe that – he was the guy who tried to show me how to use my powers. He told me to shut them out, but it was only when I focused on them that I could use my ability. Claude didn't get that and so he didn't get _me_." Point made, he took another small bite of oatmeal, getting a raisin this time. He sucked at it within his mouth, prodding it with his tongue as he tried to pull together the rest of the important things they had or might have discussed since the fight. "You said there was a price, for something. What was that?"

XXX

Sylar scoffed. _Oh, that._ "Eat," he directed and hefted his own spoon. It was of interest that Peter brought it up at all and was the first to mention it.

XXX

Peter frowned at the direct order, loading up his spoon again and then holding it above his bowl defiantly. _He didn't say when. Or how much._ He would have liked to have glared at Sylar, but it was beyond his power. Peter's imagining of Sylar simply staring at him defused the knee-jerk refusal _. I'm supposed to eat. Stop being a prick about it. He's not Arthur, or Nathan. Or even partly Nathan._ He dropped the frown and ate.

XXX

Sylar noticed the pause, but didn't interfere – after all, he remembered how nauseous he'd been with his own concussion. Rushing anything wasn't going to help. Healing required patience, of which he had enough. _Maybe he's upset about my answer. He always wants a complete, explicit answer._ "I don't want to talk about it right now. It's not going to affect me caring for you. It's difficult to explain and it's complicated." That was going to have to be good enough for now.

XXX

Peter mulled that over in his mind. "Okay." He tilted his head around, opening his eyes and managing to find the bottle of painkillers Sylar had dropped off earlier. He opened the bottle gingerly, given his right hand, and dumped out a few pills to take. "Tell you what – I won't push it right now – because you're probably right. It might be complicated and I want to be able to understand it when we do talk about it. Was there anything else important that happened that I haven't mentioned?" He knew he was missing stuff.

XXX

_Yay_ , Sylar thought facetiously, _We get to talk some more._ He watched as Peter managed the pill bottle just fine. "No," he replied. He knew from…Nathan's past experience that Peter had, so far, been a model patient considering it involved a concussion. He counted himself fortunate that Peter could accept logic and Sylar's domineering care.

XXX

Peter nodded and stirred his oatmeal. Of nausea, he was feeling little at the moment. Mostly he simply felt a disinterest in eating. That he felt that well he attributed to the medication and ate mechanically to get something in his stomach before the drugs wore off. He mostly finished the bowl, not making the effort to get his eyes open and scrape up the last bits. He suspected Sylar hadn't given him much to start with, but it still felt like a victory. Pleased with himself, he pushed the bowl away, announcing, "Peter Petrelli, conqueror of small breakfasts. No, 'devourer of small breakfasts'," he corrected. "That's cooler-sounding. I could be a big monster like Uluru the Invincible – all huge and hulking and covered with rock, and my special power would be the ability to consume any breakfast in a single bite." He smiled at ridiculousness of his own imagination along with the incongruity of a fearsome creature with such a paltry power. The smile faltered as he realized he couldn't see Sylar's reaction _. I sounded like an idiot - stupid, immature_. Insecure, he got to his feet and swiped at his hair, mumbling something about the bathroom, which he legitimately needed.

XXX

Before Sylar could say anything, Peter was on his feet and on the move, though he wasn't going very fast. Sylar relinquished his spoon and stood, "Do you want help getting there?" _Does he have to puke? No…he knows I could get a trash can over here faster than he can feel his way to the bathroom, right? I didn't say anything. (Maybe because I didn't say anything?) He didn't give me a chance! He's not…upset, is he? What is there to be done if he is?_

XXX

Peter made a dismissive wave of his left hand in Sylar's general direction. _I might be childish, but I'm not helpless. I can go potty on my own, Sylar._ Even his mental voice sounded whiny and juvenile to him. He was glad Sylar did not come with him. It let Peter direct his mind somewhere other than berating himself. He shut the door behind him this time and saw to his needs. After washing his hands, he looked over his right hand. It was swollen just a little and very painful to move the affected fingers. But he _could_ move them and without it feeling like that was a horribly wrong thing to do. _Hm. I wonder if it's not any worse than it was before? Seems okay, other than kind of insulted and inflamed._

With a shrug, he moved on to a much-overdue brushing of his teeth. He got his eyes open again to attempt to look at his tongue, but he couldn't tell much there, either, except that it was healing. His nose was the same – light manipulation left him thinking it wasn't broken, or if it was, it was something minor. _The cartilage might be separated,_ he mused, deciding that wiggling it wasn't helpful (and was gasp-inducingly painful anyway). _I've seen people get out of bad fights with less permanent damage, but not often. He must have slammed my head on the floor. There's no way I got a concussion like this from him straight up punching me._ He felt of the spot on the back of his head, still tender. _That fits. He hit me while I was down._ It was hard for Peter to blame Sylar for that, as he assumed (hoped) he was still fighting back. _It's probably what ended the fight. I wonder if he knocked me out? Didn't he say something like, 'You started it; I ended it'?_ Thinking was hard and there seemed no point to trying to work out the details. _The fight's over, and he's taking care of m_ _e_ _like he said he would. That's good enough._ Peter washed his hands again out of habit before going back to the bedroom.

XXX

Sylar let it go with a huff, sitting down to finish his own, larger breakfast. He'd given Peter enough oatmeal to find mostly blind with a spoon. He listened for any emergency sounds in the bathroom, but it was otherwise quiet and lonely. Keeping an eye towards the bedroom, Sylar started on the dishes and saw when Peter returned to bed. "Do you need anything?" he asked as he sat sideways at the foot of the mattress.

XXX

"No, um," Peter huffed. "A few more brain cells maybe." He felt over the wrinkled covers next to him. _Should I go back to sleep? Or sit up? I can't do much like this, but I'm not sleepy._ "I don't guess I'll get done with that book I was reading after all. Not in three days. Maybe tomorrow. How are you doing on yours?"

XXX

Sylar chuckled, audibly for Peter's benefit. "It doesn't count if you can't actually read, like now. You've got a little over two days when you can see to read." He moved around the bed to hold his book as he spoke, turning back to Peter on habit, "I'm almost done. It's easy because I don't have to think of games I've seen because it's written in this…quiz format, so I have to pay attention. It's a lot of facts and numbers, some pictures, and a lot about the evolution of the game."

XXX

"A quiz format? Try me." Listening and talking were two things he was still capable of. Peter messed with the pillows, arranging them so he could sit up, turning to face the direction of Sylar's voice.

XXX

Sylar paused to consider that option. _He has a concussion, how well does he think he'll remember random history?_ But in the end, Sylar was the one with the answer keys – he might 'know' more than Peter about baseball – and that was tempting. _I'll have him do something else if he can't do this._ "Who were the first set of twins to play baseball together?"

XXX

"I have no idea," he answered honestly. Peter had been expecting the minutia of the rules or history of the game, but life was always throwing him curve balls.

XXX

That was a quick reply; Sylar waited for Peter to think it over.

XXX

"Who were they?"

XXX

"Joe and Red Shannon in 1915."

XXX

"That's hard stuff. What's another?" he asked eagerly, undeterred by not knowing the answer.


	107. Touching Discussions

Day 55, February 3, Late Morning

Sylar hummed assent, smirking a little at Peter's glutton-for-punishment attitude. It was like a competition – harmless and fun. He read from the page, "Which individual player managed to steal 130 bases in a single season?"

XXX

Peter lifted his right hand, waving it in a 'wait' motion. He bit his bottom lip and turned his face upward. "That was in the 80s. It was in the 80s, wasn't it, like '82 or '83?"

XXX

"Good, yes. '82," Sylar encouraged. It was additionally amusing that Peter continued to gesture when he spoke, despite most of his blindness. _Just because he can't see me, doesn't mean anything. His limbs aren't injured to prevent it. Still, it's like he's doing it for my benefit._

XXX

"Oh, I know this one!" he exclaimed in frustration. "I should know it - we talked about him so much! Hang on …" Peter put his hand down and turned his head slightly. Then it came to him, even through the concussion. "Rickey Henderson!"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar said through raised eyebrows.

XXX

"I've always had a great memory for names. It's the stats that throw me. I remember when Nathan was ..." He stopped for a moment, tilting his head slightly. It still hurt to talk about him, but after a beat, he went on anyway. Nathan was always going to be part of his life and Sylar's company didn't change that. It certainly wasn't going to stop Peter from talking about his brother when he wanted to. "He was stationed overseas where there was nothing to do, and for a few nights we had these marathon phone calls. We talked a lot of ball. We'd gone to some of Henderson's games when he was playing for the Yankees and we'd talk about those, sometimes play-by-play." He smiled at the fond memory. _Sylar has it, too, just from the other side. That's weird._ "Tell me another one," he asked softly.

XXX

_Ah! He did play for the Yankees, that makes sense._ It brought more of a spark of recall. He – Nathan – /remembered those nights, with less detail than Peter seemed to: just his little brother's voice over the phone and excited recollection in some crappy military office, those conversations bringing back everything about home./ Sylar was quiet a moment. _He still thinks so well of him._ "Who had the most home runs in a month?"

XXX

"Uhh … crap." Peter racked his brain. "Sammy Sosa? It can't be him, though! I remember them talking about how there was another guy who had more, but I can't remember who that guy was!" His face scrunched until it hurt (which didn't take much), then Peter shook his head. "No, I don't remember who the other one was."

XXX

Sylar made a dubious noise, neither yes or no, and waited patiently. "Rudy York, August, 1937. But Sammy Sosa is number two in June, 1998."

XXX

"Cool. I suppose you know the difference between a dentist and a Yankee fan, right?" It was corny, but facts (even sports facts) were harder to remember than jokes and Peter wanted to contribute rather than just answer.

XXX

Sylar frowned and looked up. "No…I really don't." _I only pursue nurses who like the Yankees (or the Mets, more accurately)_ , he mentally snarked.

XXX

"One roots for the Yanks and the other yanks for the roots." Peter smiled, going so far as to tilt his head and open his eyes to see Sylar's reaction.

XXX

Sylar snorted in amusement, eventually chuckling the more he thought about it. "I don't know which is worse." He was relieved Peter was well enough for trivia and jokes.

XXX

Encouraged, Peter continued, "Here's another one. I heard it in hospice. A man was dying of old age and his friend came to his bedside. They made a pact that if he really died, he'd find out if there was baseball in heaven and come back to tell the friend, because they were both big fans of the game. That was the deal. So he died, but nothing happened and the friend went on. A year or two later, he woke up to tell his wife that he'd had a dream and he didn't know what to make of it. His friend had appeared in the dream and reminded him of the pact. Then told him, 'I've got good news and bad news. The good news is, there's baseball in heaven!' And they celebrated for a while. Then the wife asked, 'And what was the bad news?' The man said, 'Well, then he told me I was going to be pitching next Wednesday.'" Peter chuckled at the black humor.

XXX

Sylar's eyebrow arched at that. He didn't know what it was poking fun at, probably something beyond his social, human grasp it would seem. He gave a few, more forced chuckles. Since he didn't believe in God or Heaven, and wasn't a fan of baseball, he could think of better things to fill a paradise with. The idea of the dead returning to give messages to the living was…well. Clearing his throat, he changed the subject, "Who is that Uluru guy you mentioned?"

XXX

"Uluru?" Peter repeated. "Uluru the Invincible. You don't know about him?" He waited a beat, but heard nothing. He assumed Sylar shook his head. "He's like Godzilla. He's a comic book character. He's a spirit of vengeance. He takes the form of this enormous," Peter gestured widely, hitting the lampshade to his right with his hand, "Ow! Well, anyway, he's enormous. He's a monster made out of rock and earth. He appears when he's called by people who are suffering and tormented, people who would rather die than go on. Sometimes he breaks free from a mountain, or he comes out of a swamp, or rises out of the ocean. Then he goes to wherever the misery is the worst, and he kills everyone there – the people, the buildings, just smashes it all. He's huge. He stomps it into oblivion, and then he sinks down into the ground and disappears. It's … it's not really a happy story – it never is if you're reading about Uluru – but you know the bad guys are going to pay and … the people who were pushed past breaking … they get what they want. They don't feel any more pain."

"He's a 9th Wonders character, kind of a side-series to the main one. It was never one of my favorites, but it was really popular. The writers started with Uluru coming to different war camps in the Pacific theatre after WWII. After the war (in the story, at least), a bunch of Allied POWs weren't released and instead they were tortured to make up for the lost honor of Japan. And eventually Uluru showed up and took out the camps. Then there were a few with the same pattern set in China and Vietnam, then the U.S. South for a plantation where the owner was doing awful things to his slaves and a hurricane came up, and Uluru, and after the storm left, the place was obliterated. They're always one-shot stories, anywhere in history. Maybe you read to see who will survive, because there's usually a few who get away, but not always. Or maybe you read to see the tragedy stopped. It's not … He's not heroic. He's more like a force of nature."

XXX

For a while, Sylar didn't know what to say to that. At first, he fretted that Peter liked this 'death wish' monster for his own personal reasons about his life. _He understands the concept of…tormented people who would rather die than carry on and he might even think that's acceptable, to be put out of pain. (I don't think he can understand anything in terms of Nathan)._ "Force of Nature. I like that," he intoned thoughtfully. After a shift to get comfortable, he went on, "That's what evolution is like – nature. No different than a natural disaster. The odds of being hit with it are so high, or, maybe it's that the odds of avoiding it are low, but here we are. It affects everyone differently, some survive and some don't based on how they adapt."

XXX

He felt the mattress move with Sylar's slight change of position. Peter turned on his side and curled his body a little by pulling his knees up. He was facing Sylar's direction, in a listening pose. "Hm," he said, trying to work out what Sylar was saying about evolution. It seemed to be clashing with Peter's understanding of morality, but he couldn't put it into words.

XXX

Since Peter said nothing either negative or positive and he wasn't lying down to sleep, Sylar continued, "It reminds me of something. I said as much to Luke and his mother, that my being there, breaking in with some agent - or Luke and his mother living next door to my father - was really no different than a natural disaster."

XXX

"Well," Peter said, still lying sedately on the piled up pillows, "from _their_ point of view, then yes, you showing up was like a natural disaster – sort of random and not their fault. But from _your_ point of view, there was a choice involved. That's different." _'Breaking in with some agent' – who? Luke was that friend of his. Luke's mother? Living next door to Sylar's father? Huh._ He couldn't string the information together well enough for it to make sense, so he didn't try. The mental relaxation from letting it go allowed him see what he wanted to say about Sylar's earlier comment. "Don't we have a responsibility to help as many survive as possible? That's the gift we've been given – to do something good with our powers. You aren't a natural disaster; you're a guy who intentionally fucks up people's lives. There's nothing noble or cool or natural about that." Peter shut up there, realizing with a chill that saying these sorts of things was both rude and dangerous, highly so given his limited ability to protect himself.

XXX

Sylar scoffed. "Oh, please. That doesn't leave any room for destiny and/or God for the guy who believes in that. Don't be jealous. It's very cool to understand abilities and have so many of them. Who says that isn't my evolutionary imperative? You can't argue it isn't useful, even to you. Besides, I didn't see many people with abilities or otherwise trying to help _me_ survive, hypocrite." He threw out the last with some bite.

XXX

Peter was silent for a long moment, more than a minute, weighing Sylar's tone and trying to get a read on how severely he might have fucked up. 'Hypocrite' stung and set off warning bells, but the rest sounded joking, maybe even teasing. Or was it defense through mockery? He couldn't tell, but there was one way to know for certain how Sylar felt about him. He reached out his right hand and laid two fingers lightly on the arm he found.

XXX

Sylar glanced at the contact, a pair of fingers on his forearm near the elbow. Just the two fingers. It was strangely endearing. He waited, quite curious now, to hear Peter's response.

XXX

Peter breathed out deeply and made a short, downward stroke of Sylar's skin, following the direction of hair growth. He made a wincing, awkward smile and pulled his hand back. "I can't see you," he tried to explain. "I don't always know … Just … it helps me." He gestured between them. "Touch." He swallowed and moved on, concerned that his need for reassuring contact might seem pathological or weird even though Peter didn't think it was. Sylar might not share that view and was being damn tolerant of being touched for someone who had previously made it clear he didn't like it. Peter didn't want to push it too far.

XXX

Sylar sighed, reached out and grabbed Peter's hand back, replacing it on his arm. And then realized he had to explain the sudden movement and reason behind it. "I…know. You can't see." _That must making talking to me more hell than it usually is._ "I've seen you trying to touch me. It's fine," he decided, since Peter couldn't get up to any unwanted, intentional touching without sight. It was…nice, actually. Really, really, really beyond-nice. The petting had been wonderful, so he verbally invited more of it. "I was wondering…Are you going to turn into one of those blind people who has to touch a person's face to 'see' their expression?" Sylar's voice was amused, a little teasing and doubtful at the same time. He didn't know if he'd like that or not.

XXX

Peter tensed all over to have his hand seized and got his eyes open as much as he could. But nothing bad happened. Sylar patted him a few times, making clear he hadn't taken Peter's right hand as a threat to control as he had done in the past. He was just … making something else clear: that it was okay for Peter to touch him. Even to keep doing it, rather than making brief, practical taction as he had before. Peter smiled and made a single chuckle at Sylar's question, but then his focus went to what he was feeling. He rotated his hand to touch the one that had put his hand on Sylar's arm. He touched it with short, fluttery motions, working out where it was and giving nonverbal appreciation for the permission. Then he rested his hand back on Sylar's arm.

"No, I'll probably be able to see tomorrow. And besides, I wouldn't know what I was feeling for. I imagine that must take a lot of practice, like reading lips for people who can't hear." _He's asking me to do that, isn't he?_ Peter wasn't sure how he felt about that, given his current condition. _No, he's not asking me to do anything. He's just saying … maybe he's just saying he wouldn't mind, if I wanted to. It's not like I haven't been all over him. Maybe he's misreading that. Or maybe he's not._ He stroked Sylar's forearm a couple times and went back to the (marginally) safer conversation about abilities. "Okay, I'll grant that free will doesn't leave any room for … predestination. But isn't that what you're saying with the 'force of nature' thing? Or the evolutionary imperative? Aren't those just other ways of saying it's out of your control?"

XXX

"Or is it just my evolutionary imperative and I'm still in control?" Sylar raised a pointless eyebrow. He had to defend himself, though it was now a split question about control, choice, and destiny. "A force of nature is…a force of nature. No one controls it; it just happens. Even if you believe in God or Mother Earth, it still won't spare you or change anything – it's just a belief that makes you feel better about things you can't control. Until I get the power to control the weather," he smirked, feeling clever about angling the subject.

XXX

Peter tried to put Sylar's words into a context he better understood. "Are you saying that you have a mission, but you get to decide how to fill it? Or that you're given a mission, but you get to decide whether or not you accept it? Is that what you mean by 'evolutionary imperative'?"

XXX

"I guess…deciding how to fulfill the mission," Sylar said after thinking about it a solid minute. His voice was a little hesitant all the same. "The…choice only extends so far sometimes." Murder, was a given because it truly fulfilled the mission, but the 'how' was usually his choice. Usually. He got the feeling most of his life, even his 'mission', wasn't really choice. Despite every effort to gain control, it always slipped away, or failed, if he got close at all. Sylar wasn't comfortable with either explanation (he was responsible or in control or he wasn't) and he hated every result except his stolen abilities.

XXX

Peter heard the doubt in Sylar's voice, but couldn't see it. He wondered if it was even there to see, as Sylar often guarded his expression closely. The words were as intriguing as the tone. _He has to kill, then? Sometimes? He doesn't say he gets to refuse the mission ..._ Peter mulled it over and decided not to push for the moment. He didn't want details of Sylar's murders and he didn't think Sylar wanted to give them. "About the rest," he sighed, "it's a belief that makes me feel better about things I can't control, yes, but you've got it backwards. It's more like there are things I can't control, and those things are God, or in God's hands. Or they're in the hands of other people, who are as much carrying out God's will as I am." He frowned. "You know, I wonder if abilities are just people realizing that there isn't so much beyond our control as we used to believe?"

XXX

"I'll give you other people having free will – too much, if you ask me." He'd been screwed over by far too many independently minded people to dismiss it. Sylar pursed his lips in consideration. Manifestations, mutations were a kind of awakening realization. "Why do you care about people who are wasting their abilities, like the people I hunt? They're not saving others; they're usually causing harm for whatever reason," he justified. "They waste their lives and their talent, hoping to be 'normal.' I think I know what you're going to say: 'then _we_ should help them', right? They've made their choice to not be productive."

XXX

Peter had a brief moment of wanting to get angry, but it seemed easy to push aside in the disconnected way he was feeling. He shrugged. "Who knows what I would have done with my ability if I hadn't had to deal with you – the cheerleader, the bomb? You should have been hunting _me,_ not her. You could have saved New York and maybe more. Instead, it was Nathan who got to do that – save them all from me. I wasn't doing anything useful with my ability until I saw you in Isaac's paintings. Even then, I got there too late – to Odessa." He rubbed Sylar's arm fretfully a few times. He wasn't sure of that – maybe Claire had been the cheerleader future-Hiro meant, but Peter couldn't be _sure_ – and he never would be. "You'd think I would have learned my lesson. Maybe that's why I came here to find you – I didn't think I'd get out of it alive. At least, I-" He shrugged again and rolled over to his back, breaking contact. He didn't want to think about his expectation that Sylar would kill him once they got out of here.

XXX

_So it's my fault again? Thank God for Nathan,_ He thought sarcastically. _So this is officially an intentional suicide mission. What about my problems? We'll make a suicide pact._ Sylar rolled his eyes. This was all some elaborate Petrelli plot, or Peter being dramatic. Right? _All he wants is a promise that I'll help. I can't give him any more than that anyway. Nathan lied to him a lot, told him things he wanted to hear. It's not like he'll ever know I was lying, but what happens when he can't get out or can't find Emma? It's not a permanent solution._ It was a frustrating situation, but he knew there was an answer or a fix if only he could find it. When Peter rolled away from him, he felt bereft but didn't have anything to say yet.

XXX

Peter rubbed at his face carefully and changed the subject. "But, you know, Emma." He turned his face towards Sylar even though he couldn't see him. "I've told you about her. When she first discovered her ability, she wanted it gone. She wanted it … turned off. She was afraid of it, even though … it was beautiful." Peter smiled softly in memory. "I had it for a while. It made the world … bright. I tried to show her it was a part of her and she could accept it. That maybe she could do good with it – at least make kids laugh. She brought people to tears when they heard her play. It was incredible, the power she could put into music … and how it could pull on your heartstrings when you couldn't even hear it. It was like ..." He waved his hand vaguely in the air, trying to think of how to express the way she'd called to him from across the city. Then he remembered something else. _I need to shut up. He's going to figure out her ability is something other than just seeing sounds as colored lights, or whatever it was I told him._ "It's hard to explain," he concluded in a smooth Petrelli lie.

Things were slipping out that Peter hadn't really meant to talk about. He was getting tired – mentally tired, and he could feel it. It came with a surge of irritation that twisted his lips into a brief frown. "My point is she was learning to use her ability and do something other than 'waste' it. She was going to be productive. Maybe she wasn't that way right after getting it, but she was getting there. Sometimes it takes some people longer than others." He turned his face back in Sylar's direction, waiting for a response.

XXX

Sylar was all ears at the mention of Emma. 'Maybe she could do good with it' stuck out at him, as did the emphasis on the beauty of her music. _He mentioned breaking her cello. It's hers, and why would she have one if she didn't play? An odd instrument to play for fun – I thought she worked with him? So she's not in some kind of orchestra – maybe a band?_ It was clear Peter knew her well enough or wanted to know her better. 'And she did all that without getting laid with our hero' he wanted to snark; wasn't that Peter's routine? Statistically speaking, looking at results, Peter hadn't helped…a lot of specials he'd come into contact to become productive, his whole family for starters, but to be fair they were beyond help of any kind. So the empath wasn't a miracle cure and he was only one man, devoting himself to aiding whatever cause he thought worthy.

Rather than say something uncouth about Emma, or help (lack thereof), Sylar revisited something from earlier. "You were never one of those pathetic, wasteful specials, you know. I'd argue probably every one of your methods as being inefficient, but that's not the point. You do a lot…Too much, sometimes," his voice grew croaky at the end, thinking as both himself as a victim and as a brother having lost his brother too many times.

XXX

Peter turned his face towards Sylar and even his upper body, listening intently and carefully.

XXX

"It's impressive what you've managed with only one ability. Not many people would be stupidly convicted enough to approach me alone with only one ability," he verbalized his honest opinion, trying to focus on the more decent things Peter had accomplished with that handicap rather than the horrible and hurtful ones.

XXX

He waited, but that seemed to be all Sylar had to say. It was enough – it was more than enough. Sylar had cast Peter's desperation as bravery and seen past his paltry successes to the effort that had gone into them. _That's … that's such a compliment. Wow. Does he really believe that about me?_ But he didn't doubt the sincerity he heard in Sylar's voice. It was just hard to believe that anyone, especially Sylar who knew most of Peter's fuck-ups, would say something so approving. Peter smiled, one-sided and relaxed as he reached out and found Sylar's arm again. "Thank you." He pressed his unbroken fingers firmly against Sylar to emphasize how much he meant it. "Thank you," he said again, enunciating clearly. His eyes stung briefly. Wanting to avoid some embarrassing, concussion-inspired show of emotion, he pulled back and rolled on his side again, facing Sylar once more as he curled himself as though to sleep. He wasn't sleepy, though. After a few minutes, though, he had a different problem. "I don't feel good. Has it been long enough that my painkillers have worn off?" He felt queasy and weak, which weren't the usual, primary symptoms of pain. _Maybe I need to drink something._ "Didn't you bring me a bottle of water earlier?" He sat up and searched around for it.

XXX

Sylar mentally shrugged as Peter moved. _Guess he's done talking now._ Sylar went back to his book, strangely desirous of the attention and dialogue now that it was gone. He wanted to push for more of everything, but Peter wouldn't play along, couldn't with his eyes swelled shut, the sickbed or beds in general seemed off-limits. _It's not morning or evening_ , he remembered of the 'agreement.' _So close and I can't do anything_. His expression loosened. _Not while he's asleep, anyway._ He would be encouraging Peter to touch him more like this, convenient since Peter seemed to want or even need to do it.

Peter spoke and Sylar turned to him. "It's probably the concussion. Probably not…" _Should I offer the morphine?_ "Can you see it?" he asked of the water. It amused him to imagine choosing to lean over Peter to grab the bottle for him, instead of walking around the bed to get it. _Shit. Wasn't I supposed to make him drink a lot? It's probably dehydration. Idiot!_

XXX

He felt around, finally finding it on the bedside and not in bed with him like he'd thought it was. Peter drank half the bottle, which was probably unwise, but it tasted so good. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. He lay down with his hand across his stomach. His gut cramped unhappily, but he managed to keep everything down. He still wasn't sleepy. He kept stirring and twitching as he would have a panicked thought or two about how there was something he needed to do or be doing, that he shouldn't rest or stop or give up. It would take long minutes for him to convince himself there was nowhere else to be and nothing else to do – no mission, no world in peril, no one else to live for. Just himself. And, he supposed, Sylar. He reached over and touched him with his foot, glad someone was here with him.

XXX

_I thought he said concussions made you sleepy._ Sylar noticed the restlessness. _That must be improving. Dehydration is uncomfortable. And he's been sleeping a lot already._ At the touch of the other man's foot, he nudged back with his leg, briefly teasing, testing.

XXX

Peter rubbed his foot against the side of Sylar's calf twice in response to the pressure. It was a conversation of sorts and he was glad Sylar was willing to speak the language. It made him smile for a few minutes as he went back to trying to get settled.

After an hour or so of being uneasy had passed, he said quietly, "I got to where I was lying in bed, listening to the police scanner most nights, or at least, most times that I slept. The hours I was working were a little crazy. I'd listen to the chatter even while I was asleep. There's always something going on. I knew the codes - what was a big deal and what wasn't. Most of the time it was just minor stuff. And even when they were called to a shooting, it was too late for me to do anything and so I'd just roll over and go back to sleep. It was the stuff in progress I'd get up for, and if it was close. No point in spending an hour fighting traffic to get to something that had been settled forty-five minutes earlier." He was quiet for a few moments, vaguely aware of how much his mental health had deteriorated in the months before he came here. "Could you read to me a little? I can't seem to get calm."

XXX

Sylar listened and blinked as he processed that. He pondered why Peter felt compelled to work himself so hard. And why he would bother to 'fight traffic' when he- _Right, only one ability at a time._ There was something important there, just like everything Peter had been saying lately. It was up to Sylar to figure it out, which he would. Time was on his side. Apparently now wasn't the time to press it. "Hmm," he agreed and began to read aloud of the short stories.

XXX

Peter sighed and listened, although he would have been hard-pressed to recount the stories Sylar was reading. He took in the sound of the voice and the knowledge that it was speaking for him – that was what mattered. Too many memories of people waiting by his bedside, or him waiting by theirs, filled with worry, filtered through his consciousness as his tension eased. _Waiting for a sign of life … holding onto hope. Does Sylar have hope for me?_ he wondered drowsily, drifting off. _Is that why he's reading to me? I have hope for him, after all … Faith … It's that thing you can't prove._ He slept.

XXX

It was lunchtime. He had since stopped reading aloud and now he ceased altogether. Peter had settled and seemingly fallen asleep. Sylar watched him, with that crooked, relaxed mouth and uncombed mop of hair. He gave a gentle touch and shake to wake his patient for food.

XXX

"Huh?" Peter tensed, not sure where he was or how long he'd been there. A snippet of crouching next to the piano flitted through his mind, but there was nothing to give it context. It left him bewildered.

XXX

"Hey, it's me," he identified when Peter stirred. "It's time for lunch. What do you feel like eating?"

XXX

"Oh." The world started to make sense again. Peter sat up, getting his eyes open a little and raking the hair out of his face. He oriented slower than normal, but well for his condition. _Sylar. Penthouse. We had a fight. He read to me and I fell asleep._ "Yeah, food. I should probably eat something bland. The oatmeal was good. The classic choices are rice, applesauce, bananas, and …" He thought for a moment. "It starts with T. Oh! Bread."

XXX

Sylar gave him a suspicious look. _I thought he was healing better._ "Ah. Bread. Because that starts with T."

XXX

"If you're in England it does," Peter said defiantly, trying to cover for his mistake even as he tried to figure out why he had made it and if it really was a mistake. _It's bread, isn't it? But then why is it the BRAT diet? The T stands for something._

XXX

_What?_ "No, it doesn't. People in England speak English."

XXX

"I thought every meal in England started with tea." _That makes sense, right?_ He tilted his head to regard Sylar, to see if the other was amused like Peter thought he should be.

XXX

Sylar was standing beside the bed now and he frowned more, irritated by this nonsensical argument. He thought about it, though, until understanding dawned on him. "And I knew that one, too. I must be…distracted or something," he mused, admitting it aloud, looking over the guilty party. "So toast, then?" In the kitchen, he prepped butter and jam as the raisin bread toasted. "How are you feeling? You must be improving if you're telling jokes."

XXX

"Toast!" Peter said abruptly in response. _Yes, that's it! Bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast._ Toning down his inappropriate enthusiasm, he said, "Yeah, I'd like some." _He probably thinks I'm an idiot. (Or concussed.)_ Peter moved to dangle his legs over the side of the bed. "Better. I don't understand why I'm sleeping all the time," he mused, standing and looking out the window. The world was terribly bright out there, all reflected sun and sparkling, virgin snow. It hurt even through slitted eyes. His headache came back full force and quickly. Peter grunted and turned away, sitting on the bed again and trying to self-evaluate.

XXX

Sylar brought him the toast. He'd made enough for the two of them. "Or maybe you just like the idea of breakfast in bed," he teased with some seriousness, unashamed of the innuendo therein. It wasn't caring for Peter that required patience and self-control, but being so close to a vulnerable person. Peter couldn't react to him as desired, either. Sylar itched to do something to or with Peter.

XXX

Peter chuckled at the teasing and took the offered plate with a little more awkward head-tilting to see it. "You're being very nice to me, thank you," he murmured, noticing it was raisin bread – one of his favorites. It was far from 'bland', but he didn't care. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful – sharply sweet raisins, slick and rich butter, tangy and tart jam, with golden-brown, toothsome bread under it all, with that toasted, slightly salty crunch. "Mm," he made an appreciative noise. _I could get used to this._ "I guess the sleeping so much really doesn't matter. How it is, is how it is," he shrugged.

He ran through a mental list of what he might do for the afternoon, running into one barrier after another. Drawing was out – he couldn't see well. Guitar was out – he shouldn't aggravate his right hand. Piano was out for the same reason, plus the idea of trying to plink stuff out one-handed gave him a headache just to contemplate. Playing games, or offering to play them, with Sylar didn't sound useful. Peter knew he seemed mentally fine most of the time, but he also knew he would tire quickly if he had to concentrate. The same went for anything physically complex. _Of all the times when I wish there was television to stare at. A puzzle might be nice, though I'd have trouble seeing it._ He had an odd sense of déjà vu. _Haven't I already thought about what I could and couldn't do?_

XXX

Sylar was finished with his meal before Peter was, no surprise. He watched and saw that Peter could see enough to navigate toast to his mouth. He listened to Peter's crunching for a while, not wanting to distract him. "Why did you listen to the scanner and go on calls when you were off-duty?"

XXX

The last of Peter's toast had cooled while he'd been lost in thought. The butter and jam had congealed unpleasantly. He only had a quarter of a slice left. Peter toyed with it, nibbling out of duty instead of relish. "I wanted to help people. I was looking for opportunities." It wasn't the real answer and he knew it. He thought about that wall of news stories he'd put up in his apartment. "It's complicated." He ate a larger bite of toast, getting another raisin in it. He recalled Rene asking him what he was there for, in Haiti. "I wanted to give back. Being normal wasn't enough." Emma had confronted him about that once. "Not for me," he said softly.

XXX

_That's my line: 'it's complicated.' Unless it has something to do with his family, then complicated is a tame word._ Sylar thought on it. _Give back for being special? For his mistakes? For being a Petrelli?_ Any of those theories would fit, and they were good motives, if a little idealistic. Such was Peter. Sylar definitely resonated with normality just not being enough. "Yeah," he said quietly in response, nodding once. Louder, he redirected, "Did you ever think that saving everyone isn't possible? Or that you're no good to anyone when you haven't had any sleep?"

XXX

Peter ate the dry, crunchy corner of toast and examined his plate for more. _No, finished it. Good._ He chuckled at Sylar's questions. "I don't have to save everyone, Sylar. I just have to save everyone I can." It was never-ending, he knew, but it gave him a goal. "I was having a lot of trouble sleeping. The scanner gave me something to listen to instead of myself, going over all the things I could have done better that day." He got up from the bed, taking the empty plate with him as he navigated towards the kitchen.

XXX

Sylar kept a close eye on Peter as he stood and walked about. Peter thought he could do whatever it was he was doing, but Sylar's concussion hadn't necessarily worked that way. _His mistakes, then._ It was a little surprising that Peter overthought it so much when usually it seemed that the empath moved on to the next mission. It was a definite weak spot of Peter's.

XXX

He dropped off the plate on the counter and returned, settling into the black leather swivel chair near the foot of the bed. Peter tugged the seat over a few feet towards Sylar's side of the bed before sitting, then propped his feet up on the bed so they were close to Sylar's. It leaned him back in the chair, letting him see Sylar fairly well through barely-open eyes. "You have trouble sleeping, too. We have that in common. I guess I've kind of … misconstrued my sleeping pattern. I didn't mean to lie about it. It just wasn't your business before." Carefully, he mentally felt around how this was Sylar's business _now_ and more importantly that Peter didn't mind. He kind of liked it, in fact – someone was interested in more than the shallow 'no, I'm fine' answers that he'd given most of his life. That was really nice. "What about you? What was your process for falling asleep, back when you didn't have 'Peter's Patented Sleepy Sounds' to help you out?"

XXX

Sylar was unaccountably amused at Peter's new choice of seat. _Breakfast in bed with me is too much for you, huh? (Even when he can't see me. Hell, waking up with me is traumatizing enough)._ "They're 'patented'?" he queried with a raised eyebrow. "You really must have screwed half a city to be 'patented.'" _Or was he fucking people so he could sleep with them? That would be before his ability, I think._ About himself, he sighed, "I didn't really have one. People either worry about what happened or what's going to happen, or tell themselves things they know aren't true just so they can hear it. I get to sleep just fine; there's nothing to be done about it."

XXX

Peter hesitated, trying to gage how insultingly Sylar meant 'screwed half a city'. _He knows nothing about me and my reasons. Or my life._ He'd had plenty of experience with people looking down on his choices. Sylar moved on conversationally, and so did Peter. _So no trouble getting to sleep – just in sleeping peacefully. I think I have the opposite problem most of the time._ "Did it start after you got your ability? I mean, did you have trouble sleeping before that, even?"

XXX

"It's been that way as long as I can remember. I suppose it got worse after my abilities." Sylar shrugged and shifted; only now wondering if this was some elaborate interrogation.

XXX

Peter nodded. _Nightmares, disturbed sleep, even as a kid?_ "That sucks." _If he was especially impressionable, easily affected by things that happened around him, that he saw, maybe he dwelled on them subconsciously … an ability that drove you to mur- (But does it? Or is it just knowing that you need? Doesn't matter. He had to kill.) –der would really fuck a person like that up. More maybe than it would someone who is surer of themselves. (Which, of course, explains that panic attack I had a few weeks ago about having killed Nathan),_ he thought to himself sarcastically.

XXX

"Like you say, how it is, is how it is. But you sleeping with me; you admit you lied to me? What makes it my business now, the fact that you need to use me to sleep?" his smirk bled into his voice. _Hint, hint._

XXX

"I don't need to use you to sleep," Peter bristled, defensive both at the accusation of lying and the implication he needed Sylar. "We're sleeping together. It's your business." _I didn't mean to lie._

XXX

"You don't _need_ to use me to sleep. But you do. I guess you already answered what you get out of it. I'll just pretend that's all you get out of it." He smirked suggestively.

XXX

Peter managed a pretty ferocious, narrow-eyed glare, snarled, and pointedly moved his feet further away from Sylar. "Pretend all you want. I can do perfectly fine without you." _And I will, if you keep pushing it_ , was his unspoken message.

XXX

"When did your sleep troubles start?" Sylar asked as both reciprocation, to not rile Peter up too much, and to see if there was some other unknown event in Peter's past that had fucked him up.

XXX

Peter waited sullenly for a while, unwilling to give Sylar the satisfaction of a prompt answer. The tension was wearing, though, and Sylar was waiting, so Peter calmed down. _I can answer his question, or I can snap at him some more. I don't want to argue, so …_ He began, "Weird sleep was the first sign I had of abilities. I kept having these amazing dreams – flying, shooting fire out of my hands, knowing things there was no way I could know and solving problems because of it. I had this feeling, no, a certainty, that that was me, that was what I was meant to do, or it was what I was going to do. You know, if you don't know anything about abilities, that sounds pretty crazy, doesn't it?" He gave Sylar a brief, wincing smile. "Every time I'd try to sleep, I'd have these visions and when I'd wake up, I'd feel so … wrong. Like I wasn't … being the person I was supposed to be, the person I was in those dreams. So when I started figuring out the flying, it was part of why I got so determined about it. It seemed real. It was something I could show people, or at least I thought I could." He frowned and waved a hand vaguely. "Didn't really work out. Not at first."

XXX

"Hmph," Sylar snorted in a kind of bemused, understanding mockery. "That's almost easier, knowing you're special. All you have to do is work for it." _You don't have to kill anyone to prove it._


	108. Falling Out Of Bed

Day 55, February 3, Afternoon

"Assuming a person understands _how_ to work for it." Peter jogged his head to one side. He was intending his comment to be directed both at his own and Sylar's first attempts. His own wasn't pretty and he expected Sylar's was worse. "I mean, for me at least, even what I happened to be thinking at the time mattered. After I lost my memories, but I was getting my abilities back in Ireland, I remember standing in the back room of the pub trying to shoot lightning out my hand." He smiled and raised his right hand to demonstrate. "I was reaching out, saying things like 'sparks' and 'lightning'." He chuckled wryly and put his hand down. "It didn't seem to help."

XXX

Sylar's brows quirked up as he pictured that. He had several thoughts about what Peter said, practicing when Peter had sort of turned his nose up at the idea before, how Peter's ability either wasn't like most other abilities in that practice didn't achieve more control (or perhaps Peter was doing it wrong), and why that might be. He snorted, amused and preoccupied.

XXX

He waited a few moments, remembering that and how he'd held Will to the wall with telekinesis. It was strange how willing he'd been to choke the guy, how he'd known exactly how to do it. With a morbid curiosity and already thinking he shouldn't ask, he said, "Have you ever tried," he lifted his right hand in a very loose pantomime of Sylar's telekinetic head-slicing gesture, pointed off to the side and so not at Sylar, "using a different … um … hand motion?" He shrugged, already trying to deflect any ill will due to the question. "Does it work? I was just wondering. There was a guy in Ireland I … choked … and it seemed to come instinctively."

XXX

Sylar knew he was being paranoid as he thought about those questions. Neither of them had abilities. He could reasonably say that Peter didn't because the medic would have accidentally used his abilities before now, especially during an attack. It didn't stop him from being wary of the possibility that one or both of them would become special again here, somehow. Giving away key information on how to neutralize him wasn't wise. "Yes, I've tried it and it works" Sylar answered specifics and didn't mention that he didn't need the hand gesture (though perhaps Peter did) as it only served as a focus. "Why were you choking him?" He asked that with curiosity and humor. He was pretty sure Peter hadn't killed the guy, but maybe Peter did have some kind of violent kink he wouldn't admit to.

XXX

"He was trying to rob the people I was with. He'd already shot me twice in the chest. I let him go. I just … choked him some first. I don't know what came over me. For a few seconds, it was … it was weird. I wanted him dead and that was weird." He supposed most would consider attempted armed robbery and murder sufficient explanation for why he might want the guy dead in the heat of the moment, but Peter didn't. He'd felt the desire to kill wash through him, entirely divorced from any sympathetic impulse. It had shaken him and his idea of who he was, shaming him that it had taken Caitlyn's shouted pleas to bring him to his senses.

XXX

Sylar's eyes shifted away for a moment. _He didn't have my ability then. But he had telekinesis._ He was a little disappointed that Peter didn't have an apparent dirty secret. Or a kink. "Instinct, huh? That's a word for it," Sylar snarked dryly with a hint of an edge. _A word for an excuse; one that never works for me._ "You choke other guys, too, it seems. I thought you said I was special."

XXX

"I only choke the people who kill me. That's pretty special," Peter responded with just as much of an edge. He remembered grabbing Claude by the lapels and flinging him against a building, wanting to strangle the life out of him, too, but not as much as he wanted answers. _If murder is the yardstick I'm using, then you have several times still coming to you, for me alone._ Peter's brows twitched in dark amusement at the various ways he might enjoy enacting it – the last time he'd been mounted on Sylar and holding his throat coming to mind. _That could have ended so differently if I'd been trying to hurt him._

He pulled his mind out of the gutter and redirected with an effort. "The other time I-" Peter hesitated, trying to remember if he'd confessed to trying to cut open someone's head in the future. _I'm pretty sure I did. I just didn't tell him who_. "The time I used your ability, I went straight for the head." He frowned and made a decisive gesture – left hand straight, chopping downward like a knife – "I was really focused. It was sort of the same with the guy in Ireland, except I wasn't trying to kill him. Not … well … maybe I didn't care if I killed him until Caitlin talked me down. I don't know." Frowning more, Peter put his hand over his face and rubbed gently. He was getting tired again, which was annoying. _All I've done is talk a little bit! Why am I tired again?_ He made a frustrated half-growl at himself. _Oh yeah, Sylar saw me go after Ma with his ability. Yeah._ He felt some relief at that _. I don't have to tell him about Nathan, then._ He put his hand down and faced Sylar again.

XXX

Sylar got up and went to the table, touching Peter on the shoulder and letting his hand drift away as he passed because he could. He brought back the bottle of painkillers and pressed them into Peter's hand. It was obvious he was struggling; it wasn't surprising, and it was time for the meds anyway (perhaps a little late). He went around the bed to procure the man's water for him. "You had the advantage of seeing me use my ability," Sylar remarked casually, refusing to address whether it was instinctive or not. _Maybe he's not confused. Maybe he thinks telekinesis makes him do those things?_ He sat quietly in his chair, frowning some as he considered it. It had been his first ability, after all, and he'd gone straight for the head almost on instinct as well.

XXX

Peter flinched from the touch and wanted it at the same time. He took the ambivalence as another sign of mental fatigue and frowned to himself, glaring at the empty bed _. I shouldn't need to sleep at all in this world! I haven't even been really punched out. It's all fake._ Then Sylar returned with medication. Peter took it gratefully, though he wasn't sure pain was his problem. He just felt generally out of whack. He took a drink and swallowed down the pills anyway, followed by the rest of the water bottle in several long draws. Just as before, it made his stomach cramp and roil even as he wanted the liquid. "Huh?" he said in response to Sylar's comment. He grimaced and pressed at his stomach, trying unsuccessfully to convince himself that it wasn't, in reality, hurting. "What does that have to do with it? When I was in Ireland, I didn't have that memory. Like I said, I wasn't able to use the electrical … whatever," he gestured flippantly, "so why would me using your ability draw on me having seen you before?"

XXX

"I meant about…I thought you meant my ability and seeing me use it, 'going for the head.' Samuel told me something about my body remembering what my mind couldn't – you know, muscle memory." Sylar clarified even as he began to suspect he'd misunderstood or taken it out of context. "You think that telekinesis makes people instinctively violent?"

XXX

He was quiet for a few moments. "I think abilities change a person. I know they do. They told me that it even changed my DNA. That was why Mohinder wanted to use me as a test subject – something about 'genetic malleability'." Peter shook his head and turned away. He paused with eyes shut, trying to assess if it was time to be honest about more things than his sleep habits. He looked back at Sylar. "I was almost getting off about suffocating Will. Not that it was sexual, really, but I wanted it. I wanted him ended." Peter turned it over in his head. "You're the one who said I wasn't a killer. If that's true, then where did that come from?" Feeling less queasy, his hand fell away from his stomach and he sat up.

XXX

The information took him aback. Up until now, Sylar had assumed he was one of the extremely rare few who could acquire other abilities. Bennet had, once upon a time, used the threat of warped DNA on him. It had explained the Company's insane, devoted pursuit and experimentation of him all these years. In its own way, it had made him feel special (if persecuted), even after the discovery of some synthetic abilities, like Nathan. He felt…understanding for the worry Peter probably had about feeling mutated beyond his given or naturally gained abilities and Sylar didn't know what to say. But Peter had still more interesting things to say. Sylar's prolonged look at Peter changed. He still understood exactly what Peter meant, but his understanding, of sorts, turned into a dark glee that perhaps Peter now understood him a little better. "Because you didn't have my ability yet, my telekinesis must be to blame," he said with a tone of questioning. "It means your dark streak is darker than I thought. I always said you were monsters just like me. You didn't kill him and that's what counts, right?"

XXX

Peter studied Sylar as best he could – the tone of voice and the posture told him more than the expression of smugness on the man's face. There was sadness in the voice as well as bitterness; interest and attentiveness in his body language. _He wants to know more. And then there's that 'just like me' part. I think I'll let that go. Ultimately, we're talking about what we value here. Maybe having something like that in common is what's important to Sylar?_ "I didn't kill him, and I'm sure that counts to him, but what counts to me is that I wanted to, tried to, and almost did. I'm not trying to blame anything else. I'm trying to figure it out."

XXX

_Sylar had no answers and he wasn't happy with Peter's reply, either. He stood and plucked up the empty water bottle where Peter still held it, going into the kitchen to refill it. He didn't hurry back, needing the space._ _He doesn't think he's being…what is that called? Aggressive something. Or maybe he tries to blame me then changes his mind. Or he changes his mind because I said something. It makes him feel better to talk about it. Lucky him. It's not like I've figured out my own problems._

XXX

Peter let Sylar take his empty bottle without thinking about it. He waved his hand vaguely and let his eyes rest while Sylar went to the kitchen. "It's like what happened to me in New York, or that virus in Odessa. I've put people in so much danger … that's," he sighed, "wrong." He shifted in his seat to face the direction where he could hear Sylar padding back. "I'm trying to work out how not to endanger people with what I am. Sometimes it seems like just by being alive, I'm dangerous." _No one else is going to save me, or stop me from doing something dumb. It's just me. Maybe this is my latest test to see if I've learned my lesson – release Sylar back into the world like a virus, or stay here and make sure he never gets out?_

XXX

Sylar addressed Peter's most recent attempt to be harmless: "You think mostly burying your head in the sand is the way to do that?" As Nathan, Sylar had to physically show up at Peter's job when the younger man refused to return his phone calls. Not that it was a new tactic and he understood, given the family dynamic of late, but it still meant that Peter was significantly tuning out – especially when his beloved 'brother' had been asking for ability-related help for once. Almost any normal person could rescue another, though Sylar wouldn't deny supernatural elements would come in handy from time to time. "I don't know. That might be kind of nice." The only period he'd been able to disappear had been when…he'd been that ghost at the Carnival; and when he'd been Nathan (those trips with Mohinder and Maya didn't count). No one hunted him (just the local law enforcement with a vengeance), no one had tried to kill him and he hadn't really tried to murder anyone else. But that wasn't the same as when he had his ability gnawing at him, driving him out of solitude – Peter had no such problem. He sat the water bottle back into Peter's hand, retaking his own seat.

XXX

"At least we're not endangering anyone here but each other," Peter muttered. "It makes things simple. Sometimes simple is better."

XXX

Sylar had nothing to add to that. It didn't really address his question like he wanted, but it was true. "Do you want something to snack on?" He would risk the nausea just like Peter had for him. Peter looked worn and pale, so there was nothing to do but ask. _He's definitely the better nurse, no question._

XXX

Peter took a long drag on the water and stopped himself before gulping it all down like before. He looked at the bottle and considered the strength of that impulse. "How much have I eaten and drank since the fight? It was, what, three days ago?" _Or four? Was it four?_ "Some oatmeal and toast … is that all?" _Maybe I just can't remember. I've slept a lot_. "I think I need to eat more. I wouldn't be so tired if I had more calories." Bits of advice and teachings came back to him about managing bedridden hospice patients on so many medications they were constantly nauseous. _And cranky, emotional, low energy, lethargic … all the same symptoms I have, just like Sylar had, and when I was more together, I was always worrying he wasn't getting enough to eat._ "I need the Zofran again."

XXX

"And some soup," Sylar injected a bit defensively. _You were asleep most of the time, what was I supposed to do? (Wake him up like he woke me up for food)._ He was relieved when Peter mentioned the medicine, and thus indicated the problem, which Sylar had initially guessed – nausea. It meant he wasn't totally wrong in his treatment thus far. Peter was drinking fine, so an IV probably wasn't necessary. "Sure," Sylar said at conversational volume as he rose to get the equipment, then quieter, mostly to himself, "You just like sharp things and me sticking sharp things into you." It was so enlightening that he actually paused in his gathering to look at the back of Peter's head where it was visible. He was sure that was some sort of psychological marker. _And I bet he knows all about it, even if he attributes it to me_ , he thought as a way to get Peter to divulge.

XXX

Peter scowled and shifted uneasily. Already listening to track Sylar's movements, he'd heard the man's quieter words. His thoughts flashed to the broken glass in Mohinder's apartment that had levitated for a second before he turned to flee and then everything went black, then Nathan holding the lethal shard and questioning him about it, then to himself cutting his left knuckle on a stray bit while cleaning up the storefront he'd smashed up here – a cut that preceded a painful, pointless fight. _I don't like that at all. Why would you say that? Is he just being cruel?_ Peter was silent, but his heart beat faster and his hands gripped the arms of the leather chair.

XXX

He brought back a full syringe (ten milligrams as before), an alcohol wipe, and some cheese and crackers. The food went on the bed as he crouched by Peter's right arm. "This won't collapse your veins or anything, will it? Or is that just for hard drugs?" he asked conversationally, as he collected the man's arm gently, cleaning the area that obviously hadn't been used before.

XXX

Warily, Peter got his eyes open at the touch, a little stiff but letting himself be manipulated. "That's the Zofran, right? Not the morphine?" They were both clear liquids. He couldn't tell by looking. Concerned now, he didn't wait for Sylar's answer before adding, "Bring me the bottle you used." He did not believe Sylar would intentionally medicate him incorrectly, but he already didn't feel right and that was before the man started making light of his phobias and saying things that implied he was about to give him a narcotic and not an anti-emetic.

XXX

Sylar frowned and paused to answer, but he only got as far as opening his mouth to do so before Peter demanded more. It got his back up, as if he suddenly was incapable of caring for Peter, as if he were suddenly so untrustworthy. He had no idea where this change had come from. Not about to underestimate Peter's stubbornness and with a deepening frown, Sylar fetched the bottle of Zofran he'd used, holding it out in front of the other man. _Morphine isn't going to kill him even if I did screw it up, which I didn't. He wasn't weird about getting Zofran instead of morphine before, either._ _It doesn't matter which one I bring back - that proves nothing,_ wisely he didn't voice that yet.

XXX

Peter examined the bottle, which was exactly what he'd asked for. Such double-checking was normal among medical professionals and anyone worth being called a 'professional' would not have been bothered by it. He expected Sylar's feelings to be rather different, but Peter couldn't find it in himself to apologize for his caution. Everything he could think of to say seemed unwise, so he just grunted and extended his arm for injection.

XXX

Sylar stewed. He gave the injection without the unnecessary pain he felt Peter deserved. "Cheese and crackers are on the bed there." Disposing of the syringe, etc., Sylar lingered in the kitchen, again, to cool off. A tiny voice was telling him that he'd pushed Peter's buttons as a nurse just as solidly when his own concussion had raged. _But that's the whole thing with him. I can't tell if he's injured, acting up or doing it on purpose._

XXX

_I'm so glad I kept looking in the storeroom until I found the injectable Zofran, and didn't give up after I found the pills._ Peter felt better immediately. He sat up and spotted the plate. It seemed weird that Sylar would put his food there instead of handing it to him. _Maybe he's upset that I wanted to see the bottle?_ He nibbled on a cracker, a frown developing. Not about the cracker – it was fine. _Didn't I tell him what I needed to be eating? I asked for toast and he brought me raisin bread with butter, which was too rich for what I should be having. And I told him the other things I should be eating. Crackers, I guess, yeah, they're bland, but cheese? Calorie-dense, but maybe not good on unsettled stomachs._ He couldn't remember cheeses on any of the lists of recommended foods.

_I have to take care of myself._ Picking up the plate, Peter stood and oriented on the kitchen, then walked slowly to the counter. _No bananas. I'm not sure how to cook rice (one rice to two waters, or two rices to one water? And for how long?) Toast is okay. So is plain bread. Did we have any applesauce?_ His eyes were tired and sore from having to lift the weight of swollen lids most of the morning as they'd talked. Sighing, he opened the cabinet with one hand and used the other to keep one eye open as he rummaged through the cans of food, scanning labels.

XXX

Sylar noted him and ignored him until Peter started opening cabinets, actively moving things around, obviously searching for something. He couldn't help his protesting, growing-irritated tone, "Peter, it's cheese and crackers; what could you possibly need with that?" _He has water! It's salt and protein. I know it's good for anyone. Or does he think I poisoned that for no reason, too?_

XXX

Peter tilted his head and gave a sideways glance towards Sylar with the one eye he had propped open. He noted the guy's defensive tone, but Peter wanted what he wanted and he wasn't interested in an unsatisfactory substitute. _I am tired of being tired and feeling beat up!_ He continued his search. "I'm looking for a can of applesauce. I need to eat something plain."

XXX

That tipped the likelihood of probability into 'he's not doing this on purpose.' It didn't answer the reason behind it, but it was enough to go on, breaking his thunderclouds of ire. "Cheese and crackers are plain. I didn't do anything to them. It's good for you," he reasoned in a gentler, slower voice. _Maybe he doesn't need me if he can get around and make his own food? No, that's what he_ _thinks. And I think he's wrong._ It was the contrary rebelliousness that got under his skin, challenged his authority and efforts.

XXX

He waited a beat before replying, processing Sylar's change of voice. "I don't think you did anything to them." _There!_ Peter found a can of applesauce. He pulled it out, fingers feeling over the top and then the bottom of the can. It was not one of those flip-tab types that were easy to open. It required a can-opener, something that required two fully functional hands, assuming he found the device. Slowly, patiently, Peter asked, "Sylar? Can you open this for me?" _Please don't flake out on me. I just need a little help._

XXX

Perhaps it was better this way. Peter with a concussion, medicated, wanting more food wasn't a bad thing, right? Sylar still stared at him, overlooking the proffered can for a moment. _I don't know if that's endearing or stupid._ "Say please," he insisted without malice, with amusement and a small smirk. If Peter was so adamant, he could at least be polite.

XXX

Peter bit back the instinct to do as asked. Then the following, equally instinctive urge to refuse to do as asked. His fingers checked the top and bottom of the can again, just in case he'd been wrong. He needed the help and Sylar was asking only for basic politeness. Peter recalled Sylar's 'thank you' after one of their fights. _This, maybe, is the same thing? It seemed like such a struggle for him to say it. It's not that hard._ "Please, Sylar." He waited with the can in hand, head slightly dipped.

XXX

Sylar took up the can and went looking into drawers for a can-opener. "What was that tool you said existed before? A cheese cutter?" He didn't see it here and Sylar still doubted its existence. He chuckled to himself as he found an electric can-opener in keeping with the expensive suite. The next minute, he handed Peter the applesauce in a bowl with a spoon because those metal cans were often sharp. "This goes _with_ the cheese and crackers," he informed, setting those before Peter as well.

XXX

The whirring noise of the electric opener surprised Peter. _There's one of those here? I could have used that myself. (Assuming I'd found it.)_ At a loss as to what else he should do, he took a seat at the table and waited until Sylar served him. "Thank you," he said quietly, finding the spoon and positioning the bowl. He touched the plate with the cheese and crackers to confirm where it was, catching Sylar's implication that Peter was expected to eat that as well. He didn't object and dug into the applesauce. He ate slowly. The food was boring after the fourth spoonful, but he kept eating until the bowl was empty and the crackers gone. He'd even eaten a few squares of cheese. He thought he felt better – calmer, not so cranky, his thinking clearer. For all that, though, he didn't want to do anything more than lean back in the chair and digest, and maybe doze, until it was time to eat again.

XXX

Sylar did dishes, then gathered up their clothes for laundry (as he hadn't done that days ago like he thought he had, instead he'd brought Peter new clothes). He would do that when Peter was asleep next, which probably wouldn't be long. In the meantime, he organized the kitchen. After that, he read when there was nothing else to do. He kept an eye on Peter throughout, but he appeared to sit or slump stably in the chair. When dinnertime came around, Sylar made oatmeal because it was bland.

XXX

Peter noticed the increased activities. _Dinner, I guess_. He finished the bottle of water in his chair and made his way to the bathroom, feeling more put-together than he had in days. He rinsed his face after relieving himself and washing his hands. A quick hand-comb through his hair confirmed it was a mess. _Where's my comb?_ The sweats he was wearing certainly didn't have the comb that was usually in his back pocket. _Where are my pants_ _?_ Grumbling to himself, he decided it could wait. He raked his hair back as best he could and made his way to the kitchen. He wasn't sure if his eyelids were getting stronger, they'd recovered after the nap, or they were less swollen, but he could definitely see without so much effort. "Do you need any help?" _Don't say I never offered,_ Peter thought with amusement. He was definitely feeling better.

XXX

Sylar heard him and glanced over him. Peter looked sleepy still. He couldn't tell how capable the man was and in any case, the dinner was simple. "No."

XXX

A dose of Zofran, also called ondansetron, tended to last eight hours. Peter ate even more heartily for dinner and this time, more confident of his ability to keep his food down, he didn't care what he actually ate. He didn't have much desire for food (and neither had he had it for lunch), but he knew he needed it. The only part of the meal he took pleasure in was the ice cream bar he had for dessert, getting to enjoy flaking off the chocolate coating with his tongue and sucking up the melted interior. That was fun. Afterwards, he showered, took care of his hair, dressed in the same clothes again, and climbed into bed on his side. _Tomorrow,_ he told himself, _I'm going to get out and around. I'm going to get some stuff done._ He burrowed in under the covers, twisting a bit until he could touch Sylar's leg with his foot. _That's nice,_ he thought muzzily, drifting off.

XXX

Dairy was good for you and Peter ate well, so Sylar got out the ice cream bars he'd procured earlier to restock the last ones. The brand wasn't the same, but that didn't matter much. Peter had one, too, and it was sufficiently…distracting. The urges to molest Peter, along with the earlier frustrations of the day, momentarily surged higher. His own ice cream melted on his tongue and the chocolate almost felt like an aphrodisiac. It was a delicious torture. Some part of him still felt that he was being teased and stonewalled, but he was doing his best here. _I don't expect a thank you or a gratitude fuck._ He wasn't satisfied, but things were good; he had company and that was important.

He protested the shower Peter took. The exchange boiled down to Peter allowing Sylar to hover outside the (shut) door and listen in (like a pervert), in case Peter 'fell.' He thought a bath was far more agreeable. Sylar was bothered even after Peter exited the bathroom, but he finished his own night routine and joined him. That foot against him was gratifying.

XXX

Day 56, February 4, Morning

It was an odd dream. Vaguely, Peter knew it wasn't real. He was standing at the top of the Odessa Stadium, arguing with Nathan. His brother looked like he had in the storage unit – pale, cold, stitched line at his throat. Nathan insisted he couldn't fly – neither of them could fly. Peter was trying to convince him they could and this was urgent, because any moment, Sylar would come out and see them. Nathan refused to believe, not even when Sylar left the locker room area and could be seen at the base of the steps, slowly mounting them as he came after the brothers. Peter became more desperate, trying to lift them both into the air by sheer force of will, but Nathan refused to go. He was using his power of flight just as much as Peter was, but to stick to the ground instead of taking to the air.

"Nathan! Come on!" Peter groaned. He tugged. He pulled. He tried to get his hands into the shifting, sheet-like fabric of Nathan's shirt. Sylar kept getting closer. Peter could hear the villain chuckling and rasping, low in his throat. In some sick, comical way, it was almost like a snore. "No! Nathan!" Sylar was almost to them.

His brother turned to greet the newcomer, putting out his ashen hand and cheerily saying something inane about needing Sylar's vote. Sylar reached for his hand. Peter could hear Matt Parkman yelling in his head not to let them touch. With a monumental effort of will, Peter threw himself between the two. There was a mad scramble as they fell from the stadium, a yell that might have been his own, and then he hit the ground with a crash that woke him. He'd fallen out of the bed. Peter became a flail of limbs, struggling to his feet as the blankets and sheets conspired against him. Panting, he stared at the figure on the bed. "Sylar," he said in a 'it's you' tone of voice.

XXX

The sudden heavy thud had Sylar sitting up and looking around the dark room with panicked eyes. He was ready to fight or run. For a moment, he couldn't find the source of the noise. He wondered if he was hallucinating or still having a nightmare, but it had sounded particularly…real and close. Then he saw Peter beside but apparently not in the bed with him any longer. Sylar was on edge about that. He didn't know if he should stand up because the man's behavior was just…off. "Yeah," he said, not intending to answer in so many words and intentionally sounding pissy (as he had every right to be) in hopes of avoiding whatever crap might come his way.

XXX

He shook as the adrenaline poured through his system with nothing to do. Peter slumped back against the half-wall, half-window behind him, and scrubbed at his face. "Fuck," he muttered, replaying the events of the dream in his mind. He was frustrated that Nathan in the dream had chosen to make small talk with Sylar rather than heed his little brother's advice – that was so Nathan. He was angry Sylar hadn't stayed as Nathan, preferring his own identity to being an imposter – that was so wrong, and Peter knew it. But he lashed out anyway at the man who had taken his older brother from him, irritating and imperfect as Nathan was. "Just how many of those cheerleaders in Odessa were you going to kill until you found the right one, huh? What did that one you killed do to you, anyway? How was that self-defense?"

XXX

Sylar scowled at the initial curse so close to his name, flopping back down on his back. He wondered if Peter had stubbed his toe or something, but it was surely something stupid, whatever it was. He was being unpleasantly disturbed from an otherwise comfortable sleep. Then Peter started talking – random, personal, and nasty. Sylar knew he was the one who was sick, but it was petty and mean of Peter to bring it up. He glared, feeling his base, violent reaction building. "Wow. Timing really isn't your strong suit, is it? Rude much, Petrelli? I'm not doing this now, if ever. Go back to sleep." With that, he rolled over to put his back to Peter. "You are such a brat. I don't know how Nathan put up with you," he concluded spitefully. _I don't think that's his concussion talking this time_ , he thought as he replayed in his mind the scene Peter described. Two girls, alone, such easy targets, and one of them had a reported ability. He recognized her from the news. She'd practically handed herself to him, gift-wrapped. With Claire so close it had seemed like the dead girl had been special but…It was an honest mistake because the girl had lied.

XXX

Peter was still shaking, but he knew it was grossly unfair to wake someone up in the middle of the night and grill them. "Fuck!" He grabbed the nearest pillow and the blanket that had come off the bed when he'd hit the floor, and headed over to the couch. He curled up, angry and upset, shuddering and fitful. His head hurt. His elbow and hip, too, from where he'd landed. But the worst was how he couldn't stop his racing thoughts.

XXX

"Yes, 'fuck'! Fuck off! Shut up and go to sleep!" Sylar snapped, only lifting his head to do it.

XXX

Peter made indistinct growling noises in response because he felt he had to make _some_ response, but … well, Sylar was in the right. Sort of. The questions themselves Peter thought were legitimate. But he hadn't used them as questions. He'd used them as accusations, as an attack, and that was not right for someone with whom he shared a bed. At the same time, Sylar was a multiple murderer whose actions had impacted Peter personally and repeatedly. _I have a right to some answers! How can he expect me to sleep with him, share space with him, and be fine with everything? That's ridiculous! It's inhuman!_ He laid there alternately cataloguing Sylar's sins and practicing an apology, never able to find a comfortable position on the slick leather of the couch. When first light finally came, he rose and stared out the windows for most of an hour, until even through the clouds, the world was too bright to look at. He started coffee and wandered off to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a look at himself.

His eyes were now easy to keep open constantly, though the lids were still heavy. _I look like a stoner,_ Peter thought with amusement. _If Dad could see me now. (Hanging with Sylar, sleeping with him, making coffee for him? Yeah, Dad might think that was cool, even if he knew about what happened with Nathan. Asshole.)_ Peter scratched at the patchy, several-days old growth of facial hair. _I suppose I could trim it up into a circle beard or a van dyke._ He touched at the spots where the hair grew near his numb spot. It tingled and not in a good way when he moved them. It gave him a shiver just as it always had. He didn't like the way it felt. "Ug. Gotta get this off," he muttered, changing his mind. _But not with the razors here. I should go over to my place later. I can do it then._ Hearing Sylar stirring outside, Peter finished his business and cleared out of the bathroom.

XXX

Sylar heard the noises of Peter getting up, the coffeepot going. At first, he didn't think anything of it, content to lie there and enjoy the noise. Remembering the incident of last night shattered his mood. He could count on Peter not to let it go, either. Since he had no spare, clean clothes (today's chore was laundry), Sylar went directly to the bathroom to find Peter coming down the hall from it. Their passing was quiet and a little chilly, but uneventful. He showered, groomed and redressed before breakfast – and before dealing with Peter, dreading it.

XXX

Not knowing what else to do while Sylar was in the bathroom, Peter put a little yoghurt into a lot of bran cereal for himself and made some plain scrambled eggs for Sylar, putting them on the table about the time Sylar came back out. He sat and picked at his food, preferring to nurse a cup of coffee that was caramel-colored from milk and sugar. He hoped the coffee wouldn't upset his stomach. He debated the Zofran and opted to try to get by without it. He managed, but only by eating with glacial slowness.

XXX

When he emerged, Peter was still around. His eyes looked better and full vision was obviously possible. The man was even sitting at the table, had even left out (or forgotten) scrambled eggs. _It's just breakfast with someone he knows is a killer, all judgments included._ It felt like a black thundercloud that one of them would break. With another mug of coffee and a plate of eggs, Sylar sat across from him. "You must be feeling better," _because_ _you were a dick last night_ , he didn't say though he thought those things were connected; instead gesturing to the food Peter had made. _He doesn't need me anymore_ , was his next realization with all the usual upheaval in reaction. Peter had presumably eaten his meal by himself, showered the night before, and now he could see on his own. Plucking away at his eggs, Sylar decided to get it over with, "Is that why you decided to be a dick last night?"

XXX

Peter frowned at him and took another sip of his long-since cooled coffee. "You can't expect someone to be … not emotional about the things you've done." He shook his head. "I'm angry about the people you've killed. Back in Odessa, you killed a teenaged girl, Sylar! And 'Oh, it was the wrong one, oops' doesn't cover it, because it wasn't a fucking accident," Peter spat out with building anger. "You were there to kill a _different_ teenaged girl, but still a teenaged girl! It wasn't self-defense, or revenge, or even one of Ma's or Hiro's half-baked, proactive 'if I kill this girl, then it changes something in the future that saves a lot of people'. You're not the savior kind. Fine. What are you then? The serial killer kind? Is that … the kind of person you are?"

XXX

At first, Sylar raised a brow at Peter's words, unimpressed. Then Peter hit on a very weak point – that Janey (and Claire) had been teenagers. And that bothered him probably as much as it upset Peter. It went against his rule or self-imposed boundary of not harming children, and any other reasons he had or had given in the past. It had…made sense at the time he did it. He'd been so consumed, so powerful, so focused on immortality that even an innocent boy like Peter, who did nothing more than barely protect Claire and get in Sylar's literal path, had been 'worth' killing at the time. He really had nothing to say for himself. It was one of a long list of things he tried to forget about at night, when he was alone.

And Peter wasn't done, no. Instead, he continued raving about how morally superior and blameless he was, mocking Sylar for every decision and insulting him with labels and names. "First, Petrelli," he sneered angrily, "don't pretend you've never done any of those half-baked proactive things. If it doesn't excuse anyone else, it doesn't excuse you." Next, he caught himself from telling Peter that 'no' meant _no_ , and what kind of person Sylar was was irrelevant because he still wouldn't help save Emma. Of course, then Peter would whine that it mattered to him because they coexisted. He changed tactics. "I am _not_ a serial killer!" he growled low and dangerous. He was mentally stuck on the idea that he was a person of any kind, good or bad. Something Parkman had said, rattled around in his head, something about 'being people first.' Anything he knew about what he was, he'd been told; because what he felt and what he wanted to be didn't count. Now, he didn't know how to express that with proper importance without taking away his fiery argument about not being a serial killer.

XXX

"I'm not going to quit being upset about this until I understand it. That isn't the kind of person I am and you _**know**_ that." Peter leaned back, his hands palm down on the table, his face serious. "I don't remember everything we talked about a couple days ago, but I remember you saying there was a price to understanding … you. I want to know what you meant. I don't want to be the guy waking up in the middle of the night wanting to slug the person I'm in bed with. That's not fair to you." Peter turned his head, hands still on the table. "And you know what? It's not fair to me, either."


	109. Jackie Wilcox

Day 56, February 4, Morning

Obviously, Sylar had stopped eating in order to be grilled for Peter's pleasure. This wasn't the kind of fun torture he envisioned receiving. "It's not my fault that you sleepwalk. And this is a crappy way to have an argument, with you using any excuse about anything I've done to leapfrog to other things I've done." He snorted at the rest of it. If Peter hadn't had obvious (and possibly worse) nightmares, it really occurred to Sylar that he could easily fuck with Peter's sleep now, not unlike Peter's threats to do the same. He didn't know about 'fairness,' he didn't know about sleeping with someone who wanted to sleep with him.

He remembered Luke being gratified, even through his heavy hero-worship, by Sylar admitting to the technicality of being a serial killer. Claire had been happy to copy Noah in calling him a psychopath. Peter, knowing that, still asked him what he was, as if he didn't know even as he contrarily labeled Sylar a serial killer. Even if Sylar did ape that behavior, it was a lie and an unhelpful one. Sylar did not want to think about what he'd said about a 'price.' He could not more understand what he wanted Peter to do than he could explain it to him and it wasn't possible to ask of a man who had to ask what he was. "/Emotions make you sloppy. Know your endgame before you lift a hand,/" he said as if imparting wisdom but his irritation at the chaotic questioning leaked through. His attention returned to his fortunately-still-warm breakfast, filling his mouth with eggs again.

XXX

Peter exhaled heavily and leaned back in his chair, not quite tipping it. His mouth was a tight line. A throbbing pain was making itself known behind his eyes. He watched Sylar eat for the next bite before he retrieved his cold coffee and sipped on it. Peter's thoughts were a mess. He let them be without trying to sort them out. He looked off to the side, sullen and angry, and rubbed as much as he could without hurting himself worse at the bridge of his nose. When Sylar was done eating, Peter said, "I wasn't sleepwalking. I fell out of bed. I thought I was stopping you from …." He shook his head, seeing no easy way to sum it up. "It was a dream – not a good one. How about we not leapfrog and you tell me why you killed Jackie Wilcox." He leaned forward to set his now-empty coffee cup on the table. "This matters to me for more than just the obvious reason that you killed someone. I died to protect the cheerleader, then I found out later you had killed one anyway. Tell me about that. Why her?" For now, Peter kept a lid on his anger about the killing. He wanted Sylar to talk more than Peter wanted to vent.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to get any peace from this and he couldn't complain that it was too early in the morning for this because he'd already been woken up for it at an ungodly hour. _Gre-eat. Let's not leapfrog._ He did not want to talk about this and didn't feel the need to examine the reasons why. "Do you think I owe you answers to everything?" he retorted with half a smokescreen.

XXX

"Owe me? No. But I'm going to keep asking."

XXX

It was Sylar's turn to heave a sigh. It would be so much easier if he only had to answer one or a few questions, never to speak of it again, but that wasn't Peter's habit. "Because she was stupid enough to get her 'special achievements' in the _news_ ," Sylar stressed that. Jackie had been stupid enough to broadcast herself with literal false advertising, opening herself up to predators like him. It was a perfect set-up to protect Claire; a perfect set-up to thwart his rise to power and it practically demanded a mistake on his part because he was working with false information. He'd always suspected Bennet's hand behind it, even though he heard some of the cheerleaders' argument in the locker room. "I knew there was a girl in Odessa who had a power – and thanks to Jackie, I knew she was a cheerleader. Essentially, she was immortal. She was standing right next to Claire." He shrugged. "My ability doesn't…work like a metal detector; it's not always exact."

XXX

"Okay." Peter listened, arms crossed. Finding out the meaning behind Jackie's death had been important to him for a long time – had he failed in his quest? He didn't think so, seeing as how New York hadn't blown up, but maybe he'd failed in Odessa and succeeded later on? Which would mean he'd still failed and someone had died because of it. And then there was the issue of Jackie herself and the value of her life, stolen from her. "I assume you knew, when you went there, that she was fifteen, maybe sixteen years old, right?" Peter's arms slipped down a little, his posture loosening. He couldn't imagine Sylar (or any human being for that matter) not caring about something like that. Had he just not cared enough? Was he different now? "It's not like I expect you to have given any of these people a fighting chance, but …." He left it hanging there. Killing defenseless girls at their Homecoming games seemed even more wrong than the usual unprovoked murder. He needed to know if Sylar recognized that.

XXX

Petrelli's argument was solid, hitting on everything that Sylar didn't want to think about and didn't want to be. He was not a coward, ephebophile, serial killer, or some other kind of maniac who killed without reason. It did not make him less of a man for hunting Claire, even if killing the wrong girl was an unintended consequence. _I could have killed the president of the United States! I did kill a senator and practically no one found out about it, or cared! Samson hunted small game, not me!_ Sylar glared steadily at his tablemate. "What are you trying to get at? What do you expect me to say? I killed her; she's dead. I didn't profit from her death and I didn't intend her death." It wasn't sounding right and Peter wasn't going to let it go, he knew. That boiled under his skin, the shame and disgust of his own deeds, the elementary mistake. He stood up and menacingly leaned over the table, pointing a finger in the other man's face, "It was only supposed to be _one_ girl and it was going to _change_ everything!" he burst out loudly, his voice filled with tension.

XXX

Peter leaned back from the tirade, raising his hands briefly in surrender before putting them down on the table. He was quiet while Sylar re-composed himself. "I'm looking for some emotional response that isn't all about _you,_ " he said. _But maybe that's not possible._ He glanced away, then back, trying another tack. "How much planning did you do before that night? I mean, how many days, or weeks even, did you know what you were going to do?"

XXX

Sylar frowned, but considered that. _Even if I apologize it's still about me…What on Earth could I possibly say to that affect?_ It troubled him; he felt like it should be obvious. The next question wasn't difficult and it didn't appear to be a trap of any kind. He was able to relax some, still feeling edgy. "I'd known for a while, weeks, maybe months. I didn't need to do a whole lot of planning back then. I was…I was just getting started. I did more surveillance."

XXX

"You knew you were going to kill someone. What do you think about what you did?" Peter shrugged. "It's just the two of us here. There's no one to impress or to throw you in jail or whatever. Do you think that was … cool?" He said the last word dubiously, not trying to conceal his own feelings on the matter, but still wanting to hear what Sylar had to say. _He had weeks to decide not to kill someone. Did it never even cross his mind not to do it?_

XXX

He felt himself swing right back into upset and defensive, "What do I think?" and his laughter was tinged with some hysteria. "I'm not afraid of going to prison!" Prison was a joke because not one existed that could hold him. A cell on the other hand…was a serious concern. He'd obviously been in customized cells little better than cages where he could rot. "It has always mattered what _you_ and yours think! You'll still punish the bad guy as you see fit, because you're right: it's just the two of us here."

XXX

Peter raised his brows. _Is he thinking I'm here to-_ "I'm not here to punish you. There is no punishment I can think of suitable for what you did. An eternity alone?" Peter looked around the place, his gaze lingering out the windows where enough sunlight was stabbing through the clouds to show him the weather was changing outside. He looked back to Sylar, meeting his eyes to say, "There's something poetic to that, sure, but it's just another torture." Peter dropped his eyes with a soft sigh. "It doesn't do anyone any good."

XXX

Another glare leveled at Peter, "Oh, so the whole maiming and turning me back into your brother bullshit is just your idea of foreplay. I think I would be alone for eternity if you didn't need me."

XXX

"You weren't exactly on my Christmas card list," Peter muttered. He let the rest of it pass, but he noted Sylar's anger. It had come up before – apparently he held Peter personally responsible for the identity loss. That, too, he intended to revisit, but some other time. For now, Peter stood to pick up as many plates and cups as he could manage in a trip to the nearby sink. "How many other people did you kill that day?" he asked conversationally. "Was that normal for you?"

XXX

Thinking back, Sylar tallied the corpses – not all of them had been final. "Two…sort of. It's a long story. No, that wasn't really normal." Looking away even though Peter was otherwise occupied, he aimed to keep his embarrassment hidden. "I used to…take care of witnesses. But I'd also have days of taking out a whole squad of agents so…it depends…what you mean."

XXX

He raised a brow about the 'squad of agents' comment, but let it go rather than change the topic from the night at Odessa. It almost distracted him from wondering who the other person was. _There was me and Jackie, but I asked how many others, so there was someone else. I'll have to come back to that._ Peter rinsed his coffee cup and refilled it with water, returning to the table with it. "How did you survive the fall? How did you get away?"

XXX

This was easiest to respond to. It was Peter's stupidity that had nearly killed them both. It wasn't loaded or painful to speak of. "I landed on _you_. I limped away because you fucking stabbed me with one of your bones. I bled all over the place." That was annoying because the FBI had been able to take DNA, not that it did them any good to have it. He'd turned around in his chair to watch Peter in the kitchen.

XXX

Peter snorted half a laugh, amused by the idea that his death throes had managed to wound his killer. "Good," he interjected.

XXX

Sylar couldn't deny the sometimes-humorous irony that was typical of Peter Petrelli's interference. A stupid plan that paid off was Peter's style. What came after that wasn't so easy and painless; it was downright traumatic. "And I didn't get away. The Haitian got me. So you know I ended up in a fucking cell with Bennet taunting me about how I didn't get his daughter. With the fucking Company wanting to probe my brain. You can imagine how that went."

XXX

Peter sobered again, fast. He remembered Sylar's comments about being the one screaming down the hall while Peter had it nice and cushy in a cell next to Adam. He sipped his water and let the silence stretch out as he thought about it. _Noah. I know how Noah feels about his family_ _;_ _at least I can guess from what I've seen. Sylar tried to kill Claire. Then he had Sylar._ It didn't take much imagination to think about how badly things might have gone. Any man who was already comfortable with killing and morally grey, presented with the person who had attempted to murder his daughter – yeah. Sylar had mentioned the Haitian. "They let you remember what they did to you?" Peter asked it softly and respectfully.

XXX

Sylar met Peter's eyes dead-on with some confusion. "Of course. I wasn't supposed to escape. I don't think I was supposed to live. Besides, who would I tell?" Sylar then considered if Peter could understand how helpless most non-Petrelli specials were against the Company's fucked-up whims.

XXX

Peter met his gaze, eyes wide. That sucked. All of it. It made too much sense – why erase memories if they were never going to let him go? "I'm sorry," was all he could think to say. It wasn't his place to say much more. To make commentary about someone else's torture or use it to advance some point in discussion would be abominably self-centered. After a few moments of silence, where he dropped his eyes to the table, he asked, "You said there were two people you killed that day other than Jackie. I assume I was one. Who was the other?" His voice was still soft. This was just an inquiry – simple curiosity, really.

XXX

Sylar waved a hand, brushing it off. "Hiro's girlfriend." Then the illusive answer from earlier came to him, about not being selfish or whatever response Peter wanted. _That's what he wants._ "He said he'd tell me my future if I saved her from a brain tumor that was killing her. Instead of me taking her ability, too. She could remember anything she'd ever read. I guess I'd killed her in the past and he…changed it." He shrugged, easily avoiding and omitting the pain he'd felt at seeing Charlie and Hiro obviously in love, two specials in a working relationship so soon after Elle had…And then the awareness of his horrible fate in the future – dying alone, being hunted; hopeless. Even Hiro's seemingly genuine 'I'm sorry' couldn't begin to help. Now he knew it was true, even if he'd been optimistic or foolish enough to think otherwise.

XXX

_How did he …?_ Peter wondered about that. _Did he have a healing ability and just never used it?_ The possibility brought his anger back to the surface. "Have you ever considered doing anything for the people you've affected, the ones who died? Jackie probably had parents, people who cared about her. Just knowing one of your classmates was gruesomely murdered in the locker room has to be a trauma by itself." Quietly, Peter continued, "Paramedics were called. Then a funeral home. They had to move the body. Someone would have to clean up all the blood. They probably couldn't have an open casket service. Everyone would wonder why – what you'd done to her that made that impossible. In class, there would be an empty seat where she used to be. Grades never finished. No graduation. Just … an empty spot in people's lives where she used to be." He fell silent, his gaze on Sylar enough to track his responses, but not enough to be interpreted as staring at him.

XXX

He refused to look at Peter as the man spoke, horrible sentence after sentence. Each one felt like a heavy hammer of condemnation. It brought him back to the beginning of his bloody career, the first few people that he'd killed. Gabriel had been the one to clean up after Brian Davis, in his own shop. His mother had been the first time he'd been forced to think about arrangements and even years later; it – she – featured in his routine nightmares. Peter didn't know that. At the same time, Sylar had no reason for empathy because no one cared when he died, not even his own mother. Peter's demand for empathy from him was hypocritical, as the empath would gladly obliterate him in some way. "The people I've affected," Sylar began slowly and deliberately, "want nothing to do with me. There is nothing I can do for them." Elle, Mohinder, Molly, Peter, to name a few. There was always money he could give them but that was all. An apology should only be given to manipulate 'those affected by him,' which he didn't need to do and what's more, he wouldn't be genuine. Making others understand his reasons, his struggles, was always an exercise in futility. "And I'm assuming that you're being literal and not speaking metaphorically about yourself," he concluded stiffly.

XXX

Peter tilted his head, thinking over Sylar's comment. _They might want to kill him, hurt him. But he's right. They don't want him in their life. They want the person he took from them. That's … insightful of him. Or maybe it's just a cop-out._ He gave a short sigh. "Yeah. Literal. Mostly. The same pattern probably played out for most of them, depending on relatives, family, jobs, that sort of thing." He stood up, taking his coffee cup and the last of the dishes to the sink. "I don't want to talk about Nathan right now. Or how you've affected me. These other people are … less personal to me."

He turned, leaning against the counter, and circled back to the latest in a growing list of things he wanted to know more about, since Sylar was sharing. "If … you had killed Hiro's girlfriend in the past – in the original past – and saved her this time," Peter said, marveling that Hiro had been able to convince Sylar to save someone at all, much less an intended victim, "then that would change her future and yours, too. How would Hiro know what that future was? All he'd know was the future you would have had if you'd gone ahead and took her ability, right?"

XXX

"Yeah, in theory. It still happened the way he said it would." Most of it, anyway. "It's not important." Sylar sensed an end to the conversation and hastened it. So what if they could 'talk' about things without having a brawl. It didn't mean he wanted to talk about anything. It was invasive.

XXX

So much for Sylar sharing. Peter assumed he could keep pushing, but there was no reason to. He'd been told a lot. If Sylar wanted to cut it off here, he could respect that. Peter reached up and rubbed at his sore eyes again. They were itchy on top of the headache. "I'm going to go over to my place and take care of all this," he said, gesturing at his nascent beard. "Get my brace. Then … I don't know. Maybe try to read a little more. And keep myself under control this time." He made a dry chuckle. Peter hesitated a long moment, then offered, "Do you want to read up here or in the rec room? If you're out of books, you could run down and grab something while I shave and stuff."

XXX

Sylar frowned at nearly all those ideas. Grooming, the brace, leaving the suite or even the building, were not priorities. He was in charge of taking care of Peter; letting him out of his sight for a prolonged period of time was irresponsible. Without medical training, he had no way of knowing (and no way of trusting if Peter relayed supposed perfect health) Peter's actual condition and capabilities on his own. "No," he said simply, ignoring for now the more agreeable parts of the idea. "You have a concussion and your eyes are probably still weak. I'm coming with you." That wasn't a request.

XXX

That got Peter's attention. He didn't want Sylar in his space, in his apartment, especially if he was feeling off and unable to adequately defend himself. "You can come with me over to the lobby," he said with an edge. "That's all."

XXX

_Is he sticking to the original agreement because he remembers or is he being contrary because of something else?_ "That's not going to work," he tried to summarize. And this was the other problem: how to convey to Peter the problem without completely insulting him and getting his stubborn back up. 'I can't let you do that' or worse, 'you can't do that' would certainly have that affect.

XXX

'Why not?' Peter wanted to ask, but doing so would concede that Sylar was an authority on what would and would not work, which he wasn't, Peter was certain. _It'll work fine. Is this his separation anxiety flaring up, or something else?_ Either way, having some alone time wasn't what Peter was after at the moment (he'd been enjoying the company), so he offered a concession: "Tell you what, all I'll do is run up and get stuff – my razor, the brace, that sort of thing. I'll come right back down and we'll come back here for me to use everything. How's that?"

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar acceded, glad he didn't have to explain. _I've done enough of that already._ "I was going to do laundry at some point," he added for Peter's benefit. If Peter was feeling cooped up a change of scenery would help (because it wasn't like Sylar could leave him alone when he was awake for the same stubborn-inducing reasons). _It's like babysitting. Or parenting. It's only because he's injured. I'll do the dishes when we get back. It doesn't really matter where he wants to read; I don't think he can read very well or for very long._

XXX

"Okay." _Is he agreeing? I think he is_. "I'll grab any dirty laundry I have lying around while I'm up there." _Did we just disagree about something, discuss it, compromise, and not punch each other out? Cool._ He smiled a little, looking around for his shoes. When he found them, he had to remind himself that he needed socks first.

XXX

Thinking through the steps, he realized and warned, "Your coat is by the door." Sylar fetched his own outerwear and kept an eye on Peter.

XXX

The only socks available had been worn, but Peter told himself they weren't really dirty _. I'll get more when I'm at my place._ He dressed and took up his coat, threading his right hand through it very carefully. "My eyes are not 'weak'," he said argumentatively as they went out the door, stopping himself from tacking on an equally grouchy and totally untrue, 'I feel fine.'

XXX

He ignored the complaint because that's all it was. Time would tell if his limited hunch was correct. If it was true, and a fact, Peter might as well argue about being called 'short.' Or perhaps, it was all a matter of perspective. Sylar hadn't said it with any inflection or intent; Peter was just defensive about it. He hung back and allowed Peter to lead, since he could see so well.

XXX

Peter had cause to regret his words as soon as they got to the doors outside. If he'd thought just looking out the windows upstairs was painful, this was agonizing. The bright light stabbed into his eyes like knives _. I could walk across with my eyes shut, right? Or hanging onto him. Fuck that, I'm not going to hang on him. I'm not going to hang on anybody._ With that surge of machismo, Peter scrunched up his eyes and braved the brilliant sunlight. It was only a few steps before he was shielding his eyes with his hands. By the time he got to the other side, his eyes were a dull ache, his head throbbed, and everything was washed out and dim. He let Sylar get the door and made no comment about his obviously 'weak' eyes. Everything inside seemed dark as a cave, but Peter was familiar enough with the layout to make it to the elevator controls anyway.

XXX

He saw the change in Peter's body language and knew that he'd been right in some capacity. To be fair, the sunlight was blinding on the snow and they'd both been indoors for some days now. Then came the question of whether Peter could see inside the building after the brief moment in the outdoors. "Want me to come with you?" he asked casually, knowing the answer was 'no' even if it was affirmative.

XXX

"No, m'fine." Peter quietly waved Sylar off, hoping that was the end of the guy's offer and that he wouldn't be forced into a confrontation in his current state.

XXX

Sylar watched even after Peter left in the elevator. This time he saw that Peter was on the eighth floor. Or, at least, that's where he chose to exit. It was a significant weight off his shoulders to have an idea of where in the building Peter lived – in case of emergency and to know in trade because Peter knew right where Sylar lived as well. It was only fair. Today, he honored the lobby agreement.

XXX

Peter got his shaving supplies, his shampoo and conditioner, a reusable canvas grocery sack to put it all in, and tossed some dirty clothes on top. He tried to remember what else he wanted. His eyes lingered on Mister Bear, but he'd really hear it from Sylar if he brought that with him. _He'd think I'd gone weak in the head and not just the eyes. What else was I supposed to get up here? Um, socks_. He got some and a full set of clean clothes to change into before Sylar did laundry. _I'm sure there was something else. This is like some of those concussion tests – 'Now remember these three words for me and repeat them back' Three things. Didn't I come up here for three things?_ He looked in the sack _. I've got three things – clothes, hair supplies, and shaving stuff. I can't stand here all day trying to think of whatever else I wanted. I need to get back to the lobby before Sylar organizes a search party to find me._

XXX

His companion returned with an overflowing canvas bag. _The Peter Petrelli beauty kit_ _, no doubt_ , Sylar thought with amusement because he'd often wondered how Peter could appear so put-together even in the worst situations, apparently with little or no effort. _He isn't very hairy. That helps. He's packing up to have a sleepover with me and I didn't tell him to do that, hell, I didn't even mention it._ Sylar grinned gleefully, enjoying that feeling.

XXX

"Where to now?"

XXX

He quit grinning in case Peter noticed. "Back to the Pegasus?" To him, it was the obvious destination. Peter had said they would return so he could groom. The laundry was there, as were the dishes. He was running out of reading material but he wasn't about to put Peter in the wheelchair and haul him thirteen blocks or more in the snow. He had books at home, of course, so it was a matter of when he could safely leave Peter to get them.

XXX

Peter gave a single grunt and gave the outdoors a brief resentful glare for not being cloudy. But he marshaled his defenses, hunched his shoulders, lowered his head, and managed to cross the street without incident, even though he had only one hand to ward off the light. "Are we going out anymore today?" he asked upon their return.

XXX

Sylar was quiet for a suspicious second. _He doesn't know what I'm thinking, about the books._ "I wasn't planning to," he hedged. ' _We' aren't going out anymore. What if Peter has big, stupid plans? Did he learn nothing from this trip?_

XXX

"Good," Peter said. He wanted to be done with being outside and having to deal with how wrong he'd been. It was a relief that Sylar had said nothing of it. They returned to the suite where Peter shaved carefully, showered, changed into his fresh clothing, and then came out to stir restlessly around the apartment.

XXX

Sylar had time to finish what few dirty dishes there were. He didn't have to wait long for Peter. It was time to get Peter invested in some activity. "Let's get the laundry." He went to get the basket of their combined clothing.

XXX

"They must have had a laundry service for the top floor," Peter said as they left, guessing at why such a nice apartment didn't come with a utility room. He'd seen places that nice, but never lived in one. He brought his sack of clothes in one hand, his other arm wrapped around a small bundle of towels and garments. "I didn't see a laundry chute, though. Maybe it was all pick-up _." I'm speculating about laundry service for an empty apartment in Sylar's head. It's kind of weird that things get dirty at all here_. He didn't worry about it further. The laundry room was a floor down, along with a variety of other pieces of equipment necessary for the running of a large apartment building and maintaining the luxury residents of the top floor. Or at least that was Peter's assumption. He didn't go poking around. Sylar was sticking close to him, so he stuck close right back. Especially after the problem with his eyes, he decided that maybe Sylar's judgment should be given some respect.

XXX

Sylar agreed with that. The floor just below the suite revealed a minor hub of almost hotel-style building upkeep. _Now, if only they had room service._ They found the laundry room and Sylar got right into setting several washing machines to dark and light settings, then sorting those darks and lights.

XXX

After helping Sylar sort and load clothes (where Peter tried to follow Sylar's lead on what he wanted in which load), he took a seat on an orange, fabric-covered couch that looked like it dated from the 1960's. He watched as Sylar did the last fiddling with the washing machines, semi-absently noting how slender the guy was. And a little less-absently noticing that was a really nice ass moving around under those jeans. Peter rubbed at his eyes and found something else to look at, even if it was just the bank of empty dryers off to the side.

XXX

As the first load began to run, Sylar felt the need to put Peter in the hot seat. For something, anything that came to mind, as payback for earlier. If Peter wasn't mentally capable right now, well, then perhaps that would be another lesson the Petrelli should learn. "What was your nightmare about?"

XXX

Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tousling it, then gripping at it a few times. It was not comforting to think about, but the passage of time and discussion had dulled his emotions from it. "Nathan and I were at the Odessa stadium, up top. You know the spot," he said. "I knew you were coming. I was trying to get Nathan to fly off with me, but he wouldn't go. I don't know if he thought he'd be seen or what. I kept trying to persuade him. He wouldn't listen to me. He never did. He was dead, too, but," Peter shrugged and rolled his eyes, "it was a dream. He was still moving around and talking, so whatever that means."

XXX

One eyebrow twitched. He'd had a dead family member-as-a-zombie nightmare. Recently. _He'd better not blame that on all this being 'in my head.'_

XXX

"Then you came out, at that entrance at the bottom of the stadium, and I really got concerned. I tried to get hold of Nathan, but it was tough. His clothes were...thin or something. I couldn't get a grip. And I don't know how I knew this - dream, again - but he was using his power of flight to cancel mine out somehow, like flying down when I was trying to move him up. All the time, you were getting closer, climbing the steps one after another, and I was struggling with Nathan, trying to get him to go. That went on for a while. Then you were there. And Nathan was all politician smiles and putting his hand out to you, asking if you'd vote for him in the election. You looked at him for a moment, then you had this...predatory smile and you reached out. I don't think you said anything. I had Matt Parkman's voice in my head yelling that I couldn't let the two of you touch or else something really bad was going to happen, like Nathan would die for real. I knew I had to stop it, but since I couldn't lift Nathan, I threw myself between the two of you. I grabbed his shoulders like I'd grabbed yours back when it was me and you there. Nathan and I...we went over backwards. We fell. A lot of my nightmares involve falling. A lot of the better dreams - flying. What _really_ happened was I managed to throw myself out of bed. I woke up when I hit the floor. I had this feeling you'd made me kill Nathan somehow, or that you were still after us." Peter rubbed at his eyes again and shook his head. "It doesn't have to make sense. That's when I said things to you. You know the rest." He looked off to the side guiltily.

XXX

It was strange to hear the story of an event he'd been present at, but from the other person's point of view. Sylar knew he was terrifying in a very primitive way; now he got to hear exactly how terrifying he was from firsthand experience. Peter had been protecting the then-stranger Claire, now it was a figurative Nathan, so the feelings were similar. If it wasn't for that, he couldn't help but wonder just how frightened Peter had been of him, or was afraid of him still. Then there was the fact that Peter was concussed and his dreams were weird as hell. Foretelling or…warped beyond belief, but nightmares nonetheless. It didn't have to make sense, but it did, a little.

"You know, when I was waiting for you in the lobby," _and when I kept my hands to myself all these nights, and didn't mention your family,_ "I was thinking. All these agreements you're making with me, I think that means you're getting comfortable here." He painted it in an opinionated, positive light because he wanted Peter to think 'staying' was a good idea, as was being comfortable around Sylar.

XXX

Peter grunted. He turned it over in his mind. "I think it means I think you'll hold up your end of a bargain." He was quiet for a moment, idly rubbing his thumbnail on the rough texture of the arm of the couch. "There's no point in trying to make an agreement with someone you think's going to turn on you. That's... comfortable, I guess. Yeah, it is." He chuckled drily. "It's _different_ ," he said, thinking about his family and how he'd grown up with the constant expectation of being shoved aside as convenient for others, "from, like, other people I've had in my life. I trust you. You're trustworthy. That's not what I was expecting." He looked away. _But is Sylar trustworthy just because it's convenient for him, or would he be that way if he had other options? Being trustworthy doesn't mean he's a good person – I could always trust him to kill and torture if the opportunity came up, but at least the fact that he'll keep a deal is a step in the right direction. Now I just need to work the right deals._ Peter shrugged to himself and looked back at Sylar. "What about you? You comfortable here, with me? You seem to want me around a lot."

XXX

Sylar leaned against the dryer, arms folded across his chest. He'd had plenty of time to think about things these past few days on his breaks from reading about baseball. He'd thought a lot about 'Peter's way' of doing things, what that might entail, if it was going to be safe or satisfying; and about what he knew of the man himself, what he responded to. Sylar knew he needed to befriend and seduce his companion because it would be well-received. It wouldn't involve lying per se, more of the usual…acting in character. A character of Peter's choosing suited to fit his needs.

"It helps that you were blind and completely vulnerable," Sylar reminded. "Yes, I'm comfortable," he…lied. He was more comfortable than he'd ever anticipated; more than was probably safe, too. "I didn't think it was possible." _I don't know that anyone's ever called me trustworthy. I'm…farther along with him than I thought. If I'm trustworthy, then what does that make him? He's still a Petrelli._ "What I meant was, you being comfortable implies that you're not…going anywhere." That was utterly manipulative of him. _He said he wouldn't leave; he can't leave even if he wants to, and it makes it sound like I want…need?...need him around._

XXX

Peter shrugged. "I'm not leaving without you, that's for sure. At least not alive." He hurried to elaborate lest that be taken as a threat, "Me, that is." He shut his eyes briefly. _That still sounds bad. Sort of._ "What I mean is that as long as I'm alive, I'm not leaving here without you." He wondered over the 'blind and completely vulnerable' comment. _Does he mean I'm easier to be around if I'm helpless? Or that he's staying close to me because I needed it?_ The first was a scary threat. The second was reassuring.

XXX

"What you said…doesn't that make me more reliable, more trustworthy now than _he_ was?" Sylar canted his head, voice full of curious concern and interest. He was intent on usurping Nathan's place and more. In a lower, conspiratorial yet still conversational tone, he murmured, "More available, too, in every sense of the word."

XXX

He stared at Sylar for a long moment. "Really?" Peter finally said with sarcastic amusement. "Is that the route you're taking? You're going to try to talk me into how much my brother sucked and how much better you are than him?" Peter waved a hand, finger extended like he was rapidly tracing a path on a map. "Does this lead to a place where you convince me you were doing me a favor to kill him? Maybe, like, clearing things up so we could get together?" He cocked his head in exaggerated inquiry. "Cuz I don't think any of that's going to fly. You have a lot to answer for before you get to talk shit about my family, Sylar."

"What I _said_ was that you're a lot more reliable and trustworthy than I thought a guy with your background would be. Jury's still out as to whether that's because we're all alone here…but even at that…you've been okay, when you're not beating my face in." Peter tried to get his eyes open a bit wider, studying Sylar's face with a serious expression. "What do you mean by 'available'?" He told himself he just wanted to know what Sylar meant, even though the meaning(s) were obvious. He wanted to hear it out loud and not just implied.

XXX

_Oh, that's funny. I thought that, because your family started this war, I got to state a few facts. I can state facts regardless. Not to mention that I used to be your fucking family! I still am in some ways._ But Sylar didn't voice his rather obvious argument. He also ignored the tricky question of his actions being influenced by the solitude before Peter and near solitude with Peter. He should probably give it some thought, but the situation was unlikely to change, so why bother? _You started that fight, Petrelli – what was I supposed to do, let you do whatever to me?_ Sylar moved on to a far more appealing topic. "I'm so glad you asked," he murmured gleefully, flashing his most roguish and charming smile just for Peter. "I'm not married, no kids, unattached. I'm not related to you in any way," _that we know of._ (Honestly, he didn't think they were). Those qualities eliminated Nathan and then some, as did many other factors. "I know you like your family does and what I don't know I'm learning. I'm special and I understand abilities – I'm nothing if not adaptable. I'm trustworthy now. I live for a challenge. And, of course, _you…_ are my only plan for the foreseeable future." Sylar emphasized that last, with a lingering look. Then he gave a playful shrug, "I'm all yours."

XXX

Peter looked at Sylar, really took him in. His brows rose slightly. It was a good approach, he had to admit. Even if the first qualities listed described a vast number of people, the later ones didn't. He smiled and expelled air in a chuckle in response to the shrug.

XXX

In a teasing yet a little serious tone, Sylar added, "Be flattered, Peter. Not many people catch my attention."

XXX

Peter laughed out loud, but it was amused, not mocking. He waved at their location. "In this place, it's not like I have much competition." He settled back in the couch, crossing his legs and resting one hand on his knee. His ego was tickled. "You've got a," he paused for a second, "pretty big challenge ahead of you, buddy. How are you planning on dealing with that?"

XXX

Sylar controlled his expression as he thought about that more than he wanted to. _I don't know that I've ever had any competition like that, the way he means it._ It didn't surprise him. Competition would imply that he was desirable and he would have remembered that. _I wonder if he's had people compete for him. Probably._ That raised another question he hasn't considered before. Nathan was a serial adulterer. Had Peter ever cheated on anyone? He smirked, "A guy's gotta have some secrets," he said loftily. _I have no idea. I just…kill and destroy things. I used to fix things..._

XXX

Peter made a small roll of his eyes, but let it pass. He considered what he knew, and as he did, Sylar's reasons for being interested in Peter came back to him – lashing out against Peter's family being one of the main ones. Vengeance tended to be something a person only needed once. Even aside from his drive to protect his family, Peter didn't want to be used and dumped. He shrugged one shoulder. "Let's imagine you succeed. You get me. The novelty is gone. The forbidden isn't anymore. You've had your revenge. You going to leave a couple hundred on the nightstand and go looking for your next victim?"

XXX

He listened to yet another shrewd question. Towards the end of it, his eyebrows had risen and stayed that way as if to say, 'I didn't know paying you was an option….' mostly because he wasn't sure if Peter was implying Sylar had to pay for anyone, or if Peter was accepting payment (very unlikely). It was a valid concern. His…persona, of course, was another issue as well. Peter didn't think Sylar could be anything monogamous, relational…trustworthy. Not a connection. Sylar pretended to examine something downward, his shoes or the floor, which he scuffed in discomfort. "I've never had any novelty wear off. The longest thing I ever had, the other…party was…satisfied." He'd gotten that much out, omitting some things, but still defending himself. _That's what it's going to be like, isn't it? Leaving won't be much of an option. There are no other 'victims' to chase._

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter said as a leading question. He wanted to know more about _that_ , on general principle if nothing else.

XXX

"Just change the subject."


	110. Fatalism

Day 56, February 4, Afternoon

Peter let out a slow, deep breath. He studied Sylar for a moment, thinking about why Sylar was putting that topic off-limits. _He probably hasn't had relationships he wants to talk about. What happens when you try to break up with someone like Sylar? What happens when you argue with him over where to hang the washcloth after it's been used?_ His thoughts turned to Sylar's lethal track record. Rather than talk about people Peter cared about or ones he knew little of, he spoke about himself.

"How many times have you tried to kill me, Sylar?" Peter held up the pinky finger on his left hand. "Odessa." He held up the pinky and ring finger. "Mohinder's apartment. Both of those, totally uncalled for, by the way." He waved his hand dismissively. "Then there's Kirby Plaza. You tried, but you failed." He extended his middle finger at Sylar eloquently. It was convenient that it was third in his list. "I'm not going to count Gabriel in the future. He wasn't trying to kill me specifically. But Stanton counts. You lured us there on purpose. Then there's Mercy, where you told me what you'd showed up for. I'll skip Thanksgiving, even though I'm sure you would have gotten around to me." He hesitated, remembering that was Sylar who'd stopped himself, not Nathan. _Or was it just the mental commands interfering? That must have been it._ But there was still that nagging discrepancy. Peter ignored it for now, turning his hand palm out towards Sylar and wiggling the five digits. "Five times. You know what kind of prison sentence a person gets for that? You're a serial killer on _individual_ people, Sylar!" He put his hand down. "Has it occurred to you that my life matters to me? At least, you know, more than getting laid?"

He chuckled. "Maybe if you'd caught me ten years ago, we could have done something, because what's a couple murder attempts between people who want to get it on, right? But I'm not in that place anymore."

XXX

Sylar was…pleased? The number was lower than he'd thought and it was that much less to be held against him by this living victim. It was also a very clear sign of failure. _He's failed to kill me successfully (and I resent him for that) and I've failed to kill him and others._ No thought was given to the threat of prison – not only would the evidence fail to stand up in any court, there was no prison that could hold him, an immortal with lifetimes to spare. The Company, on the other hand, was a legitimate threat to him. "I am _not_ a serial killer," he said again with a hard edge, glaring _. I'm in 'that' place._ Sylar felt belittled, ashamed, and judged by the implication. "No, Peter, it never did occur to me," he sighed. "And you know why? Because the trouble you get yourself into seems suicidal. Someone who wants to live plans to live and makes every effort to stay alive, so they can, you know, get laid? I think you value other people's lives more than your own. You've said as much about killing yourself and valuing others. I don't know…maybe we can't kill each other," he voiced a theory he'd had just now. "And some people want to get laid because they don't know if they're going to live." He immediately speculated if that was admitting too much.

XXX

"Well, you've got me pegged," Peter muttered. He assumed Sylar's last statement was true and self-referential, but he thought little of it. He sat there quietly thinking about his last two relationships, the ones he'd had since he'd gotten abilities. Other people were more important and Peter knew that made him poor relationship material. Putting others first was what he did, so why did it make him feel so useless? Even now, he was pondering how he wasn't a good partner for Sylar, for Sylar's sake.

XXX

Peter said nothing for a bit. Eventually Sylar asked what he'd thought earlier. "Have you ever cheated on someone you considered yourself to be with?"

XXX

Peter raised his head, broken out of morosely wondering what sort of life Caitlin would have had if he hadn't ruined and ended it. He thought about Sylar's question. 'You don't have a right to ask that', he almost said, but didn't bother. "Not intentionally," Peter grudged. He looked away briefly, then back. "I've been with people who thought we were exclusive just because we'd hooked up once or twice." He shook his head. "I went through a phase for a few years where I...I really only wanted one thing."

XXX

_So they thought it meant something more than you did? Sometimes he doesn't think much of them. Or he says he thinks more of them than he really does._ Sylar let that settle a moment. What was with this emotionally attached, monogamous male bonding of Peter's? It wasn't 'normal,' but neither was Peter. "What's wrong with a quick hookup? Sometimes that's all you really need."

XXX

Peter shrugged and said, "I never said there was anything wrong with that. But things for me have changed. I want more now." He looked away again, chagrinned. "Or at least, I would want more, if I... You know, the last two people I was with are dead. I've kind of sworn off...anything." He looked away with a mix of sullenness and guilt on his face, remembering the way he'd felt with Emma, helping her appreciate the beauty of her ability. That had warmed him so much. He could have had romantic feelings for her, but then there'd been the scene with his mom, the nightmares, the cello, and things spiraling out of control until he was on a suicide mission to California to face Sylar. He was toxic. He put both feet on the floor and held his hands loosely between his knees. "Being with people is probably not something that's in the cards for me anymore."

XXX

_Aha!_ "That's kind of fatalistic, don't you think?" Of course, Sylar understood the feeling, the dilemma: abilities and significant others co-existing, because he'd wrestled with the concept himself, coming up with no solutions. Even aside from abilities, there was this…violence factor they both seemed to share.

XXX

Peter slumped unhappily. "Maybe. Abilities make it too dangerous to be around anyone...that way, so I don't do it."

XXX

"I mean there are no abilities here. That's something." His grin was small, because the lack of abilities went a long way toward making other things possible. Perhaps. "The rest is just…regular self-control. Or not," it was his turn to shrug. It was important not to demand or force Peter into any one behavior. If Peter wanted to be violent, he certainly could be and probably would be. Sylar wouldn't be missed if Peter screwed up here. Some of what he'd said was…an exaggeration. People (or was it just Peter?) told him similar things, as if abstaining from killing was a simple choice or matter of self-control. _(I think it could be…but it usually isn't. Hasn't been)._ It was his turn to look away in thought. "I guess you feel…robbed of choice." _That was deep of me!_

XXX

"What do you mean by that?" Peter sat back a little, his hands on the top of his knees now. "Is it like abilities keep me from choosing to be with people?"

XXX

Sylar shook his head. _How do I get around that? I'll always be a bad choice. We don't have a choice._ "I don't know. When life gives you lemons, you know? It's still a choice to use the lemons even when you'd rather have oranges. It doesn't have to be ' _more.'_ "

XXX

He could see where Sylar was going with this. Peter frowned, nearly a scowl. He shifted to the corner of the sofa and pulled one leg up, perching his foot on the edge of the couch. _Sylar is the lemon and he wants me to...use... him._ With a put-out sigh, Peter said, "We're not going to hook-up, Sylar. Things will never be casual between us." Peter said it flatly, as a statement of fact. He cared too much about everything Sylar had done to be able to put that aside and have meaningless sex with him (not that sex was ever meaningless to Peter, no matter how casual it was).

XXX

"I don't see why it has to be anything more than just that," Sylar retorted. He huffed his breath out through his nose, checking the washer – almost done. He hated these machines, always saying 'six or eight minute' cycles but taking closer to fifteen minutes. "But if you feel you have to be difficult about it, what does it take for it not to be casual for you?"

XXX

Peter crossed his arms and hunched his shoulders a bit. His head hurt. He was feeling pressured and grumpy. Sylar's characterization of him 'being difficult about it' nearly caused him to overlook the question that came after. Not wanting to fight pointlessly over his 'right' to be difficult about who got to have sex with him, he seized on the question. "You and me isn't happening. But do you mean in general?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar allowed, since he couldn't get specifics on himself and Peter, even as a remote possibility.

XXX

"What would I want in a relationship if I didn't have abilities, ever again, like Dad took them or I just lost them and there was no way to get them back?" Peter was quiet and looked off to the side. "I don't know if it would matter. I'd still be involved in this...lifestyle." He sighed and looked down, thinking about how he'd felt with Emma. Or Caitlin, back when he'd known no more about himself than his first name. His foot returned to the floor and his arms loosened. "I want to have some feelings for the person I'm with. I want to care about them. I want that...opportunity...to care about them. I want to make them happy, to see them again, to know they wanted to see me, and that I mattered to them. I want to be _somebody_ for them." It was an echo of his words from the top of that thirty-story building, he knew, about how it was his turn to be somebody.

Tired of being required to justify his basic preferences, Peter turned the questions on Sylar. "I get that you want to be with me. That's flattering – thanks. But it's not happening. You killed my brother. You've killed me. And you seem to act like that's in the past and I should just ignore it. Why is that? Why shouldn't I care about that stuff, huh?"

XXX

It all came back to the things he'd never been able to cultivate, try as he might. The irony was cruel – the one person he could possibly be with wanted only the things he didn't know how to give or create or…be. It was very clear that sex was eternities away; that was upsetting because the easiest, fastest, most familiar way to get what they both wanted was near impossible. Everything fell apart at the beginning with feelings – Peter had none for him. Sylar's entire proposition specifically ignored that as a requirement or as a possibility because…well…It was unreasonable to expect or demand it. _Wasn't he listening to my fitting citrus metaphor? If I have to settle, so should he!_ Peter didn't care for him (other than medically) and Sylar had yet to play sick to give him those opportunities; Peter making him happy wasn't given much thought; and he hadn't overdone his excitement to see Peter whenever they'd been apart but he thought Peter knew he was meaningful – hadn't he said as much before now? So this new character he was creating must include things that Peter found attractive and worthy. The best analogy he could imagine was Peter desired a connection of sorts with him. That is, when Peter wasn't trying to turn him into Nathan, use him for his bygone homicidal skill set, or tell him to go off himself for the good of humanity. It was confusing and daunting to say the least.

Sylar frowned at Peter now. "Because I think in a place where I get to set some of the rules that the world should be more fair. You take my…inaction for granted. I shouldn't care about the past, anything you've done to me either, right? It's not like you ever talk about any of _that_ ," Sylar said with a pointed edge. "It's not important just because things happened to _you_. Usually, this is the only way to work with people. You have to…choose which way you're going to do it, Peter: yours, mine, or the midway."

XXX

_'Inaction?' Okay, fair enough. He could try to kill me. I'm always a little concerned he might. That he isn't is...yeah, okay, something I shouldn't take for granted. Got it. (That's not comforting.)_ He caught the reference to Peter wiping Sylar's mind. _(He didn't kill Matt over that, so why's so fired up over me doing it?)_ Peter didn't like that line of thought – it sounded like he was trying to shift blame – so he focused on what Sylar had offered. "What's your way?"

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes, grateful for the loud beep and buzz of the washer. His voice was a grumble, "You already said 'hell no' to it." He busied himself with dragging the damp clothes out of one machine to throw them in another.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said. "Then your way is us just fucking." _Yep, that's a big load of nope._ He noticed, again (since Sylar was facing away and bending over from time to time to migrate the clothes to the next appliance), that his posterior was truly worth staring at. _This is really fucked up._ He looked at his hands instead, putting his face in them for the moment.

XXX

Sylar corrected (vaguely enough not to agree with Peter) with some attitude, "You already turned it down. Just assume it's some biased advantage for me and forget about it."

XXX

Still hiding behind his hands, Peter asked, "So what's my way?" _Might as well find out everything I can about how he sees things. Maybe there's a...way or something._

XXX

He barely suppressed another eye roll. "We have to like each other. Have a relationship like a couple of girls? I have to agree to kill someone or not kill someone? Something like that, I think."

XXX

Peter snorted and leaned back, letting his hands fall to his sides. There was a lot he could say about Sylar's ridiculous version of 'Peter's way', but the weird thing was that even though Peter wanted to argue about the semantics, he had to admit Sylar was basically right. He didn't want to argue, so he simply asked, "Then what's the middle way?"

XXX

"It's fair!" He slapped at the dryer door to close it, facing Peter again. Uncertainty reigned as he contemplated if he should say 'that was the price I mentioned.' That bit of manipulation or demand, that plan hadn't been going so well. And if Peter wanted it his own way, then it would be a lot like speaking out of turn and putting his foot in his mouth – wishing to take back something that could never happen which he'd insisted upon. "No one's asking for a fucking apology or forgiveness or the world's best sex here. Just…admitting that it happened?" Sylar frowned again as he hesitated over that. _I'm talking about myself._ He didn't know how it worked or even what it was that he wanted. "I don't know. It never works. You'd win and it would be just like your way." God, he was frustrated. He dug into the next load of laundry, tossing it into the vacant washer with some relish.

XXX

_Fair? Like we have sex and like each other or…don't have sex and don't like each other? Both of those are fair._ He listened as Sylar went on. _Admitting that...the past happened. But he means things I've done to him. He still thinks those are equivalent to what he's done. Or does he? Maybe he doesn't care if they're equivalent or not. Maybe he just cares that they happened. I can admit that._ "I've fucked you over in the past." Peter was looking in the general direction of Sylar's feet, but his mind's eye was directed elsewhere – Odessa; Mohinder's apartment; Kirby Plaza; hell, even apparently coming back for Sylar when he was with Arthur was sticking his foot in Sylar's plans; then of course there was the Stanton Hotel; and Sylar seemed to have an especially big axe to grind over Mercy Heights, which despite Peter thinking Sylar had totally started that in more ways than one, he acknowledged Sylar's emotions about it. With a tilt of his head, he looked up at Sylar and said honestly, "I appreciate that you're not killing me over that. Sometimes...yeah, I worry you're going to."

Peter mulled it over a bit more, then chuckled. "Look at it this way – at least I'm not afraid to track you down wherever you are and jump in your shit." He waved a vague hand at their surroundings. "Even if that's, uh, kind of suicidal. I don't mean it that way, usually. I'm just trying to get something else done and knowing you might kill me for it doesn't mean I won't try." He looked over at Sylar with as much intensity as his still-droopy lids could muster. His brows made a brief twitch. "Except for Mohinder's apartment. That was just an accident. I didn't expect you there." Peter looked down again. "And when I tried to get you out of Pinehearst I was trying to help. Really." He'd had a few moments of loyalty to Sylar there – a few days, actually, where he tolerated Sylar, asked him for help, and tried to have his back. "Guess maybe it didn't come off that way."

XXX

That initial phrase was so general and brief yet it was huge in the sense that it was the first recognition of any wrong done to him. It did nothing to curb the emotional need for justice or compensation, which was still larger than this monumental initial recognition. _(He's not sorry. All that and he's not sorry about any of it._ He had no one to blame but himself. _And I told him I wasn't looking for a fucking apology)._ Sylar felt too stunned to react in any way. He'd gotten enough of what he'd asked for and no more than that. It was far from satisfying; explaining was pointless.

He knew Peter would never satisfy him in that way because the Petrelli family would always come first. Nathan, and turning him into Nathan, would always come first. Mercy Heights wasn't mentioned. That meant it would be Peter's way and Sylar was screwed. Sylar would be a non-person, a thing, a toy even in the 'relationship' arrangement Peter demanded. He felt his gut sink into despair. "Fucked me over. That's…" he was silent for a moment, simply shaking his head wordlessly. Eventually, he tried to sum up because he had to say something and he tried to leave it at that, "That's putting it mildly."

XXX

"The mind-wipe at Mercy," Peter said slowly and cautiously, pointing at his own head. "That was the worst, right?"

XXX

Sylar stared at him a moment. Obviously the playfulness of their outing was gone. The question itself wasn't an instant insult. He grated out a hiss, "Yes."

XXX

Peter hesitated for a moment, picking up on Sylar's intense disappointment in him. He didn't know what to do about it. Still careful, he went on, "Are you more angry at me than you are the others? Or does it just seem that way because I'm here?" Peter had the feeling that Sylar acted like he'd betrayed him then, which didn't make sense. Peter's loyalties at Mercy were very clear-cut and as far as Peter knew, Sylar had no reason to think he was among them.

XXX

The questions seemed laughably unimportant compared to the depth of the topic and Sylar's feelings about it. His breath huffed out through his nose. "Both, I suppose." He was getting very fed up with the whole of the conversation now.

XXX

"I don't know if it makes any difference, but if I'd known you weren't…I mean, if I'd known Nathan wasn't there, I wouldn't have done that to you." _I would have probably done something else, but it wouldn't have been that._ In a very small voice, Peter added, "I thought he was."

XXX

"Shut the hell up, Petrelli. Don't push me," Sylar snapped and snarled immediately, pointing at him. "I told you the truth and despite my warnings, you still tried to turn me into your fucking brother just a few days ago. That got you here, with me scraping you off the floor." He enunciated, "I don't want to hear it. Any of it."

XXX

_I did?_ Peter blinked up at him, trying to summon memories that weren't there of how their last fight had started. Being scraped off the floor was a particularly graphic image, even if he couldn't remember it happening to him. Peter's work as an EMT gave him way too many visceral experiences to relate to what Sylar might have had to do for him. It seemed unfair to have things thrown in his face he didn't recall, but he wouldn't deny them. It was less time ago that he'd accepted Nathan hadn't been there at Mercy Heights, so, yeah, maybe the fight had been started by another of Peter's stupid but well-meaning attempts to save his brother. He had to remind himself that the last time he'd genuinely seen Nathan had been at the Stanton Hotel … before Sylar killed him.

The same man who stood over him now with finger outstretched like he wanted to slice into Peter's skull and end him again. The gesture made Peter's skin crawl and his heart race. Despite himself, he winced at Sylar's motion. Peter had two ways he could respond – treat Sylar as an enemy, stand up, threaten him, challenge him to a fight Peter knew he'd lose...or treat him as something else. He thought about that foggy memory he had of crying in bed a few nights ago and Sylar comforting him. He hoped it was real. Peter curled up in the corner of the couch and looked at Sylar's feet, studying the sneakers and saying nothing, thoroughly subdued.

XXX

Sylar felt that he'd been curling his fingers into fists in preparation even as Peter…did nothing and said nothing. It left him confused about what to do because he still wanted to pummel Peter into the ground. Again. He got what he thought he wanted with this well-practiced obedience and deference. _It's just an act. He doesn't get it. He never will. I have to get used to…appearances all over again._ His next breath was a rough exhale. At one time, with abilities, as something genuinely special, he'd been worth more than appearances. _I'm still worthless and he knows that's not his fault._ His mind thoroughly elsewhere, he instructed on his way out the door, "Watch the clothes." Sylar wanted to be somewhere else. Too much Peter, too much caring for him had strained him, as had the pair of uncomfortable series of questions in one day.

XXX

Peter stretched out a little after Sylar left, sighing and looking at the ceiling. He didn't blame Sylar, or himself. He just felt sad that this was how things were between them. Sylar had looked after him and even if the support was uneven and the care brusque, Peter acknowledged it as an effort on his behalf (and one that was not in dispute as to whether it had actually happened). He rose to inspect the settings on the dryer. It would not do to have Sylar return and Peter not to have done his job correctly. Everything looked normal, so he returned to the same corner of the couch, made himself small, and put his head down on the arm of the furniture as he dozed. He knew he usually wasn't what other people wanted him to be. It was frustrating and depressing, especially when he needed them.

XXX

Sylar found himself outside, circling the building, literally cooling off while he thought. Nothing but his own desires was getting in the way of everything. That's how it usually was. Desperation from needing something and tiring of banging his head against whatever impenetrable wall a person represented wasn't pretty, but it garnered a different approach, results of some kind. _I don't want to have to suck up to him. I don't want to…be nothing._ But he already was nothing and Peter knew it. _So…exploit it?_ When he lost track of his footprints, he returned to the laundry center. When he went to the dryer, he cast a glance at Peter who was watching him, but still lying on the couch, digging out its contents there. Sylar plopped them in the middle cushion of the couch, partly on Peter's feet and legs. As something of a wry, almost humorless joke about everything, he said, "Make yourself useful," and stood watching to see how that would be taken.

XXX

"Sure," Peter said quietly, taking the clothes and spreading them over himself. They were warm. They smelled good. They were fluffy. He insinuated his hands between the layers of cloth, smiling as he drew up a shirt to inhale. Being covered in freshly laundered clothes was lovely, though he knew Sylar hadn't meant to do anything nice for him. With a sigh, he cut short the play and started to fold the shirt in his hands (one of Sylar's, he noticed). Peter didn't look at Sylar or address him, but he stayed tense and his motions with the clothes were close to his body. He didn't reach out and he tried not to move from where he was sitting.

XXX

Sylar watched longer than he'd intended as he observed Peter's moment of…useless enjoyment? fun? some memory Sylar didn't have or recall? Either way, it seemed so typical, rebellious Peter, so strange and otherwise pointless but obviously innocent in some kind of delightful pleasure that it captured his attention in attempts to deduce the reason (and, perhaps why Sylar himself didn't feel the same about…laundry). It…made him want to join in. He didn't because it was purposeless and Peter had already moved on to the proper purpose. He sat, awkwardly it felt, and his thoughts turned to how impossible his task seemed. Not the laundry, but befriending and seducing Peter as some illusionary human being. _I've only managed something close to that when I was…really in trouble._ Sylar grabbed at the nearest garment – boxers, obviously Peter's. _Didn't I make a joke about this before? 'Seeing each other's laundry' or something?_ He looked up from under his eyelashes in case this was inappropriate but there was no answer; Peter ignored him. _Anyway. He's not interested in helping, he can't be, and he can't help. So I interest him with his interests. He likes talking for one thing._

"Is your head hurting you? Your eyes? Stomach?" he wanted to rule those out.

XXX

Peter kept his head down and mumbled, "Head hurts some. Eyes – only if I touch 'em." He didn't mention his stomach. It seemed to have gone AWOL, not bothering to tell him when he was hungry and needed to eat, but not hurting him either. It just felt numb.

XXX

"I thought you liked talking," Sylar remarked, open-ended, snapping out one of his own shirts before laying it across his lap.

XXX

Peter sighed softly. He was glad to be drawn out, but it didn't tell him what he needed to say. So he said just that: "I think you're angry about the things I did to stop you over the years. I don't think I did anything wrong. Dumb, maybe, but not wrong. So I don't know what to say." He gave Sylar a few glances, trying to gage his response.

XXX

Sylar looked up, stunned at the accurate eloquence of that. He expected Peter to still be ignoring him but he wasn't. Sylar's eyes accidentally met Peter's and he glanced away. _That's exactly how I feel about you._ He set himself back to neatly folding his shirt. _Everyone knows what I did was wrong, of course, but the feeling is the same. Exactly. (He can make me do the things he wants because he didn't do anything wrong and I can't because he didn't do anything wrong._ It was very much like he wasn't even supposed to be angry about it, or vulnerable, or act in self-defense, which was what he had feared). He affected a shrug he didn't believe in, keeping his eyes on his work, "I guess that means there's nothing to say, then." It hurt, badly and deep, but it wasn't a new pain and the process was not unfamiliar to him. He'd just…expected better of Peter, always. But desperation and need were more important.

XXX

"No," Peter countered in a low, quiet voice. "I think there's a lot to say, to be said about what's…happened, but I don't want to be angry about it and I don't want you to be angry about it. So…you know, we were both there. It happened. I'd like to know, most of all, the 'why' for some of the things you did." Peter kept his voice calm and low. There was nothing casual about the way he was talking, and he wasn't trying to pretend there was. He knew full well he was handling something delicate between them. His eyes flicked constantly between the clothes he was folding (a pair of socks at the moment) and Sylar's face, with the intention of breaking off at the first sign of storm clouds. He decided he'd start with something easy, something where neither of them had to be defensive (he hoped). "Like, say, that time at Pinehearst, when you threw me out the window? Why did you do that? Why didn't you just come with me?" He looked up steadily at Sylar for his last question: "That was you, wasn't it? Who kept me from dying?"

XXX

Sylar nodded only after he saw Peter was watching him intently. He hadn't meant to invite more questions, at least, not more of this type. _I thought we weren't supposed to talk about…certain things? What happened to that?_ And how was he under fire for saving someone's life? Or was Peter pissed that the push, fall, and catch were technically rather unprovoked by Arthur merely walking into the room? _Why am I always saving people who don't want to be fucking saved?_ Sylar kept his attention on the task at hand, setting the neatly folded shirt aside and reaching for another (they were more difficult to fold...the way he wanted them).

XXX

"Yeah," Peter scoffed, having moved on to a new sock. He rummaged through the unfolded laundry looking for a match for it. "Couldn't have possibly been my dad, could it?" _Son falling to his death right under his nose and all he has to do to stop it is lift a finger? Nope._ Not that Peter had seriously thought there was any question which would raise a hand to save him: Sylar, the career serial killer who hardly knew him, or Arthur Petrelli, his own flesh and blood. He found the other sock and rolled them up, waiting for Sylar to address the other questions he'd asked.

XXX

_Ooh. Shit._ That was the reason for the empath's intensity. _Wrong savior. Taking credit where it isn't due._ "Uh…Sure," he tried to insist about Arthur. Even he would readily admit that was fucked up of Arthur to do nothing to save his son. The more he thought about it, perhaps Peter wasn't so readily useful (to Arthur) as Sylar thought – not when Peter had chosen a side, Angela's.

XXX

"Sure?" Peter questioned. _Is he trying to defend that bastard?_ "You helped me kill him," Peter groused. "You knew what he was." The fingers of his right hand curled painfully on his knee. He looked down at it and recognized what he was doing: _Like I'm holding a gun._ He splayed his fingers and looked up at Sylar, trying to tamp down the unprocessed anger because Sylar wasn't the cause of it. "You didn't answer – why did you do it?"

XXX

"/Ma/- Your mother said you needed my help." He shook his head as if it would rid him of the mistake, the memories, the sick attachment he couldn't purge. _She said other things, too. Lies, of course._ Sylar doubted she even had a favorite son, the lengths she would go to protect – and kill – both her sons was more than a force of nature. "You weren't safe there," he intoned like it was obvious.

XXX

His anger faded, replaced by curiosity and earnestness. "But why would you help me? Why did you care? You could have dropped me out that window and my dad would have patted you on the back, given you a promotion, trusted you more, something." Peter looked intently at Sylar, remembering so clearly that 'because that's what brothers do'. "You thought we were brothers – sure, but we're Petrellis first. One less brother in the family is one fewer you have to compete with. You hardly knew me. And like you said later, I didn't have anything you needed. Why would you _care_ if I was safe, or if 'Ma' wanted me alive?"

XXX

For a moment, Sylar could only sit there, taken aback. He'd never contemplated his deepest reasons for doing what he did then. Now that he did, he didn't want to explain his pathetic, personal, and poorly realized reasons. Peter had risked his life to come back for him. It meant something even if the attempt was nearly pointless and reckless. He told most of the truth; the rest wasn't mentioned. "I was useful then. She wanted me, he wanted me. I thought I could gain his trust without killing you – and I did. I didn't have to kill you. There was no point. And I didn't want to have to…compete." More than anything, he did not want to compete for attention, purpose, family, and love. How stupid to hope that he could fix the Petrelli family, bring them back together. It was still irritating to be questioned for saving someone because Peter still expected him to kill on a whim to solve any of his simple problems. "I just needed you to be…somewhere else; you needed to go back to the rest of your family. Besides, I can take Arthur," he shrugged with a bit of a smirk. He hadn't needed Peter's help, either.

XXX

Peter listened intently to all of that, leaning forward, absorbing it. Until Sylar got to the end, where Peter chuffed, rolled his eyes, and leaned back. "Sure. Yeah, of course. You did take him." _After I pinned him down and Rene nullified his powers_. The smirk vanished and Peter shook his head. _How did murdering my father become a joke?_ He sighed and instead of addressing that, directed his thoughts to the rest of what Sylar had said. "So you got me out of there to remove a complication. I get that." It wasn't the proof of regard for life (particularly Peter's) that he wanted, but it was a sign that Sylar didn't kill just to kill. He moved on. "What happened next? After Claire and I left, what did you do?"

XXX

"How is that important, Peter?" He half-growled through a sigh. "I talked to him, he…told me things about myself then he showed me where he was keeping Elle. I think I did what he meant for me to do, with her. After that, he sent us after Claire. Then the eclipse." Sylar moved on to a pair of socks. Wanting badly to change the subject (and not really able to turn the questions on Peter when he already knew what Peter had done via Nathan), he injected, "If we both wear black, how do we tell whose socks are whose?" He tried for a faint, distracting grin, holding up the subject matter.

XXX

Peter's mouth was open to ask about Elle when Sylar interrupted about the socks. He frowned at them, mind switching tracks. "You're already wearing my sweats. You know I don't have a problem with wearing other people's clothes." He reached out and snatched the socks from Sylar, inspecting them. "The longer ones are yours." He rolled them up. "You must be like three sizes bigger than me in the feet." He tossed the ball of socks to Sylar. He tried to remember what he'd been going to say. The part about Elle slipped his mind. Testily, he said, "It's important because the guy was going to ruin the world, Sylar. I saw the future. I couldn't let that happen. He had to be stopped. Aside from, you know, him being..." _an asshole_ , "the way he was." Peter huffed, grabbing up a pair of his jeans to fold. Still a little angry, he asked, "Do you know what my dad was up to? Really up to? I don't believe...I don't _really_ believe...what my mother told me. Or Nathan."

XXX

"I only know what he told /me. And I saw him testing the formula on…a soldier/. He still had to save the world from…exploding? So he needed the formula and the catalyst and…/me/ - Nathan – to make a world full of specials as if that would work somehow. Just a grab for power." There was much more about Arthur as Nathan's father returning from the dead and the shameless, familiar manipulations that sucked him right in, the feeling of losing his whole identity and the will to decide for himself in the face of his father's magnetism. It had been Nathan's unquestioning duty to obey, as Arthur had made very clear.

XXX

Peter huffed again, rolling his eyes, but not at Sylar so much. "My future...self said he – Arthur – was going to give everyone abilities and that would tear the planet apart. I'm not really...I mean, I trust...me, but I could have been wrong." As if to himself, he said, "Sounds like I wasn't, for once." To Sylar, he said, "I don't think it would have worked, either. That much power – it's too easy to lose control of it."

He changed the subject from his father's stupid ambitions, to something that mattered more to him. "Were you angry at me for leaving when Mohinder jumped on you in the lab? That happened earlier that day." He looked away guiltily. "I felt…bad. I didn't mean to leave, but they were going to kill me. I couldn't help. Not by…getting killed."

XXX

Sylar frowned, pulling away from the very words. Looking away, he shook his head. "You knew I wasn't your brother. I'm not their son. I'm not a Petrelli." It was absolute truth and yet it wasn't. It felt wrong; it hurt to say that, as himself and as the now-deceased son and brother. "That…wasn't your job. Mine was saving you. She…got what she wanted. She usually does," he added bitterly of Angela. And Peter did weigh his suicidal battles it would seem. He knew he had never been a worthy cause and didn't expect loyalty after what Peter had already shown.

XXX

Peter nodded and shrugged, looking down in resigned agreement with Sylar's assessment of the situation. "Well, I came back for you because you came back for me – not because anyone said you were my brother, but because of what you _did_."

XXX

Peter had been able to fold clothes with his healing right hand without complaint but it was best not to push that too far. Sylar returned the folded clothes to the hamper, thinking about that unasked for bit of confessed information. "Too bad it doesn't work like that anymore," he said wry and rueful. If only it did. If all he had to do was perform the right actions to get reciprocation. Nathan raised his ugly head once more; he was so easy to blame, overlooking the crowd of other corpses of Sylar's doing.

XXX

"It wasn't that long ago," Peter said quietly, but he left it at that. The clothes were folded and the subject seemed at an end. At least, Peter felt he had a better understanding (and more importantly, a shared one) of the incident, even if he hadn't learned a lot that was new. They'd talked about it and that was progress. Sylar hefted the hamper and Peter followed him upstairs to distribute things into drawers.


	111. Dealing

Day 56, February 4, Afternoon

"I think I'll read for a while," Peter said after everything was put away. He made the bed loosely, found his book, took off his shoes, and settled himself against the mound of pillows. Initially he curled towards the wall and windows, but after only a minute, he turned to face the room so he could better see what Sylar was doing. Not that he watched with any attentiveness – he was actually trying to read – but he preferred the awareness of the other person in the room, and the ability to look at him from time to time.

The book was a challenge. He couldn't remember where he'd left off. The best he could clearly recall was the part about the plane crash, which he definitely didn't want to read again. He skimmed around until he was well past that section and started up in text he was sure he'd read before. Bits and pieces of the experience came back to him with the letters on the page, but it was difficult going. He found himself getting moody and angry, pissed that Sylar had beaten him up so badly that he couldn't even remember it. _(That's nothing compared to what's been done to him.)_ He frowned at his thought, set the book down on his belly, and watched Sylar. He was aware of his bad mood; equally aware it was his problem, probably exacerbated by his physical condition and difficulty in concentrating. It dissipated as he simply sat and zoned.

XXX

The chores and activity had been refreshing, but the talking and its topic had undermined that. He felt stuck here, with Peter, doing…not much of anything that he wanted to be doing (alone or with Peter). His clocks weren't here to lose himself in; all he'd done for days was read it seemed, and while that wasn't usually an issue, Peter was here. Perhaps he needed Peter to engage with him in doing something else, since talking and sex weren't going well _. Truth or Dare again, maybe?_ Sylar kept himself busy with organizing the kitchen and living room. His board games were in his building and they weren't impossible to fetch, but it involved a trip across the street.

He felt budding hunger pangs and remembered that he needed to keep Peter well fed, for both their sakes. It might even keep the empath's curiosity to a minimum, or turn his curiosity towards something more preferable. He made a quick meal and called Peter over to the table.

XXX

Peter settled in for a simple cheese sandwich, thinking it looked perfect – bland enough not to be an issue, but substantial enough to keep him going. After his third mouthful, he said conversationally, "It's funny that as I read, the things I'm remembering from before the fight are all sensory – like the taste of the coffee, being nauseous from the things in the story, and the feel of the cushions on the couch. But I'll read a paragraph I would swear I hadn't read before, and remember some little detail of what we were doing while I was reading it the first time around – it's weird."

XXX

Sylar paused. "That's like muscle memory, but like sensory memory. Or…sensory association. The brain is an amazing organ. It was more like déjà vu for me, but…I get that a lot. Lots of…overlap." He shut himself up there, and went back to eating. "It's like you're sensing words or letters," he added with a grin. _Isn't that_ _what_ _people on drugs say? I know there's a similar saying._

XXX

"Yeah?" Peter asked. He wanted to ask more about what it was like for Sylar, but he hesitated. His prying about how Sylar did or didn't channel Nathan hadn't gone so well. He talked about himself instead. "When I was with Adam, he said I needed to focus on what mattered most to me, and then it would all come back – the regeneration would heal it. Is that how it was for you?" _What is it that matters most to him, I wonder?_

XXX

Sylar felt caught between frowning or…not. And just how would he go about 'focusing' on what mattered most to him, in theory? His initial answer came out harsh, "No." He took a drink, fussed with his food, waiting a moment longer. "You can't focus on anything to that effect when you don't know which person you are or how to turn back into yourself. Other people really aren't…supportive of that," he winced, remembering being utterly inconvenient to everyone else's plans and emotions in trying to be 'himself', whoever that was when there was clearly so much on the line, but he continued. "Danko…he told me something like that once, about my shapeshifting. It helped a little too much, back then."

It was definitely something he would think about more, in near privacy later. That…'solution' wasn't best suited for here, with the distinct lack of abilities, but the idea, the goal of a _connection_ …That was very much worth all the attention he could give it. He cleared his throat, "Meds," he said as he pushed the bottle across the tabletop, deftly changing the subject once again. "Are you up for a board game? Or cards?"

XXX

Peter took the bottle and counted out his pills, swallowing them down. "Cards are good. I'm a little fuzzy on some of the rules, but if I can't keep up, I'll be happy just watching you play Solitaire." He waved at the apartment. "Is there a deck around here?"

XXX

_You'd be happy? Something I can do would make you happy?_ Sylar grinned to himself a little, deeply pleased with that even if watching Solitaire didn't sound like fun. "I don't know yet." After he'd finished eating, he washed his plate, then went about finding a deck of cards, considering why watching Solitaire would possibly be 'fun.' _He's used to a big brother doing things Peter can't do. I'm surprised that doesn't bother him, being…almost ignored like that._ Sylar knew he himself would struggle with watching someone play as a general rule, or watch them plan, or perform a task imperfectly - _just being around someone else_. He found cards in their suite and to proclaim the previous owner's status as a bachelor, the card art design was naked women in various pin-up poses. Of course, they lacked faces.

XXX

Peter grimaced at the cards, checking over the much plainer back to make sure they weren't as individualized as the faces of the cards. The faceless beauties were more disconcerting than alluring. Peter left it to Sylar to shuffle and cleared off the table. "So what are we playing?"

XXX

Sylar made an ambivalent face, "Hearts?" _For irony._

XXX

"Okay. I've played that before. It's like Spades, right?" They settled down to the game as Sylar went over the rules. Peter's concerns about not being able to keep up mentally seemed unfounded – either that, or getting some food into him was more fortifying than he'd expected.

XXX

After a few mild rounds, the last of which Peter won, (and perhaps the raunchy cards were to blame) Sylar wanted to spice things up if only to irritate Peter after the profoundly frustrating talks of the day. This place was definitely a prison and Peter was his almost-cellmate, but certainly a fellow prisoner. As he gathered the cards, shuffling them, he suggested, "We could always make this more interesting by betting."

XXX

Peter shrugged, content with what they were doing. "We don't have anything to bet."

XXX

Sylar gave him a look like Peter was particularly, perhaps intentionally, dense. "Of course we do."

XXX

"What?" Money didn't matter here, but Peter supposed they could find some and gamble with it. _Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing any anywhere. But we could just use matches or toothpicks or whatever the same way._

XXX

Some of his smirk slipped out, "Ourselves." It was Peter he was after, though Peter wasn't after him. It would have been rude not to include himself in the bargain. Depressing was the likelihood of being taken up on anything, but oh, the possibilities if Peter ever did.

XXX

Peter leaned back, pulling in a deep breath. His face grew blank as he considered what Sylar might mean – _Sex? Stripping? Or…violence?_ "That's higher stakes than I'm willing to play for." It seemed possible Sylar simply meant who had to do the dishes, but given that smirk, Peter doubted it.

XXX

"I don't mean...everything. There are secrets, answers. You want those, don't you?" Sylar shamelessly exploited one thing Peter had repeatedly demonstrated he desired. "And maybe tasks. You were willing to play Truth or Dare on New Year's Eve, with booze, and that was when I had a worse concussion than you do. It's practically the same thing."

XXX

Warily, Peter kept looking for the trap. _But I can say no whenever I want, right? It's just…there are things I'd like to know. What does he want to know? Is he saying I took advantage of him on New Year's Eve? I don't think he is._ He leaned back to the table. "So, what? Winner of each set gets to ask, like, a Truth or Dare option of the other person?"

XXX

"Sure. High or low card wins?"

XXX

Peter looked at the deck of cards, eyes a little wide. "You mean we just pull cards like War?" He calmed at that. It turned the arrangement into a 50/50 deal, where he wouldn't have the pressure on him while trying to play, nor the resentment if Sylar won more than his share of hands. Although there was still a random factor of who got to ask first, it would at least be fair. "High card wins." He reached out and took the top card, looking to Sylar briefly for confirmation. He flipped his card after Sylar drew his. Peter had a king of spades; Sylar, the three of diamonds. "Ha!" Peter said happily, then sobered as he realized he hadn't given any thought to what to ask.

He thought about everything they'd gone over today. There was a lot of it. He didn't want to overanalyze for the best possible question, so he blurted out the one that had been bugging him the most. "You said what I did to you at Mercy Heights was the worst thing I'd done to you. I want to understand that. You showed up there to kill me, right? Or...am I wrong about that?"

XXX

And just like that, Sylar remembered what he hated about this game. Or rather, what he hated about Peter, who did this anyway, game or not. To some degree, pain aside, he appreciated these opportunities, longed for them even. It was something that was important to him, after all, unless Peter was going to make it about his own perceived self-defense. He leaned back, lips thinning, arms crossed. "I went to Mercy to kill _her_." There were other sins against Peter – the whole brother thing the first time; being attacked no matter how civil and peaceful he was; Stanton…and Peter's general failure to kill him. But Mercy was one of the most horrible things he could think of, period; and gentle, loving, almost-brother, hero Peter had done it without a second thought and still defended it. "I…wanted to kill you; fuck around with you first. Because of Stanton – you got me into the whole mess."

XXX

"Her…Angela?" Sylar's expression was of no help to Peter, though his mother seemed like the obvious choice. Sylar certainly hadn't shown up there to do in Nurse Hammer. "But you were there to kill me, right?"

XXX

"One question per turn and your turn is up," Sylar stated, reaching for another card. All the fine details of motive and intent seemed so trivial to him, but they were apparently everything to Peter.

XXX

Sylar was reaching for another card, so Peter made an exasperated sigh and did the same. He had so many follow-ups that even the whole deck might not be enough. _Twenty-six draws of two cards each._ He flipped his, seeing a six of clubs. Sylar had the ace of hearts. He blinked at it. _We didn't specify if aces were high or low._ He gave Sylar a questioning look. "Aces high? I think that's the default."

XXX

Sylar smirked a little at the win and because a plot was beginning to emerge. He accepted the rule (honestly the 'default' depended on the game and this one needed an 'eleven/ace' more than a 'one'). He wanted to play and play with Peter, have it returned, in more than just cards. He remembered that intimacies like he had in mind weren't the best approach and he was sure not to get any of what he wanted long-term, but he wouldn't press it too much, too far. Holding onto his treasured ace, his murmur so delicate for all the desire behind it, "Let me bite you again," then he looked into Peter's face.

XXX

"Bite…me?" Now Peter was blinking at Sylar in uncertainty. It took his mind a moment to realize this didn't have to be all questions. Sylar had specified 'tasks' were included and even Peter had likened it to Truth or Dare. He was beginning to feel off-base from the feel of the rules changing on him, even if he was sure they were not. "Where?"

XXX

One of Sylar's eyebrows motioned upwards, just briefly. _That sounds so…open? I get to chose?_ Only something somewhat acceptable was going to gain Peter's agreement. _He liked the neck before. I like his neck now. Yes, somewhere I can see it._ "Your neck…" It was almost a question.

XXX

"Um…kay." He wanted to think through how he felt about that, but Sylar was on the move already. "Don't break the skin," he blurted before it was too late.

XXX

"Sit back, close your eyes and enjoy," Sylar purred, moving slowly, relishing it. Once he was in place, he first plucked Peter's shirt away from his neck by sliding his finger underneath. His left hand went to the man's cheek and jaw, the other sweeping away Peter's hair on the right, though it wasn't really in the way. That left hand moved down to cradle the other's head and expose his long, smooth, muscular neck. It looked fucking delicious. The willingness of it all, the mutual pleasure, had him excited.

XXX

He hadn't expected Sylar in his lap again (or right in front of him, rather, straddling his lap), but that was what he got. Peter made a small noise in the back of his throat and swallowed down anything that sounded like a complaint or whining. _One nip or even a hard bite and I get another draw, another chance to ask questions. It's not a big deal._ Peter put a hand on the man's hip and the other on the seam of his shirt under the opposite arm. He was intimately close, but at least this time he wasn't sitting on him.

XXX

Sylar exhaled at the contact and the proximity, taking a breath of the smell of Peter as he leaned in, just inches away. He opened his mouth and set his teeth against the middle of the column of the empath's neck. It was a firm bite, juicy and satisfying – it had him exhaling hard through his nose, the air puffing against Peter's skin, rebounding back against himself with his nose pressed into Peter such as it was. He had a good grip, right on that strong muscle. He was marking Peter, tasting him, and he felt like he was losing his mind from the desire to bite more, harder, continue far past the boundaries of the game. It would be insanely easy to do.

XXX

Peter knew he had been a fool the moment Sylar's lips touched his skin. This wasn't just a bite. It wasn't Sylar being a pervert and asking for a liberty that he might go jerk off about later. It wasn't about any of that. It tingled. Peter tingled, all over. Sylar wasn't savaging him. It was like a hard kiss, pressing into his flesh, burning its way down with its intensity.

Peter's fingers dug in like claws. His toes curled in his shoes. His head tilted back further and to the side as his eyes rolled up. "Oh, fuck." It had been so long since he'd had anyone and here Sylar was reminding him so viscerally of that and of how Sylar was right here, wanting him, asking for him…taking him. Peter was hard. His breath left him in shuddering exhales as the kiss (Peter didn't think of it as a bite anymore) kept going on. Sylar wasn't quitting, wasn't stopping, wasn't letting go. _He's giving me a hickey. On my neck, where he can see it._ It was fucked up and scorching hot at the same time. He had an awareness that he might eventually come from this – from the tension, the frustration, the sensations, being trapped and wanted and lusted after…

And this was rapidly crossing the line from 'playing a game' to 'dishonoring his brother's memory'. He was enjoying it way too much – that's what it hinged on. _It's not like he's going to let me go as long as I'm holding him like this!_ Peter pulled himself together with a groan, pushing Sylar away from himself and back into the table, separating them. He shoved Sylar against the table a second time as Peter got shakily to his feet before brushing past him to go pace the living room in agitation.

XXX

Sylar felt his mouthful rudely snatched away, but not before he felt Peter clutching him, melting into him, heard and felt the groaning expletive, the hurried breathing. It was everything he wanted and that made him dizzy. He was completely erect (had been for some moments), however he was swiftly pushed against the table and left there. It was better than nothing, but it was a primal, base thing he felt, requiring no words or complicated reasons or explanations. He felt as if he owned Peter now; right where he wanted him at the same time, feeling naughty because Peter would always be forbidden fruit. He released a sigh, palming himself and knowing the moment would never return. As much as he wanted to say things, lots of things, whatever came to mind, he knew he'd pushed very hard just now – Peter was unhappy with him even though he'd agreed to it. _If only my dick would listen. If only he would listen to his dick. I love his control. Usually he doesn't have much. I like the struggle, torturing him like this. It's all about me._

XXX

His neck was stinging and cool where Sylar had been. Peter's hands itched to touch it. He wanted to run in the bathroom and look at the mark. He felt like a moron that he hadn't seen the whole thing coming, and a reprobate that he hadn't put a stop to it sooner, that he had been and still was so fucking turned on by it. He paced back and forth, adjusted his shirt repeatedly and raked at his hair, mostly staring at the floor and refusing to look at Sylar. His face was hot. He felt stuck between feeling taken advantage of and _wanting_ to be taken advantage of. It wasn't where he wanted to be and certainly not due to a fucking card game!

XXX

Sylar lazily licked his lips, savoring the faint, salty taste and lingering sensations, fully intending Peter to see him do it. After all, he had no shame. He watched Peter's display, noting with glee that the man still chose not to leave and alleviate his frustrations that way. His backside was leaned against the table, casual and smug.

XXX

Sylar was simply waiting, quietly, which made Peter feel like he was overreacting. A few glances shot Sylar's way confirmed that Peter was providing the evening's entertainment by blowing this out of proportion. He stopped, staring at the floor as he got a hold of himself. _He's watching me_. Peter was both exasperated and delighted by this. Snorting softly about his own raging libido, he turned on his heel and went to the bathroom. _I might as well look. I want to and I'm not going to quit wanting to until I do._ He stood in front of the mirror and stretched his neck to the side. The reddened teeth marks were still darkening. They'd probably bruise. The middle part, the hickey, was already angrily red. Peter touched the stinging skin carefully. _He didn't break the skin_. Peter felt himself hard again at the illusion of boundaries and self control them, that he might tell Sylar to do something and have it respected. _That's ridiculous. This isn't a game! (And it's wrong.)_ He snatched his hand away, only now realizing he'd left the bathroom door open so Sylar could peep on his exploration. With a grimace, Peter shut it. He used the bathroom to provide a flimsy excuse for why he'd come in here. After he washed his hands, he wiped down his neck, too. He gave the spot a long look, then at his near-raccoon black eyes and eyelids still swollen enough that he looked like a stoner. _Rougher than I like._

He returned to the table. As Sylar was still leaning on it, Peter pointed at the other chair and said, "Sit." It was rude, but he felt he had to show that he wasn't Sylar's chewtoy. He looked at the deck of cards, then at Sylar, before reluctantly sliding into his seat. "You can't pick something like that again."

XXX

A roll of his eyes showed his disproval of the order, but he complied. Mostly. Sylar sat himself where he'd been before – beside Peter. Of course that second demand was too tempting. "Why not?" he pressed, innocent but sassing all the same. Let Peter explain why it was so wrong and impossible, while the obvious lie looked him in the face.

XXX

Nastily, Peter responded with, "Because I'll quit playing." _Okay, maybe it is a game. (That doesn't make it less wrong.)_ He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his chin, reaching out decisively to slap over the jack of spades from the deck. When Sylar's relaxed draw revealed a six of diamonds, Peter didn't hesitate to ask, "We were trying to kill each other at Mercy Heights – at different points maybe and in different ways, but we were _both_ trying to kill each other. Why is what I did there worse than any other time we tried to kill each other? Why do you blame me especially for what I did?"

XXX

Sylar stared for a moment in disbelief. "I already answered that before, Petrelli!" he protested emphatically.

XXX

Peter huffed. _No, you didn't! Or else I wouldn't still be asking!_ But he thought about what Sylar had said almost two weeks before, so angry and upset the man had been nearly screaming at him. "You said I shouldn't have done it because it'd been done to me. But Rene taking my memories wasn't...bad. It was being trapped in that cargo container," Peter's voice caught. He swallowed and went on, "The losing-the-memories part was...annoying. It was being abandoned, lost, not knowing..." He shook his head. "What happened to you was _different_."

XXX

Agitated now, he rubbed his temple, alternating between looking away and looking blankly at the table. How could this not be distressing? _Maybe it doesn't matter how many times or how well I explain it? Of course it doesn't. Then why is he still asking?_ He didn't consider not answering. It was important to him, never mind what it meant to Peter. When he began again, his voice was tight, nearly a choked growl, harshly enunciating. "Instead of the Haitian wiping your mind, let's pretend it was me and I wanted to turn you into Arthur – a man you hate. I value Arthur over you; I value any other human life over you. You're worth nothing; you should be obliterated anyway. All I want from you is your ability to turn your body into Arthur and be Arthur for me. Your mind, your personality, your knowledge is _garbage_. I want it gone. I wouldn't do that to anyone else, in fact, it's against my principles, but I hate you so much that I'm totally okay with destroying your mind and turning you into some monster. It's not for any good, noble cause. I just want him. Afterwards, I sort of realize the other people who did that to you before and myself, we were wrong to do that, but, you know, of course I'd still do it again. Oh, and I think you really brought it on yourself and I want you to _like_ me after all that, too."

He took a couple of rough, quick breaths, though they didn't help his panicked panting. Sitting here, pretending to be calm was taking everything he had; his muscles and joints hurt from the prolonged tension. "Seeing that the list of people who have…collaborated…in that….is very short….You did it to me twice. It's the worst thing to ever happen to me. I…thought better of you. I don't know why. I just expected better from you." He shrugged, or tried to, feeling like he was going to cry and hating himself for it. _Always with the weakness._ "I won't make that mistake again." After that, he stood up quickly and walked around his chair, hands on the back of it, placing it between himself and the Petrelli. He couldn't express how worrisome and insulting it was to have to stay and listen to whatever blasé bullshit that was sure to come from Peter in response. _Just don't fall apart. It's just a card game_ _; just a game_ _. It's not fair._

XXX

Peter listened quietly through the entire analogy. His expression changed here and there – eyes narrowing about Sylar turning him into Arthur, a wince and pained look at his worthlessness (he knew Sylar preferred other than him – that was natural and normal but still painful to hear, especially since Arthur had shared the opinion). He swallowed hard and listened intently to the rest, his eyes not leaving Sylar's face. His brows rose slightly at Sylar's mostly accurate encapsulation of Peter's motives. It was less cutting than the first part, which had brought to his mind his father giving him to Mohinder as a test subject to be used up and destroyed, because Peter wasn't fit for anything else in the older man's eyes. That had hurt, but it merely confirmed all his worst fears about his father instead of what Sylar was saying, that Sylar had thought Peter was different, thought he was a hero, thought that meant something. _'Because that's what brothers do.' He thought I'd never stoop to that because he thinks of me as one of the good guys._ He swallowed again and hung his head, having nothing to say for a while. _I wanted to be one of the good guys, but I wanted Nathan more._

"I understand now," he said softly when the silence had stretched on too long. He looked up at Sylar steadily, face sympathetic. "Do you want to take a break? We could go for a walk."

XXX

As they looked at one another, Sylar tried and failed to understand the depth of hatred and pain between and inside them both. It left them with nowhere to go. "Do you?" he whispered so his voice couldn't crack. "Do you understand? What do you think you understand, Petrelli?"

XXX

Peter gave a small frown at being addressed by his last name. Sylar seemed to do that whenever he wanted to lump Peter in with his relatives. He could see why Sylar did that, especially given the current topic. He drew in a deep breath before saying, "You came to me for help...when you were Nathan. You thought I would help you - you, as you were. You didn't know I was only trying to help my brother, that I wouldn't have helped you. I should have - I should have been willing to help you. I know that." Peter looked aside and rolled his head with resignation. "You know that. But I wouldn't have because you killed him."

He waited for a moment, weighing his feelings. Nathan's death should have put Peter forever against Sylar, unwilling to let the man pass him on the street without putting a fist in his face and a boot in his gut. Peter didn't adhere to the Italian code of family honor quite that closely, but he knew what was expected of him – what Nathan might have expected of him. Such enmity was simply unworkable. He continued, "You showed up to kill my mother and saw that she and I were working together on something. I understand how that would make you angry." Of course it would. No one liked to be thwarted, much less in a way so obviously life-threatening. "Then you found the drugs I had and you knew I wouldn't help you. You wanted to be special. I tried to make you the opposite of that - gone, and Nathan back instead. I didn't want the person you were to exist. That hurts - I know how that hurts. Other people have the right to have their own feelings about you...and some of them...aren't what you want them to be." Peter knew how much that hurt, too.

XXX

At least Peter understood that. Little of this was news. It wasn't as if he hadn't had these realizations weeks ago: no help, no friendship, no being special, definitely no connections. There was nothing, just like the barren wasteland of before, except Peter was the one inflicting it on him, intentionally or otherwise. It was all a very good grasp of their mutual situation; most of it was statement of fact. Necessity and desperation were still the parents of invention and only time would tell if that would bring any change…if it would be enough. "Then I assume you understand that I have no reason to cooperate with your goals – being Nathan or bringing him back, saving your girlfriend, behaving myself here," he gestured around them. "None of it. If anything, you're threatening me with all kinds of things, like what happens after I do what you want? You aren't offering me anything."

XXX

Weakly, depressed, Peter said, "Yeah, I know." He shook his head. "When I came to get you, I didn't have any idea how to make you do those things. I mean, I'm not good at making people do things. That's...not...That's my dad's thing, Nathan's, Ma's. All I knew was I had a dream where you saved them at the carnival. So I thought if I could just get you to the carnival, then..." He shrugged. "I hadn't really thought...forward." Peter looked off to the side, slumped in his seat. He hadn't had a plan and he wouldn't have known how to make a useful one anyway. Nothing he would have planned would have mattered – he certainly wouldn't have expected this strange, empty mental world.

Sylar was still standing behind his chair, immobile and listening, so Peter spoke. "I'm not threatening you. And you _should_ behave yourself here, because you have to live with me, or at least live with me being in the same world with you. Unless you kill me, which I know you can do. I've known that from the beginning. You won't hesitate if that's what you think you need to do." He met Sylar's gaze steadily for a long beat. His life was in Sylar's hands at nearly all points in time. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm not going to take away your memories. I'm not even going to hurt you if I can avoid it. I'm not offering you _anything_ , but with me, you aren't alone."

XXX

It was his turn to frown now, not severely, but the entire thing could have been worse. He was stuck between amusement and feeling crushed with nowhere to go and that was probably the result of the heaviness of the topic and the intensity of his recent emotions towards it, inducing some kind of hysterical reaction. _Is this the point where he expects me to offer the same? As if we could ever be on an even playing field. (A shame, because I could work with that). It's not about 'making' me do things, is it? It…doesn't have to be, but he's not interested._ "A Petrelli with no plan and no deals. What the hell am I supposed to do with you?" Sylar asked that with a raised eyebrow and a tilt of his head, hands still attached to the chair's back. He said it half rhetorically, half-jokingly, just to sum up this fucked up mess. "You sound like me - or how I used to sound." He glanced away, then back, "And I guess I sound like you used to. Happy adjustments for everyone," he added with only the barest hint of bitterness and a shake of his head.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a faint, hopeful look, almost a smile. He didn't know what to suggest and wasn't sure how to take Sylar's words. The tone was better, though. That was good. He waited for something more definite.

XXX

Sylar pushed himself away from the chair, "I'm going to take that walk. I suggest you come up with a plan. Or a deal." _Should I help him with any of that? (I don't think he'd go for that)._ He attempted to focus on what could be done, rather than the metaphorical immovable object that Peter represented lest he lose himself to despair.

XXX

"What?" Peter said in a strangled voice as Sylar headed for the door. He blinked several times, startled by having the responsibility for figuring this out put on him. "I..." The sound of the door shutting behind Sylar was the end of the sentence. Peter's first instinct was to leave – go back to his apartment, hole up there, and wait, out of concern (fear) of what Sylar would do if Peter didn't come up with a satisfactory plan. But hiding was dumb. Either Sylar would come for him eventually (which Peter didn't want), or Peter would give it up (which made it pointless).

He scowled at the room in general. _I don't want to be here. He's going to come back. And I don't have a plan. Or a deal. (I've got to take control of this...situation somehow.)_ He rubbed his temples, then pinched the bridge of his nose. _Don't give up. Don't ever give up. What does he want? Sex? Friends?_ Peter looked around the apartment, which was empty of anything Sylar cared about. _Clocks. Forgiveness. I've got to give him something to live for. Or at least something to let me live for._ He touched the bite mark on his throat. It had stopped stinging and tingling some time back. _This isn't too far gone – how things are between us. If he's still trying to sex me up, then he's not going to kill me. (So I think.)_ He sat for a few more minutes, thoughts spinning in tighter and tighter circles. _'I thought better of you … I won't make that mistake again.' 'I have no reason to … behave myself here.' 'I'm going to take that walk. I suggest you come up with a plan. Or a deal._ _'_ _(Or else.)_ None of it helped.

With a start, he stood decisively, dressed for outside, and headed out, scavenging through the nearby apartments until he found some decent sunglasses. Even so, the afternoon sun was dreadfully painful on his concussion-induced, light-sensitive eyes. His head ached and his eyes burned until he felt dizzy. He kept going. Tucked under one arm was a hammer he'd picked up in the maintenance closet downstairs, one he'd seen when he'd installed the punching bags. He made it to the ruined storefront as it was getting dark. He took cover inside until his head stopped spinning and twilight had fully fallen. Then he started. He pushed away the plywood and cardboard, using the hammer left-handed to beat on the metal frames affixed to the brick. He smashed at them ruthlessly and methodically, taking out his pent-up frustration on the structure once again, but this time with a purpose. He didn't want to wound Sylar or even get his attention. But he needed to strip out the old before he could install the new. He was careful not to chip the brick. He'd need it intact for later.

The small bit of demolition took less time than he'd expected. His main problem had always been uncertainty on how to proceed. Now that he was moving, things flowed fast. Buoyed by his success, he set off for the hardware store and was lucky to find it without getting lost in the dark. He was out of gas by then, but further from 'home' than he wanted to be. He loaded up what supplies he could carry – mainly tools – put a few boards over his shoulder and headed back to drop them off at the store, following his tracks.

XXX

Sylar walked in a large circle, long enough to warm up. As he did, he thought, long and hard about their coexistence. _We're not offering anything, so what does that leave?_ It was strange on many levels: dealing with Petrellis (always a weird bunch), trying to make friends (always difficult), trying to make a connection (so far, impossible), having to coexist (it had been done before, but it hadn't been pretty), deciding what was important (usually goals came to him easily), and what he could and could not live with. Being alone could not be an option. Peter had been right about that. But Sylar, the overachiever, wanted more, naturally. Or was it something else that made him want more? Lydia's words about a connection rang in his ears, though her voice had nearly faded from memory, 'need a connection.' And Claire's words, and Hiro's…Had they meant that he needed a connection, or had always needed one? And it was damnably unspecific – what kind of connection and with whom? Did it have to be someone in particular; what made a connection? Would a friendship suffice?

But Peter wanted none of that. He wanted his cake and to eat it, too, but he wanted to put very little work into Sylar. Understandable, really. _I'm…demanding things, setting conditions. Usually people make deals or have something to offer so I've never really had to set conditions or even bargain. If I don't, I…I'll what? Die? Feel horrible? That's stupid. He won't help me and I can't help myself and I can't live like I have in the past (neither can he) and I can't live in this…limbo. I'm sick of it; it's been years! And years before that. I need goals! I would make the plans and the deals, but he refuses to work with me on anything but the barest necessities. Am I that untrustworthy? He said I wasn't…_

Something was nudging at his consciousness, something obvious and overlooked. Peter enjoyed, not just tolerated, his friendliness, when Sylar could manage it and didn't push it. He'd also said something about…doing things, 'I came back for you because of what you _did_.' _That's it! He sees people based on what they do! (And say, sometimes). He loves Nathan because he was the kid's hero; he loves Angela because she's his mother (the witch). He likes me when I'm…doing good? (That was bullshit about not being able to 'make' me do anything. Doesn't he remember that?) No, he doesn't like me, but he…reacts the way I want him to, more like his old self. His whole family, his entire past is still in his head (like mine)._ That halted his mental roll as he felt through it. _He doesn't want a distraction. He's not the same as he used to be – he would have jumped at…helping someone else, or being part of a team, never mind that he'd still have no plan and be a crap teammate. Maybe he'll be easier to fix than me? He was always a better person to begin with; he doesn't have as far to go. I can't fix myself, but maybe I can fix him. (He is not going to like my way)._ Finally, he had a workable plan of action. _He'd be so happy: talking does help. Sometimes._

Returning back to the Pegasus in the dark, he now noticed, he saw a second set of footprints leading away…and Peter returning. The panic that barely had time to build burst into relief on seeing his companion. Peter looked completely haggard. _Well, I didn't invite him partly because he's still injured and he shouldn't be out walking. What is he doing out here in the dark?_ Sylar shuffled up to him, suddenly tentative despite his new plan.

XXX

Peter didn't see Sylar until he was quite close, so focused was he on simply getting one foot in front of the other and making it to whichever apartment he was going to sleep in. When he noticed he had company, he reared his head back and squared his shoulders, but a quick review of Sylar's body language led him to relax as soon as he'd tensed. When they were close enough to speak, he asked bluntly, "Do you want me to...stay with you tonight?" having almost said 'sleep with you tonight', but that had connotations he didn't want to make, even if it was literally true.

XXX

He knew what he wanted – what he needed – and thought he knew what the other man wanted. _What if he says no after I say yes?_ Sylar looked him directly in his still-puffy, dark-rimmed eyes. "Yes." He was desperate all over again for the slightest things.

XXX

Peter hesitated a beat, mind stumbling over the unconditional acceptance. He'd braced himself for an argument, a demand, or something ambiguous he'd have to figure out. He nodded in relief and returned to his task of getting himself to the apartment, now that it was settled as the penthouse. Once there, he took off his coat, headband, gloves, jeans (which were wet up to mid-calf), socks, and outer shirt. He headed over to the bed and prepared to climb directly in it, wearing only sweaty undershirt and boxer briefs, the condition of which weren't impinging on his consciousness at the moment.

XXX

Sylar shut the door of the suite behind them, content in keeping Peter for the night. "You don't look so good. Do you need more food or meds or something?" _Another sponge bath?_ he didn't add because he was learning, slowly.

XXX

"Um." _Did I eat dinner? I don't think I did._ "I'm not hungry." _Should I eat dinner anyway? I'm so tired. I can't think. I'll eat tomorrow._ He continued with climbing under the covers, unable to deal with the complexity of choosing, preparing, and eating something.

XXX

Peter was clearly going straight to bed, hell, he was in bed already. Sylar dismissed any innuendos about it. He brushed his teeth and got into his pajamas, then sat on the bed, having the feeling that something was off. "Peter? Are you awake?" he asked softly. _He smells…strong today._

XXX

Even just a few minutes with his eyes shut had refreshed his brain a little. "Mm?"

XXX

Sylar was silent, mouth open and ready. "I didn't mean to tire you…today," he began eventually. _Maybe he wants to hear that he's right – Nathan always liked that._ Not that Nathan heard it in words often, but Sylar was more dubious about his own capacity to word it. _Well, Peter likes talking._

XXX

That was nice. It wasn't the confrontation Peter had been worried about, the demand he present some plan or deal or offer to satisfy Sylar. He started to reach his right hand out towards Sylar's leg or hip to make a reassuring contact.

XXX

"I know you'll figure something out."

XXX

Peter's hand froze in transit, having not yet reached Sylar. He dropped his eyes, swallowed, and pulled it back, thinking that sticking his right hand out in Sylar's direction was stupid anyway.

XXX

_Wait. That's another hitch, isn't it? I'm making him figure me out._ He rephrased, not observing Peter's motions, "I mean, it will work out somehow, for both of us." _That's better; it sounds comforting. And mutual, generic._

XXX

Peter looked back up at Sylar for a long moment, then nodded. He gave a pained smile. "Yeah, we'll work it out, okay?" He waited for Sylar's affirmation before rolling to face the wall. He felt miserably insufficient. Being unable to live up to expectations was something he'd had to deal with all his life. Abilities were the one thing he finally seemed to be able to excel in, and even that had been stolen from him – once by his father and now, here. He wished for his job back, to be a paramedic where he knew what was expected of him. All he had to do to be a good paramedic was show up and care. He was good at that. He was even better at trying hard, another thing that was valued. People made mistakes, even EMTs. Other EMTs, nurses, his supervisors, and precepts understood the job was complicated, stressful, and performed by fallible human beings. But as long as he was trying and paying attention, what he did was good enough. He didn't know how to apply that to his current situation. He felt lost at sea with grief weighting him down and the only rescue being offered by his worst enemy. He sniffled, hunched his shoulders, and fell into a restless sleep.

XXX

_That didn't go over well, either. So…something else is wrong? Of course it is._ He had nodded in response, but he sighed now. Once Peter was settled, Sylar slid under the sheets, feeling warm soon after, at least physically. They managed to sleep together when Sylar dropped off.


	112. The Fix

Day 57, February 5, Morning

Peter woke, finding he'd rolled over in the night to face his companion. They were closer, too. The back of his hand rested against Sylar's bicep. Sylar more or less mirrored him. Peter sighed, chasing away the unsettling dream he'd had. In it, his father had found him reading in the library with Sylar, confronting him disdainfully about why he was keeping company with such trash, only for Peter to realize Arthur was addressing Sylar, not Peter. He groaned and rolled over, sitting up and rubbing at his face. His eyes were better, but his nose and forehead still hurt. He went off to see to his morning routine in the bathroom, electing to leave off working out and save his strength for dealing with Sylar and, perhaps, continuing on the storefront.

XXX

Peter dressed in the guest room, so Sylar could have the bathroom. He'd been awake while Peter was in there previously because he couldn't sleep with even that limited noise going on. It was pleasant, alive, close by. It was quite domestic, too, but he ignored the idea. They hadn't said anything to each other yet. In the shower, in between bouts of despairing at his unattractively plentiful body hair, he contemplated his approach with Petrelli. _Tell him nice stories, keep it light, ask him about the things he doesn't tell other people._ He redressed in clean clothes and went to the kitchen, to be with Peter certainly, gauge his progress (and mood) and make breakfast, probably for both of them. Today was eggs and toast, with plenty of jam, though he watched to see if either was too 'flavorful' to tolerate.

"Do you sleep well in that bed?" _With me_ , he didn't add, although Peter had slept in it alone (at least, partially). _I'm asking about his needs in an appropriate (self-serving) way, giving him attention. That's what he likes._

XXX

"Yeah." Peter glanced over at it, wondering why Sylar was asking. "I was pretty tired. I think I slept like a log." Clearly he'd moved around some. He studied Sylar's expression in case Peter had done something inappropriate in his sleep. "How about you?"

XXX

_It's not about the bed for me. It's probably all about the bed for him_ , Sylar ruminated. "Good. Your eyelids look better," he prompted, appearing more interested in his food. _Does that mean he doesn't need me anymore?_

XXX

Peter nodded, relieved that he hadn't embarrassed himself last night and happy that Sylar's nightmares weren't plaguing him. So sleeping with him was doing some good. Peter crunched off the crust of his toast, finding the dry bready portion more appealing that the part liberally smeared with butter and jam.

XXX

"Did you go for a walk last night?" Sylar wondered if Peter had been sneaking away somewhere, possibly back to his own apartment, but had…returned to finish the argument or make a point or something.

XXX

Peter answered quietly, putting down the rest of the toast to pick at his eggs. "Yeah. I went to the storefront and did some stuff." He took a bite and watched his food more than necessary. "I'm going back today. I'm going to see if I can make one of those sketches real." He jerked his head in the direction of his sketchbook. He worried this was going to lead to questions about his non-existent 'plan' or 'offer'. _Maybe that's why Sylar's been fine. Maybe he thinks I'm off working on a solution._

XXX

Sylar's head quickly canted to the side, eyes widened, expression more open with surprise. "You…" he began. "You went to the store to fix some of it?" That was worded carefully, but he felt a thrill of…being cared for? The attention and good will, the thoughtfulness and effort – lots of effort in Peter's still-fragile condition! It was full of meaning to him. He had doubts, but dismissed them. _He fixed something of mine? For me? (Right after I said he wasn't offering me_ _anyt_ _hing). He said he would and he did it. (No…he did that for me)._ Actions spoke so much louder than words and the two matched in this instance.

XXX

Peter swallowed and paused, drinking in Sylar's response. _Maybe I'm working on a solution after all?_ "Yes," he said carefully. "I just wasn't sure how to go forward before, so I'm...going to try something and if it doesn't work, then I'll...just keep trying other things until something does."

XXX

Sylar caught his mouth hanging open some. "I don't- Thank you, Peter. I know it's…not important, but it…" he stumbled around everything but the expression of gratitude. It felt like that bit of hope he'd had for Peter's character (at least, the character of the past) wasn't misplaced. "Thank you," he said again when more words wouldn't come.

XXX

Peter smiled softly to himself and ate more, going back to the richer part of the toast he'd passed over earlier. _I'll need the energy if I'm going to put in a lot of work today._ Sylar's appreciation made him feel stronger already. Maybe the plan or the deal didn't matter if he was doing something else meaningful enough. And even if not, he was at least not wasting his time. If it made someone happy, then it was worthwhile. Peter cleaned his plate and made to head out.

XXX

Sylar was almost finished with the dishes when he heard the noise level pick up. "Wait," he called out, drying his hands and moving out of the kitchen. _Is he okay to do this? Am I supposed to let him? Accompany him? I'm not going to help any more than I already have because it's his mess…_ None of it seemed appropriate to mention, so he lamely asked, "Do you need food?" And right after he voiced it, he mentally kicked himself for sounding like Peter's wifely housekeeper – shameful no matter how he looked at it. "Or company?"

XXX

"Um...I could take an apple. I'll come back for lunch." He thought about the storefront as it was now, and the two fights they'd had there. "There's not much to see yet. I'd rather you came by when I have more done." And when any disappointment or fussing would come too late to derail the project. He read Sylar's genuine concern. It was warming and strange to see. "I'll be alright," Peter promised. "I'll come back." He picked up his headband, pocketed the fruit Sylar offered him, and left.

XXX

So he stood there, considering what he could do about not liking the part where Peter was going away. The empath specifically expressed that Sylar shouldn't accidentally 'wander' past the store. _What does that mean?_ He tabled those desperate, unnamable urges because his ability to screw things up was apparently limitless. Just because Peter's eyes were better didn't mean he could be out alone, with tools…unsupervised. The Petrelli was notorious for not appreciating being 'big brother'd' so that was out. Sylar simply nodded, skeptical and needy as he watched Peter walk away.

XXX

Peter was glad he didn't have Sylar with him. It would have complicated things enormously. The morning was frustrating, reminding him repeatedly of why he'd shelved the project. He simply did not know how to do some of the steps that needed to be done. He had no power tools, his materials were inappropriate for the scale of the job, and he had the nagging feeling this was all a metaphor for something anyway. _Metaphor or not, I have to get it done. This whole...world...is a metaphor. 'Trapped in his worst nightmare', wasn't that what Matt said? Or Sylar said it. He knows why he's here, at least on some level. Is this my worst nightmare, too?_ Peter stopped to stretch his fingers and arms from sawing an angle into a thick board. After a moment of reflection, he had his answer: _No. This isn't my fault. But these windows are, so I'm going to fix them._ He went back to work with purpose.

The days blurred together for Peter. He returned as he'd promised for lunches and dinners. He would have liked to have talked – the hours alone left him with plenty of time to think, even if he was trying to stay focused on his work – but he was generally too tired and mentally drained by the time he got back to the apartment. Sylar didn't ask many questions, which contributed to the early bedtime and limited conversation. But the day came, less than a week later, when Peter considered the project as complete as it was going to get. He'd cleaned things up and returned the tools and shopping trolley to the hardware store. The paint and varnish were dry. If he turned in a bit earlier than before that night, Sylar didn't mention it, joining him in bed as he usually did, regardless of what hours Peter was keeping. That was...so nice. Peter didn't know what to do with it.

Day 63, February 11, Morning

The next morning, as breakfast concluded, Peter said, "I'm done. With the storefront. Would you," he swallowed, feeling nervous about this, which was why he'd said nothing the night before, "like to come see it?"

XXX

Finally! At last, an invitation, progress! Being alone for days while Peter worked on the project had left Sylar with plenty of time to think things like, 'what if all he's doing is spray-painting 'fuck you' artistically all over the storefront?' It seemed too good to be true and he'd been warned off checking it out for himself. He'd had to rest on faith. It wasn't trust, but faith implied hope, which he did have even if religion and gods were beyond his ability. Today, he got a formal invitation so he didn't have to sneak out to see the finished product or ask subtle questions (and it was no longer 'off limits'). It felt…good. It was like receiving a present (or an olive-branch of sorts), but being unsure if that present was some April Fool's prank. _I didn't hear any explosions, so it's not like he torched the place,_ he reasoned with himself. Sylar looked at Peter, scanning his face and waiting a moment before responding. It seemed legitimate as Peter was awaiting his reply. "Yes."

XXX

On the walk there, a thousand doubts ebbed and flowed under Peter's quiet demeanor. _Should I say again that I'm not a carpenter? It doesn't look very professional. What if he doesn't like it? It's done, though. At least maybe we can be around each other now. A couple of our fights were over this place. I don't know what I'll do if he doesn't like it. He's been real quiet while I've been working on it. I'll bet there's stuff I could have done better on it. What if he gets mad and tears it up?_ He hunched his shoulders against the chill and tried to stay stoic about the whole thing. Looking desperate wouldn't help at all.

When they came into sight of the new construction, Peter's pace quickened despite his intentions to play it cool. "There," he said unnecessarily, "there it is." He watched Sylar for his reaction.

XXX

Sylar wavered a thousand times between hope and…planning his revenge if Peter had fucked it up on purpose. He hated being led around, but the idea of someone fixing something for him specifically was novel and most welcome. _I wonder what this means, regardless of what he did_ _?_ Upon arrival, Sylar had slyly moved to the edge of the sidewalk for a better angle to see it sooner (suddenly considering that, perhaps he didn't want to see it).

What he saw was…beyond what he'd imagined. Stained glass on the top window, the others below it appeared to have the ability to open and close, surrounded by varnished wood frames. He stared and approached it slowly, reaching out a hand to touch it. He had to be sure it was firmly affixed to the building, not some cleverly placed display. The glass was cold and solid when he applied some pressure. He peered up and around all the windows with mild curiosity now. It felt real. The new appliances didn't necessarily match the brick or the other buildings, but it looked clean, permanent, and weatherproof. _I have to say something now._ _What do I say? I didn't think about this._ He opened his mouth once and couldn't think of anything appropriate to say between men who still hated one another.

"Solid construction," he lamely began. _It's already made, for me; he can't take it away now if I say something wrong._ "I like the stained glass," he added with some rueful amusement. He felt an odd attachment to such a random, inanimate object with such a history as it had - an attachment he knew he should have or encourage. "It means something." His brows furrowed a little as he finally turned to look towards Peter, hoping his limited wordplay (implying that its meaning could be attached to his gratitude or the stained glass portion) would be understood. "Thank you," he voiced again softly.

XXX

_He likes it?_ Peter watched Sylar touch what he'd built and talk about it. The words, and Sylar's tone, sounded good. When Sylar thanked him, he felt a swell of happiness. _He likes it!_ He grinned in genuine pleasure, much more thorough than when Sylar had accepted the clock Peter had brought him around Christmas. "Come on," he said enthusiastically. "Look inside! Look at the way the light comes through." He gestured as if to grab or slap Sylar's shoulder, but his fingers missed by a few inches, making it only a gesture. Peter moved to the door and looked back to make sure Sylar was coming.

"It's warmer in here now, too." Peter walked inside. It was all cleaned up – materials and tools had been returned to the hardware store. He pointed at the play of colored light slanting off to one side. "See? This tracks across the floor as the day goes by. When it pointed to the edge of that counter, I'd go home for lunch." He shut up there, thinking Sylar was probably better versed than he was on the matter of sundials, but it had been a neat thing he'd noticed during his second day of work. "The label on the stained glass panel said, 'Moon', but I think it's an eclipse." It was a light grey circle with expanding rays of rainbow light radiating from it. "The moon's involved in eclipses anyway, so maybe it's both." He beamed at it, very happy with himself and happy that Sylar was happy.

XXX

Sylar followed inside. He gave Peter a questioning, obvious look about the building's warmth but let it pass because it wasn't like he'd been inside it when it was warm before. The stained glass – whatever its artistic shape or name, for all its multi-colored affect – cast a beautiful sunspot on the floor. That was truly unique. He didn't care for the idea of a solar or lunar eclipse being in his window, but it hadn't been his first impression of it, so he tried to keep it that way. In his mind, it was more like a sunrise over water, with half the pallet being warm, the other cool, but with different hues in each pane around a circular, dark center. "It's beautiful," he murmured to no one in particular, stepping closer to the window and the colors on the floor.

XXX

Peter retired while Sylar continued his examination. He smiled to himself as he took note of what Sylar looked at the most, which seemed to be the play of colors. "You know, I've been at this for nearly a week. I was thinking I'd just take it easy today, maybe play music or read...Damn! I never finished that book!" He shook his head, unhappy that he hadn't finished the story as he'd said he would, but glad anyway to have completed the windows, especially since Sylar approved of them. That made it all worthwhile.

XXX

Sylar poked around the interior attachment and sealant. He found himself wanting to touch the stained glass portion – he did when Peter wasn't looking. It was…fixed. Peter had fixed it, for him. It meant nothing more than that; what it did mean was wonderful, perhaps because it was disconnected from any other need or argument. Most people didn't understand the need for things to be fixed (and this didn't mean that Peter understood, but it was a nice feeling). "I told you you couldn't do it in three or four days," he said with some amusement. A concussion and swollen-shut eyes didn't allow for great reading, which was partly Peter's fault to begin with.

XXX

"Yeah, yeah," Peter said after a brief pause (when he gathered Sylar wasn't criticizing him), stepping closer to jog Sylar's shoulder lightly in jest. "You were right." Peter was pleased and upbeat, which was reflected in his light, joking tone of voice. He added, "Let's go back, unless there was something else you wanted to do over here."

XXX

"Not really," Sylar allowed. The library was on his list – it had been for a while now. He'd moved on to a history book he'd found in the Pegasus and had snooped on Peter's medical tomes in the rec room. "What gave you the idea for the stained glass?"

XXX

Peter stopped to look up at the panel in question. "I...I wanted it to be pretty." He looked over at Sylar now. "All those clocks in your apartment – I've looked at them – they're all different. They're not just...functional. They're...art. Delicate, like glass. So I..." He gestured at the stained glass, turning to gaze at it again. "I wanted it to be like that – more than just functional - pretty."

XXX

Sylar found himself checking the windows again as Peter did. He listened and blinked at it. The reason, the statements were penetratingly accurate. Many people didn't or couldn't discern such meaning. He was taken by surprise at the thought behind the action because it was far more than he'd expected in both cases. It fit. "It is," he said, because he had to say something and didn't know what else to say, "I see that." _He made it nice and beautiful._ It was a little overwhelming; he needed to process this.

XXX

When they returned to the Pegasus, Peter went straight to the piano after shucking his outdoor clothes. He played brash, upbeat songs with a lot of energy, as cheery as his mood. His heart was singing. He hadn't felt this happy in a long time. It seemed like a small thing and objectively, Sylar's approval...well, it was the only approval he was likely to get so he grabbed onto it with both metaphorical hands and hung on tight. He banged out melodies with enthusiasm, and refused to let his lurking doubts drag him back down too easily.

XXX

He zoned out to the music, which he hadn't heard it weeks. It was another thing he liked to think was for him, at least a little bit. He knew they both benefited either way. The man's fingers must be improving, as was his ability to play. The piano still needed to be tuned and that was a project he could help with (not that he necessarily would help with it). It was nearby and it didn't hit his or Peter's hot buttons of any kind. It might even come close to a normal interaction, all history aside. Maybe. As he watched Peter making music, he thought about that from something closer to Peter's perspective. _Normal interaction isn't so bad. That's what I want. It doesn't get me any kind of even footing with him. He claims I'm decently safe, but I know how far that gets me. Again, knowing is better than nothing. Normal interaction might get me a reluctant, necessity-driven, convenient friendship. Someday. What does he need here? (Besides the stuff he keeps telling me that I'm mostly already giving him_ _and the things I can't give him_ _)._

After the songs, Peter promptly brought his book over to sit with Sylar like it was natural. Sylar couldn't help his tiny smirk about that, even as they sat on opposite ends of the couch. He opened his own book to read about repetitive and ironically applicable history.

XXX

Peter plowed on through the book, realizing after only a few pages the reason (at least the emotional reason) why he'd started the fight with Sylar. These people weren't going to give up on each other. Their wrenching story was full of angst and tension and frustrating uncertainty, but the one thing that was certain was their desire to keep each other alive. He could see how this translated into him making some desperate play for Nathan. _But if Nathan is gone,_ Peter looked over the top of his book at his companion, _then it's Sylar I can't give up on. He can be a good person. I've seen it in him, but he's the one who's given up on it._ That lent a different feel to things. It gave him a direction, and hope. _Is he the one who needs to be saved? (He came to me for help. That was him I was hanging onto on the side of Mercy Hospital. That was him who said those things about me.) I need to help him. Can I do that?_ He was realistic about his emotions – they remained deeply conflicted, but he was beginning to think the hate, no matter how much Sylar might deserve it, wasn't helpful, good, or right.

When they broke for lunch, Peter asked, "Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?"

XXX

"Maybe the library?" he said questioningly, mid-scrub of the dishes. He'd made sure Peter was still taking whatever painkillers he needed as he had throughout the fixing of the store. "Or fixing my clocks," _alone_. Because he didn't trust Peter around them. (Perhaps, after the comment about noticing his clocks, and the gift of a clock, he needed to reevaluate his position). He considered that Peter might have plans and ended with, "Or no plans, I don't care."

XXX

"Well, I could stand to get another book, but that's not going to take all day. We could swing by your place after and pick up a couple of those board games you've got."

XXX

Sylar's lips twitched. "That sounds good," he said honestly. Board games were far more controlled than any verbal, card game, or combination of the two apparently. Once again, he had curiosity about the second bite mark he'd made in Peter's flesh. _He had plenty of alone time recently_ , he thought, mind in the gutter. They still slept together, or they had up until this point. _Is he going to play a board game with me then dump me back at my place? I wish cell phones worked here now – Peter always answered when Nathan called. Almost always. He probably wouldn't pick up for me. Or maybe a two-way radio._

Shortly after, they were on their way to the library. He wanted things from Peter, still more than what he was already receiving. His new goal was information and he had to start somewhere. "What was the best friendship you've ever had and why?"

XXX

The question came out of the blue, but it wasn't that different from many of their previous conversations while walking here or there – favorite this, worst that. He rolled with it. There were worse things to discuss. "I suppose we're excluding relatives?" Peter gave Sylar a momentary sour look. "Not that Nathan was ever really my _friend_. Not that way." He sighed and moved on to answering the question. "Kevin, in college. We were roommates. We saw a lot of each other. He gave me some good advice, but it was…things I could take or leave, you know? It was probably the first time I was hanging out with someone who had their shit together and wasn't trying to organize mine for me. He never acted like he was better than I was. He just had a different take on things, different experiences. After a while, I started listening." Peter made an embarrassed laugh. "It took me…longer than it should have. The whole experience was kind of new to me. He was the one who got me into some weight training and eating better. He didn't mind me tagging along and asking questions. He didn't even mind me making a pass at him, but he was straight, so it didn't go anywhere."

"I guess the 'why' is that I wasn't hiding anything from him, like I am with Hesam and…everyone else I've known in the last few years. Even in nursing school I was careful with who I told what. I didn't want them to know about how I'd been in pre-law and think I was some party freak who couldn't keep his pants on to save his life. Claire's a friend, but…no relatives. Emma…hadn't gone much past acquaintances, maybe friends. In any case, I don't think we're friends at all now, much less 'best'. None of them really know what's going on with me anyway, so they're friends with this idea of Peter Petrelli without being friends with _me_." He rolled his shoulders, trying to push away the tension that came with acknowledging that he put an outward face to the world as much as his politician brother ever had. "But Kevin knew me. He was cool. He didn't tell me how to live my life and I appreciated that."

XXX

Sylar wondered at the concept of being friends with a person's name, not the person themselves. Peter had spoken about Kevin, briefly, in the past, mostly to the extent to say that Kevin had been his most permanent roommate of the paying variety. _He makes passes at his friends? Or…roommates rather? Straight guys, too. I thought he said something about 'friends don't offer handjobs.' That must be a common Petrelli trait – being unable to keep it in your pants to save your life. Lesson of the day: don't tell Peter what to do; let him decide._ "He sounds nice," was his generic comment, then briskly cut Peter off before he could start some pointless return, "Don't bother asking me the same question. Why would you make a pass at him if he was your friend, or even your roommate?" Sylar pressed, interested in the fine line between friend and lay, or perhaps why it was okay for Peter to so something that was off-limits to Sylar.

XXX

Peter grimaced at being cut off, but he supposed he already knew the answer – Luke – though maybe not the why. Sylar's question distracted him sufficiently. Defensive and a little self-righteous, he answered, "Being a friend or roommate does not mean-" Suspicion stopped him. Sylar was getting at something here. Peter regarded him for a few steps before saying, "I liked him – a lot." That should deal with Sylar's 'We're roommates, so why don't you make a pass at me?' angle.

XXX

One eyebrow quirked briefly. Peter was catching on, even when Sylar wasn't leading him that way. _I can't believe he's talking about this!_ Partly for the sake of annoying Peter and clarifying, he slyly asked, "Why do you hit on straight guys? Isn't that going against your live-and-let-live standard if you're forcing them to…do that, to convert? Especially if he's your new roommate who has to choose between fucking you and moving out."

XXX

_Maybe I was wrong about the angle thing?_ Peter snorted softly. "I was a freshman in college, Sylar. I'd been telling people I was straight for years when I knew I wasn't. He was really nice, listened to me a lot, eye contact, he went to the gym, took care of himself … I know that's a stupid stereotype, and I'm not saying I was all that smart about it. I asked, he turned me down, explained why, and that was it – no big deal. Which was kind of a big deal, since, you know, we were roommates, and yeah, that could have been awkward. As a general rule, I try not to hit on straight guys, lesbians, or gay guys who won't come out of the closet under any conditions. At best, it's pointless and a waste of everyone's time." They walked for a few more strides before Peter tried to change the subject by sassily adding, "Doesn't mean I won't flirt with them if it'll make them laugh, though." He smiled.

"So, are you telling me that you think just me hitting on a straight guy would 'force' him to convert? It would, like, make him gay for me just because I asked him out?" Peter was half-joking, half-serious, wondering what Sylar's views were.

XXX

Sylar was almost completely distracted by the 'I don't hit on straight guys/gay guys who won't come out of the closet under any conditions' part. _I thought that earlier, about being…too straight for him. Can he tell that? No, he couldn't tell with Kevin. Or he didn't care. In any case, acting…more gay won't hurt my case here. (And he'd still pester them anyway after they already said no? Then why is he so upset when I do it? Why would he respect that if he…really likes them and he's still after them?)_ From Peter's tone, he could tell there was something to his questions. "What? No. Getting that kind of…attention could imply the straight guy is interested or…gay somehow, when he's not." It was the kind of thing that could stick to a person. _Wait, is he tricking me into that whole 'gay isn't a choice' thing? Yeah, he's got another thing coming…_

XXX

Peter gave Sylar an intent look. _While I do try to make passes at people who are interested, me making the pass doesn't make them interested. Maybe he's saying it makes them look interested? Or makes other people, who might be watching, think the guy is interested? That must be it._ " _You_ made a pass at me and the choice wasn't between fucking you and moving out." He looked over at Sylar again. "Was it?" It certainly hadn't turned out that way, but was that how Sylar had meant it? "Put out or get out?"

XXX

Sylar scoffed. That angle was confused and improbable. "I made a pass at you before any of that and I never said anything like that. So how could it be 'put out or get out' at any point? That doesn't make any sense, Peter." For once, the timing of the start of hitting on Peter worked for him, instead of against him, much to his relief. The whole topic was suspicious with Petrelli loopholes and reasons that only applied to everyone else. Working an information setup, his next approach was, "What do you mean by 'gay guys who won't come out of the closet'?" _Does he mean me? He knows nothing. Maybe he suspects?_

XXX

_No, of course you never said any of that, exactly – but you might have meant it._ Peter made an exasperated sigh that happened to coincide with Sylar's last question. "Just that," he said shortly and left it at that. But he could feel Sylar patiently and expectantly waiting for a better answer. Peter finally elaborated, "I mean guys who go looking for other men on the down low, but want to keep it a secret all the time, from everyone, and won't admit that they're doing something gay even with the guy they're doing it with. Just..." Peter looked pained and unhappy, "no emotions. It's just sex, or maybe not even that as far as they're concerned." He shut up again. He'd had one heartbreak over that and been no more than a booty call enough times to make him sensitive about it. There were a lot of things in his life that had not worked out well.

XXX

Sylar's lips pursed. _Sounds like my sex life, what's the big deal?_ "Doesn't that make you 'a gay guy who won't come out of the closet'? Wanting it on the down low, lying to the women you're with. You're not 'out of the closet' with your family. We've established how important they are to you," he added with a roll of his eyes and some wry bitterness. Not that Sylar had much opinion on the Petrelli family's involvement – he couldn't and didn't want to imagine that conversation (and the awkwardness of Angela's ability possibly seeing Peter…doing things). _Maybe that's the reason you got dumped so often – never occurred to you?_

XXX

"What?!" He tensed all over, hands coming into fists and his body turning to face Sylar, whose posture and expression showed he had no idea how insulting and provocative his words were. Or maybe he did and he was taunting Peter. In either case, Peter reached out and shoved him hard with the heel of his left hand, his next strides taking him several extra feet away from Sylar, more to keep himself from swinging on the guy than to protect himself. "Go fuck yourself!" he vented, stalking along angrily.

"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about, Sylar! I don't care what fucking memories you have from Nathan, because you're right, he didn't know shit about that side of my life. My family didn't know, didn't need to know, and made it real fucking clear they didn't _want_ to know. I followed their rules," he growled. "I never lied to the people I was with. I'm not gay. And I'm nothing like those men!"

XXX

Sylar's weathered the shove by tightening his arms with what little warning he was given, but his hands didn't leave his pockets as he stumbled back. _We established the 'go fuck myself' part, too. No need to repeat it._ He was very disappointed. In Peter, actually. It was just another disgusting thing Peter did and had no problems about doing. It went against everything the man said he believed in. It was just another Petrelli facade, double standard as always. It was just another stupid idea Sylar had had that Peter was 'better than that.' How Peter could sleep with both men and women, not lie to any of them about it, have his family know and yet not know about it, demand more honesty of others than he was giving them, sleep with men and not be gay, and over everything else, be 'nothing like those men' was a flat contradiction and therefor a bald-faced lie. Or several of them. Sylar supposed he could cut Peter some slack since the man had a long history of being deluded, but this was too much. Peter was upset enough and he clearly expected Sylar to swallow each lie. So that was what he did.

Unable to repress a roll of his eyes, and with a very disbelieving, exasperated sigh and tolerant tone, he replied, "Whatever you need to tell yourself, Petrelli." _He only wants what he wants and everyone else can go to hell. Am I surprised?_

XXX

Peter calmed down a notch, more convinced that Sylar had no idea of the impact of what he was saying. "Don't call me a liar."

XXX

Sylar glared, because, really? He wasn't allowed to properly address it again. Instead, he sassed, "So when did you know you were 'not-gay' and wanted to fuck guys?"

XXX

"About the same time I knew I wanted to be with women. And this is none of your business, Sylar. What about you? Tell me about your sexual history, huh?"

XXX

He'd been expecting that at some point. Haughtily, he said, "We're not talking about me." _None of my business, is it? What happened to, 'if you want to, you can talk to me about things'?_

XXX

"Right," Peter said tightly, walking in silence after that. The morning had started so well. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of Sylar looking over the repaired storefront. It was a nice memory and served to cool him down a lot.

XXX

_At least I learned some things,_ Sylar thought of the exchange, even if he wasn't thrilled with what he now knew. Peter seemed to relax after a few blocks, walking closer to him but not as close as they'd been in the beginning. Sylar was still ruminating on the lies to ask more questions. The rest of the walk was brisk and not overly uncomfortable. Sylar opened the door for Peter, following him in.

XXX

The library was still a big, spooky, empty building, but it was easier to take the second time around. _Besides, it's not empty once we're here. Sylar's here, so I'm not even alone._ As they walked through the lobby, Peter mused inwardly about how Sylar was a companion and not a stranger, someone he was here with rather than just happening to be in the same area. "Second floor again?" he asked, following Sylar's lead to the elevator. _The stairs are right there_ , he thought, but didn't object to them taking the easier route. When they exited, Peter spoke up again. "I'm going to look for another biography." He got his bearings and headed off.

XXX

"Yeah," Sylar said, going to his own section. He'd finished his other mystery book; it was good enough to hold onto. He wanted to find something similar and unrelated to Peter because it suited his mood. When he'd found a few options, he saw Peter returning to him. He made a point of peering at the man's book. "Ali?" he asked with plenty of question in his voice. _Oh, great. Heavy-hitter. Subtle. 'How to Start Fights and Win by Muhammad Ali,'_ he mocked, _just what I need. Whatever. Let him be stupid. I'll end up taking care of him or being taken care of._ "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, huh?" he prodded.

XXX

"Uh-huh. He's a real interesting guy. I read part of this, or of a different biography of him, I don't remember, when I was in high school." Given the nature of the fake world he was in, Peter doubted that he'd actually 'read' anything new this time around, but it had been so many years, he figured he could easily do with a refresher. "I was doing a report or a research paper on athletes and personal philosophy. They have a lot of good things to say. Like Bruce Lee was _really_ cool. And so is Michael Jordan." He shrugged. "I've noticed that people like them tend to say things that make more sense to me than businessmen and politicians. They're less self-serving. Plus," he concluded with a grimace as he waved the book in the air, "no one's likely to eat anyone else in this one."

Peter knew as well as anyone else the incorrect, stereotypical perception of athletes as being a bunch of dumb jocks with nothing to say that was worth saying, so he changed the subject. "What books are you getting?"


	113. Ability Affects

Day 63, February 11, Morning

"Just some mysteries," he said, holding them up for Peter to read the titles.

XXX

"Cool. I'll have a seat over there until you're done." Peter headed off to skim through his book, wondering if he should have picked out more than one. _Nah. I'm still not done with Alive! I have lots of stuff I can do if I get done with reading. Like bother Sylar._ Peter smirked to himself, settling in and opening the book.

XXX

When Peter moved away, Sylar was left contemplating the casualness or the indifference behind their distance. _He needs space so he thinks I need space? In reality, I just don't want him hovering, asking questions, and judging my choices. Or he wants space so he takes the space. That's probably it._ That decided he picked out a handful of suitable mysteries, surprised that there were any that he hadn't read before. It didn't take long. He came back to where Peter sat.

XXX

Peter rose upon Sylar's return. A quick glance at Sylar's face and posture led him to think the man was ready to go. Peter's reading had left him cheerful and upbeat, a good change from the emotional impact of the book about the Andes survivors. "Hey, listen to this: 'God made us all, but some of us are made _special_ … Some people have special resources inside, and when God blesses you to have more than others, you have a responsibility to use it right.' Ali said that." Peter smiled, enthused about the idea that some people (or maybe even all) had greatness inside of them. "I'm not sure which is cooler – to have an ability (or lots of them like you do) and be able to change so much, or to not have one like me and yet work hard enough at things that you end up doing extraordinary stuff anyway." He looked at Sylar expectantly for a moment before animatedly interrupting with another question that popped into Peter's brain as they headed towards the door. "I wonder if some of the great people in history had abilities. What do you think?"

XXX

Sylar blinked and paused, first at the quote, the pros/cons of each of their abilities (he hadn't thought his own had many 'cons'), and then, before he could think through a possible response, Peter was asking an entirely different question. Honestly, he preferred to go back to 'whose ability or abilities is better?' portion but this idea wasn't entirely unfamiliar to him and he thought that Peter had mentioned it once before. "Uh…Um," Sylar recovered, sounding the idiot for a moment. It was like the little guy was on drugs, or rather, like his old, happy self who hadn't been in…a long time (and never around Sylar). Wasn't there something about not talking about abilities? "I think it's possible and probable, with the creation of technology and certain religions worshipping gods or aliens, conquerors, inventors, explorers, tyrants, geniuses…What do you mean, you don't have an ability?"

XXX

Peter's brows furrowed as he tried and failed to make sense of Sylar's answer. It seemed to be 'yes', but Peter didn't know what technology and religion had to do with it. He focused on the question instead. That was easier. "Okay, yes, I have an ability to have other people's abilities. But without them, what am I?" He looked at Sylar for a moment before answering his own question. "Nothing special. But I'm still going to try to be a hero anyway." Rene had helped him find and articulate that answer within himself, which had helped him deal with the depressing truth that without other people to draw from, he wasn't much. He could do right; he could be a hero – that made him something; it made him _someone_.

XXX

Sylar frowned, completely baffled if not taken aback. It explained wanting to be special and continuing the hero-games, but none of Peter's actions warranted any credit or heroism (stupid though they probably were). As they walked side by side towards and out of the door, he replied, "I thought you said my ability was special because I can put things back together – fix them – even if it isn't 'flashy.' Why wouldn't that apply to you?"

XXX

Peter shrugged. "My ability doesn't do anything other than borrow other people's abilities. And overload when I do it too much, I guess. It's cool – don't get me wrong – except the overloading part. Yours is cool. It does something even if you don't have any other abilities, right?"

XXX

Once more, Sylar smelled a rat. It was New York and he was here with a Petrelli so it wasn't uncommon. "Yes, mine does things without other abilities. But you feel other people's feelings with yours, even without other powers, don't you?"

XXX

Peter's brows furrowed again as he peered intently at Sylar. They walked along in silence for several steps as he struggled to find the words or even the thoughts to express himself. Finally he asked, "How do you know that? How do you know _about_ that?" He wasn't suspicious – only confused. Nathan had refused, right down the line, to talk about abilities with Peter. But there could have been things Peter had done or said that Nathan (or more precisely, Sylar looking back through Nathan's memories) could have interpreted to reach that conclusion. Peter couldn't remember anyone giving a genuine flying flip about his feelings or his ability to process those of others…at least not since Charles Deveaux. Had Nathan talked to Charles? Peter knew his mother had, and frequently. Had any of them cared enough to discuss Peter's issues outside of how they might impact their goals?

XXX

Sylar frowned back. He didn't think the questions were angry but there was something else there. His tone was factual and only slightly defensive, "I told you that I met an empath before; I know how abilities _work_ – that's _my_ ability – and I intellectually know what the word 'empathy' means. Plus, I have Nathan's memories so I can figure out more things and it seems to fit. Is any of that so surprising?" he asked because it seemed fairly obvious to him and Peter had yet to take his eyes off Sylar.

XXX

He shook his head. "I don't care how you know. It's not that important. Mostly it's just…no one's ever asked. Or even really talked about…that – how it feels, that sort of thing. Just about what it does." He gave Sylar a cautious side-eye as they walked, thinking about Sylar's ability and Peter's brief experience with it. "There's more to an ability than that, isn't there?" Of course there was – Peter was sure of it. But did Sylar see it that way? Mentally, he held his breath, waiting for the answer.

XXX

There was something in there, something hidden that Peter had probably never shared! That secret tidbit belonged to him. It enticed him and the empath had his full, if momentarily subtle, attention. "I've found that most abilities come with 'more' to them. Sometimes a lot more, sometimes less." _Oh, tell me what yours is! Or have I already guessed it? I think I'm close, from the way he's looking at me. And he thinks he isn't special by himself – I bet he'd love to cuddle up to or…use someone like me._ The telling and the knowing would feed some still-ravenous part of himself. "Is that what yours does by itself?"

XXX

"Well," he wasn't sure Sylar was getting it, "I was talking about how my ability didn't _do_ anything by itself. But that doesn't mean I'm saying it doesn't _do_ things to me. You know? It's not the same as yours." He looked over at Sylar again, trying to gage if the man understood him. He wasn't talking about DNA warping or becoming a homicidal maniac. He hoped Sylar didn't think that.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed. _Is it something filthy and shameful? Admitting you have a problem is the first step, Peter,_ he mentally mocked. He wanted to stop walking to pin Peter under the full force of his stare (and get answers quicker) but he had the impression that was the wrong thing to do, that it would take the casual protectiveness away from being involved in another activity. _He's making sure I know he's not…like me? Well, he is in a lot of ways, like it or not._ "Yes, that happens with abilities. They seem to be unique to the ability." The redundancy and avoidance was annoying him now. "Tell me what your power does to you, Peter," he asked, very gently, almost seductively with a kind of purr. Whatever this was, it was good.

XXX

The question ran all through him – the tone was lovely, but what really struck him was that Sylar was even asking. He didn't think it was curiosity just to make sure Peter's ability was (or wasn't) something he wanted. Sylar was genuinely asking...about him. "What do you want to know?"

XXX

_Urgh!_ He wanted to take Peter by the shoulders and shake him. "Why you're being so slippery about it all of a sudden? You were falling all over yourself earlier to tell me about your sexcapades and now we're playing 20 Questions – and not the fun kind. I'm all ears; so tell me!"

XXX

Peter gave him a small, amused smile and looked at Sylar's ears. Looking back at the conversation, he wondered if he'd built it up as too much of a mystery. The way his ability had worked wasn't mysterious – at least Peter didn't see it that way. He looked at the building to his right and began talking. "When I started getting my ability, I also started getting a lot more...receptive to people. How I felt about them changed. At the time, I thought it had something to do with the residencies I had in that last semester of nursing school and working so much with patients. Plus," he glanced back at Sylar and rolled his eyes, "the long hours. When I would sleep, which wasn't as much as I should have, I'd have crazy dreams sometimes, so I thought maybe how vibrant and fragile everyone seemed was just something I was imagining. I don't know if I felt their emotions, exactly, but I felt like I 'got' them, like I understood them, like everything about them was just on the edge of making sense and if I made them happy, it would. It seemed like everyone I met was so intense and cool and fascinating. I...liked everyone. I wanted to be with them, all of them, but it wasn't really specific. I felt like I was losing myself. And just because I liked everyone didn't mean they necessarily liked me back..." Claude, Angela, Isaac, Nathan, Mohinder, Simone...faces paraded behind Peter's eyes, people he'd tried to reach who had stepped on him or over him as they moved on with their lives.

"When I found out about the abilities – about flight and Isaac's future-paintings and all that – I quit my job. I tried to throw myself into being that person who could make a difference, who could win people over, who could save the world. Then it just...it got out of control. After I met you. All your abilities – they were too much to process. There was that haze in my head of not being able to close myself off. I thought it had something to do with dying. Then I passed out after Nathan got me out of jail."

He hesitated before going on apologetically, "I don't mean to be recounting things you already know. I'm trying to say the ability clouds up my thinking. It's hard to be my own person when everyone is so fucking overwhelming." With a sudden burst of long-repressed frustration, he spat out, "There's no choice! I can't turn it off. It just happens! Even now." He shook his head. "Well, not _now_. I mean before, with the swapping version. I can make it work intentionally. I have to let that haze in my head and open myself to them and for a moment be _with_ them and _for_ them...and then I have their ability and I can close it off again." He shook his head again. "But sometimes I run into someone, maybe even literally, and I don't know it's happened at all. Just next time I reach for the ability I had, it's gone. I might not even work out what I have instead right away."

_I've talked too much. Shut up, Peter._ "Does any of that make sense?"

XXX

Sylar felt strangely honored to receive such confessions. He absorbed it all with the utmost seriousness. It both was and was not the ability's 'fault' with Peter – such a familiar story to Sylar by now, when he'd had too many abilities and secondary side-effects. He felt validated in some ways because he knew he'd been right about the damage to Peter's empathy (either the real part of the man or the ability, now apparently dulled or gone forever). For a moment, he felt some manipulative hope that perhaps Peter still couldn't control himself, then Peter clarified. _It's intentional now – I bet that's the broken part. That explains a lot._ It was comforting to have the similarity regardless. He understood it, the lack of control they both shared and struggled with. He wanted to say, 'Mine feels like that, too, but just the opposite,' but he knew it was off-limits. With his own ability, Sylar felt utterly misanthropic and apathetic and he had no way of knowing with assurance whether it came from himself, some part of himself magnified by the ability, or from the ability alone. There was little proof it wasn't all his own flaws: monster, boogeyman, psychopath.

There was a furrow between his eyebrows by the end. He responded quietly, with feeling. "Yes, it makes perfect sense. I was right about you," he added proudly. "Your empathy isn't the same. That must be nice for you, being here with no people." The last was self-conscious because he knew he didn't count as 'people' and Peter obviously couldn't feel any empathy for him and never _intentionally_ would.

XXX

Peter tilted his head back to eye Sylar. He was glad of the validation, reassured that his rambling had been heard and valued, annoyed by Sylar crowing about whatever he was right about, and irritated by the sarcastic, 'must be nice for you' quip. It was a mixed bag, leaving Peter to choose how to respond, but the morning had started well and despite a little arguing on the way to the library, things were going well. He stepped closer as they walked, reaching out with a quiet, "Come here." He took Sylar's shoulder and gave it a slow shake. "You're my people now," he said with sober confidence. Peter gave Sylar a wry smile and waved at the rest of the world with the hand not occupied by holding Sylar's shoulder. "You're...all of my people." He gave Sylar a pat before moving away to their previous, comfortable walking distance. "What's nice is being able to focus. I've never been with just one person like this. I was sort of alone with Adam, but I couldn't see him, couldn't touch him." Peter extended his nearer hand in Sylar's direction to illustrate his words, but didn't make contact. With a chuckle, he said, "I couldn't punch his lights out or the opposite. This is different. We're more accountable to each other. I like it." He looked over to see if Sylar had anything to say.

XXX

_Now I've done it,_ he sighed, more wary than tense. The only hot button Sylar could imagine unintentionally smacking must be Peter's precious 'people' – the man's family. He had little choice but to obey the command and allow the contact, dreading it. But Peter wasn't upset at all – a little manipulative maybe. It had Sylar introspecting and taking it seriously. _He'd really give me that kind of…responsibility? He would…incl- No. He wants to save and protect his people._ _No pressure._ Sylar nodded and faked most of a grin in response, content with…whatever the hell that meant as near as he could tell. He wasn't sure of all the details with Adam and Nathan wasn't partial, either. Sylar made a mental note to inquire about this near friendship of Peter's. There was something more pressing right now, the part about being accountable to each other. Peter even turned to him as if expecting an answer and it thrilled him. "I understand the appeal of punching someone's lights out. But being accountable…Is that like…being close to equals?" _Will I believe him if he says yes?_

XXX

_Why is accountability hard to understand?_ Lots of doubts about Sylar's moral compass flitted through Peter's head. He dismissed them, assuming he simply needed more information. "What do you mean?"

XXX

"Like…" There was a longer pause as Sylar tried to think back to a personal example of feeling 'equal' – where he was held accountable instead of being held at horrible blame. He supposed Elle was the closest thing he'd ever had to accountability. It wasn't what he had in mind, or it wasn't a better example of what he wanted or what he thought it should be. It hadn't been what he ultimately desired. Nathan had other experiences, with peers, and even a brother. Using both personas, he said slowly, "I guess it's like when you tell Nathan he's doing something wrong? You thought you and him were almost equals? Something…similar to that." He cast a needy look at Peter, trying to answer correctly and express a desire at the same time, concerned he could never make the cut.

XXX

"Yes!" Peter said emphatically. "That's it exactly." He walked a few strides, then elaborated, "There are...consequences to us fighting or getting along. We're not stuck in stasis. Things change. Even if it's...not exactly fast."

After a minute or so of leaving Sylar to think that over, Peter tried to change the subject to something lighter. "So, what if werewolves were real? It wouldn't even be all that complicated an ability, because all you're doing is turning into one specific animal under certain conditions. Do you think they'd still be rabid? Or could they control it and the mythology is all wrong? Maybe it was like your ability and just…hard to control at first – the Hunger, that is."

XXX

"Wait, are you saying I'm in control of my ability or that I'm an animal?" He wasn't offended. Yet. Being called an animal or some raving, out-of-control psychotic would hardly be new insults. He was being compared to a mythological monstrous creature of destruction and fear that was arguably used towards other evil ends. It sadly summed up his recent years. "Or that I have rabies or…some other disease? If you're trying to ask about infectious diseases, you're going about it all wrong," Sylar pointed out. "I don't have any and the Shanti virus – at least, the strain I had – wasn't contagious." That should help clear up any ideas that Sylar was somehow filthy or unfit in those ways.

XXX

"Rabies, huh? So that's why you keep biting me. I thought it was something else." Peter gave him a teasing grin at Sylar's unwarranted defensiveness. "I wasn't talking about us. I was talking about werewolves. But we can make it about us if you want. I don't have any diseases either that I know of. I get tested regularly at work and after any known, possible exposure." He hesitated. _That sort of sounds like saying I'm cleared to have sex with him. And that biting thing sounds like I'm flirting. (I think I might be.)_ Quickly, he changed tack: "Whatever 'scraping me off the floor' you had to do for me week before last, you probably weren't exposed to anything. Thank you for that, by the way – taking care of me. That makes me...feel a lot safer."

XXX

Sylar grumbled, but it was more towards a playful growl, "It _is_ something else." He then snorted about Peter not being exposed, humorous in light of the fatal disease he'd nearly intentionally released some years ago. _I bet they don't know about that. And I'm sure they're too stupid to know how to test for it even if they did know about it._ Once more, Peter had him thinking back. _I…didn't even think of that. I touch other peoples' blood all the time,_ he thought callously with some sadness about what he and Peter were used to. Of the undeserved gratitude, he hummed. "Still don't feel safe with me?" he noticed the phrasing. "You're a tough nut to crack, _Petrelli_ ," then smirked amusement at the pun. "Tell me more about that Adam guy."

XXX

_I don't know that I'll ever feel safe with you. How could I?_ Peter glanced over with a dry smile at the comment, which was replaced by attentiveness with Sylar's command. "What do you want to know?"

XXX

Bluntly and because he noticed Peter puffing up and blushing sometimes at the intimate, personal questions, Sylar said what he wanted to know. "Did you fuck him or want to?" _Even though we just established he wanted to (or wants to?) fuck everyone. Because of his ability._

XXX

Peter laughed immediately. _Sylar really wants me. Oh, wow. He really does. He's jealous._ The ego boost had him grinning. "Yeah," Peter said, intentionally not answering the question the way Sylar wanted.

XXX

_Wasn't Adam a bad guy? Like, a killer? Thinking like Peter, though…how evil does he rank on Peter's scale? (He helped save Nathan – that probably gets him forgiveness for anything)._ He was a little too focused and agreeable to notice the ambiguous answer. "Which? You fucked him?"

XXX

"I dunno," Peter said teasingly, "I thought you didn't want to play 20 Questions about my 'sexcapades'?"

XXX

"I don't want to play when you're making me ask twenty questions by not answering," Sylar retorted quickly, but lightly. "It depends how willing you are to tell me filthy things," he prompted more mischievously.

XXX

He held Sylar in suspense a moment longer, before admitting, "No sexcapades here. I wanted to, would have, but I don't think that's where he was at. Or maybe it was just me and my," Peter shrugged a little bitterly, "family." He remembered an embrace he'd shared with Adam shortly after phase-walking their way to safety. Peter had drank in the man's scent, felt his warmth and elation at being free, and he, Peter, had sank into the hug like it was everything he'd ever wanted. He'd shifted against Adam just slightly, hoping. He'd thought it was subtle, the sort of motion that could easily be explained away if it came to it, but Adam was on to him immediately. The man had moved back to put comfortable hands on Peter's shoulders and asked him if he wanted to hit a bawdy house and get drunk, or vice versa. Shame-faced, Peter had clumsily said something about how his first priority was Nathan. Adam's slightly lofted brows had expressed his doubts, but it had served to keep Peter from making any other unwelcome advances.

"I've never been with anyone who had an ability." He gave Sylar a considering look, but not because he was contemplating Sylar as a partner. Curiosity won out and he asked, "Is it any different?"

XXX

_Peter has struck out with guys before. I'll ask about that sometime: 'Hey, Peter. How do you personally seduce a guy?'_ Sylar noticed the attention but didn't entertain that it pertained to him _(Not unless this flirting gets to him…?)_ His eyes fell away as he considered his experiences. _He really hasn't fucked a special?_ The sum of his own sexcapades were neither here nor there. "Half the sex I've had was without my powers or I was in someone else's body or…I didn't know who I was. I've had…abilities used on me," he smirked humorlessly, "usually just a foreplay thing. Most of the…arrangements weren't…that kind of thing. I think it could be different," he supplied, trying to sound like had some knowledge of it. _Hell, I don't even know what good/different/normal sex is._ Quieter, almost a mutter as he watched the wet sidewalk, "I think it _should_ make a difference."

XXX

"Foreplay?" Peter asked in a leading tone. His thoughts went to Elle's frequent shocks. While electro-stim wasn't something Peter had ever tried, he'd heard of it (and of course through Elle, experienced...some). But Sylar didn't look willing to discuss it. _'Most of the arrangements weren't that kind of thing' – what does that mean?_ "Yeah, got it," he said as a way of dismissing his question and leaving Sylar his privacy. He looked away to underscore that he didn't need an answer, then looked back to change the subject. "You never answered about the werewolves."

XXX

Sylar's smirk faded as Peter dismissed his own comment before Sylar could jest, 'you do remember foreplay, right, Peter?' "I have- _had_ shapeshifting, but I couldn't turn into animals. More's the pity. I suppose there could be a specific ability that does that, but I've never heard of it. The DNA is totally different. I mean, all abilities are doing abnormal things under certain conditions - usually adrenaline, that stupid 'fight or flight.' If they were rabid…I think it would affect them in their human form," he said the last slowly, still thinking.

XXX

Peter shrugged. "I don't think...I mean, abilities aren't something that can be explained by science as we know it. I'm not saying it's magic, but I am saying that all the physics and biology we know isn't really applicable. It's like," he thought for a moment, summoning up a memory, "there's an example I heard once, of a three-dimensional being trying to describe its world to a two-dimensional one. It just doesn't work. The two-dimensional one doesn't have the context. And I think that has to be the deal with abilities. There has to be some element of science or reality that we either can't see or haven't realized exists, that abilities tap into or operate out of."

He watched Sylar for a few strides, then shrugged again. "But you're right. Maybe the 'werewolf ability', if there was one, only turned people into big, hairy, angry humans who were prone to rampages on the nights of the full moon. Hey, come to think of it, eclipses involve the lunar position, too. I wonder if there's a connection?"

XXX

His head came up and canted to the side. "Three dimensional being in a two dimensional world – I like that." He thought about the likelihood of Mohinder unlocking any scientific secrets of abilities. It seemed possible given his track record of success or near successes, though it always spelled trouble for current specials and enabling of the Company and its fucked up ideas. "Who knows? Stories of werewolves came before the Dark Ages where everything was scary and deadly and they didn't write anything down."

XXX

Peter nodded in response, letting himself get lost in thought. _It could be that they never turned into anything at all. Maybe their ability was to radiate fear or an emotion and it left people thinking they'd seen a monster. I suppose anything's possible, but obviously the 'spread by biting' thing wasn't true or we'd be overrun by them. People bite each other all the time._ He glanced over at Sylar – specifically, the man's mouth – and failed in not thinking lewd things.

XXX

In the silence, Sylar injected, "What do you know about Adam?" He wanted to know about this mysterious man who succeeded in catching Peter's interest.

XXX

"Um...," Peter hedged as he pulled his brain out of the gutter, "he was four hundred years old, or maybe older. He said the first thing he remembered was washing up on the western shore of Japan in the 1600s, along with some wreckage. He told me he assumed there was a battle or maybe a storm and that his ability saved him. He didn't know about the ability then, though. He said he worked it out a little while later when he started working as a mercenary. He did that – soldier, mercenary, guard – for most of the rest of his life. He traveled a lot. He had stories about all sorts of places. He'd tell them to me through the air vent of the cell. They were nice to listen to, but...it's weird, but they didn't tell me much about him – about the kind of person he was or what he was after. He asked those things about me a lot. Then he used them to string me along."

XXX

_I bet if I asked you right now, you would tell me…_ "What did he ask you about?" Perhaps it was something Peter subconsciously wanted to talk about.

XXX

"He wanted to know what was important to me. I told him and he promised me he'd get it for me. You know how it works. All I had to do was whatever he told me to do." He gave a short roll of his eyes and frowned heavily. "He saved Nathan and after that, I believed him. I believed _in_ him. He said we were going to save the world. I'm sure he'd argue it, but as far as I'm concerned, he was lying."

XXX

_That really worked?_ Sylar thought with a betraying facial expression (fortunately Peter wasn't looking). _Of course, I can't save Nathan himself – that probably earns the most points with him. I can't see how saving Peter or Peter's girlfriend and strangers is going to top that._ With a bit of a frown, he had to ask, "Why would you want to be with someone who wanted to kill most of the world? What would he gain from that, especially since he was immortal?"

XXX

Peter felt a twist in his gut, guilt at what he'd almost done. He grimaced and looked away, half missing a step and then recovering. "I don't. And I wasn't." He hadn't even fantasized about Adam after he'd found out what the man was trying to accomplish. A few strides later, he elaborated, "I didn't know what he was planning with the virus. I thought we were going to destroy it – no different than locking me up so I couldn't blow people up. Which I _also_ thought was an okay idea." He looked over at Sylar for a long moment. "I'm...changing my mind about that."

XXX

"O-oh!" Sylar scoffed in sarcastic agreement and understanding. Peter was so self-important and self-righteous. "Don't care for being locked up then – or now – do you?"

XXX

Peter gave Sylar an odd look, not seeing what was unusual about the desire to be free. "Dangerous things...or people...you shouldn't lock them up and throw away the key." _It didn't work for me. It's not going to work for you._ With difficulty, Peter forced out the words, "There...has to be a better way." _I just don't know what it is!_ He coughed to clear his throat and went on more normally. "I don't know what Adam was trying for, except that I suppose he thought he'd survive it and the world would be a better place with fewer people in it. There was a future version of me who thought the same thing, except about people with abilities – that things would be better if abilities were rare and limited." He hunched his shoulders. "I don't know if that's right. He wasn't right – that future version of me – wasn't right about a lot of things. He was the one who sent me to get your ability and...that didn't work out."

XXX

"Of course there's a better way," Sylar blurted, his anger finally boiling over, "Just kill all the dangerous things. Or better yet, experiment on them before you kill them so that way they're actually doing something useful." He spat the rest, "Or turn them into someone who is valuable. Fuck you, Petrelli!" He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. How dare Peter speak of some grand, perfect solution (which surely didn't apply to Sylar) when he'd allegedly chosen to be incarcerated here, with Sylar and now wanted 'out'? And after Peter had more-or-less told Sylar to off himself because there was no 'better way'. "You really should be more supportive of your other hero buddies since you act just like them sometimes. You already know there is no better way! Don't even think about blaming any of this on me," he pointed accusingly at Peter. "It's just us here, until we fucking die, so get used to it," he growled and stomped ahead at a faster pace, not caring if he left Peter behind for a while.

XXX

Peter blinked in surprise, having not realized he'd hit a hot button. Then the insults started and he couldn't resist taking the bait, getting angry right back. "'Not on you'? Like you had nothing to do with any of this?" He waved the hand not holding his book at the mental prison they were both in, but Sylar was headed off and probably didn't see it. Peter quickened his pace to catch up. Sylar wasn't getting away from it this time. "Like you have nothing to do with being dangerous? You never had a choice anywhere in there? I don't believe it! I don't. I think you had choices and you made bad ones – over and over. You have to take responsibility for what you've done. It wasn't _all_ out of your control. Not all the time. Not _every_ time!" He hesitated there before continuing, "I know what I did for myself. It didn't always work and it wasn't always smart, but I _tried_. What did you do?"

XXX

"I-!" Sylar began, defending himself against the accusation that he had no part in 'this.' In many ways, he had nothing to do with how it came about in itself, but his history, the reason he was abandoned or trapped here…he had part in that. So he shut himself up and walked faster, hunching his shoulders. It wasn't the admission of guilt and responsibility or the possession of choice or being fucked over that bothered him. It was that when he did admit to anything, he knew it would never go away – it would worsen and he'd be left out to dry. He'd become more horrible than he already was to Peter and it had already been established that there was no help. He didn't want to admit that he didn't have the answers to his own fucking power! _I should know! That's what he'll say! I don't know how, I don't know why…and that won't cut it. Hell, it doesn't cut it now; he just doesn't know that._ He also questioned Peter's interest, the same or different from the usual spectator sport, gory, scandalizing details that others wanted. Or was it merely to humiliate Sylar and prove some unseen point?

"I told you, I already _tried_ everything. Besides, it sounds like you have everything figured out about me."

XXX

Peter furrowed his brow and frowned. That left very little room for him to answer. _He's dodging._

XXX

Barely two steps later, Sylar added, "And even if I did explain to you, it still won't be fair because you won't explain yourself to me."

XXX

_I won't explain myself? What is there to explain?_ He pushed past the distracting curiosity, staying focused on what he was after. "Talk me through what you tried. Tell me why. Tell me how. I need to understand."

XXX

That was enough to stop his walking. He stopped short and faced Peter, hands still in his pockets, "And what about _my_ understanding? Huh? Or does it mean less because of who you are and what I am? Cats do not go back into the bag, Petrelli. Ignorance is bliss, trust me."

XXX

_He's still dodging. Is this the thing about the price?_ Soberly, Peter said, "I asked you first. You answer me, I'll answer you. Just like all our other times." He made an incline of his head to indicate his agreement with the unspoken deal.

XXX

Sylar growled and lifted his chin, doubtful and not appreciating that he was being put on the spot first. Begrudging, angry at everything and everyone, he answered as if fulfilling a dare, "I tried prayer, suicide, avoiding human contact, cold turkey, focusing on anything else, running away, asking for help, turning myself into someone else, working for the enemy, working with the enemy, getting locked up, helping others – everything! I tried everything more than once!"

XXX

Peter blinked several times, trying to keep up with the welter of choices and hoping Sylar wouldn't insist the list itself was his answer. "Pick one. Or... prayer. You mentioned that first. Tell me about that." _Smaller chunks..._

XXX

They were half a block from Sylar's building now. "Fuck, Peter," he huffed with utmost frustration, raking a hand through his hair and stepping out into the road just to do it and have space. "This is fucked up that I have to explain this to a guy who used to have my power. No one ever grills you about it," he growled. "Did you think pause-'n-pray was going to save you in the heat of the moment? I…" Sylar looked away, down the endless, empty road. _He's the first person I've ever told any of that. I think he's the first one to ask. And he wants to know about…prayer. That's more important than the rest of it? I suppose talking about suicide with someone who's suicidal isn't very special. That, and he thinks I should off myself._

XXX

Peter glanced in the opposite direction, lips pursed in quiet shame and more than a little concern that Sylar would press him for details on his brief experience with the ability. He was silently thankful he hadn't been asked of it yet...but Sylar's turn was coming up soon, he knew.

XXX

His voice was quieter but still hopeless; "I don't know…I locked myself in my closet for days with a Bible." It had been the one his mother insisted he keep when he'd moved out. Gabriel had stopped believing before then. In the five years he'd lived alone, he'd probably cracked it open a handful of times and only out of curiosity, always dealing with his shame and perverted temptations. "I tried talking and listening, waiting, but there was nothing there, just like before." He turned hardened eyes on Peter, "Happy now?"

XXX

Peter looked at him for a long pause. _Okay. He's tried something._ His own unanswered pleas to God came to mind. _He tried it...sincerely._ He wanted to know more, but Sylar had fulfilled his end of the bargain. Peter gave one nod and steeled himself to answer whatever Sylar asked of him. "Your turn then. What do you want to know? Or...understand?"

XXX

"I…" As he thought, Sylar squared off to face Peter, even though he stood apart, still standing in the road. He took a moment (and likely wasted a chance to ask something much better, some question that wasn't coming to mind right now). He frowned and shifted uncomfortably with the attention, knowing that he had to ask something and not knowing what (or if Peter would answer it properly), the cold now that they weren't moving. The entire thing was uncomfortable. Slowly, still turning it over in his head, he voiced finally, "What are you going to do with what I tell you, _if_ I tell you anything? Why does it matter, even the things that have nothing to do with Nathan? Why is it so important for you to dig into that, of all things? Why don't you just think of me like everyone else does and accept that? It's much easier. It's…probably the right thing to do. You can't change it, you'll hate what you hear." It kept coming back to that. He needed to know the source of the interrogating interest.

XXX

It took Peter a moment to figure out what Sylar was even asking for, though as the man continued to speak, it became clearer. "I'm not going to think of you like everyone else does because I'm _not_ everyone else." He remembered what Sylar had said about how 'everyone else' said his name. "I'm Peter Petrelli. And you," he pointed briefly, "your name is Sylar because you _told_ me your name was Sylar. So that's who you are. It's that simple."

He squared off right back at Sylar, though far enough away that it wasn't a confrontation, but rather a display of sincerity. "We're stuck here, like you keep saying. I want to know more about you than just your name. I want to know _who_ you are. That includes your past. I want to know what you'd do if you got out of here. I want to know what you'd do to me if I wasn't literally the last man on Earth to you. The only way I can find that out is by finding out about _you_. And not just your memories – I've got those, but I don't look at them – but what you think about them and what they mean to you. What I'm going to _do_ with the information..." he paused, having not really thought that far forward, "is just know it. Use it, maybe, to learn how to live with you."


	114. Secondary Injuries

Day 63, February 11, Noon

Sylar felt some of the blood drain from his face at that. The blood then hurtled through his body with anxiety (and a masochistic excitement he couldn't entertain). _My past, my memories and what they 'mean' to me…_ Peter had spoken of similar things before and they were still red flags of danger and judgment. The safety angle was a valid point, but that didn't make it easier to answer. _If I got out of here, I think I'd try to find a mountaintop to live on._ _Or…_ He hesitated to even think it, _Find someone to take away my regeneration. I'd like to kill Peter for what he did to me, but my abilities weren't…working before. Impotent. I'd find a really remote mountaintop on an island then and avoid him._ "Oh," Sylar deadpanned, partly with intent to offset the heaviness of what Peter had said. He recovered more gracefully with something of a joke, "So long as you're not trying to 'help' me in any way, because that would be hazardous to your health." Turning and walking towards his apartment, he threw over his shoulder, "All that will be much easier if you stop thinking of me as something human. I'm not. Neither are you, technically, since abilities involve changing your DNA."

XXX

"I know that," he muttered loudly before tramping along a few strides behind Sylar, uncertain if he was being invited to the guy's apartment, but deciding Sylar was perfectly capable of asserting his boundaries if Peter wasn't welcome. "We're still human, though."

XXX

"I'm- _we are_ mutations." Sylar turned back to scan Peter with his eyes, "Some of us more acceptable than others." He was fairly certain Peter's power worked differently because of his lack of understanding and control of the abilities he picked up. The level of personal fucked up-ness varied between them, in his opinion. It was obvious he didn't fit into the definition of Homo sapiens or someone would have surely informed him, labeled him. That was why no one knew what to do with specials and most of the answers had yet to be found.

XXX

Peter huffed. He didn't want to argue that, or walk in silence, so he elaborated on the answer he'd given before. "You know how I said I used to 'get' people with my old ability? I don't 'get' you. I can't wrap my head around why someone who seems so otherwise sane and well-adjusted would do what you've done. If I can't understand what caused you to murder in the first place, then I can't work out if I'm safe, or if anyone is safe, around you."

XXX

Sylar blinked and lifted his head back. _I was sane and well-adjusted?! (As far as he knows, I guess)._ More understanding broke over him. _That's what he wants me to be, isn't it? Safe, sane, well adjusted, that would-be father he found in the future who helped him. The good guy, the hero, who helps him save his girlfriend and a bunch of strangers. That's…really too bad. 'That ship has sailed.'_ Peter did want to change him, 'help' him even – and Peter's methods left everything to be desired, especially if involved the Haitian's or Parkman's abilities. What's more, he resented Peter being the one to try to change him. What was so wrong with being depraved and evil, treating him, Sylar, like garbage when no one could see? (Peter had stooped to it before and now pretended he hadn't). It was easier. It was the way of things. It was the return of the punishment he had mostly avoided so far and that was the right thing, wasn't it? _What happens when he gets fed up of being patient? He's not above torture._ Many answers fell into place regarding Peter's desires and actions, past or present. Sylar wasn't certain how he should react to it. _(I bet it's a condition of fucking him, too. Just to make it all more difficult)._ "That's…what I'm trying to tell you. I don't think you can look in the usual places for answers like that. Three dimensional answers, remember? Everyone is safe if I'm locked up or dead," he shrugged, going back to Peter's initial bomb in the conversation.

XXX

"Except me. I'm kind of important to myself, Sylar." He shrugged, remembering the depression and pointlessness he'd felt after their last fight, and some of the semi-suicidal things he'd said. "At least...most of the time. But we could look together – for answers." Not wanting Sylar to think he was suggesting group therapy, he added, "We don't have much better to do. And I need to know more about abilities anyway." Peter largely pulled that last out of his ass.

XXX

"Good. That's good. You are important. And you're important to me," Sylar tacked on the shameless flattery; what was it, validation? that Peter craved. It sounded sickeningly like something Nathan would lie about, coupled with 'thank you for your vote!' Peter's invitation got him thinking when either of them had ever gone to the other for answers. In a limited capacity, Peter had come to him in the future (apparently), asked about the Hunger (but didn't listen), and followed and supported him when he was in Nathan's form to investigate the Haitian's warning about the storage unit in Arlington. It wasn't quite the same thing when the younger Petrelli thought he was helping his brother (and those had been the only times he recalled going to Peter). Peter seemed to think that coming back for him at Pinehearst with Arthur counted but it had been neither helpful nor necessarily desired. "And you think I'm Yoda and I'm going to tell my secrets to someone who's too serious to play around with his own gifts and who'll probably turn them against me? Besides, you blew dozens of chances to talk to me about abilities when we had them and it mattered. But poor Peter isn't kinky enough to play with himself," he smirked broad and smug. Through the lobby and up the elevator they went. It was only then, Sylar realized he was leading Peter to what was essentially his home, not knowing why he was bringing the man along or what would happen when they arrived. _Or is he following me?_

XXX

Peter had been buzzed and pleased from Sylar saying, out loud, that Peter mattered to him. He scoffed cheerfully about the innuendo of not being kinky enough. "Fine. But I _should_ know more about them, given my _own_ ability." He paused. "And I thought it was something you'd be willing to talk about. Better than some other topics."

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar agreed, "That's true." He considered it, or rather, reconsidered his position and decision. "Your delicate conscience would allow you to take advice or knowledge from me? A monstrous, psychopath killer? Because you know people had to die for me to learn what I know and you're awfully bent on making me miserable for that while you use my expertise."

XXX

"I...uh..." Peter walked in the elevator, putting himself on the far side of it from Sylar. He blinked, internally stumbling over the topic. "I, uh, really hadn't thought about it that way." _It's not like he's still killing people. Does that make it okay? There were medicines we discovered using less than ethical research practices, and I still use those. Would I use one if I knew how it was derived?_ His brow furrowed and he frowned, staring at the floor as the elevator rose. _Like with my ability - I don't always know who I get a power from. I wouldn't think I'd bear any responsibility for that if it was an accident, but I know what the deal is with him. If I'm asking him questions, it's not an accident._ When the doors chimed and opened, he shook his head and followed Sylar. "I'll have to think about that," he muttered.

After Sylar went inside his apartment, Peter leaned against the doorframe, not quite entering. He filled the doorway and kept it open. "You got plans for lunch?" he asked, changing the subject to something less morally troubling.

XXX

Peter hung in the doorway and that was…odd, but not yet worrisome. "Uh…making you lunch?" Sylar asked in return, assuming that was the direction of the question. "Did you want something from here?"

XXX

"That's nice," Peter mused in response to Sylar's offer to make lunch. He wasn't sure where Sylar wanted to eat. Here or the Pegasus seemed obvious. "You want me to grab some board games while we're here?" Peter asked without stirring from the door. He didn't have an invitation to come in yet, but agreeing he could get the games would serve.

XXX

"Sure," Sylar said while attempting to hide his enthusiasm. Keeping Peter very close, somewhat occupied was perfect for asking questions. Pushing those boundaries whilst 'playing' and multitasking was fun. He noticed his second question went unanswered, and he interpreted the silence as a negative.

XXX

_Invitation granted._ Peter grabbed Monopoly and Battleship because they were near the top of the stack, and pulled out one of the puzzles to go with them. That, plus his book, was as much as he wanted to carry. Idly, he pulled out a discarded shirt that was stuffed down between a couple games, blinking as he recognized it as one of his own. _Oh. That's from New Year's Eve._ He looked over at Sylar. _He's keeping that because it makes him feel better. He wants it. He wants me. He said it just a few minutes ago: I'm important to him._ Peter was glad to be wanted and not only for the personal safety it bestowed by reducing the chance Sylar would kill him one of these days. He liked the ego boost even more and certainly enough that he wasn't about to say a thing about the shirt. He dropped it right back where he'd found it. "Ready to go?"

XXX

Sylar saw the tail-end of Peter putting what was technically his own shirt back within Sylar's possessions. He knew he was being allowed to keep it, out of indifference, or a sense of honor, or something else entirely he didn't care why. It was an unverbalized request and relief to have it granted. He hadn't forgotten the shirt, if anything he looked to keep it safe there for lonely, rainy days. So far, he hadn't really been alone (or indoors enough) to need it, not when he had the real thing. Okay, even when he 'had' Peter, he still wanted the man's shirt. It was undeniably perverted, he knew, and his uses for it ranged from the perverted to pathetic basic comfort. _(He has Mister Bear)._ _What does he think about that? Why does he let me keep it? Maybe he didn't recognize it._

He shifted and gave Battleship a look _. I thought he said he wouldn't play that again with me. Or was it that he wouldn't play if I played like a computer and 'didn't have fun'?_ Then he smirked, either way, Peter was offering it as an option, "Oh, yeah. I'm always ready."

XXX

The walk back to the Pegasus was uneventful. Peter set the boxes on the pool table in the rec room and followed Sylar up to the penthouse. There was lunch to be had and he picked up his book, the original one, Alive! "Let's go downstairs to read," he said in the tone of a suggestion.

XXX

Sylar brought along a pair of salmon cans for their lunch before remembering that Peter was probably still on the nausea-recovery diet. Lunch was settled and consumed with a little small talk but not much. "Okay," Sylar agreed though Peter sounded commanding. He was still uncomfortable about being interrogated into confession earlier and he dreaded the return of that topic. He couldn't stop wondering how often Peter was thinking about it and what he thought about such sensitive information (because there was no way Peter was done digging). All the same, he was very willing for distraction.

XXX

The rest of the day went quietly. Peter set aside the book when he was done and played a few soft, slow songs on the piano until Sylar was ready to go up. He didn't want to start reading the one about Ali right away. Alive! was a lot to process. "I finished it," he told Sylar as the elevator whisked them upward. He raised the book to indicate what he was talking about. "Do you want to read it? More of them survived than I expected."

XXX

They didn't play either of the games, yet. Sylar had missed the music while Peter had been too injured. Reading together was fine, almost normal, especially after being cornered earlier. He didn't know if doing nothing made that easier to handle or invited more thinking and worrying. So he did try not to think about it. Now, Sylar shook his head at the offer but he listened (because, alone in an elevator, what else was he to do?)

XXX

Peter looked at the book contemplatively. "I know the author did his interviews not long after they were found, but I wish they'd talked more about the recovery. And, you know, long-lasting effects. It mentioned a few. Even though they survived, they were changed. I wish it had gone into that more – changed how, and how they coped with that. The book was sort of 'well, they're alive, they made it back, and that's good enough', but it's not." Peter spoke with quiet certainty. "There's more to it than that and I wish there were a few more chapters about it." He gestured to offer the book to Sylar in case he changed his mind and wanted to read it, or just look through it. "Survivor's guilt if nothing else," he said, his thoughts skirting around his own loss.

XXX

Sylar felt his muscles tighten unconsciously because it hit close to home even though it wasn't an accusation. With an edge in his voice, he responded, "Long lasting effects like feeling like killers? Or eating the flesh of their friends and being cannibals? Yeah, I'm sure they did change. A lot." Survivor's guilt was completely accurate. It implied another portion of the process as well: the necessary acts for survival and its lingering effect on the mind. And the part about not being accepted back into society. "There's a difference between surviving and living," he added bitterly, not entirely meaning to commiserate with Peter. "Maybe that's what you meant. You probably won't find anyone who wants to ask those questions, or hear the answers – not to that kind of thing."

XXX

Peter pursed his lips, made tense by Sylar's tone. "That's exactly what I meant: how did they live...with having survived?" He looked away as the elevator doors opened, walking out as he said, "I think you're right about most people not asking those questions." _But I want to know anyway._ He kept his mouth shut on the rest of his thoughts. _Most people don't want to cut other people up, but we still need surgeons. We still have to learn medicine. I still have to understand you._

XXX

In the suite, Sylar set about making dinner. He wanted to push at hidden, dark, painful secrets the way Peter had pushed him earlier. He knew Peter would return to it, bit by bit, slowly driving him into further insanity. He was still ignoring the part of him that felt relief at being…made? invited? to confess. It was a vulnerability that would surely be exploited. So he dreamt up something equally vulnerable and painful to ask Peter.

XXX

Dinner was vegetable soup and a split bagel spread generously with cream cheese. Peter didn't investigate the label of the soup can too much. It didn't have chunks of beef in it and that was good enough for his qualms. As he ate, he fantasized idly about going out after dinner to find a place where he could get a milkshake (and the various things he would add to it), even though his craving for the rich dessert didn't seem strong enough to bother with an outing.

XXX

"Who did you kill with my ability?" Sylar asked while comfortably munching on his half of the bagel. He sought to equalize the discomfort he felt from Peter's earlier interrogation, though he did not want to revisit the exact conversation. Besides, he felt like he already knew (and he probably did) all Peter's attempts at…control and adaption. Now, he watched Peter carefully, with an expression of disinterest.

XXX

The milkshake fantasy shattered. Peter stopped, eyes widening and skin paling, with the bagel raised halfway to his mouth. It went back down on the plate as he stared at Sylar, filled with anxiety and a growing tightness in his chest. _He's asking! (Now? Why now?) I shouldn't tell him. He doesn't have a right to that. I don't have to tell him. (He's always answered me.) I don't want to be afraid of him asking. (I'm not afraid.) I am afraid. Right now._ His internal nay-sayer didn't have a comeback for that. _I don't want to be afraid._ He cleared his throat and spoke before he could lose his nerve. "When I was in the future. I- Nn...Nathan. My bro-ther." His voice broke on the last word. "Then I came back and tried to kill my mother. And you. I thought you were-" He shook his head and looked down at his food, breaths coming too quick and shallow. He'd tried to kill his whole family that day, not yet being aware his father was alive and still thinking Sylar was related. Peter felt hot and cold at the same time. He choked down the unexpected heave from his suddenly revolting stomach and stood abruptly, gathering his plate with the remaining quarter bagel and bowl still a third full.

He went to the sink, hurriedly pouring out the soup and tossing the bagel in the trash. "I guess we have that in common," he said harshly, "we both went after presidents." _Only I killed mine._ He rinsed the soup bowl jerkily as images of Nathan at his hands went through his mind – burning in the atmosphere over Kirby Plaza, bleeding in his arms after that press conference, and the last, most poignant and shaking of all, when he'd helped move Nathan's corpse in the airplane. It was the last time he'd embraced him, held him close, even though the flesh was cold and had a deeply disturbing, clay-like texture from lividity. He'd hugged him anyway, because none of that mattered – not for his brother, not for someone he loved so much. Peter's nose burned and his eyes watered. He put down the dish with shaking hands and held the edge of the sink to steady them. Half a sob escaped him. Nathan was gone – in the future and the present.

XXX

For long moments, Sylar had nothing to say and it took his mind several efforts to grasp what he'd heard. Perhaps it was some sick joke? _He…Nathan? What? He killed Nathan. He killed Nathan?...What?!_ He'd been bringing his dishes into the kitchen, but now he set them on the counter and simply stood. Betrayal, disappointment, fear, sadness, horror, smug, gleeful satisfaction, righteous anger for himself, for Peter, and…even for Nathan, who was part of him for better or worse – part of _both_ of them. Everything, each reaction clamored through him, demanding the spotlight to vent on Peter, who fucking deserved every word. _(How could he?_ There was that 'I expected him to be better' thing underneath it all). _He said he got my ability in the future. My…It happened to him, too?_ Relief was added to the list, but it was no more prominent than any other emotion, all of them deep and painful in their own right.

XXX

Blurry thoughts of finding the roof top or returning to his apartment went through Peter's mind. He didn't know which he was going to do, but as he turned to leave, Sylar was between him and the door. Not in any capacity to block him – he was just there, being there, being somewhere, being a witness to Peter falling apart. _Again. And I don't even have the concussion to excuse it._ He remembered Sylar holding him the last time he'd cried. He couldn't recall what he'd been crying about – pain, perhaps, or Nathan, or just how much of a fuck up he was. Head down, Peter walked slowly towards Sylar, reaching out hesitantly for him, asking with gestures for the comfort of being held. It wasn't philosophically any different from accepting his mother's sympathy after the revelatory confrontation with Sylar at Mercy Heights – they were both responsible, but he'd go to them anyway if they'd have him.

XXX

So consumed in his own reactions, his face twisting now and again through his feelings though he tried to be blank, Sylar stood still without seeing much of what Peter was doing – approaching him and reaching out. When he felt the initial touch, he raised his hands in disgust, slapping the other man away and stepping back, "Get your fucking hands off me," he snarled in a deadly, low voice, his throat unable to produce anything louder. "You son of a bitch…And you were going to keep me in the fire for killing him? You fucking hypocrite. You understand exactly what it's like. Why the fuck would you ask me what any of it is like when you already know?! You're just hoping it's different? Hoping you're not me? Hoping I have the answers? That sounds so familiar: maybe not understanding why you did it, not having a good reason, maybe you don't even know how you could have killed someone you loved, but you fucking did. I bet you want a fucking pass on it, too – killing your brother! I told you that blood doesn't come off; there is no peace! You certainly don't get fucking hugs for killing people. Welcome to my fucking world now, _Petrelli_."

XXX

Peter flinched when slapped and cringed when the rant began. He raised his face slowly, tears still streaming down, but he stood there stolidly to receive Sylar's abuse. His only outward response was the slight winces he made whenever Sylar emphasized a word. _He's right. (I shouldn't have told him.)_ He didn't know what else to do – the only person in existence was tearing into him, blaming him, shredding his ego. The words were like knives. This was the person he'd turned to for comfort and more pain was what he'd gotten for it. When Sylar finished, Peter swallowed roughly and carefully maneuvered around Sylar, heading to the door. He picked up his jacket along the way, but nothing else in the room mattered to him. He let himself out quietly.

XXX

When Peter left, it was worse. Sylar was too upset to feel triumphant. He understood, too clearly, the cause of Peter's pain, hell, even the 'why' behind the murder. He knew he was hurting the little man deeply (as if those pathetic, large, plentiful tears weren't enough) because he understood minutely what he was doing to him. It was that familiar to him. It was the principal of the thing. Killing people was never rewarded with what was most needed. Ever. Regardless of who the murderer was – and Peter needed to understand that. It was only _fair_. Sylar told himself this as he paced and raked a hand through his hair many times. _He knows it's true – that I'm right. Why else would he stand there and say nothing and fucking cry at me? (Why was he crying at_ me _? Why would he come to_ me _for comfort?) And he left because he knows I'm right. He's not going to like it. (He'll blame me). I have every right to say what I did. He needed to hear it._

XXX

Peter returned to his apartment and half-heartedly put up his stack of soup cans in front of the door. Then he stripped off his clothes and slipped naked between the sheets, pulling his stuffed bear in with him. He cried again, this time because of the rejection. He wasn't sure if he should hate himself for that or not – it was stupid and he shouldn't care about Sylar's opinion of him, but he was human and he'd been telling Sylar the truth earlier that day when he'd said Sylar was all of Peter's people now. He shuddered anyway and tried to stroke the bear's fuzzy coat into some semblance of smoothness, Peter's deep-seated desire to find comfort in helping others showing itself. He murmured to the bear all the things he wished someone was there to say to him, until he finally fell asleep.

XXX

Stupidly, his mind's eye kept replaying Peter's last motions – reaching out, flinching, cringing, crying, the face of utter hurt. The part where Peter thought he was someone of comfort was still more disturbing and confusing. _It's a cruel lesson. He will never comfort me about killing someone. (Why didn't he defend himself? Not even a token effort. He'll still think he's better than me because I've killed lots of people and him only a few._ Deeper still, he wondered, _What would he have felt for me if I had hugged him?)_ It was a sort of missed opportunity but the legitimate feelings of betrayal and hypocrisy had to be voiced. Sylar went home that night, to be alone; not wanting to be around if Peter returned and unable to sleep around the smell of him.

XXX

Day 64, February 12, Morning

If Peter dreamed, he didn't remember it. When he woke, he felt loggy and tired. What he did remember was what Sylar had said – every word of it – and the way he'd knocked Peter's hands away from him, like Peter, and Peter's need, was repulsive. A desire for solace in the face of losing a loved one was not weak. It was not abnormal. Peter knew this. He didn't blame himself. If anything, he was happy that after everything Nathan had done, that Peter still mourned him. It meant he wasn't dead inside, not completely, as he sometimes feared he had to be due to the way his ability worked (or rather, didn't work anymore). If Sylar wanted to hurt him for the sin of feeling – remorse, regret, confusion, fear, mortification – then Peter was done with Sylar.

He lay in bed most of the day, rising only to make some chocolate milk and eat a couple peanut butter sandwiches, both plain. He was tired inside and didn't want to deal with making sense of Sylar's response, even though his mind would stubbornly think of nothing else. He assumed Sylar had killed his own family as well. Peter hadn't thought about it before, but now it was clear: the 'Hunger' hadn't turned itself on to goad him to attack Gabriel, or even the various people who showed up at Gabriel's house in pursuit of Peter. It had only manifested in Nathan's presence…and then (supposed-brother) Sylar's…and then Angela's. _Blood will out,_ Peter thought miserably, thinking Sylar was as wretched as him. _He just deals with it...badly. I am not going to excuse him_ , Peter resolved, staying curled up in bed and letting the world pass him by.

XXX

Sylar slept miserably, too cold, mechanical, and alone. He had dreams that he was back at Gray and Sons, desperate to determine the cause of a Seiko watch that a medic had brought in. Try as he did, he couldn't get the watch to function. He kept going over every piece time after time, taking them out, inspecting them, replacing them. It felt like the most obvious mystery that he was just not seeing. He woke, feeling unrested. Grooming and breakfast were bland affairs by himself and his apartment felt stiflingly small. Doubting his reality, he went through every watch he'd found during his three years alone – most had already been fixed (some more than once), but he didn't find the one from his nightmare, though he knew he'd seen it before, and recently. He remembered the previous night and Peter's betrayal of so many things. He was angry and triumphant of their mutual crime. _He's like me now._ Somehow even being right, winning at something, having proof of being wronged, finding a similarity that he shared with someone else was depressing and unsatisfactory. Sylar stayed in, almost wishing Peter would appear to apologize (or try to hug him again).

XXX

Day 65, February 13, morning

The second day, Peter made himself get out of bed, eat a cold cheese sandwich for breakfast, and wash up. He dressed. He made his bed. He put the soup cans away in the pantry. He went down to the lobby and crossed to the Pegasus workout room. He was late and off-schedule for a workout, but he didn't care. _Small steps are better than none_ , he told himself, determined to get back on his feet.

XXX

Sylar was determined the next day to find Peter, lure him out, corner him somewhere, something; to get attention and the lay of the land where he stood with the irritating, slippery Petrelli. He began by searching the usual haunts and he found Peter working out at the Pegasus. He was a little impressed that Peter was out, functioning, the day after such emotional trauma. Sylar invited himself in, lingering by the door as it shut loudly enough to announce him, then around the outside of the equipment, glancing at Peter and the machines both. "There you are," was all he said. He didn't know what kind of response he wanted or expected.

XXX

Peter lifted his head enough to see Sylar in his peripheral vision. Then he sighed and went back to doing lat pulldowns. There was nothing to say, so he said nothing.

XXX

Well…that wasn't either what he wanted or expected. Not knowing what else to do and not liking this quiet (or worse, being fucking ignored), he went for superior. "Still upset I see. That's normal." When that didn't get a response, he pressed harder, "Why did you kill him? Was it my ability or just…being Petrelli?" Sylar knew that was a bit much. He was curious and he didn't care if it started a fight (because that would at least be something). He slunk closer, watching Peter more steadily now.

XXX

Peter stared off straight ahead as he pulled down and then eased up, keeping good form throughout. The questions and their insulting tone stung, but he didn't feel any interest in answering. Counting his reps slowly and steadily was more engaging. He wondered idly if Sylar would hit him if he kept his silence. He wasn't sure what he'd do if that happened.

XXX

Raising his voice to be heard over the rhythmic pounding of the machines, he asked with curiosity evident in his tone, "Why would you tell me?" Sylar couldn't help but understand the damned internal emotional hurricanes after…killing someone, a loved one at that, and the almost compulsive urges to confess and receive comfort or absolution if it was possible. That hadn't happened for him. It was one of his best kept secrets, though he was sure some heroes were aware of it; they'd never commented on it to him. Peter might even want to compare and…see if he was normal, perhaps. It damned him the same as it did Sylar. It felt like a betrayal, a disappointment. So what made Peter share it? It was important to know, almost more so than anything else.

XXX

_Because you asked. Because I didn't want to hide it anymore. Because I hated the way I felt keeping it inside._ Peter made one sideways, half-shake of his head and shifted to secure the pulldown bar on its hook. Staying on the same machine, he switched to chest presses. Sylar still wasn't saying anything that he wanted to respond to.

XXX

"The silent treatment? Really?" he snapped. Sylar was leaning against the machine next to Peter now. "That's really mature. All that sharing is fun until you're the one who has to tell something nasty and personal."

XXX

Peter almost started to smile at how immature he was being, but then Sylar was mean about it. The nascent smile faded before it was anything more than a twitch of his lips. His face went sullen and then blank. _Four...five...six...seven..._ he counted out reps in his head. The silent treatment it was.

XXX

Sylar was not about to have a fit of anger to get the man's attention. Yet. Such a display would be undignified and counter-productive. _Besides, Peter wants everything to be about him._ And the empath had established that he liked his space in the gym. _Maybe that's all it is. Fine._ Rolling his eyes with a huff, he muttered clearly as he walked out, "I've got other things to do." He would return later.

XXX

_Good. Go do them and leave me alone._ Peter continued on with his workout without interruption. When he was done, he went back to his apartment to change clothes and clean up (a brisk and freezing walk to take in sweaty shorts and a t-shirt, but it was merely across the street). Refreshed, he ate a light, early lunch, packed a couple sandwiches and pieces of fruit, and returned to the Pegasus, this time dressed normally for the weather. He had a date with the piano, which was long overdue for tuning.

XXX

While he waited, Sylar admitted to himself that he was pleased Peter was out doing things, able to be found and waylaid. It meant the little Petrelli wasn't completely shutting down, but making attempts to do normal activities. It also allowed Sylar to avoid the panic at the idea of losing his mind or Peter. He went home for about an hour. He read some and thought about how to approach Peter when he was doing something more…approachable. What would bring Peter out of this funk, this shell? Reluctantly, he considered Nathan and his methods (such as they were). Peter had responded to those behaviors from Sylar before. With Nathan, Peter would give that initially fake grin, nod, agree, ask for a hug without words, be patted on the shoulder or the cheek and sent on his way – or rather, abandoned by Nathan. For round two, he entered the Pegasus rec room to find Peter on the piano. As before, he allowed the door to announce his presence as he strolled in. He listened for several minutes, standing a handful of feet away, simply watching.

Feeling it was time to make his move and break the ice, he walked up behind and a little beside Peter, his lower half in casual, familiar contact with the other's upper half, clapping both hands on the man's shoulders. "I was thinking–"

XXX

Interrupted in the middle of playing after his first round of adjusting the piano, Peter ducked forward and away from the unwelcome touch a half-second after it started. He turned to give Sylar a scathingly unappreciative look, then stood with a snarl and edged to the side, away from the man. He wanted no part of being touched out of the blue. He gave Sylar a sweeping look from feet to head and back again, then pivoted and left the room, grabbing his jacket along the way. It was high time to go back to his apartment and stay there for the rest of the day. _If he's starting this shit, then it's only going to get worse if I stay where he can get to me. Maybe I can whip up a milkshake in my apartment. I definitely don't have to be out here anymore._ He could finish tuning the piano tomorrow.

XXX

"Pete- Peter," Sylar admonished with a pleading undertone. "What is the matter with you?" he demanded, beginning to feel this was personal. "Is this about the other night? Everything I said was the truth!" he protested, trailing after Peter at a fair distance this time. "Running away isn't going to help. Just accept that it sucks and move on," one arm gestured around them, encompassing the possibilities even as he tried not to sound like he was whining.

XXX

Peter snorted as he headed off, responding to Sylar's words with a raised middle finger off to the side. He shoved open the door and popped his collar as he crossed the street to his own apartment. He hit the stairs instead of creating the opportunity for Sylar to nag at him while he waited for the elevator. And anyway, the exercise would do him good if he was going to stay in for the rest of the day.

XXX

Sylar quit walking after him as soon as he saw the bird being flipped at him, which meant he stood on the sidewalk at the Pegasus. "Like I said, real mature. Yeah, go fuck yourself, too." He didn't put any volume into his words but they might have carried. There was no point in chasing after Peter as he was surely going to hide himself away until tomorrow. At least. In a masochistic moment, he wondered at the irony that Peter could make him bend over (metaphorically) so easily whenever he felt like it and Sylar felt unable to do the same. _It's the little things, isn't it? It must be what we both want._ Mostly he hated these methods of enforced behavior modification. He returned home, brooding over his apparently missed opportunity.


	115. Owning Up

Day 66, February 14, Morning

Peter's workout came at the usual time, whenever that was. Peter didn't know, given the strictly ornamental nature of his watch, but it was shortly after dawn. He went through his routine, returned to his apartment to shower, then went down to the diner for a breakfast of fried potatoes (he'd found some he could microwave) and scrambled eggs. His attempt at a milkshake the night before had ended up being more like melted ice cream with Oreo cookies in it, but it was delicious all the same. Breakfast was just as good.

Fortified, he returned to the Pegasus and set about the second round of tinkering with the piano. He knew he'd definitely improved it the day before, but he'd need to go through it a few more times, adjusting each key in succession and comparing the tones to the tuning forks he'd picked up weeks earlier. It was a project that would probably take up the whole morning.

XXX

Sylar knew his presence was annoying, so inflicting it was his plan. Peter obviously didn't want to listen or talk, but a kind of passive resistance might get on his nerves or loosen his tongue (or a fist perhaps). It was morning when he invited himself into the rec room, unsurprised to find Peter here. _I did tell him to get hobbies and the storefront is finished._ Sylar thought on that wistfully, still touched by it and disturbed at their current disagreement in comparison. He brought only his book – a possibly necessary prop, should he be so fortunate as to need it. After making eye contact with Peter and successfully not saying a word, he walked directly towards the couch, removing his coat to show permanence and sitting there like any other day. He cracked the pseudo-historical mystery novel with only a few glances at Peter, who…remained in the room. Small victories.

XXX

Peter looked over at Sylar when the man entered the room, trying to get a read on him and an idea of what he was in for. His plan, such as it was, was to exit at the first sign that Sylar was going to make trouble. The eye contact was unintentional – Peter looked away immediately, turning back to his task and trying to pretend Sylar wasn't there. It seemed to go well enough. Sylar's presence on the couch gradually soothed him – he had an audience now and Sylar wasn't pushing him to talk, nor making aggravating remarks. The quiet companionship was a big improvement on loneliness.

XXX

He noticed the tuning forks soon after he came in but Peter didn't know about that little incident and they were harmless to him now. Sylar cleared his throat, wanting some kind of dialogue after several days of hearing only his own voice. "Morning. How did you sleep?" And then he waited, checking Peter occasionally for any attention directed his way. The dialogue was completely off-topic and inoffensive, inviting even.

XXX

_So much for quiet companionship._ He made a very soft grunt to himself. _Is that question about how I'm sleeping a dig at how we're supposed to be sharing a bed for his mental health? He's probably not sleeping well, if at all._ Peter turned over the consequences of that in his head as he continued with checking keys for the best sound.

XXX

Sylar inhaled and exhaled a disappointed sigh, not concealing it. He didn't like the rest of his options (starting a fight, playing dumb, expressing his feelings, or apologizing for things he didn't feel he should apologize for). The little rock was determined to wait him out. _I just hate waiting. That doesn't mean I'm not good at it. Used to it, even. I wonder if he thinks he's humiliating me? Sometimes it feels humiliating,_ he thought after contemplation. After less than a half hour of listening to Peter pitifully pluck and tune at the piano strings, Sylar could take no more. _Waiting him out doesn't include audio torture or worse, watching and listening to someone fixing something the wrong way._ "A little more for that string," he inserted his voice into the otherwise quiet. Sound, or the lack of it, what was allowed was literally a communication all its own, a thing forgotten when he had been by himself.

XXX

Peter heard the suggestion and half-turned his face in Sylar's direction, raising a brow briefly to indicate he'd heard. He picked up the adjustment tool again and gave it a tiny extra turn, maybe an eighth of a rotation. He struck the key a couple times, then the ones above and below it. It sounded better. He looked over at Sylar more fully this time to see his response. He knew this was a way of talking even if he wasn't answering Sylar in words. But Sylar's comment wasn't rude, intrusive, or insulting. It was even helpful. Peter wanted him to enjoy the sound of the instrument and he'd enjoy it more if he'd felt his input on the tuning was valued.

XXX

When Peter followed his directions, he continued, "Hmm, a little more. There." Sylar grinned a little, pleased at getting Peter to do something that he wanted, something useful, an interaction. For him, it broke the otherwise gray, uncomfortable, looming cloud between them.

XXX

Peter gave a shadow of a smile in return along with a single nod. Wordlessly, he went back to his job. _He has a nice voice, when he's not using it to say mean things,_ he reflected.

XXX

He was hungry and Peter likely was, too. _I bet he misses actual meals. God knows what nonsense he eats._ A casually as he could, Sylar left the rec room to Ralph's nearby. He only needed bread, specifically hoagie buns. The rest of the ingredients were readily available at his apartment (free of Peter licking the utensils). He returned with a pair of salmon and mayo/butter subs wrapped in napkins because he'd paid enough attention to the other man's moral objections to non-fish meat. Peter's was delivered with intentional awareness and no sudden moves, set on the piano bench before he slipped back to his spot on the couch. _We used to eat together. I'm not going far out of my way to make another sandwich. I'll have to figure out some kind of…salad-on-bread that he would like._

XXX

Peter looked at the unasked-for gift, eyes going from it to Sylar. He blinked and thought, _Why would he bring me something? (Because of Nathan's memories?) No, Nathan wouldn't. He never did. This is Sylar – what Sylar thinks is a...resolution._ Peter turned to see Sylar where the other man had settled on the couch. "Thank you," he said quietly but clearly, very willing to break silence for a genuine peace offering. He didn't think of it as an apology or a bribe, but rather a gesture of acknowledgement of Peter's feelings – a recognition that had often been sorely lacking in Peter's life.

XXX

Sylar's head snapped up to stare. He quickly quit staring to act casual. This was his opportunity to open a dialogue obviously. "Yeah. I have to watch you. I know you don't eat well. I have to make sure you eat," he intoned conversationally, giving half a shrug.

XXX

That was...enough. _You're going to take care of me?_ Peter smiled to himself at the thought, knowing Sylar had done a passable job of it so far. _That's something else Nathan would never do. I mean, yeah, the occasional heroic gesture and he tried to always come through for me, but actually spend the time to do it right? That wasn't him._ He picked up the sandwich, examined it briefly and approvingly (it smelled fantastic), and took a hearty bite. "Mm. This is good." He turned to straddle the piano bench, turning down the key guard and resting his elbow on it as he ate. It let him face Sylar, more or less – a body language that opened things between them even if he didn't have anything else to say at the moment.

XXX

Sylar unconsciously shifted to face Peter more as well, hefting his own meal. He hadn't done so before because he'd thought Peter would ignore the food, eat it elsewhere, or consume it without turning around. This was eating together or close to it. With words. It relaxed him just to have an end to being ignored even though conversation might not go well.

XXX

"How's your book?" he said, making the foray into small talk.

XXX

Sylar kept his eyes on his sandwich to avoid showing his surprise. _Just like that? Things are back to normal?_ There were several reasons for the sudden acceptance and he would ponder them carefully later. It would come in handy to know how to break Petrelli's stubbornness in future. "It's good. One of the better ones, you know, the kind that gives you theories but keeps you guessing." He was cautious and brief because he wasn't sure if Peter was asking for 'small talk' to break the ice or if the restraint of minimal words still held.

XXX

"Have you ever read anything by Agatha Christi? I read one of her books," _only part of it, actually_ , "when I was in high school. It was one of mom's. She wrote characters really well." He wasn't a fan of mysteries, though. They annoyed him with the false leads and myriad little details out of which he was supposed to pluck the solution before the protagonist drew it together at the end. What he'd done with the Christi book was what he did with most mysteries – he'd read the first few chapters, then skipped to the last quarter of the book to see how it turned out, thus neatly avoiding all the tedious, frustrating stuff in the middle. Adventure books, dramas, or even biographies were much more his speed with the frequent challenges and conflicts for the main character(s) to overcome. He didn't think Sylar would appreciate a denigration of his chosen genre, though, so Peter tried to keep the conversation away from his own preferences. There was also, stinging in the back of his mind, how Sylar had cast Peter's tastes as juvenile and immature the first time they'd visited the library. "What do you like best about them – mysteries, that is?"

XXX

"I think so. It was probably in high school, too." Sylar spared a single blink. _Now he's asking about what I like? After ignoring me for two days? Maybe he's avoiding…the issue (whatever that is)._ It didn't bother him because the subject was far from deep but he did notice the oddity or timing. It was somewhat necessary to please Peter at this point. "I like…fixing things. A mystery being solved. It's like taking it out of cold case. I want to see if I can deduce the mystery before the big reveal. I wanted to see if I was smart enough to figure it out. I don't know," he looked down at the book in hand, "When I was a kid, I would pretend I was in the book, the whole…fantasy angle, using my imagination. If I could be in any book, I guess I'd rather be in a mystery. Now, I like mystery that isn't my life." He shrugged, feeling like his mouth had run away with itself.

XXX

Peter nodded, finishing the sandwich and liking it well enough to pick up and eat all the stray bits of crusty bread and fish flakes that had fallen on the napkin he'd left in his lap. "I'm almost done here." He motioned at the piano. "You got any plans for the afternoon?" He jerked his head at the short stack of board games. "We could play one of those games." He wadded his napkin and rose, waiting for Sylar's response before heading out to throw away his trash and wash his hands. "Maybe Monopoly?"

XXX

"Just, um…getting you to," _pull your head out of your ass_ , "talk. Monopoly's great," Sylar agreed easily. Peter's quick capitulation to the food, conversation, and now a game showed that his moody fit was nothing more than an (uncomfortably long) moody fit. Sylar stood and waited for Peter to finish in the restroom. _I hope he washed his hands_ , he tried to see if Peter's hands appeared moist as they passed in the hall – Sylar certainly wanted to wash his hands.

XXX

Peter returned from the bathroom and made a few final passes up and down the range of keys on the piano, making sure he was happy with the sound. Satisfied, he replaced the covers and stacked his tools in the middle on the top. He didn't celebrate with a last song – his right hand was sore. He needed to rest it. A board game seemed perfect.

XXX

While Peter puttered with the piano, Sylar took up the board game and looked around as to where to set it up. _There's the floor. Or I could put the board on a chair while we sit on the couch. Is that too close for him? I don't care._ So that's what he did, taking one of the chairs from the wall to support the board by the middle of the couch between them. He waited until Peter joined him and the cards properly placed, the initial money and pieces were decided (Sylar took the top hat, Peter the little terrier). Curiosity was eating him alive. "Why did you tell me?" He didn't specify further.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a look that was momentarily blank, then hardened as he realized what was being asked. He looked off to the side pointedly for a moment, collecting his thoughts and sorting his emotions, which were threatening to be turbulent again with the reminder of Sylar's rant. "You asked," he said quietly, turning his eyes to the board. "And we have...or at least I think we have...a deal here between us that we tell each other the truth as much as possible. When we're able to talk about things – _if_ we're able to talk about them." Much more quietly, he added, "I've never talked to anyone else about that." He moved his tiny metal dog, needlessly adjusting its position in the starting square. It reminded him of Sassy, a terrier mix he'd had through middle and high school.

XXX

Sylar rolled the dice, then pushed them over to Peter. His answer made too much sense. _It's not fair. Why does he get to talk about it and I can't? He said I couldn't. How does that even work?!_ He breathed through the anger, not letting it show in his body language. "Why did you ignore me for two days?" There were several ways Peter could answer that and Sylar wished to know which it was, ideally a helpful response instead of outright blame or silly emotions. Sylar's turn was first and he moved his piece accordingly.

XXX

Peter's head came up and his eyes narrowed. At this rate, it would be a short game. The only thing holding him from blowing up about the questions was Sylar's tone – soft and normal, making an outburst on Peter's part seem inappropriate in comparison. "Because you were an asshole for two days!" Peter answered heatedly despite how it sounded, but after that, he found it difficult to find the right words. "Because I- when I told you that, you were...hateful. I...I don't want to be around that. I'm not going to put up with it. I'm not going to talk to you if that's how you talk to me when I tell you things."

XXX

Sylar tilted his head in a half-nod, half-dodging shrug motion. It seemed a fair enough assessment, and a good enough reason. _I wasn't that much of an asshole;_ he defended himself without voicing it, referring to the two days of distance not the incident itself. _Trying to talk to him makes me an asshole? (I wasn't exactly gentle). The only 'asshole' thing I said was the crack about Petrellis being killers. And that makes me an asshole. Apparently._ Sylar grit his teeth, eyeing the dice because Peter hadn't touched them for his turn. "Everything I said was the truth and you needed to hear it."

XXX

Peter snapped, "I don't care about the truth!" Almost immediately, he pursed his lips and shook his head. "I know how…dumb that sounds because of what I just said." He paused and tried to think, touching the bridge of his nose and rubbing it briefly. "Here's the thing – I don't think you weren't trying to be honest. I think you were trying to be hurtful. If you have to justify it to yourself to make it okay to say something, then it's bullshit. It's no more 'true' than any of the other crap my dad tried to push on me. Or Nathan. Maybe you have a lot of memories of that, but you should also have a lot of memories of how that didn't fly well with me. And you're not either one of them, so I'm not going to take it from you. _My feelings matter._ " _For once in my life, I want them to matter!_

XXX

That had Sylar blinking and frowning simultaneously. _Justifying. Is that what that is? But it isn't justification. It's the truth. It applies to everyone, or it's supposed to. I…he…we just wish it wasn_ _'t._ _That's a delusion. Hope._ Another realization came to him. _This is his first time talking about it, dealing with any of it. I had…Elle; he gets me. Hardly an equal experience. He was smart – smarter – not to talk about it before now._ He didn't care for being cast in the role of power-tripping, asshole Petrelli overlords Arthur or Nathan. He, and his intentions, were vastly different than both bastards. "Yes, they do," Sylar murmured about Peter's feelings, hiding his resentment about that in general. Voice quiet and somewhat strained, he intoned, "You've been breaking the rules. Rule Number One was no talking about abilities or killing people." After opening and closing his mouth a few times, with a shake of his head, he gave up trying to say more about how he was the voice of experience about keeping the worst secrets, how Peter was fortunate that no one knew his terrible deeds, and how talking about deep, horrible things only made it worse, regardless of anyone's 'feelings.'

XXX

Peter calmed so fast and thoroughly from Sylar's admission about the importance of his feelings that he rocked back against the couch. The air went out of him. The game was as good as forgotten. Sylar was the complete focus of his attention. He looked confused for a moment about the rule-breaking, then snorted a rude laugh at how Sylar was trying to shift the conversation from his own bad behavior to some imagined misstep of Peter's. He went with it, though. "That was revoked!"

XXX

It was Sylar's turn to straighten up, away from the game – his own version of leaning back. He rolled his eyes and oozed sarcasm, "Right." He recalled Peter half-heartedly trying to change his mind but it had to be one of those 'whenever I feel like it' things.

XXX

"It was!" Peter said vehemently, responding to Sylar's obvious disbelief. "I told you that you could talk about anything you wanted and me...trying to limit what you could talk about was cruel." Peter leaned forward now, intent, with compassion in his voice. "There are things you have to- or at least, you might want to talk about. You _can_." He waited a beat, hoping Sylar believed him, before continuing, "That's...part of why I told you what I did. I've never-" _done anything like that before._ He looked off to the side, not wanting to get into his many sins or a pointless discussion of their comparative worth, then back to Sylar. "I don't want that to be a secret. I don't want to have to keep track of what I've said and what I haven't. I don't want to always be worried that I'll slip and you'll figure something out. It's better if I'm the one telling you, because then, _I've_ told you and _I_ own it." He emphasized by pointing at his chest.

XXX

Sylar stared at Peter with as blank a face as he could manage. There was the invitation again. It was an obvious manipulation, the acting overdone but he was aware of it at least. He was aware of feeling envy that Peter could live with such freedom, not having to worry and keep track of what he'd said, to safely speak what he felt and wanted. Sylar ignored it all, partly because he was caught between thinking that he should go along with whatever Peter wanted or feeling angry about just that. "I don't think your mother would be very surprised. She usually knows more than anyone else – you could always go to her, since she already knows you tried to kill her. /You told me about Simone, when Isaac shot her. You came to me. When you needed to know what to do…And I came to you after the Carnival and about Kelly/." Sylar smiled wistfully at the strangely happier memories of connection, then snapped out of it, back to himself, grunting and lifting his head up and to the side with a wince. It didn't stop the warm feeling at having Peter's confidence, of knowing Peter's intimate secrets. "It's impossible to know what the truth is anymore, Peter," he admitted with considerable frustration, gripping at his hair for a moment. "I believe you, about killing him and…thank you," he blurted, "for not…keeping secrets."

XXX

Peter frowned as severely as he could in response to Sylar reciting Nathan's memories. But that was the extent of his reaction. Sylar had obviously recognized the slip and wasn't treating it lightly, so Peter relaxed to merely looking sullen. He nodded slowly. "I don't know what the truth is either," he said quietly. "I know what I've been through, or at least the way I've understood and remembered it. But I know how easily that can all be changed, or fabricated." _Like you thinking you were Nathan. Like me...thinking you were, too._ Still unhappy, he said, "I don't want to go to Ma about anything like that. Maybe she already knows – I don't care. I don't want her dealing with any more of my life than I have to."

He took a deep breath, let it out, and took his turn. He pushed the dice over to Sylar. "You asked another question before, when I wasn't talking. Do you still want it answered?"

XXX

Sylar looked at him blankly for a moment until he remembered, surprised that he'd forgotten and that Peter offered the answer now. "Oh, um. Yes." _Even though I was an asshole when I asked it? He likes the politeness. He remembers and he…wants to talk about it. He wants me to talk about it so he doesn't have to interrogate me so he can manipulate me to save his girlfriend. It's very clever._ Sylar plucked up the dice but didn't roll them yet.

XXX

Peter nodded. "I wanted to know if I could trust him. I wanted to know what he was trying to accomplish. I wanted to understand...him. And for once, I felt like I could. If I just..." Peter shrugged. He looked down and brushed his fingers along his brow, unconsciously indicating exactly what he'd 'just' have to do to truly understand Nathan. "Then when he fell, I realized what had happened, what I'd done. And I thought I'd..." He shook his head. "I don't know," he said softly, putting his hand to his irregularly heaving chest now and looking away. The panic attack that he'd had before when he tried to talk about this in the rec room threatened to recur. _It's the not knowing that's setting me off. Just relax. I'll know. I'll find out. It'll work out. I don't even have to know. Calm. Focus._ He tried to breathe deliberately and evenly. "I went back to your cell. To you...and Mom."

XXX

_(He describes it so well. That wasn't supposed to happen to him. Everyone…failed him)._ Sylar felt the part of himself that held his abilities stir from the description and shared motive. If he'd been able, he knew he would have felt Hungry…or perhaps something else. Peter needed to be fixed, or eliminated as competition. Right now, the empath was powerless so he wasn't competition in the fullest sense. He saw Peter beginning to hunch and curl inwards, clutching his chest and taking panicked breaths like he had once before. "Relax, Peter," he said, intending command but his voice came out softer than that. Without thinking (over-thinking), he reached out and several fingers latched onto the top of Peter's nearer shoulder, holding and patting at the same time. He knew he had to wait; there was no sense pushing Peter right now. Sylar focused on this…situation, this fixable problem rather than remember his mother falling to the ground, bloody, gone so quickly, staring at him in surprise, and the realizations that came with it.

XXX

Peter leaned into Sylar's unexpected touch, shutting his eyes and breathing deeper and more regularly. He reached up and put his hand over Sylar's, holding him there, as he regained some equilibrium. He straightened once he felt he didn't need the contact, murmuring, "Thank you," as he did.

XXX

When Peter was recovered and breathing normally, Sylar tried for a wry partial grin. "You're not like me." The little Petrelli's reaction told so much of his story, explaining his humanity even as it stood directly opposed to some of his other actions. It was a relief (Peter wasn't broken) and a disappointment (Sylar was alone because Peter didn't understand).

XXX

"How?" Peter asked. "What do you mean?"

XXX

"I don't…You kill but you're not a killer." He remembered saying that as he killed Arthur. For Peter. Sparing him because his stupid little brother (at the time) had come back for him, unasked for, and how sparing him had led to a world of trouble and hurt for everyone. And then how Peter had technically, unintentionally spared him by failing to kill him. "You're…different." _Special. Fuck him._ This was too much of fond feelings, from his pathetically desperate self or from Nathan, towards someone Sylar deeply hated for wronging him. "How do you do that? No one knows you kill, sometimes the exact same way I kill, and even the people who do know don't care, don't hold it against you. Either you're so smart that you've figured it out or…fortune favors you or…" he shook his head, arms crossed now, dice clenched in a fist, feeling that melting pot of emotions he could never hope to sort out. _Why did he never help me?_

XXX

Peter shook his head slowly. "Why do I have powers, but not someone smarter or older or better equipped to handle them? Why did Claire have regeneration to survive you but none of the others did? Why is one person killed in an automobile accident, but not another?" He gave a slow, confounded shrug, his face twisting in sadness. "I don't know. We ask ourselves in the medical profession all the time – why this person and not that one? We want to trade one person's health for another's survival, but we can't. We have people ask us if they can donate organs to save their children or their parents only to find they aren't a match. _I don't know_." He looked Sylar dead in the eye. "I don't know why you and I have abilities that are so similar, but turned out so different. Nathan saved me twice. You, from what I gather, didn't have anyone. Maybe that's the difference. But I don't have anyone anymore _either_." His voice was harsh, very aware that he was looking at the reason why he had no brother, no safety net, no backup, no one to go to. Reality had reduced him to confiding his deepest secrets to Sylar because there was no one else – Sylar, and abilities, had taken everyone else from him.

XXX

The empath's answer was at least a little comforting – it wasn't a problem or occurrence specific to Sylar, however, it was a problem he shared with ordinary people it would seem. _I'm above that. (Or I should be). He doesn't know either._ Now that Peter replied, and didn't just brush him off the way Claire had years ago, he now saw the similarity in asking Peter the same thing though he hadn't really intended to. It was a little embarrassing but Peter was unaware. All that passed through him quickly as Peter hit what must be the crux of the matter, that of having/not having connections. They were so important to everyone else yet Sylar had still doubted Lydia's (and Claire's) advice, especially alone for three years.

Sylar's smirking, wide grin was completely sardonic. "Oh, there it is. It's all my fault, isn't it? Cry me a river, Petrelli. It's so sad that _you're all alone_." Shaking his head, he pretended to focus on the game. "You're all talk," he said with dismissive assurance.

XXX

The offensiveness was so unexpected that Peter was taken aback. "What did you say?" The words weren't actually in doubt, just the intention behind them. _Did we really just go from talking about how destiny set us on different tracks to him making fun of me for it? Is he trying to start a fight?_

XXX

"I said," Sylar lifted his head to make eye contact, enunciating, "You're all talk. What are you going to do about it? I killed your brother and here you are, playing games and sleeping with me. What's your big plan – talking me to death?" He leaned closer to Peter, sticking his face into the man's space with casual disregard to safety. "What are you gonna do about it, _Pete_?"

XXX

_Yeah, he's starting a fight_. There was no 'trying' about it. Even though he knew Sylar was deliberately pushing his buttons, Peter didn't see any reason not to let it happen. They were already sitting closer than they needed to; Sylar had made that arrangement and Peter had gone along with it. Now it meant the guy was right in his face - in easy range. Without any warning (though really, how did Sylar expect him to react?), Peter punched the man directly in the center of the chest with his left fist. His right followed an instant later, reaching for the back of Sylar's neck to pull him facedown and double him up. The hand ended up on the back of his head instead. That was just as good. He grabbed a fistful of plentiful hair, yanking down and forward to put Sylar off-balance and get him even closer where he couldn't fight back.

XXX

A quick one-two later, Sylar found his chest hurting and his hair in Peter's grasp. Coughing, he scrambled to avoid face planting into the couch (or worse, Peter's lap). There wasn't anywhere he could go except getting off the couch and then landing a few blind punches to force Peter to release his hair. Sylar hit something and tripped over it – the chair and the board game, which scattered over the floor. He growled in general frustration. His next move would be to punch at Peter's lower half, possibly even the man's groin because Peter wasn't shy about that area being an allowed target between them. "You're pathetic!" He spat venomously, waiting for Peter to stand or get within range.

XXX

_Never liked Monopoly anyway,_ Peter thought. The rest of his attention went to dealing with Sylar. "You son of a bitch!" he told him, trying to revive his wrestling skills from more than a decade earlier. This was not his preferred method of fighting, but punches might screw either of them up. Instead, he tried to scramble around to Sylar's back, driving Sylar's head to the floor with his right hand still entwined in his hair and using his left to shove the man's body while he climbed over him.

XXX

He was powerless unless he could manage to tear the hair from his head to make it a worthless handle. With his face being shoved towards the ground, Sylar could only grab at the hand that held him and slow his descent. On hand and knees, he held onto Peter's wrist and yanked it to allow enough space to pivot his head and body so he wasn't facedown. He had partial success, more or less rolling to his right side where, long arms or not, he couldn't hit anything of Peter's with significant force. This was not how he wanted any fight to go; it served only to enrage him further _. He's not even hitting me! Not even a kick!_ That was almost more insulting than the rest of anything so far. "You're weak without him! Quick dicking around and fucking fight me!" Sylar had the leverage of gravity. He then yanked on Peter's arm to bring Peter down to his level where he might be able to do more than bite at his calves like some small, yappy dog. He wanted pain and contact for both of them!

XXX

The yank had Peter stumbling. He let go of Sylar's hair to catch his balance by shifting his grip to Sylar's shoulder, then used the stance to slam a knee into the man's side. "Is that the best you've got, Sylar?" he snarled, trading a few punches to Sylar's back and ribs with Sylar kicking him in the leg and hip. Both of them were trying to maneuver to a better position, but it was awkward to do partly on the floor. Peter wasn't giving Sylar any room, either, staying crowded up close to the man. "I know he's dead!" he spat. "You told me you watched him die!" One of Sylar's kicks finally managed to connect with the nerve cluster on Peter's lower outside thigh. He fell back almost literally, catching himself on the arm of the couch. It gave Sylar the chance to regain his feet. For a few seconds there would be nothing Peter could do about that. So he fought with words, taking a few wild swings in the dark. "How many people have you done that to - taken their life and watched them leave?" Brows lifted, he tilted his head in exaggerated concern. "Anyone you've cared about? Is _that_ what all of this is about?" He knew there was something there, some parallel to Sylar's own past that was fueling the violence. Either that, or it was Nathan's ghost trying to get revenge for the confession. Peter was betting on Sylar.

XXX

The blows were not enough to stop Sylar from rising to his feet, momentarily towering over Peter. His reaction to the truthful accusation was a tortured pause lasting a fraction of a second that felt like moments in the midst of a fight. He had no words to describe any of the hurt, betrayal, anger at himself and everyone else – none of it could be healed. Winding back, he put everything he had into his left hook, aimed at Peter's face.

XXX

_Shit!_ Peter saw it coming; he dodged, having gained enough time for his leg to hold his weight and respond properly. _That hit a nerve. So much for playing nice._ He'd been pulling his punches, or at least being careful with his targeting, up to now. Not that he had any skin in putting a serious hurt on Sylar, but it was becoming clear he needed to if he wanted to win this. Peter had no desire to be 'scraped off the floor' again with the following week consisting of helpless recuperation. Answering Sylar's earlier comments, he bit out, "I'm not the only one here with a death wish, but I'm not going to help you out. What you've done is not going away, I'm not forgetting about it, and I'm not giving up!" He tucked his head and rammed his right shoulder into Sylar, his left fist hooking up for body blows while he kept his right close to his chest.

XXX

Peter got into his space but didn't hold him there, intending to strike at his core until he fell. Sylar wanted the pain, wanted to hurt, and wanted more. He reacted to the blows, curling inwards on them, but caught Peter by the back of the hair and slammed a fist into his face. "No, you need me to fix everything for you!" He quit hitting the man and grasped his throat in a long-fingered grip. It was a sign of desperation and frustration to do something that usually ended in the other person dying. Sylar lifted and threw him away by the throat, aiming him at the couch out of anger. He wanted to see Peter slam into it, fall over it, and otherwise stay down and away, knowing he'd been beaten into submission and silence.

XXX

Peter sprawled in the corner of the couch, the room spinning from the hit to the face, not able to process what had happened after that. He flailed for a moment as he tried desperately to get his bearings on Sylar through the mental haze. When he saw Sylar wasn't taking advantage of the moment, Peter rolled over the arm of the furniture. With it between him and Sylar, he could cough and gag his way past the abuse his neck had just taken. It was enough of a breather to regain his footing and wits.

XXX

With Peter seemingly unable to speak, it left Sylar an opening. "You hate me because you're just like me! A killer; monster! Give up on the denial, Petrelli!" Sylar did his best to yell and recover from the hits he'd taken without appearing like he needed the break.

XXX

Peter circled out from behind his momentary cover, preparing to re-engage. "Oh yeah?" he said in heated response to Sylar's taunt. His voice was rough. "Who's in denial here? I've been the one fixing things while you stand around and heckle me!" With a curled lip, he continued, "Have you ever really made anything better, Sylar? Have you even tried to make anyone other than yourself happy?" Without waiting for a reply, he launched into a serious offensive of jabs and hooks, risking his right hand (mostly the forearm) to block and grab while his left took on the heavier-duty job of impact. When he seemed to have Sylar staggered, he tried a leg sweep coupled with a shove at the nearer shoulder.

XXX

Sylar was stupidly stunned at the cruel contradiction. For a moment, he thought Peter would continue to verbally abuse him and that gave him barely time to consider the words. _I thought he thanked me for saving him and Claire and Angela…That was selfish? It was all selfish?_ He hadn't yet made it to the conclusion that Peter claimed he'd never fixed anything properly, unselfishly in his life. He had time to frown before Peter was on him in a flurry of attack. Peter grabbed hold of his left hand and dragged it across his body, keeping it out of the way as Sylar tried to push the man away with his right though it did him no good. Petrelli pummeled his long torso when Sylar left it open – chest, gut, sides, and groin. Many of the blows took the air and unformed words out of him so he slumped forward into Peter only to be tripped and shoved hard, straight back to the floor. He was badly rattled from the heavy impact and couldn't immediately move.

XXX

_Yes!_ Peter thought with savage glee about his victory. He knew it wasn't necessarily permanent, though. Sylar might just get back up and majorly kick his ass – the guy had shown extraordinary resilience in the past. But … he wasn't getting up. Sylar was just lying there, making shallow, stuttering breaths and looking unfocused. _Oh shit._ The pleasure of winning evaporated. _Fuck, did he hit his head?_ Sylar had gone down hard and unprepared, with Peter still tying up the man's hands enough so he hadn't even managed to break his fall. A third concussion, even a mild one, within such a short period of time was incredibly dangerous. _I was so careful not to hit him in the head this time! I didn't want this … I shouldn't have tripped him. It's my fault._ "Sylar?" he asked with concern in his voice, staying where he was and trying to assess. _He still might get up and kick my ass, you know._


	116. In Hot Water

Day 66, February 14, Afternoon

Sylar lay there, hardly moving. He waited for Peter to finish him off or leave. He was in several kinds of serious pain, Peter's words and opinions and the physical hurts, including being smacked into the floor, though he wasn't genuinely injured. So he there he lay, face screwed up, squirming slightly to ease his back, ribs, and skull, hoping to breathe and recover his wits. If a few tears leaked from the sides of his eyes as his chest heaved, he couldn't be held responsible, as he would blame the contact with the floor.

XXX

Peter lowered his hands from where he'd still been holding them defensively in front of himself, like a boxer interrupted mid-bout. "Are you okay? Sylar?" His body language changed completely – shoulders relaxing, posture straightening, chin lifting, face and voice softening. He moved closer, circling to come in on Sylar's side rather than walk up next to the man's legs. He might be thinking of how to help Sylar rather than hurt him, but that didn't mean he'd lost his caution. He went to one knee. "Let me see."

XXX

A groan was his only answer. He couldn't think of anything biting enough that wouldn't get him instantly punched again and Peter didn't deserve much more than that anyway. Seeing Peter approaching (out of range of being kicked), he cringed a little. There was nothing to do but wait for whatever Peter was going to do.

XXX

_No verbal response. Great,_ he thought with sarcasm. _You go around concussing all your patients, Peter?_ Peter put one hand on Sylar's shoulder and moved the other along the man's scalp, fingers stroking through the hair as he checked for laceration. "Here. Just stay right there for a moment. Let me check."

XXX

He went still, feeling so helpless and keeping a wary eye on the incoming hands. They were gentle and well meaning, which almost made everything worse because he couldn't reconcile that with the man who said such truthful, cutting things and who had taken his mind away in the past. He was past caring if Peter attacked his mind in any way right now – perhaps not remembering, being someone else would be a boon.. _He needs me; but he doesn't. I can't fix anything for him anyway; but he still needs me to do it? Saving people- when I save people, it's selfish; but when he does it it's heroic? I fix things…That's all I've ever done…What does he know about anything? Why the hell is he touching me? He's not my brother and he wasn't particularly nice to Nathan, either._ So he clutched at Peter's wrist and forearm, telling himself it was to stop the touch, any further hurt, or even the help, whatever it was Peter was offering. He was not above playing possum, especially if it helped muddle through his pain and confusion.

XXX

"Easy," Peter said softly, letting Sylar pull his hand away from the back of Sylar's head. He hadn't felt anything – maybe a hot spot where a contusion was forming, but certainly no blood – and he feared having set off Sylar's well-founded phobia about having his head touched. "It's okay. You're not bleeding. That's all I wanted to see." He focused on Sylar's eyes, confirming what he thought he'd seen earlier – tear tracks. _Those aren't because I was hitting him. It must have been something I said._ He assumed the cause was the comment about watching loved ones die, because out of all his trash-talk, that would have been the thing that upset Peter the most. The pupils were both the same size, though, which was the immediate issue. Sylar's grip on his arm loosened somewhat, but he didn't let go. Peter nodded to himself at the good sign. He started to slip his hand under Sylar's shoulder. "Do you think you're ready to sit up?" He considered the possibility that Sylar might have broken a rib or injured his back in some manner that prohibited the motion. It seemed unlikely. More important was that he wanted to get Sylar somewhat upright and see if he was responsive or oriented. Once he knew that, then he could ask questions about specific injuries.

XXX

Peter apparently moving on from the fight made him feel even more insane on the inside. He knew he was supposed to 'let go' of nearly everything but it was never easy or sometimes successful. Bitterly, he said, "There's no point in saving your friends, is there?" and continued to lie there, laughing for a moment because nothing was amusing.

XXX

Peter sighed. He didn't know how much of Sylar's behavior was genuine or because he'd hit his head. He supposed it didn't matter. "I don't know what's going to happen with my friends," he said with resignation. "I can't do anything for them right now. But you're here. And I'm here. Let's focus on that." Still holding onto Sylar, he turned to face him more directly. "How are you feeling? Are you hurt?"

XXX

With his pride wounded, he resented every helpful behavior from Peter – Peter, who should be beating him senseless. _I can't get him to fight me properly. What the hell kind of failure is that?_ _I'm sure it's selfish and useless._ "I'm fine. Whatever," he snapped and began to raise himself partially upright without a plan for what came after that.

XXX

Peter nodded. Almost less important than the answer itself was the fact that Sylar had answered at all and showed an understanding of the question. "Let's stay on the floor for a few minutes. Come over here. We'll lean against the couch." He tried to guide Sylar over, watching how the man navigated to see if his balance was off. He was increasingly getting the impression that Sylar was basically okay, aside from being bruised and battered. Peter settled in next to him, close enough that they touched shoulders. The proximity was intentional, but he couldn't admit to himself that it was because he was still insecure about Sylar's rejection of him for discovering he'd killed Nathan.

XXX

Sylar glared and told himself he didn't care if Peter saw it, but he followed. The dissonance came from wanting to feel better, or possibly wanting comfort, and being unable to get it – or when he received it, it was for the wrong reasons, being something that was not allowed. Sylar partially folded his legs and wrapped his elbows around his knees, back against the couch. He could feel Peter's heat through their clothing. He was worried he'd been too obvious since Peter had guessed a number of hidden things all at once. _How does he know those things? Has he been…looking in my memories or has he always known somehow…?_ Most of those things Sylar thought were obvious (or within deduction) but he'd always done a decent job of hiding them so it was rare for them to be used to manipulate him. _What is he going to do now he knows? This is why I don't talk to him; I knew he'd figure it out eventually._ As he sat, in silence, unsure if he was waiting for some additional lecture, he began to feel the individual points of impact from the fight, aching and painful. It was some kind of normal anchor, much needed. He also knew he could easily sucker Peter into taking care of him at this point or perhaps he already had.

XXX

They sat together quietly, which was an improvement over yelling insults at one another. Peter could feel his heart rate slowing and with it, the fade of adrenaline. He touched his fingers lightly then gripped his knees. They were shaking some and it irritated him. It looked like weakness even if he knew it was completely normal. His face ached from where Sylar had tagged him hardest. At some point he'd scuffed the knuckles on his left hand pretty badly – most likely from hitting Sylar in the ribs or back, getting what amounted to a bad friction burn. He had no serious injuries, though. The only thing worth worrying about was if Sylar's concussion had been made worse. "How's your head?"

XXX

"It hurts, how do you think it feels? That was the idea, wasn't it?" It felt strange to argue side by side when they weren't looking at one another. _I'm sure I'm the one being argumentative_. Sylar made to rub at the back of his head and neck to complete the illusion of injury. It didn't hurt like a concussion like Peter worried it was, but he had been smacked against the floor and unable to catch himself. He wondered how intentional that was. Yanking on the Petrelli's sense of guilt (rightly so), Sylar slumped a little against his shoulder.

XXX

Peter pressed his lips together, looking away. He savored Sylar leaning into him; he worried about it. But at the same time as both of those warm feelings, he also felt the rising heat of stifling rage at Sylar's words. _He started it! 'That was the idea'? Like it was my idea? Like I wanted to hurt him? (I didn't then, but I do now!)_ Then he remembered Sylar's words that had started this, about how he'd made a mockery of Peter tolerating him, how before that, he'd sneered at Peter's wounded silence and created the injury in the first place by slapping him away when he'd reached towards Sylar for comfort. And now for Sylar to imply this was all part of some grand scheme of Peter's from the start? It was ridiculous and infuriating.

He tried to get a handle on his surging emotions, feeling his pulse rate racing upwards again. With difficulty, through set teeth, he said, "I don't like the way you're treating me. This-" There had to be a reasonable, mature way to say what was wrong between them, but words failed him. He couldn't even figure out where to start, except that he knew the problem lay with Sylar. Shaking his head, he got to his feet by using the couch to push his sore body upwards. _I don't have to figure out where to start. It's not my problem. It's his._ Firmly, he said, "I'm going over to the Y. Stay away if all you're going to do is pick fights with me." He started to leave, stepping around the mess of fake dollars and scattered game pieces, then looked over his shoulder with an intent, focused glare of his own. "And clean this up," he said without bothering to indicate the Monopoly game. Sylar knew what he meant and if he didn't, he'd soon find out. Peter gathered up his coat and walked out.

XXX

"What? Peter!" He lurched to his feet to follow, grabbing his own coat, donning it hastily. This was the most cruel trick of all – now fighting to feel worse in order to feel better in order to get comfort wasn't working with reliable Peter? Sylar was aware that Peter didn't like the method, or his behavior, but… With a little venom, he said of being commanded to pick up, "For a guy who hates being told what to do, you sure enjoy telling other people what to do."

XXX

Peter ignored him. He rarely told people what to do. Telling Sylar would be a lot more enjoyable if Sylar would actually do it. _Maybe I'm channeling my dad. I guess he's good for something_. He rolled his eyes slightly at the thought and kept walking, letting the doors swing behind him as he left the Pegasus and hoping the timing was right so they'd smack Sylar in the nose. Well, not really. It was an amusing thought, though.

XXX

No answer. That wasn't good. _I do more than pick fights. He knows that, too. He's exaggerating. Something is bothering him._ "You're the one who tripped me…" he protested logically. "I'm…How am I treating you?" It was better to get to Peter's side of things than play the other 'lonely waiting' game the empath was so fond of. He knew he was being trained and resented it even as it (sometimes) got the desired results.

XXX

Despite his desire to subject Sylar to the quiet act again, that seemed like a genuine question. Peter still couldn't decide if Sylar was playing dumb or, well, seriously didn't understand what he was doing, but he answered anyway, with heat and exasperation in his voice. "Like it's my fault, and it's not!" _I'm not discussing this._ Rudely, he snapped, "Shut up." _No, that's...don't sink to his level_. "Just … please," he said, trying to recover some civility. "Don't talk to me." He kept walking, taking a bearing for the Y. He was put out by Sylar accompanying him, but he didn't do anything to prevent it. Since Sylar obeyed his order for silence, Peter calmed a little. He didn't even walk faster or swerve to get further away.

XXX

Sylar sighed loudly but stayed with Peter, who had only deigned to speak with him less than an hour earlier after days of being apart. It was humiliating. Yet he had needs. He didn't know how long he could hover and linger without it becoming painfully clear what was going on and that he wasn't welcome to do even that. He kept his thoughts to himself this time, aware that he was credited with the blame for ruining the afternoon (and possibly the next few days).

XXX

Peter did not approve of Sylar going with him all the way to the Y. _I came here to relax and get away from him. How can I do that with him dogging me?_ Changing his mind and doing something else was out of the question. Peter had a mission, so he stuck with it despite Sylar's unwelcome presence. He grabbed a handful of towels off the rack beside the locker room and went inside one of the stalls to change. He had a moment of doubt as he stood there naked, looking down at his pile of clothes on the bench. _I could wear my boxer briefs to the hot tub...but no, that would make it look like I was a prude. And I'll look even worse if I go out naked like I always do when I'm alone._ He ended up wrapping one towel around his waist and holding it securely, while putting two others under his arm. Sylar wasn't out there when he came out. Peter breathed a tense sigh, wondering what the hell that meant. _Did he leave? Is he lurking around here watching me? Is he changing clothes like he's going to join me? Fuck, I can't go look, that would be completely weird if he caught me looking in the stalls for him._ Shaking his head, he continued to the hot tub, dropping the extra towels a few feet away and then squatting next to the small pool to tinker with the controls.

XXX

Sylar sat at one of the benches in the locker room, waiting to see what Peter was doing first – changing most likely, and it wasn't like Peter could escape from one of the stalls. Quietly, he followed suit, stripping and wearing a towel out to the hot tub area. _That's hostile, isn't it? He's going to freak out and think I'm going to try something. That's why he's upset – I keep…scaring him._

XXX

_There he is. Damn it._ He was glad he hadn't dropped the towel. He blinked at seeing Sylar the same way. _He can't possibly think he's getting in there with me._ He wasn't sure where he wanted to fight over this, but the best thing seemed to be claiming the hot tub for himself as quickly as possible. Shifting, he put one hand on the lip of it and swung into a sitting position with his feet in it. Still holding the towel around himself, he pushed off to slide into the water. Once under the concealment of the churning water, he pulled the sopping towel over his shoulders and hung onto the ends of it in case he needed it as an impromptu weapon. Bracing himself on the floor, he stood as tall as he could. Chest out, he said sharply to Sylar's approach, "Fuck off!"

XXX

He noted the body language immediately, carefully looking it over in fact. _Well, what else am I supposed to wear? It isn't like he thought this out any better and brought swim trunks._ "You said if I was only going to start fights. I'm not going to. Or do anything weird," he pronounced with a slight roll of his eyes, pausing before jumping in literally speaking. "But if I bump feet with you on accident, it's because I'm tall." _I can't help that unfortunately. I could. When I had shapeshifting_ , he thought longingly. Keeping his towel on and struggling to keep covered with the bubbles and floating, heavy fabric of wet towel and doing a much less graceful job than Peter, he slid into the tub well across from the man.

XXX

_Oh._ Peter wilted marginally. _I'm the one starting a fight now. (No, he is, because he's coming over here intruding when he has the whole rest of the world to be in!)_ "You're still not taking responsibility for anything, Sylar! If you bump feet with me, it's because _you_ bumped me." Sylar was lowering himself into the water as Peter spoke. Peter backed off as far away as he could get, which wasn't nearly far enough for his liking. If either one of them tried to stretch out and relax, they would be touching and that was way more intimacy than Peter was willing to handle at the moment. His hands shifted their grip uneasily on the ends of the towel and he glanced to the sides, brief thoughts of escape running through his mind. Now that he'd made it to his goal (the hot tub), he wasn't sure how committed he should be to remaining in it.

XXX

Sylar's mouth quirked at an unamused smirk as he affirmed, serious and facetiousness, "Right." _No accidents and intent doesn't matter._ After a few moments of wincing at the initial additional assault, the sting on bruises, and the gooseflesh from the temperature extremes, he said with half a question, "I thought you were supposed to ice after injuries. That's…what you always did before with me."

XXX

"Yeah, I should," Peter said, still looking distracted and jumpy. He was also still standing, passing up the opportunity to sit deeper in the water like he was supposed to. He glared daggers at Sylar for a long, angry, tense moment, before looking away, bristling all over again, and finally convincing himself that sitting down was safe enough to do. He kept his feet drawn up tight next to the underwater bench on his side just in case.

XXX

"Hmm." Sylar, for his part, did his best to be unobtrusive. He kept his eyes closed and all his limbs accounted for. It was clear Peter still felt threatened even though it was his idea to go more-or-less naked and he wasn't usually shy of this kind of thing. _He hasn't been this weird after the other fights._ Sylar pondered how to get around both needs for safety and being respected through fear.

XXX

Peter stayed tensely on guard for what felt like minutes. He felt very vulnerable with nothing other than bubbling water between himself and Sylar. _What if he starts another fight? What if he just starts insulting my family? I can't do anything about it here!_ He looked around longingly at the exits again. They were there, available, ready, should Peter need them. But Sylar was keeping to his place. Slowly, very slowly, Peter calmed down. _He wants to be with me. That's normal, right? (Well, here. And for him. Because we're here.) I'll take what I can get._ He breathed out heavily and finally looked at Sylar with a less than overtly hostile gaze.

Swallowing, he said, "Yeah, ice. We...should. But I come here to relax. It makes me feel better. I'd rather have the mental comfort than the physical." And since so many of Peter's other avenues to coping with stress were cut off (no people, no one he could help except Sylar, no work to throw himself into, and working out after a fight wouldn't work either), he was particularly sensitive to having Sylar here, threatening this one.

XXX

Sylar opened his eyes to gaze at his companion. He wondered if that was common or more common with specials. "I agree with that", he intoned to everything the man said. After that, he looked around the rest of the pool complex, feeling flushed from the heat and steam. It had been a long time since he'd been in a hot tub. He tried not to think about getting an erection, here, naked, with Peter, when he was trying to calm the little man. The whole day was weird.

XXX

Peter nodded, glad he was understood without further explanation. It was Sylar being here, in Peter's space, which was so unsettling. The circumstances themselves were…manageable, so since Sylar seemed content not to intrude further, Peter got to managing them. He turned sideways on his side of the tub, backing into a corner and putting his legs up so he could stretch them out with a relieved sigh and no danger of 'bumping' anyone. He let the heat sink into his body, the constant jets of water soothing, stimulating, and focusing. It was like fingers touching him all over, like not being alone. After savoring that for a while, he asked his companion, "What do you usually do after a fight to...you know, wind down?" Fighting wasn't something Peter simply _did_. It always had context and the less purpose it had, the more upset he was about it. Regaining his stability after some pointless skirmish was an exercise in self-care. He didn't think the struggle with Sylar had been pointless, but that didn't mean he knew what it was about.

XXX

_Am I supposed to be talking to him now?_ He looked at Peter as he thought. Peter being keyed up made things…tense for him, though the trick was acting like he wasn't tense. "It depends on the fight. Sometimes I get what I want out of it, other times…it's just more frustration, trying to sort things out," he pointed to his head to indicate the mess that was (or had always been) his mind. "Anger can give me focus and time allows me to plan. I just try to get back to normal – you know, my version of it," Sylar shrugged but didn't feel like waiting to see how Peter handled his response. "What do you need to calm down?" That was the point of all this (almost all of it) and Peter might divulge something applicable to the here and now.

XXX

"Arguments I can cope with by working out and exhausting myself." _Or losing myself in someone else._ _(Not an option_ , he warned himself.) "Fights…it's harder to turn off once I've flipped that switch. Understanding what it was all about helps," Peter said slowly, keeping an eye on Sylar but not demanding an explanation about this latest tiff by looking at him directly. "Is that what you mean about trying to sort things out?"

XXX

Sylar raised an eyebrow briefly as if to say, 'oh, you'd like that, would you?' He was not inclined to explain his feelings and needs from before the fight – obviously – and now after Peter had been hurtful in several ways and didn't care for him didn't make him want to open up. He liked knowing what Peter wanted, though. _I guess I didn't mention that I'm always alone for sorting myself out and trying to get back to normal. Yeah, I suppose understanding helps, but how often does anyone actually get it?_ "Uh…" Sylar considered it. "I guess, in a way…" _I guess I'm trying to understand…myself, the other person, the situation, what I can do about it, and what I have to deal with. It still depends on the fight._

XXX

"Time helps," Peter said with an approving nod. "I don't know so much about planning. I tend to stay upset until I can get something resolved." He waited a beat, then said, "Like Mohinder. I got him – his motivations. I didn't agree but I understood his point of view. Or like with Nathan." Peter stopped to swallow, finding it annoying that his throat still struggled at times to pronounce that name. "He was a selfish jerk. Once I accepted that, I could get past it." He shook his head. "Until then, I was so angry at him. I wanted better from him, but it wasn't something he was able to give. My expectations were the problem."

XXX

_Resolution?_ Sylar mentally scoffed at the idea. There were precious few fights he could recall even…addressing whatever the issue was, let alone getting or giving resolution. The one useful Nathan-related thing caught his attention. _He said I was selfish and I know he thinks I'm a jerk. So if I say I'm nothing but a selfish jerk, he'll…accept it and leave me alone? But I'm nothing like Nathan and I don't want to remind him of Nathan in any way. He…should expect better from me. Is that what he's trying to say?_ It required more thought.

XXX

He pulled in a deep breath, thinking this sounded a lot like an underhanded attempt to get Sylar to explain himself. While Peter certainly wouldn't mind such a disclosure, he didn't even want an explanation at the moment. He was sure it would be full of blame-shifting and evasions that would leave him angrier than before. Best just to leave it be and try to calm down by other ways. "Talking to you like this helps." He looked over at Sylar with curiosity. "Why are you in the hot tub with me?" _Of all the places he could be right now, why did he follow me here?_

XXX

_That sounds flirty. Are you flirting with me, Peter Petrelli?_ But he knew saying that, no matter how much he wanted to, would result in Peter's immediate absence. Peter meant no such thing anyway, his tone and body language were clear on it. It felt like an obvious answer or a question that didn't need to be asked, partly because Sylar didn't want to answer it but he knew it was important. "Because you're in the hot tub." He couldn't keep out the tone of 'duh' and simultaneous, hesitant question as he said it.

XXX

Peter studied Sylar's face and as he did, the expression on his own softened. A smile curled his lips on one side of his mouth. He looked away, charmed and embarrassed. _He wants to be with me. Even after the punching. And the yelling. And the things I said._ His gut gave an odd tingle he normally associated with emotions much warmer than those he thought he should be feeling towards Sylar. Trying to put on a serious face, he looked back to ask with concern, "Is your head really okay? I mean, is your headache worse?"

XXX

Sylar answered with a verbal shrug, "You said it was okay. So I imagine I'll live." Perhaps there still was a way to get Peter to care for him, medically. As soon as it was out of his mouth, he realized that was exactly what Peter was upset about, being blamed. Sylar changed his tune some, "I'll live," he said more definitively and left it at that.

XXX

Peter nodded, eyes sweeping what he could see of Sylar. There were dark splotches blooming on his right shoulder where Peter had grabbed him in the course of the fight. _I wonder how his scalp is? I jerked around on his hair a lot_. "I was really trying not to hit you in the face, or hurt you bad." He stopped well short of an apology. Sylar was still the one who'd started it after all, but Peter hoped he was at least playing by whatever nebulous 'rules' Sylar thought were in place between them. His desire to make sure Sylar was okay came to the forefront. Peter tugged the towel off his shoulders and made to arrange it around his hips – a difficult task under swirling water. "You're right, though. We should get some ice. How are your ribs?" Clutching the dripping towel over enough of himself to be polite, Peter got out of the floor-set hot tub in reverse from how he'd gotten in – using the seating ledge to stand on and sitting on the rim, then swinging his feet under him and rising.

XXX

A jerk of his chin upwards was Sylar's acknowledgement. Yes, on the one hand, he knew Peter had taken it very easy on him (and that was part of what angered him so, when he'd wanted more, something real from the other man); on the other, tripping him and practically forcing him hard to the floor wasn't 'easy.' "My ribs are fine. It's my back that hurts." As he anticipated, Peter struggled with his makeshift towel garment, doing a poor enough job of it that he saw a lingering flash of pale, muscular thigh and side of a buttock. Sylar raked his eyes over the man, enjoying the exhibitionism.

XXX

Peter squatted to recover his dry towels, now wondering why he'd brought them out in the first place. He tucked them under the same arm that was holding up the wet towel around his waist, clamping them against his torso. "There's a first aid station in the main office near the entrance. There's also a fridge with ice packs. I can get one of those for you." _And one for me._ He felt of his face where Sylar had tagged him. It was already swollen, the skin feeling tight. "Come on. Let's dry off." He made a gesture towards the changing room, then stood there waiting, watching as Sylar navigated his own exit of the tub.

XXX

After a momentary pause, Sylar covered himself with his own sopping towel and stood to follow Peter. Right away, he noticed the Italian was unmoving, facing him, and likely watching him keep himself covered, not for his own decency, but for Peter's, the guy who…didn't seem to care if he saw something. Sylar felt his blood pulse hotter than it had when in the hot tub. He took his time getting out of the water, wrapped the towel low about his hips, standing dripping, tall and still for Peter's inspection.

XXX

A part of Peter's brain insisted he was looking for other bruises and signs of pain or difficulty in moving – standard paramedic stuff and exactly what a professional should do when dealing with a patient who couldn't be trusted to accurately report their condition. Another part really wasn't thinking at all - at least not in the manner of so-called 'higher' thought. Peter's eyes took in the peculiar pattern of dark, glossy hairs against Sylar's pale, nearly-nude skin, skin that showed the bruises Peter had put there so clearly. _He_ had put them there and for once, he didn't feel guilty about it. He'd won the fight and yet Sylar still wanted to be near him, had followed him here, and wasn't arguing with him anymore. Peter's gaze moved up and down Sylar's lovely proportions in a manner that was almost rude. He looked back to the man's face – the most appealing, most moving, and most frightening part of him. He had such beautiful eyes, such an expressive mouth – both so evocative of depth of feeling, and Sylar – he felt deeply, of that Peter had no doubt.

XXX

_I need to give him more opportunities to look_ , Sylar thought smugly, living up the attention – finally! Just as good, he couldn't be blamed for being a pervert when the setting and lack of clothing was Peter's idea and the empath was thrilled at being so desired. _He's a fucking pervert, too. If he needs to lay a little blame to get his rocks off, that's fine._ Sylar held his garment loosely, bunched over his groin, waiting, looking up at his companion with dark, penetrating eyes.

XXX

Eye contact. _He's looking right at me. (What am I doing?) I'm staring at him. Wrong. Whoops._ Peter twitched and looked away, knowing he'd just been caught dead to rights ogling the guy. He cleared his throat nervously and started towards the locker room, glancing back to see if Sylar was following. He was, and nothing had been said about Peter's complete lapse in propriety. _That's a good sign, isn't it? What does he think I was doing? Does he think that meant anything? (Doesn't it?) I shouldn't be looking at him like that. (How can I not look at that?! I'm not a saint!) It doesn't have to mean anything, though._ With another unnecessary, embarrassed cough, Peter said, "You seem to be moving fine, so I'd guess your ribs are okay. They might still be bruised, but nothing's broken." It sounded inane even to him, but he had to say something. Otherwise, all there was between them was a couple of flimsy towels, a ton of animosity, and Sylar's hot gaze burning him up from the inside out.

XXX

Peter came out of whatever ogling trance he'd been in and made for the locker room. Sylar walked behind, casually, meeting Peter's eyes at each glance back at him. He didn't hide his expression of knowing and nothing about his face spoke of disinterest. "Maybe you should check my back. It's all knotted up and tight from when I fell on it," he voiced as they entered the locker room. When he had Peter's attention, he grimaced and reached back to gesture at the area, turning slightly to encourage contact. It did hurt like he said, and there was the question of real if minor injury that only Peter could answer and heal. Absent was any blame this time.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said falteringly, because the lure was too perfect to turn down – a need to take care of someone, what small responsibility Peter felt, and the not-to-be-underestimated itch of temptation. He touched at the offered skin. It was surprisingly dry and unsurprisingly warm. There was a faint tingle under his fingertips. It felt like forever since he'd felt that. He could barely think and what he could think was that he wanted more. "Sure," he continued with more enthusiasm than was proper. But he only had one hand, as the other was engaged with making sure his towel stayed in place. "Um, just...sit down. Here." He gestured to one of the benches for Sylar to sit on and went into one of the changing stalls himself. It did not happen to be the one with his clothes, which he realized and was flustered by once he was in there. He dropped the wet towel to the floor and the dry ones to the bench. Hurriedly, he arranged one of the dry ones around his waist, folding it into itself as tightly as he could. It wasn't terribly secure, but it would hold and it freed up his hands. He snagged the other dry towel on his way out.

XXX

At the first contact, Sylar shivered and gooseflesh broke out for a moment. It felt very good, better than the hot tub by far. He then sat as directed, aware that his back would be turned if Peter was inclined to do anything, like touch his head or worse. It wasn't likely, especially with Peter's hasty return. Placing hands on thighs, he kept his head slightly tilted to the side to watch Peter peripherally, pretending to be curious.

XXX

Peter returned and looked at Sylar's back. The most eye-catching thing was the reddened mark in the middle. It was right at the bottom of the thoracic section, or perhaps the top of the lumbar region – he'd have to count to be sure which and it really didn't matter either way. There was an ugly contusion that made prominent the locations of the vertebrae. "Yeah," Peter said faintly. "You got rashed up here pretty good where you hit. I'll bet that stings." He took the dry towel and wiped off a few stray drops of moisture from Sylar's sides, away from the wounded skin. The rest of Sylar's back was beautiful – broad, flat, pale like the rest of him, but generally hairless compared to his front. A few moles decorated the otherwise unblemished surface. He breathed out slowly, appreciating the view. Peter put a hand lightly on Sylar's shoulder. "Is this okay?" _(No, of course it's not. What the hell am I doing?) Therapy. I'm doing therapy._ He felt calm about that internal assertion. He had the sense that this helped.

XXX

_No…Come on! Touch me!_ It seemed like forever as he waited, back turned, for some medical treatment confused with molestation. Perhaps this wasn't going well. Peter wasn't…jumping on this like he'd expected. The medic was taking note of his pain now, which was part of the plan. "Yeah, of course," he invited.

XXX

Peter's hand tingled faintly as he drew it down the left side of Sylar's spine, just touching. He could feel the texture of the flesh change as he passed over the injury site. It was swelling and hot even several inches away from the abrasion (which he avoided). He went lower, making a slow and probably-too-sensuous sweep across the small of Sylar's back, then leaned to get a better look at the marks on the man's right ribs. It was where most of the damage during the fight had been inflicted, as Peter had done nearly all his punching with his left fist. As before, he didn't see any sign of broken bones – no irregularities in shape and certainly nothing compound. "This will hurt a little," he said quietly. He probed as much as he dared along the intercostal joints and where the ribs joined with the spine. Everything seemed seated firmly, though he had no doubt it would hurt badly for days and be sore for weeks. There was nothing he could do about it except ease pain. He squared himself behind Sylar again, hands resting lightly on his shoulder blades. "Describe where the muscles are tight."

XXX

That hand on his lower back was so good, completely unnecessary, delicious and suggestive. Sylar leaned forward some to accommodate further, lower touching. He couldn't help but moan, breathing harder as he felt his cock twitch and stir. Mouth open for a moment, he murmured roughly, "Between my shoulder blades, down low," _my dick hurts, too._

XXX

Peter smirked at the moan, glad to hear Sylar was enjoying it. He rubbed the area indicated, gently at first but then more firmly. Both his hands ached for different reasons – his left because he'd used it as a bludgeon against bony sections of his enemy and his right because the motions of the massage required putting pressure on newly-healed bones. There were motions he couldn't do at all, like setting his fist against the skin and twisting – the skin of his knuckles was torn and chafed. But he applied the pressure he could in small circles and slow glides. His skin where they touched was warm and tingling, like an ability purring softly. Peter assumed that was what it was and left it alone. He wanted to experience this...differently, physically, emotionally, and not through the haze of an ability (even if it were possible to use one now without changing everything and freaking both of them out). He held one shoulder, and with his other hand in the center of Sylar's back, pulled back to stretch him. Then he switched sides. "Stretching will help you. That's something the hot tub is good for: it will loosen you up some." The sexual innuendo was so heavy that even Peter realized how it sounded and what he was trying to get out of this. _I am in so fucking deep here. (That's kind of dirty, too.) I can't win._ With a sigh, he patted the outside of Sylar's shoulder. "Go get dressed." He turned and escaped to his own stall (this time the one with his clothes in it), hopefully before his half-hard erection could be seen.

XXX

Sylar hummed, long and low with pleasure. He was surprised to be massaged but the more he thought about it, he shouldn't have been. _Erections are normal for massages, right? They have to be. It won't be weird…He can't blame me. Fuck._ His breath escaped him in a huff at being pushed and bent over; he practically quivered. "Okay," he croaked about the quote-unquote 'stretching.' Peter made to leave as Sylar turned to lust after him with his eyes. _Come back here. Take some clothes off._ He knew for certain Peter was into this, into him. _You love getting your hands on me._ The man's departure meant he didn't have to explain his obvious desire for more, but it still left him with nowhere to go but the shower and his own hand.


	117. Three Kinds of Heat

Day 66, February 14, Afternoon

After securing the door and stripping off his towel, Peter did not set directly to putting on his clothes. He turned on the shower instead, waiting a few seconds for it to warm. Then he stepped into the spray, shut his eyes, caressed himself, and moved on immediately to rubbing one out. It was easy and fast, but he didn't know if he'd ever wanted so badly to be with someone afterward. More than any injury from the fight, he ached to hold and touch and feel someone else with him. Instead, he wedged himself into the corner of the shower, facing outwards, and put his hands over his face. There was no one for him out there – only the same guy who'd murdered Peter's brother and mocked his feelings for it. Emotions washed over him in nauseating waves – raging desire, loneliness, wrath, grief, self-loathing, and then back to the void of desperate and unmet needs. He squatted and stayed there against the tile, using every shred of self-control he had to simply breathe and try to stop the tremors that had started in his hands after he'd jerked off. He felt sick and despondent, like he'd been dumped and left even though he knew it was him refusing to do anything. Because he wouldn't do anything – not with Sylar, not like this, not when the man hated him and Peter hated him back. He breathed out shaky breaths and let the cascading, still-running shower cover the sound.

XXX

He didn't wait long, not expecting anything really. Showering in a formerly public place was almost a strange concept to him – Nathan had done it, was used to it. Showering after being in a hot tub wasn't necessarily immediately instinctive, but not smelling like chemicals and putting off his companion made sense. Then he slunk into his own stall, throbbing and frustrated about it. His mind kept coming back to the part where inviting himself into Peter's stall would result in loneliness for a lot longer than he'd previously experienced. _But he wants it. That's good! That's…enough. I told him I would be patient._ This time, his mind also supplied what could be called a 'fantasy' to go along with jerking off: Peter continued petting him, lusting after him, easing his hands down Sylar's back until the towel fell away; Sylar ended up bent over the damn bench, barely able to protect his knees from being skinned on it as Peter fucked him hard from behind, grabbing his shoulders, hair, and still touching down his back with such tenderness…He shouldn't want it, but it worked for him in that heated, if imagined, moment. He gushed and held himself upright using the wall. Still breathing quickly and more flushed from at least three different kinds of heat, he finished washing quickly lest Peter grow suspicious or worse, leave. Peter wasn't ready when Sylar emerged; at least, the shower was still running so he assumed the man was still there… _When is it okay for me to check on him? I mean, in possible emergency situations._ He waited, assuming, too, that he should wait here.

XXX

Peter dried and dressed himself, finally feeling capable of that much. When he exited the changing stall, it took him a moment to remember what they were supposed to do next. Mumbling to himself, he said, "Oh yeah. Ice packs." He turned and headed off towards the central office, palpating the bruised part of his face more roughly than it deserved and not even looking at Sylar. He felt miserable.

XXX

Peter's body language was all wrong: lack of eye contact, greeting or statement, slumped shoulders, walking away… _Is he…ashamed? But nothing happened! I know that better than anyone. Does he think something happened? Does he think I think something happened? Or is he guilty that I liked it? Am I supposed to say anything about it or is this one of those 'we don't talk about it' things?_ Sylar walked beside and a little behind Peter, watching his face more than he watched where he, they, were walking. _If I ask him, he'll probably tell me, but it also probably won't be something I can fix. (Selfish jerk…expectations…Competing with his fucking brother again) I can't ignore it. I was going to ask him how he was in the hot tub, but he kept talking._

XXX

Peter opened the door to the previously-scouted out and explored central office for the Y. There were some uninteresting administrative offices tucked behind this one, but the front reception area had all the main attractions for him. It was equipped to handle any routine medical emergencies that might arise in the course of exercise - sprains and strains foremost among them. For that, they had a full size refrigerator set in the far corner that stocked chilled gel ice packs along with other, less relevant supplies like glucose solutions and electrolyte drinks. He sorted through the options, gladly setting his mind to something other than his current mess of emotions. He pulled out a couple standard rectangular packs in their blue cloth liners.

XXX

Sylar shut the top freezer door with a little more force than was strictly necessary and stood there, mostly blocking Peter's path out of the corner. "How are you? After the fight. You need ice and pain killers the same as me but you're not complaining." On stupid instinct, he reached out to touch near the man's bruise, just brushing the area for a moment. It was the most obvious injury Peter had. "I grabbed your throat, too." _It's not weird. This doesn't have to be weird. Why the fuck do I care, that's the real question! He gives me next to nothing, just teasing._

XXX

Peter jumped when Sylar slammed the door next to him. His eyes flew wide and he sucked in breath at the unexpected confrontation. Sylar had his complete attention, but the man's question was just as perplexing as the way he'd shut the freezer door. Peter swallowed, blinked, and processed as Sylar went on and then reached for him. _He's concerned. He cares how I am? Would he listen if I complained?_ Peter's lips parted as he glanced at the hand, then back to Sylar's eyes as he allowed the touch. He wanted it, though maybe not on his face, but he wasn't about to complain about that, either. His shoulders sagged as he relaxed visibly. He looked down, fingers restlessly kneading the ice packs he was holding. "I'm just...tired, Sylar. I'm okay...physically." He pushed an ice pack into Sylar's free hand as he maneuvered around the other man, brushing up against him by necessity, but not in an aggressive, bump-you-out-of-the-way manner. Instead he was familiar, putting the back of the hand holding his ice pack against Sylar's elbow and his other along the man's side as he slid by. Peter opened a cabinet behind them, searching it for supplies. He moved a couple elastic bandages to the front and pulled out a can of Benzocaine spray.

XXX

Sylar could have purred at being touched some more, even after the hot tub, shower, being massaged and masturbating himself. He rotated to keep his eyes on Peter, looking him over when the empath was occupied. Even as he leered, he considered what Peter had said. _That means something else is bothering him. Still. I don't know if I can explain myself and if I did, he wouldn't like it. How will that help?_ "What about the not-physical part?" Sylar pressed, feeling and sounding stupid as he did. _It's like asking a girl what she's wants; it's completely pointless. Though he probably likes that crappy relationship stuff; that's what he wanted._

XXX

Peter pulled up a stool and propped himself on it. "I can do something about 'physical'. I _know_ what to do about 'physical'." He examined his knuckles briefly to make sure they were clean, then sprayed them with the can of topical painkiller. "Lift your shirt up and turn around. Let me spray this on your back. It'll take the sting out of it. It's going to be cold, though."

XXX

_Even I can do something about physical_ , and his thoughts derailed from there along similar lines. He was sure Peter had jerked off in the shower as well, just a few yards separating them. _He took a long time in there._ _So he needs mental comfort of some sort; he said as much earlier._ Peter confirmed it without giving any other helpful clues. He stared at Peter's face and lingered overly long in lifting his shirt to reveal his clean, hairy torso nearly all the way to his nipples before turning around. _Are you sure that was 'lift your shirt' and not 'drop your pants?' Peter?_

XXX

Peter barely swallowed the noise he wanted to make at the display – still damp hair and that warm, freshly showered smell of man… He sighed and after Sylar turned, he put his left hand on Sylar's back, approximately over his kidney as though he was holding Sylar still. It was an entirely unnecessary gesture and he knew it. But he'd been allowed to touch and this was a good excuse to do it again. He sprayed down the abraded skin and surrounding area, still leaving his hand there after he was done. He looked up at the back of Sylar's head as he let his fingers slowly, slowly trail downward, hesitating briefly on the waistband of the man's jeans. _God I want him. I am so fucked. That is so fucked up. I can't do this. (I can't do_ him _, that is.)_ He was very aware of how close things were in here. It had never seemed this narrow and crowded before – but before, he'd always been alone. _What am I going to do?_

XXX

Sylar felt his breathing deepen at first. The spray was indeed cold but numbed the injury quickly, yet the whole purpose was not his focus. Peter was intentionally making him feel good, caring for him like he suspected they both needed. And it got better. At those teasing fingers tickling his nerves, he exhaled as his eyes rolled shut. _Oh, yeah. You jerked off to massaging me._ Petrelli's desire for sex was now undeniably obvious and Sylar reveled in the fact that he (or his body at least) was desired. He didn't dare move though he had a thousand ideas of what to do to get closer, more sexual. It was so like his fantasy it was almost a frightening déjà vu. His dick, so soon after his release moments before, was desperate to harden again.

XXX

Peter waited a few beats for Sylar to respond, react, demand something of him, and give him an excuse to end this before it went too far. He was not so lucky. His fingertips still rested on the skin immediately above Sylar's waistband. It was soft. Silky. Luscious. He shut his eyes and breathed in heavily. _Oh, fuck yes. I can smell him._ It was an exciting scent as always – layered with dangerous memories and mixed emotions – 'stimulating' was the best descriptor for it. He couldn't find it within himself to push Sylar away when he was doing nothing at all offensive, so instead he swallowed and offered, "There's some tiger balm in here, too, if you want it. That was the brand you had in your first aid kit, wasn't it?"

XXX

He had to pull his mind from a very dark gutter to focus on what Peter had asked him. He cleared his throat, "Uh, yeah. Yes." Sylar felt himself melting, most of his pain was gone, he was riding high on endorphins and this sexual tension that his partner was clearly getting off to. The worst part was that he couldn't see or touch the man. He stayed where he was, apart from leaning forward to brace himself and hold up his shirt with the other hand. It was intentionally positioning his lower half closer to Peter and his back within better reach.

XXX

Peter twisted to get the tube from the cabinet, his own sore muscles protesting. He ignored them, easy to do with something much more appealing to capture his attention. Sylar's back was still presented to him, and there was more than that. He couldn't imagine Sylar hadn't adopted the position on purpose. His mind flashed to massaging Sylar earlier. It was the same basic setup – Sylar in front, partly nude. _Bending over for me. Oh my God._ Peter's mouth dropped open. This was even more than the fantasy of Sylar blowing him. His erection hurried back to full force so fast that he had to adjust the ride of his jeans. Before it could seem like he was stalling, he put the camphor-scented lotion on the middle-upper part of Sylar's back, reaching up with his clean hand to push the man's shirt up a little more. He held the fabric there in a loose fist that rested on the base of Sylar's neck. He spread the tiger balm liberally with smooth, up and down strokes of his other hand, firmly pressing with fingertips that buzzed with suppressed energy. He scooted his hips to the edge of the stool without thinking about it. There was still an inch or two of space between them, but otherwise the staging was unmistakable.

XXX

He straightened only slightly, swallowing hard at the feeling of his shirt being made into a sort of collar around his neck – positioned and held tight. When Peter was completely finished, Sylar allowed his shirt to slip down as he straightened, turning to face Peter. "Let me put some on you," he said and pointed to the tiger balm only to get Peter's allowance lest his words give the right idea. When he had the okay, Sylar commanded without completely hiding his interest, "Take your shirt off and tell me where you need it."

XXX

Peter smiled nervously and handed over the ointment. _That's...uh… He's going to do it to me? Does he know I have a boner? Is it obvious? Maybe it's not._ Peter didn't look down to check, but then again, neither had Sylar. Constant, unremitting eye contact was the order of the day. _He wants to help? He's taking care of me? (He wants to fuck me. I should do something about this. About that. I should. Yeah.)_ "Um, my...neck and left shoulder," he said faintly, gesturing at the areas mentioned. _There's nothing wrong with this, right?_ He took off his shirt and let it fall to his lap where the rumpled cloth would hide anything Sylar didn't need to be seeing. Then he turned sideways on the stool, hesitating there as though unwilling to pantomime the same positioning in reverse. _This isn't sex. We're not fucking. We're not even frotting. No one's getting off. He's just putting tiger balm on me_. Slowly, only half-convinced, he finished the turn to face away.

XXX

_Hmm. It's been a while since I've bitten him._ It wouldn't necessarily be possible now, unless he wanted a mouthful of tiger balm once it was applied, but if he bit before it went on…His penis was at least three-quarters stiff and that, as much as his hands, was what he wanted to put on Peter. He took the container and stood close behind the smaller man. He hadn't been this close to someone with the purpose of giving comfort and healing for too long. Peter's back was well-muscled without being overdone, his waist was slim, and of course his ass…Dipping into the cream, he began with Peter's left shoulder, hands on, massaging the other's warm muscles with greedy fingers. Because of the proximity, he was able to inhale of Peter; whose natural scent was somewhat buried under the locker room soaps.

XXX

"Oh!" he said in a quiet exhalation as Sylar's hands began to work him. Peter crossed his forearms on the nearest shelf and put his forehead down on them. It wasn't sex, but it was definitely good. His muscles might have gone limp, but other parts of him were definitely not. He panted, feeling thrills of pleasure go through him. _How long has it been? Since I've been with anyone who made me feel good, or even tried?_ Peter's mind struggled. _Caitlin, I guess. Two, three years._ Gooseflesh pimpled his skin as he gave an involuntary shiver. _Too long._

XXX

He felt so close to dominating Peter Petrelli, owning him, manipulating him using nothing more than the seduction of his body; it was a serious head rush. He applied the stuff liberally to Peter's arm, feeling him up at the same time. Once he'd touched everything more than once, he moved on to the neck and throat. Having Peter from behind, having his hands on the man's throat was getting him off. Enthusiastically, he rubbed the cream into Peter's soft, vulnerable flesh with both hands, once again using the excuse to get closer, breathing on him. Ever one for being bold, he let slip in a rough voice, "How do you like it, Peter?"

XXX

Peter shifted and tensed, reaching up to gently discourage and block Sylar's hands from anything other than the back half of his neck, where the man would be rubbing muscle and tendon instead of his throat. The awareness that Sylar could throttle him like this (and might do so) came on him as soon as Sylar started touching him there. "Not there," he said softly.

XXX

Somewhat disappointed, Sylar allowed his grip to shift to the back of Peter's neck, away from the throat. The message was clear enough, as were the words. Even the back of Peter's neck was appealing – all flesh and muscle to be bitten, grabbed, controlled, and Peter was totally allowing it, melting into it. Sylar thrilled on having this human putty in his hands, so strangely delightful. He was throbbing with heat now, standing inches away. He bent down, tickling his nose in the dark hair, to murmur close to the man's ear, "Tell me how you want it."

XXX

Peter shivered for the second time and drew away, his eyes half-closed in forbidden bliss for a moment. It was all he could allow himself. "We can't," he said quietly, sliding from the stool to his feet. "I won't. This is as far...This is a lot further than this should have gone. Let's...We're stopping here." Despite his difficulty in picking his words, his voice was firm. He shouldered Sylar out of the way as he put his shirt back on, breaking eye contact and looking away. _I should be ashamed it went this far at all. That was just as sexual as him humping me during that fight in the lobby. Except this was...reciprocal...reciprocated. I was involved. Intentionally._ He looked around for something else to put his eyes on than his looming partner, finally spotting one of the forgotten ice packs. He took it and lifted it to his cheek, glancing over at Sylar with an embarrassed dip of his head. _Do I need to worry about how he's going to take a 'no'?_

XXX

"We 'can't'. I 'won't,'" Sylar pointed out, not as…frustrated about being teased as he had been in the past. The rejection was softened by interest after all. Peter assuming command had him sniping. "Desperation's a funny thing, Peter," he continued mostly to keep to the script because…what else was there to say? Then he saw the shame in the other man's face and it changed things; it made sense, of course it was there. It turned his stomach to be so disgusting. He didn't need another shower, cold or otherwise now, as his erection fled. It had been so much easier to pretend, perhaps for Peter also, when the reality was twisted and sick and almost entirely helpless. _Desperation all around._ To regain some attempt as self-respect, he clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder, "This was definitely your fault, this time," he jested, taking up his own ice pack as he moved around Peter. Remembering the blame issue, he corrected with lackluster, feeling like his mouth was running away from him, "I mean, never mind." He waited for Peter to react and possibly exit the break room.

XXX

"I _know_ ," Peter ground out, his voice infused with the anger and frustration he felt at himself for having virtually pantomimed sex with Sylar (and not a little due to stopping things without any concluding satisfaction). "You start fights; I start...other things." He shook his head, disgusted with himself. "I'm not sure which is worse." Five years ago, he'd have been certain fighting was worse. The years had coarsened him, wounded him, and worn him down to the point where beating Sylar up seemed morally superior to making love to him. It was confusing and played havoc with Peter's instincts. But Sylar seemed to be as interested in changing the subject as Peter, and dealing well with the quasi-rejection of Peter calling a halt. "I don't want to fight again. Or anything else." He shifted the ice pack against his cheek. "We should take a turn with the ice packs here for fifteen or twenty minutes, then head back to the Pegasus where we can do it again." Thinking about his intentions, he pulled out the liner of the trash can and used it as a bag for the supplies he wanted to take back with him. Then he went to the freezer and pulled out another set of ice packs to switch out later. He waved a hand towards the entrance. "Let's go sit out in the lobby."

XXX

_Fucking me is arguably on par with or worse than violence to a pacifist? (Or supposed pacifist)._ Sylar was consumed with coming to terms with that – if it was a compliment or ambiguous. It was wonderfully confused. He settled for a little of both as he trailed after Peter. _One part of him would rather fight; his dick would rather fuck. Yet he gets close to me_ after _we fight._

XXX

Peter picked a seat next to Sylar, though there was a chair arm between them. Wood-topped and metal-framed, Peter thought it made an excellent chaperone for two lonely men who had no business being as into each other as they apparently were, if the previous hour was any indication. Matter-of-factly, he offered, "Let me help you with that," indicating Sylar's ice pack. "I'll hold it up and you can lean back." That would make the application of it to Sylar's back hands-free.

XXX

Sylar didn't know what to think about the medians between them; at least Peter technically sat next to him. He glanced over at the offer, which he wasn't sure was entirely necessary but he wasn't about to turn it down, either _. I guess he knows where it hurts._ "Ah…Thanks." Once the placement was accomplished, it was much improved.

XXX

Peter leaned back, rolling his left shoulder and stretching his neck through its range of motion. The muscles and tendons were somewhat aggrieved with their treatment, but not too much. He was tired, probably more on an emotional and mental level than physical. He pressed his chilly ice pack to his face and propped his elbow on the back of the chair. Letting the back of his head rest on the tiled wall, his eyes slid shut and he spaced out for the moment, relying on Sylar (or the discomfort from the ice pack) to tell him when it was time to go.

XXX

He glanced at his partner several times. _He's not as torn up about this as he wants me to believe. That felt good for him, too, on the inside. I bet he needs that._ Sylar felt empty without the empath's attention and after such a glorious event, he wanted to know all about it. "Is the shower the first time you've jerked off here?" Blunt, personal, and stabbing in the dark that Peter had in fact stroked off in the stall.

XXX

Peter rolled his head to the side, still letting it rest on the wall behind him, ice pack still in place. He gave Sylar a low intensity glare, waited a couple beats, then answered, "It's not the first time." It wasn't Sylar's business – not in the least. But at the same time, it was fairly obvious and generally harmless. Peter wasn't going to deny that he had urges or that he, at times, attempted to satisfy them. He was also far more willing to talk of the masturbation than of the emotional mess that had come after it.

XXX

Sylar nodded once. _How many times? When did he do it? I know I caught him once, that time in the hall. More importantly, what does he beat his meat to?_ "Do you always massage your patients like that?" The man's fingers had practically been inside his pants, and the grabbing of his shirt near his neck in a clearly dominant, near-choke hold to position him had been delightful.

XXX

He snorted and rolled back to face forward. "Only you. You're special." After a pause, he turned back to Sylar to rejoin, "Do you always make out with the people whose relatives you kill?" There wasn't much heat to the way he asked it. Sylar being into him, wanting him, was too appealing for him to be truly offended. But he was still angry about the way Sylar had treated Peter's mother on Thanksgiving, right in front of him, while he'd been powerless to stop it.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar purred assent to his being special. _I'm doing something very right; I know it. Peter wouldn't abandon his family, training, and morals to feel up just anyone._ Peter jumped ahead in the topic – massaging to making out. With a logical, barely defensive edge, he shot back, "I like to think I would have remembered making out with you – maybe I did and I conveniently don't remember. That tends to happen around Petrellis." He wasn't as angry as all that and continued, "You know, I could get used to a massage after every fight." The word 'massage' was code for more than just that.

XXX

Peter's expression faded to uncertainty at the reminder of what his mother had done to Sylar in the first place. _It doesn't justify him molesting her like that, but…he could have done worse. Tried to do worse. Then didn't._ He huffed and left it alone. Sylar's last comment had Peter giving him a narrow-eyed look. _Entitled asshole if he thinks I'll do that whenever he wants._ Then a double-take. _Wait, he actually wants that. He liked it. He's asking for it._ It was harmless. And Peter had certainly enjoyed it. _Maybe if that's all we do, then it's okay?_ He rolled his eyes and gave a disgusted, "Fine."

The whole topic (and especially having agreed to a repeat of what had passed between them earlier) made Peter antsy. Temptation, good sense, uneasiness all served to ramp up his tension and anxiety. _Is that really stupid? Can I take it back? What if I change my mind? What if it goes too far? What have I agreed to?_ He dropped his ice pack in his seat as he stood, letting off a little energy by pacing a round through the spacious lobby. _Now I look dumb just up walking around like I can't calm down. I need a destination… Ah! There._ He headed off into the reception area again to review the cabinet contents in case he'd missed anything. He had not, but it gave him something to do.

_What if agreeing to that encourages him to pick more fights with me?_ That was something he needed to settle. Closing the cabinet, he returned empty-handed to briefly point at Sylar. "I don't want to fight you." He gestured with a wave off to the side, his hand curling into a fist at the end of it. He needed to impress on Sylar how unwise it was to provoke violence between them. "What I want to do is hold you down and hurt you until you apologize for everything you've ever done. And even then, that wouldn't help. They'd still be dead!" He snatched up his ice pack and looked away pointedly. He didn't want to see Sylar's face right now. He wanted to smash that smug visage until it was blank-faced and empty. Still looking away, he tried to put aside his wrath. _Get away from the anger. Back to the goal. Focus._ More quietly he said, "This is not a game we should be playing. It's not a game. It's not fun. It's _dangerous_."

XXX

Sylar clapped a few times, beaming and laughing with sick amusement. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees. "That's the spirit!" he crowed. Sobering quickly, he said with some bitterness, "Except it is a game. Everything is a game. And everything is dangerous and you already know that doesn't put me off playing."

XXX

Peter pulled back, insulted and confused. But on the other hand, it was all true and Peter knew it. "It shouldn't be," he muttered for lack of anything better to say. Taking up his ice pack, he slumped sullenly in the chair again. A little louder, but still speaking mostly to himself, he grumbled, "I don't know how to deal with how I feel about all of this."

XXX

Sylar eyed him silently for a moment. For someone as wildly emotional as Peter was, whose ability and lack of control all fed off each other, that posed an interesting dilemma/solution. Feeling unmanned to talk about feelings but curious, he inquired casually, "How do you feel about it?"

XXX

Peter ran his free hand (the one not holding the ice pack to his face) through his hair, grabbing at it restlessly and slowly as he tried to work out how he felt. _Again, not his business. (Or is it? What's going on with me impacts him just as much as what goes on with him impacts me.)_ He sighed in resignation to the reality of how intertwined they were. "You killed my brother, Sylar. You've done…horrible things. And I don't know if you understand, if you even _comprehend_ how horrible they are. The people you've hurt… You don't seem to care. You act like it's just…collateral damage, like they were in the wrong place at the wrong time." He shook his head, eyes shut for a moment. "I came here… I didn't know that when I came here. All I knew is there were people who needed help and you were supposed to help them. How I felt didn't matter. How I felt about _you_ didn't matter. I had to get you; I had to get you to the carnival. What you did to Nathan was…" He exhaled heavily. "And to everyone else," very reluctantly he finished the sentence, "was immaterial. My feelings about it were…immaterial, irrelevant. My feelings about you…" Peter hesitated before making such an impolitic announcement to someone he jointly shared the world with. Then he continued, honest and raw, "hate, anger, disappointment? You hurt me. You hurt him. You hurt my mother. You took him away when…" Tears formed as that enveloping, soul-swallowing sense of loss welled up inside him. "We'd made up. After all that, we were back together. Maybe, you know, we could have been okay again. A family?" Peter shook his head. "But no. You killed him. You took that from us." He leaned back in his chair, a stray tear running down his cheek. "And here I am with you, playing games and giving massages, helping you with your ice pack and your sleeping problems." Bleakly he ended with, "And you still don't seem to care."

XXX

Sylar quietly observed the display as his discomfort increased. Admittedly, pathetically, the part about robbing Peter of his 'redeemed' brother and breaking the already fucked-up family group was something he could understand from his very core. On top of that, he'd failed to live in Nathan's life because of course that was the bigger evil than Sylar being forced to do it. It was very difficult for him to have sympathy for Peter's plight when Sylar himself had been misused as a would-be brother before that. He'd thought that his offer to fuck was…a sign of some type of caring…

XXX

Peter scrubbed away the tear and shifted the ice pack so its fabric cover would absorb anything on the other side of his face. "I don't get what I want. I know that's not how the world works." He still had the air of talking to himself, but he knew Sylar was listening. "I remember a sermon about that – about the differences between what a person wants and what God wants." He shook his head slightly. "I remember being really mad about it. I decided that if no one is going to give you what you really want – not God, not your parents, not your brother – then the only way to get it is to work for it yourself and not give up. Not ever." He looked over at Sylar. _Fights, massages, whatever._ "I'm not giving up on you." _You're going to help those people. Somehow._ He reached out and gave the man a single pat on his knee. "Come on. Let's get back."

XXX

Once again, he empathized with his companion. At an early age he'd been taught the same lesson – had it drilled in – that he would have to work very hard to achieve anything in life. Becoming special (and maintaining it, being 'enough') was his life, his drive, his reason for living. Sylar hadn't given that up either. He went so far as to admire that quality in Peter, ironically the same stubbornness that was giving him (them?) problems. Staring at the empath, he stood after Peter, brain well occupied with other things. _I made Peter cry. (I don't like that). I don't like seeing that, more accurately. He doesn't think I care? I want more of what he's giving me. He sees that as ungrateful because…I can't- I'm not conveying that I appreciate it…in a way that doesn't completely compromise me because he already knows to threaten to take those things away._

On to other things, Sylar addressed part of Peter's complaint/desire. With a surprised and somewhat confused delivery, he asked, "You're more upset about me killing him than you are about me...not being him?" Being Nathan nullified his death as far as Peter was concerned, but that wasn't the Petrelli's largest upset now that he knew the truth. Forcing Sylar to transform was still a viable, horrible option, one that possibly, in a twisted way, righted the wrongs Sylar had done.

XXX

"If you hadn't killed him, then none of the rest would have happened." Peter mulled over Sylar's comparison, trying to make sense of it. Slowly, he asked, "Are you saying I should be upset that you didn't… _continue_ to pretend to be him?" Peter cocked his head. It seemed like a bizarre thing for Sylar to think. "I'm upset that it happened in the first place. Once it did, that you stayed him or not…" He considered how he would have felt about that. "No, I would have been upset if you'd known what you were doing and still chose to be him. That would piss me off." He looked off ahead of them. "Once you knew, you stopped it. That was the right thing to do." He wondered when that ache inside would go away, though.

XXX

"But you tried to turn me back into him!" Sylar burst out, even more confused and hurt and a little angry. "You knew and you still did it!"

XXX

"I thought you already were him – that he was inside you somehow, fighting to get out! Like a second personality or another soul in your body," Peter said earnestly. He wished so much for that to have been true – not only for the possibility of restoring Nathan, but for making Peter's own actions into something other than the botched and vindictive personality surgery it had turned out to be. "It happened to me, you know. I was stuck inside of Jessie's head, body, whatever and that didn't make me not-there or not a person. I didn't know you weren't really him." Emphatically he added, "If I had known, I wouldn't have done it because it wouldn't have been _him_. I want my brother, not a replica."

XXX

Sylar glared at him, though the other man didn't see it. _That explains you trying to do it again, here, not so long ago._ It was frighteningly convenient that Peter 'didn't remember' starting that fight. Needless to say, he didn't believe it. _If I had a brother, I think I'd want whatever I could get. Especially if it meant torturing his killer._

XXX

After a few tense paces, he asked, "Are you upset at all about killing him?" It seemed like such an obvious 'no', but Peter wanted so badly to hear something else. Even just an awareness of consequences would help.

XXX

"In the traditional, heartless monster sense, no." As soon as he said it, he wondered if he was ripping open the envelope of Peter's tolerance and lack of desire to fight. _Well, he asked._ He was not about to sugarcoat Nathan's death in any way. "I didn't do it to hurt you. Or Claire. Or the boys- Nathan's boys. Your mother is fair game, though, you should know that." Sylar sighed, opening his mouth a couple of times and spoke before he thought better of it. "It's…weird now, since I've been him." He scuffed his feet, _watching_ the tops of his shoes as they left the building. Probably from the recent relaxation, though he was still repressing a host of things, he blurted, "I care about things. I don't expect you – or anyone else – to understand. I'm not ungrateful." _I'm a psychotic killer who shouldn't talk to people – we've fucking covered this already. It doesn't matter what I tell him._

XXX

Peter gave him a lofted eyebrow in warning about Sylar intending harm to Peter's mother, but as Sylar didn't linger on the topic, he said nothing about it. In a quiet tone, he said, "I'm still trying to figure you out, Sylar. You're a complicated guy." He reached over and gave him a friendly bump on the shoulder. "I'm probably wrong about more stuff than right. All these questions are how I fix that. It's how I understand you." Despite not getting the answer he wanted about Sylar's feelings concerning Nathan's death, it had seemed honest enough. Getting it out into the air between them, something said rather than concealed, was progress.

"Why did you do it? You had to have other options." Not that Peter was all that skilled at finding alternatives himself – he tended to bull forward on a mission no matter what – but when a human life was at stake, why did Sylar's preferred means of handling the situation involve murder?

XXX

"I already told you why," Sylar replied, eyes narrowed. He knew that was a part of some psych test, asking the same questions, with different phrasing, with the intent of receiving confusing or contradicting answers. "Yes, I chose to kill him. I had other options. So did you. I don't see you turning away from 'catching the bad guy' or 'killing the bad guy' and things like that."

XXX

Peter frowned some more. The conversation where Sylar had related Nathan's death had not gone well and he didn't want to rehash it. He shook his head. "That's not really what I mean. It doesn't have to be specific. Why do you kill people to get what you want? Why is," he hesitated for a moment, drawing his thoughts together, "what you want so important that you think it's okay to kill people for it? Why aren't you upset about murdering people? I don't get that."

XXX

Sylar's brow furrowed as well. "To understand someone's ability, I have to…see and touch the part of the brain where the ability is. Usually that kills. It's important because that's the only way to understand the ability. You don't…understand because you say you never did it." He huffed, more irritated at having to explain than anything else. "Everything is a game, Peter; even life and death; my life and death, yours, Nathan's. Abilities are the one thing that sets us apart from everyone else. I've…watched people a lot and I don't see many distinguishing traits that make someone worthwhile aside from abilities. Even then, I meet a special and that person is some loser who doesn't want their ability or can't control it or someone who refuses to do anything productive with it. They're pathetic. I'm not pathetic. I have goals. I take what they don't value, what they chose to waste because they don't deserve it. For me, that's productive. I was almost the president of the United States – I can do things and I can change things. It's just evolution of the species. You don't blame the lion for slaughtering the gazelle because the gazelle is meant to be prey. It's not as much of a moral issue as you think it is." In the end, he didn't care too much if Peter 'got it' or not (which was more likely than 'getting it'). Even if he did understand, Peter wasn't going to like it, agree with it, or let it lie.


	118. Plurisignificant

Day 66, February 14, Late afternoon

There were several times during Sylar's speech that Peter wanted to break in and reply, but the conversational pause wasn't there. Peter wasn't so agitated that he felt the need to rudely interrupt. And anyway, as Sylar went on, the desire to rebut him immediately faded. There was a lot to think about there. They walked together silently for nearly half the remaining distance while Peter went over Sylar's words in his head. They left him feeling tired, depressed, and profoundly anti-social toward Sylar. _He doesn't see other people as people. At all._ "You're the lion and other people aren't anything more than things for you to kill, play with, or ignore as you see fit?" _Other people, including me. I wonder if he thinks I should be flattered that I fall into the category of 'play with', like him being someone's overfed house cat with me as an injured mouse that it's still going to torture to death even if it isn't hungry enough to eat me._ He moved so his strides took him a few feet further away from Sylar as they walked.

Muttering, he said, "So glad I put a stop to that back there." To Sylar, he went on, "I think I'm starting to understand it," and his face eloquently expressed how repugnant he found that understanding to be even as his voice remained calm, "but you're trying to cloak the murders by implying your ability made you do it. You didn't do that brain thing to Nathan and yet you still killed him. You've killed a lot of people who didn't have anything to do with abilities." He was guessing at that, but it was a very educated guess. Sylar had as much as confirmed it in previous conversations when he'd said the other deaths were inflicted in self-defense or out of necessity – a fabricated necessity, Peter suspected, but it confirmed that there had been 'other deaths'. Peter personally knew about a half dozen, slaughtered because they stood between Sylar and Ted. It was so casually done that it couldn't possibly have been the first time, and since it was so early in Sylar's career, Peter didn't imagine it was the last, either.

With a discontented sigh, he moved on to another question rather than unhelpful verbal lashing. "You said it was all a game. What does that mean to you?" _That how people live or die doesn't matter? Or that someone who doesn't live life like you think they should is a loser? That sounds like Nathan. Or my dad._ He didn't ask those last questions, though, preferring to leave it to Sylar to define the direction of the open-ended question than to make him defensive by Peter drawing out what he thought Sylar was thinking. He'd probably be defensive enough due to the noticeable tone of irritation and stifled outrage in Peter's voice.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes; glad he'd wasted his breath to explain himself to a hippy to have it rephrased that way. It was no surprise that Peter wasn't asking questions per se, just nitpicking and judging. It wasn't an argument, not one where he could mount a defense because he did at least have a response. As it was, he had to let the comments pass for now. "The game…is that a bunch of fucked up people create rules that don't make sense. The values are screwed up. Nothing means what it should; it's wrong. What I think matters probably doesn't matter, and depending where you rank in some fucked up social structure of usefulness, your feelings might not matter, either. The lion is stronger; more prepared then the gazelle so the lion makes the rules and status quos. No one misses the gazelles, no one cries for them or seeks justice because their suffering and death is just part of life."

XXX

_That's fucked up. I miss Nathan, you prick. But he knows that. It's not what he's getting at. There's more going on here._ "If it's all a game and we're just playing, then why are you making life so awful for other people? If you make it suck for people to play with you, then _they won't play with you._ Me included. Remember what I said about not talking to you because you were acting like an asshole? That's it in action."

XXX

"You're assuming I can be a good, nice person. I wouldn't confuse me with some future dream you saw." The man's line of questioning was hitting too close to home, genuinely adding anxiety and deep-seated stress at the mere thought of having to answer why Sylar was (or had been) a pathetic nothing, why people had apparently been allowed to hurt him. It would be all too easy to use the confession to abuse him further. "Nearly everyone I've ever met has made my life awful without a thought. I'm no different than anyone else in that regard – that is my entire point. We're all monsters. I get so sick of your kind trying to single me out." The tension continued rising inside him, making him snappish.

His frustration burst out again as he tried to make sense of things. "So I'll ask you, Petrelli. Why should I explain anything when what I say won't change you or your opinion if you 'need to understand me'? If I cried and told you a sob story or tried to be the hero, would that change anything? Why would you think your opinion matters more than mine?"

XXX

"My opinion of you _has_ changed," Peter said grouchily. "If nothing else, I'm able to have a conversation like this with you without punching you in the nose." He added bitchily, "So far." He opened the glass door to the Pegasus, offering Sylar entry into the vestibule, then followed him in. As they moved on to the lobby, Peter said, "Our opinions matter to each of us more than anyone else's. That's how opinions work – we both think we're right. The trick is not to get hung up on it. So, tell me what matters to you. You mentioned that before – what you think matters." He stopped at the doorway to the rec room, where the Monopoly game was still strewn across the floor. Peter glanced at it, but mainly looked at Sylar.

XXX

_That's fair enough,_ Sylar determined glumly, choosing to ignore any subtext with allowing the door to be opened for him. _Either I think his opinion matters more than it does, more than mine, or…he thinks his opinion matters more than mine._ He pondered that with seriousness, honestly considering that he might be psyching himself out more than necessary. There was no way to prove it one way or other _. It's one of those ironic, anecdotal jokes people laugh about later._ Similarly, Sylar paused when Peter did, meeting the man's eyes after the pointed notice of the mess he was blamed for (and commanded to clean up). _In my family, those looks would mean more. With Peter…I don't think he means anything more by it._ He let it rest to take note of further reactions but there seemed to be none.

He still had Peter's attention, though the last parts of the conversation threw him off-balance. His mouth opened and shut as he blinked. Surprised or not, even after a minor self pep talk about not being paranoid, he was very wary of the opening so soon after talking about life being a game. _That's usually part of the game. Is this part of the game?_ he worried. Frowning at Peter for a moment, head tilted, he said slowly, with some sadness, "I…hardly know anymore. /I don't know who I am without you./ Whether I like it or not, you seem to matter." He added truthfully, if somewhat begrudgingly. A few seconds of further thought led him to talk, no matter how pointless it was to speak any kind of genuine thought, "Cause and effect. Justice, equal punishment, whatever you want to call it. It doesn't exist – at least, it's not equal. It should be. So many people get away with…horrible things and there should be equal consequences. Abilities…make some people special. That should…matter. We should have the power to change things, really change things." He concluded in a hopeless tone, angered on the inside.

XXX

Peter winced at Sylar blithely stealing Nathan's words and using them for his own purpose. The man didn't even seem to notice what he'd done this time. For Peter, he flashed to the memory so strongly he would have thought he was unearthing something he'd taken from Sylar if he hadn't been certain it was his own memory. They were words meant solely for him, said by his brother in a moment of vulnerability and uncertainty when Nathan was asking for help – Peter's help. Now, Peter pressed his lips together. He would have said something, might have, but Sylar's next line disarmed him. The admission that he mattered to Sylar left him standing there befuddled as the man went on to list the concepts he valued. Peter blinked and listened. _They get away with things like you have?_ He opened his mouth to point out how adopting Sylar's 'values' would go very badly for Sylar, then shut it. Sylar's tone was too raw. This wasn't something open to debate. He'd asked a question; Sylar had answered it. The use of Nathan's words seemed entirely unintentional. He took a step closer to Sylar and stretched out his hand to pat the man on the shoulder. "We both want to make a difference. I get that."

With a sober nod, he went on to get his book about Ali, picking his way around the game pieces. _I wonder if he'll clean this up or if I will?_ There wasn't much of his ego invested in trying to force Sylar to do it. _If I have to pick it up, it only proves my point, anyway_. Coming back, he said, "Let's go upstairs. I'm hungry and tired. I don't want to be in here with this." He waved at the mess on the floor and headed to the elevator.

XXX

His brows pinched for a moment in a frown he quickly covered. _We're not talking about the same thing at all,_ Sylar knew instantly. There was no way Peter would approach him in a congratulatory, conciliatory manner on the topic of any of Sylar's true motives and goals, not if the empath understood them. It came and went before he could plan if he should correct the misunderstanding or make use of it. In addition, he was confused about Peter going into the mess of the rec room. So he watched from the hall, awaiting some kind of lecture or reminder about 'his' mess, which never came – Peter only retrieved his book, meaning Sylar's were still there (not that he expected Peter to bring it). He looked after his books for a second as he followed Peter to the elevator.

Sylar accepted the sentiment for what it was worth. Peter didn't understand (how could he with so little to go on?) Sylar himself didn't know what he meant, only what he was trying to get across. It wasn't like he'd ever given much thought on how to communicate what he thought or felt, even if he had thought (and felt) on it often, alone, about how or where he'd gone wrong. It came out...blurry, as if his ability was retroactively affecting his thinking. _Does he think I'm something of a hero? That's impossible. I know he's trying to get me to act like one. But that's not what I am and his goals aren't...real._ Worn out himself after so much mood swinging, he sighed in agreement.

XXX

"I heard what you said earlier about most people having made your life awful. That sucks." He waited a moment as the elevator ascended. "Is that where the consequences thing comes in? Do you think," he said slowly, "that you were given abilities so you could set things straight?" _It doesn't match up with how many people he killed whom he didn't know. Claire hadn't done anything to him, for example. But maybe he'd justify all that by saying he had to collect the powers so he would be able to make the difference in the world that he wanted to see._ Peter's face was sour. _It's still revenge-thinking. And wrong. It tells me where he's coming from, though._

XXX

_It only sucks for me,_ Sylar thought, _Otherwise he thinks the things done to me were the 'right things to do.'_ But he accepted that as much as he could. It did help in a small, quiet way, deep on the inside. Sylar himself didn't know what he meant, only what he was trying to get across. It wasn't like he'd ever given much thought on how to communicate what he thought or felt, even if he had thought (and felt) on it often, alone, about how or where he'd gone wrong. It came out...blurry, as if his ability was retroactively affecting his thinking _. Does he think I'm something of a hero? That's impossible. I know he's trying to get me to act like one. But that's not what I am and his goals aren't...real._

"I'd like to say yes." He met Peter's eyes briefly. "I only have my original ability, the rest were...acquired." Sylar gave another cautious glance. Peter didn't appear pleased or angry either way. He didn't mention the abilities that could be described as 'given.' "To say I was 'given' abilities implies a plan or greater force at work. I don't think any God or universe would allow someone like me the power to avenge myself in any way." Sylar shrugged. "Maybe it was an accident. A lot of things...seem that way. Just a horrible, ironic accident. It's all a game, or maybe like a test in this case. All the same, I made an impact, like you said before, but if it did come from something bigger maybe..." His voice quit ahead so it didn't tremble. "Maybe that's why I developed abilities. I was just supposed to be the demon to everyone else's angels."

Warily, but curious, he opened the floor, in general, to the topic as the elevator rose, "What do you think?" He had some confirmed information and others just theories about Peter Petrelli's opinions on this, Sylar, or himself.

XXX

"About what?"

XXX

"Any of it, whatever."

XXX

Peter huffed a single laugh as the doors dinged and opened. _Well, that's definitely broad._ "I believe in God, but not one who wants any of His people to be evil. I try to believe that people can't be evil – just their actions." _And then there's Mom._ He shook his head at the thought as they entered the apartment. After taking off his coat and gear, he tossed his book on the counter on his way into the kitchen. "I'm going to make tomato soup. Want some?" He got out the can and a pan, trying to remember where that electric can opener was that Sylar had used before. "Wasn't there a can opener around here somewhere?" He didn't want to dip his head to look under the cabinets because his neck had stiffened up again on the walk back.

XXX

Sylar quirked an eyebrow unseen, tilting his head. _I suppose that's a fair assessment, assuming there is a God._ "Hmm," he hummed an affirmative, entering the kitchen himself with the idea of being helpful (or just close – he was loath to be separated or distanced after the…proximity of earlier). _Fights and getting off gives me the munchies._ "Yeah, third drawer there," he pointed, coming up nearly alongside Peter to do it.

XXX

"Thanks." Peter opened the indicated drawer, removing and plugging in the device. Once the can was open, he continued talking. "If you're asking what matters to me – people matter. Lives. Quality of life. Dignity. Freedom, I guess, maybe?" He shrugged, pouring the soup into the pan and scraping the can clean with a tablespoon. "That last is pretty important, but if you have all the ones before it, I don't think it matters as much. Oh, wait! A better way to say what I mean is 'free will'. You have to be able to make your own decisions. Or at least, a person does. Or maybe..." He gestured ambivalently, "that's what matters to me."

He gave Sylar a single, lofted brow. "As far as justice goes, I've never seen it." If he sounded bitter, it was because he was. "People don't get what they 'deserve'. Nothing's 'right'." With the pan heating on the stove, Peter turned to lean against the counter, facing Sylar. "I try, but..." He glanced away and continued in a low voice that wasn't harsh anymore, "It gets confusing. I don't know what's right or wrong sometimes. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. The only thing that makes sense is when I focus on people. When I was making their lives better, that's when I felt like I was doing the right thing. That's when it felt like...I was okay."

He looked back at Sylar, thinking over the lion and gazelle analogies. _I wonder if he's ever genuinely helped someone. Saved their life, sure. But there's something different to helping and having it recognized._ That sort of thing filled a void inside for Peter. It gave him strength and made him feel right with the world and with himself. _It's like he doesn't have that. Is that why I'm cleaning things up and he's complaining about them? He wants things fixed, but he doesn't fix them. Is it that he doesn't feel appreciated?_ Peter turned back to stir the soup. "I think this is about done. Could you get out some bread or crackers?"

XXX

Sylar gave something of an extremely tight grin bordering on a grimace, seeing the folly of his general question – Peter could go anywhere he liked with 'deserved' and 'justice.' For a moment, he was sure that's where it was headed but…Peter kept it personal. In a way, it embittered Sylar further that Peter, an almost all-around good guy, didn't see or receive justice either, despite both their efforts. His own affairs were one thing, Peter's were different and considerably more worthy, but there was literally no justice in that, no fairness, no hope.. He noticed a new tone, since he'd somewhat accidentally given Peter the idea that he was some kind of freedom fighter. It was like Peter had accepted him as one of his own and while Sylar enjoyed it greatly, reveling in it, he wondered if he should set the record straight before it was probably found out to the detriment of, well, getting laid, or if he could really fool Peter about his most mysterious, darkest motives. _Bread?_ He thought, back in the now, _Just bread?_ They'd both had crackers before, with cheese and soup, so he fetched saltines for himself and Ritz for Peter, bringing over bowls and spoons.

XXX

Peter crunched up a few of the round crackers in his soup, then topped it with several unbroken ones. He licked the crumbs off his fingers – salty, buttery goodness – and then felt around his teeth. In the fight, Sylar had popped him just a little to the side of his mouth. Everything was where it should be and his lip wasn't even split, but his canine and lateral incisor were sore and the slightest bit loose. He sucked gently at them after removing his fingers. Rude as it was to do (both the finger-licking and the self-examination), he figured if it bothered Sylar, then the man could simply stop hitting him. That didn't seem likely. Peter was starting to understand that Sylar picked fights, if not deliberately, then at least semi-predictably as some kind of emotional outlet.

"Thank you for telling me what you think about things. I appreciate that. It's good to hear."

XXX

Sylar muttered something dissentious but didn't push his disbelief. He couldn't imagine what kind of worth Peter placed on his opinion. _It's a joke, right? Because I said it's a game, so that makes this a joke._ Pushing at his soup to cool it, he said, "It's not what you think, Petrelli. Don't get me confused with what you want; I don't save people. I'm not a hero. I just…have big goals that aren't entirely self-centered." He shrugged. He didn't want Peter looking at him like some pathetic, misunderstood puppy. Or, hell, probably not even as a human being, which Peter suspiciously seemed to think he – they – were at times. "At least, my goals would have plurisignificance. You haven't approved of any of them in the past, so don't plan to start now."

XXX

He puzzled over Sylar's word choice, but before asking about it, he had to scoff at the more comprehensible things Sylar had said. Raising his first over-warm spoonful and letting it cool, Peter said, "You do too save people. You told me you'd died for some of them." Making a slight gesture with his spoon, he added, "And I know you got me out of Mohinder's lab when that was not what my dad wanted. _Your_ dad, you thought at the time. You were willing to go against him for me." He shrugged and ate his soup. "That's heroic." To head off Sylar's expected denial, he asked, "What's 'plurisignificant' mean?"

XXX

Indeed, Sylar began to make a face to correct his supposed 'heroism.' Not that he didn't think it was a good deed at the least, perhaps even worth remarking on because the rest of his actions usually…weren't so good. _So that's why everyone goes back to trying to kill me right after I save someone,_ he thought with biting sarcasm, but the inquiry came first. "It means 'to have more than one meaning'," and he took up the saltine packet and a breath to revert the topic.

XXX

Before Sylar could go back to being defensive about Peter saying he'd been heroic, Peter went off on an intentional tangent. "'Pluri' – that's a root word for other stuff, like 'plurality' – a bunch of things. 'E pluribus unum' means 'we all stand together', right? Or was it 'the people are many'? Maybe 'the people united'?"

XXX

Sylar paused, stuck between reactions for a moment. "Unum is 'one'." He was sure of that much. His eyes gained a far-away look as he mentally attacked the presented question. He knew he knew more than he could recall between himself and the well-educated Senator Petrelli. "One from…many, isn't it? On the Seal of the United States…Yeah." He saw it in his mind's eye, confirming his answer to his delight. His focus returned to Peter, who'd only asked about the most complicated language. The plastic of the crackers was ripped open with gusto as he felt better for having remembered/solved something Peter needed help with and now he could apply the crackers to his soup. Win-win.

XXX

"Cool. What were your goals – the ones you said would be…pluri-signif-icant?" He said the word carefully, like he was repeating an unfamiliar, foreign name and wanted to get it right. _That's probably not something he wants to tell me._ With a polite, respectful tone, he added, "If I may ask?"

XXX

Sylar grit his teeth and this time did make a knowing face. _That was smooth. Very clever, Petrelli,_ he granted because he'd fallen for every bit of the lead-in. But it wasn't as bad as he initially thought – Peter limited the response to only plurisignificant goals, which was more tolerable and not so directly personal. "Becoming president was one of them," his expression darkened as he added for clarity, "not a senator. _President_." Then, proud of the idea (as if it were his own) and his qualifications, he preened, "No one can fix things like I can. I obviously don't like corrupt entities, so I don't think I'd suck at the job. Or abuse it. Too badly," Sylar conceded with sideways bob of his head and something of a smirk.

XXX

"So you intended to kill the president after all." Not that it was much in question. Peter's certainty that was Sylar's endgame had been some of his fuel in confronting him at the Stanton – saving the president's life being one part of it, along with fear of what someone as unscrupulous and murderous as Sylar would do with such power once he had it, and then there was no small part (probably the majority, if truth be told) of Peter's motivation had been to protect his brother's reputation and the implied threat to his life that Sylar taking his form constituted. Ironic, then, that the attack had caused Nathan's death, but self-defense was only undertaken in the face of danger.

"A lot of people have tried that over the years – getting rid of corruption, being part of the solution instead of the problem. Why do you think you'd have been better at it than everyone else? Do you think abilities would have helped that much?" _Or is it that you just haven't thought about it?_ That seemed likeliest. Peter had grown up with power and seen the easy abuses of it. "My dad had a lot of abilities. He was pretty good at control – I'd say if your thing is 'fixing', then his was 'controlling'. It didn't work out too well for him. What makes you different?"

XXX

Sylar gave something of a shrug about the first part. He wasn't going to go into the fine details that went into the decision to kill someone, even the president. Sipping his soup, he listened to the rest. It was a fair point. "It's not just the abilities. My ability is knowing how things work, and, yes, I need shapeshifting for some of it, to maintain the illusion," he waved a hand at the outside. That was an unsavory necessity, pretending to be someone else. Sylar licked his lips, "I guess I'm different – or my brain is. Control is wanting to take over the world and have everything your way. Fixing is…making something run properly, the way it was meant to run, just so it isn't broken. I don't want to take over the world even though I'd enjoy the challenge and I might do it one day if I get bored. I control things, too. I don't deny there would be a few underhanded things I'd like to do here and here." A brief smirk preceded smashing his crackers up in the soup, focusing on that for a moment. "If I don't fix things, then I'm just a killer and everything I've done selfish and wasteful. There's a process. I see the pieces and how they fit together, so I should fix what everyone else can't. Fixing things is…my purpose. Just…work smarter, not harder, you know?" Sylar narrowed his eyes as he looked to Peter, pleased that he'd explained himself in a way that made sense this time.

XXX

Peter tilted his head. Ordinarily, he would have assumed Sylar was being self-serving or perhaps just lying to himself about his intentions and the fine distinction between controlling and fixing. But Peter had had that ability and there was...something to what Sylar was saying. Peter also had his own ability to reflect on and the subtle ways he suspected it influenced and was influenced by his feelings and goals. Abilities did not do ordinary things. "Okay," he said slowly, giving Sylar's answer due credit as he thought it over. _What if he's right? What if I got the message to 'Save the cheerleader,' while he got one to 'kill the president'? Hm, what was it Claire said about not wanting to shoot me? 'The universe cannot be that lame.'_

XXX

"Were you implying that I'm like /Da-/ him, Arthur? You don't think I could- should do it? Because I'm 'dangerous'," Sylar suggested with some disbelieving sarcasm. He didn't understand the reference to Arthur – why bring him up? _Maybe he's Peter's idea of 'what not to do.'_

XXX

His musing was interrupted by Sylar's questions. Peter snorted. "Claude told me, some years ago, that 'Everyone's like the rest. That's why they're the rest.' He was wrong. No one is like anyone else if you really get to know them. Like you. You had a lot of abilities; my dad had a lot of abilities. But it's what you do with them that makes the difference." Peter tilted his head again, regarding Sylar contemplatively over his soup. "I don't think you're going down the same road as he did." He pursed his lips and took a few spoonfuls of his meal. "I was thinking about what you said, and what it meant if you were right." Peter frowned at the thought. Slowly, he asked, "Are you saying that killing people who haven't done anything to you is required to make things right in the world?"

XXX

Strangely enough, he agreed with that. In many ways, what one did with one's abilities made all the difference. Hell, that was practically Sylar's entire argument for depriving specials of life and powers. He was more amused that Peter thought he was different than Arthur – not necessarily better or worse, merely ambiguously 'different.' _I bet he's waiting to see how I turn out._ It certainly explained plenty about Peter's views and behaviors. _He couldn't pacify Arthur with peaceful protests, so he'll try that again with me._ Yet part of him wished Petrelli wouldn't be so peaceful with him. Sylar simplified it in his head, _Does might makes right? Do the ends justify the means?_ "There's…a lot to it. I think…that's the way it turned out," he frowned, sounding too unsure to his own ears. "If Chandra or anyone else had treated me differently, maybe abilities wouldn't have been such a big deal in the first place, but that's just playing the 'what-if' game. I think sometimes there are goals that are bigger than us otherwise everything is just chaos. And I don't think anyone will deny that I'm useful specifically because I've killed people for their abilities. I really don't hear that hypocrisy mentioned…ever. Not to mention the part where _you,_ " he extended a finger from his spoon to point at Peter, "imbibe in the 'killing someone for the greater good' routine. For all I know, that concept is tempting to every human, and with greater power comes greater temptation."

XXX

Peter shifted in his seat and glared reproachfully at the pointed finger. His dislike of it was clear on his face until Sylar ended the gesture in order to continue eating. Then his brows knit with concentration as he made a study of what Sylar had to tell him. "When did I kill someone for the greater good? Do you mean when I was going to have Claire shoot me?" _I don't think he meant things that involved my own death. He probably means his._ Peter straightened a little. "Or when Nathan and I tried to stop you at the Stanton Hotel?" _Or Arthur. Oh, yeah. That counts_.

XXX

A simple stare, watching the other man was his only reply. _He should know why he killed or even why he attacked other people. He's not so holy that he only has the one motive that covers everything he does. I'll let you figure it out, Petrelli._ Sylar didn't even entertain the idea that Peter did violence only for the greater good (or whatever bullshit he used as an excuse).

XXX

He looked away guiltily, muttering although it was still intelligible, "I don't think killing my dad was strictly about the 'greater good'. I mean, yeah, it sort of was, but that probably wasn't…my only reason." He kept his head down. Killing (or attempting to kill) one's parents was in no way noble or right, even if one's father was someone like Arthur Petrelli. Sometimes he felt he'd done the only thing he could have done. Other times he felt he hadn't looked hard enough for other solutions, and that when presented with the option of murder he should have simply walked away. That would have been the right thing to do. But angry about…everything, Peter had taken the gun. He went back to eating his soup, scraping at the bottom of the bowl noisily enough that he stopped after one spoonful and carried his dishes to the sink for rinsing.

XXX

Sylar hadn't been looking for bullet points, explanations, or even a breakdown of the events. Although, Peter's guilty conscience was offering, so…He scoffed and sneered. _(We've both killed a parent). And he thinks he's some hardened murderer because he killed a guy who probably had it coming. Oh, the horror._ "I'll pretend to be shocked: Peter Petrelli has other motives for murder. We're not so different after all," he added ruefully, intending it in a cutting way. "You heroes just make my points for me." A tilt of his head signaled a new, even less pleasant thought. "So that means you had other motives for wanting me dead all those years, especially after…him, after trying to turn me into him, not just the 'save the world' bit."

XXX

Peter's spine stiffened. Again, some concession that he'd screwed up in his life was being met by sarcasm and dismissal, not meeting Sylar's dubious standards. The rejection from a few days prior was still smarting way too much for him to let this pass. From where he stood at the sink, Peter reached over and drew the soup pan to him. With a slow and tense delivery, he ordered, "Get it straight - I never wanted you dead _until_ him." Still not looking back at Sylar, he continued, "You weren't that important. I wasn't gunning for you until you came after my family. You want my other motives for murder?" He looked back now, face and voice hard. Sylar had pivoted in his chair to watch him and was sipping his remaining soup with an obnoxiously innocent expression. "That will work – every time." _Like I've ever cared about what he was doing? For years? Asshole. He wasn't even on my fucking radar! Self-absorbed. He's jumping on the chance to say we have common ground. Over murder! I haven't killed people because it was convenient! Or for power or whatever. Hunger._ He shook his head, taking his wrath out on the bits of soup that had scorched to the bottom of the pan.

XXX

Sylar refused to believe that, at least the part about not being important. _He always came after me and fucked up my plans. (Probably because I did go for his family)._ The relevance of his (lack of) knowledge of his targets being related or even that they were behind his imprisonment and torture at Primatech was a rather feeble excuse. Then there was the whole murky issue of Claire at Odessa being family and who knew that at that point in time. _Of course, that's my fault. I just messed with the wrong fucked up mafia house?_ Peter was being insulting but Sylar didn't necessarily want to open that can of worms (especially if he was likely to lose). He prowled into the kitchen with the excuse of dropping off his dishes, but intending to do get in Peter's space because he wanted to and he could do it.

XXX

Peter heard and almost felt Sylar walk up next to him. He knew he'd just thrown insults and an implied threat at the man. Retaliation seemed imminent, so he tensed further and stood his ground. His hand tightened around the handle of the pan. His hairs prickled at the warmth of Sylar's body and his already roused emotions surged. Without moving an inch from the shoulders down, he turned his head enough to meet Sylar's eyes. One lip curled slightly.

XXX

Wearing another guiltless look, he brushed Peter in the process of setting his bowl in the sink. He could practically smell the other man's tension. Sylar gave a tight grin, "You see my point, though. Killing people is…complicated." With that, he moved back a half step, aiming to defuse Peter.

XXX

Peter snorted disdainfully as Sylar moved away. "It's not complicated – it's wrong! No matter who, or why!" A host of exceptions and circumstances wanted to war with his morals. He ignored it. Staying focused on Sylar was more important.

XXX

Sylar's face showed something, briefly, like a grimace. Even that assertion, such a simple comment, was complicated. _Killing some people is just…less wrong than others. I think he might even agree with that, on the inside maybe. At least he's consistent. He holds himself to the same standards. Mostly._ Poor Peter lived inside his precious comic books where everything was black and white. _Now I have to live the way he thinks life is. (He'll never understand anything)._ He tactically reorganized in the face of despair. Walking toward the hall and bathroom, he said over his shoulder, "It's time for bed." That was before he slipped his shirt off over his head just for show.

XXX

Peter sighed angrily and looked at the wall in front of him instead of at his infuriating companion. _Does he do that on purpose – get me angry and then pretend everything's cool? (Yes, of course he does. The 'picking fights' thing? Duh.) Should I stop falling for it?_ He was unsure on that. It meant, or it felt like it meant, giving up on some things Peter thought he should always defend. _I could make it too expensive for him to poke at me like that. But I'm not sure I want to do that, either._ Finished with the dishes (including Sylar's), he turned back. It felt too early in the day for bed, but he was tired, and while sleeping, Sylar was unlikely to keep annoying him. _Tomorrow will be another day. He'll be rested. He might not have had any decent sleep for days. Maybe that's why he's trying to start something. (That, and I totally kicked his ass earlier.)_ A ghost of a smile went over Peter's face and he left the kitchen. "Sure. It's bedtime," he said tensely.

XXX

They both readied for sleep and regrouped in pajamas in bed. Peter faced away from him without a word or touch. Sylar huffed and sighed but lay down to sleep, facing Peter.


	119. Wooden Spoons

Day 67, February 15, Morning

Peter woke to the sensation of being held. That wasn't what had woken him, though. The thing that had brought him out of blissful somnolence was the rod-like pressure against his left buttock and tailbone. He was vaguely aware that much earlier, he'd been having a nightmare. His mother had replaced his body and he was left with the issue of what to do with the old one. It was a headless corpse with the top of the spine missing and the chest cavity open from the back (because apparently the 'transplant' had involved his heart and backbone as well as his mind). He remembered that he'd been trying to talk and failing because the new body wasn't acclimated to him yet, when his bed partner had rolled over and hugged him from behind. It had calmed him. The nightmare had peacefully drifted away as he bathed in the warmth and comfort of another's embrace.

Another slow, gradual, almost sneaking shift of Sylar's hips brought him back to why he'd stirred. Oh yes, the boner. Sylar's boner. _Huh? Him?_ He laid his hand over Sylar's, snugly situated across his stomach, holding him close. Sylar's arm. _That was him – not just a dream earlier_. He was sorry about that. It made it harder to do what he knew he had to do, which was get up and get away. He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he just stayed here – would Sylar have an emission and remain asleep, so Peter could absorb just a little more of this? It was full-body contact. There was nothing bashful about it. Sylar's body wrapped his from behind from their tangled ankles all the way to where Sylar's face pressed against his shoulder. And of course in the middle, pressed hard and hot through Sylar's pajamas and Peter's boxers, was the man's erection. Sylar's occasional quiet sigh was accompanied by a furtive clenching of the arm across Peter's belly and a roll of the hips against his ass. It was so slight as to be only barely visible unless you were the one being frotted. Another thought, less brief, came to Peter's mind on the subject of simply staying here and pretending sleep. It seemed almost believable that he could say he hadn't known what was going on.

_That's wrong. On so many levels. (He's asleep; he doesn't mean it; he's not consenting; I'm awake enough to know better now; I'm not having sex with him and that's what this is; and what the hell would I do if he woke up in the middle of it or after and realized I wasn't asleep?!)_ He untwined his feet and tried to slide out of bed. Sylar gripped him more securely around the waist, pressing his forehead and the bridge of his nose against Peter's shoulder. He might have muttered something, but he definitely didn't seem oriented.

"Sylar!" Peter said loudly and firmly enough to wake anyone not actually unconscious. "Sylar. Let me go." He tugged at the wrist of the hand around his waist.

XXX

Sylar faded in and out of dreams, though some were nightmares. His mind kept wandering between delight and shame at what he thought was a fantasy, of holding someone skintight and slowly pleasuring himself against them. It was a delicious new experience, rare even for a dream and he could feel with clarity how hard it made him. Something about it was very wrong, he knew, but he kept pushing it aside, delaying the repercussions for just a little longer. It was something about the person he held: was it a man or a child? Was he…forcing them? Were the two of them related? Was the person dead? That was a common paranoia. If people thought he ate brains, what other evils did they think he committed with the dead? The body he held was very warm, dry, and seemingly whole – it even smelled nice, but for a long time there was no movement from the other. Obviously he shouldn't be holding them, whoever it was, anyway. Taking comfort, in this manner especially, was always wrong and he didn't want someone to walk in...The dream shifted to a nightmare as did the body, struggling against him. Sylar longed to protest that he wasn't doing any harm, that what he was doing was normal in some way, but his throat was clenched too tight for words. Besides, how could he explain any of this?

Then there was a loud noise that started him awake with a jerk, less than a second later identifying it as his name from an unmistakable voice. His hand around the body instinctively clasped, then, as he came to full consciousness, pumped full of adrenaline, reversed course entirely. Something like, _What am I doing this close to anyone?_ (never mind that it had occurred during sleep) flashed through his head as he bodily shoved himself away as an act of self-preservation, also an instinct. Sylar breathed hard, eyes wide for the moment, and felt his dick throbbing below. It had been real, this unforgivable, disgraceful lack of control which was and was not his fault.

Sylar knew all Hell was about to break loose and nothing would ever be the same again, which was horrible enough, but there he lay, twisted up in his own sweatpants and the sheets, with a desperate erection, embarrassed and upset with himself. _I've never slept with anyone before. I've never even had that dream (nightmare?) before. Where did that come from? Why would I do that?_ He clutched at his groin, his body so alert and still so indecently turned on despite his sore back, as he tried to fix his face. _I tried to- I almost asked him what would happen if I did something…on accident, but there are no accidents. I don't make mistakes. He can't prove innocence here alone. He said he wouldn't sleep near me if I…_ He met Peter's eyes when the man turned around, though he would have gladly crawled under a rock to live there. Sylar waited a few beats to come up with something vaguely appropriate to say and attempt to read Peter's mood (or fist) in the off chance he didn't need some witty brush-off.

XXX

Peter rose from the bed. He eyed Sylar sharply, expression hardening, because how Peter took all of this depended on what Sylar's intentions had been. Even if those had been innocent, then how the man played it off was important. Peter could see that he looked overwhelmingly guilty, but that could just as much be guilt at getting caught molesting his bedmate as guilt over doing it. The first only meant Sylar was in fear of the consequences (and that Peter should make sure there were strong ones). The second meant there was no point in retaliation – Sylar already knew he shouldn't have done it. At least he wasn't smirking. That helped. Blunt and direct, Peter asked, "Did you do that on purpose? Were you awake for it, aware of what you were doing?" It seemed just possible the man had been awake for the whole thing, trying to pull one over on Peter when his defenses were down.

XXX

Sylar was just as lost how to answer for himself, surprised too, that Peter wasn't beating the shit out of him. _That has to be some kind of trick question._ "I like to think if I did something like that on purpose, I'd be a lot happier about it. If you know what I mean," he said with an edge as soon as he'd thought of it, gesturing to his lower half. He felt like he was lying on a bed of nails (and he might be literally very soon, which only upped his tension). _How sick do you have to be, when you wake up to find yourself humping the enemy and that's better than the dead body you were_ _(sort of)_ _dreaming about? I'm not telling him about that. My dick isn't supposed to get me in trouble. I'm not a Petrelli._

XXX

Peter cocked his head. More than Sylar's words, he was assessing body language and expression, tone of voice and tension. Sylar was not happy. That was clear. There was no mocking dominance lurking behind his façade. He wasn't waiting for Peter to walk a safe distance away before spouting some perverted version of how he was getting revenge on the Petrellis, or gloating about how Peter was not only playing Monopoly and looking after Sylar, but also tolerating the man using him as a sex toy. He seemed as genuinely embarrassed as Peter thought he should be. As well, he seemed afraid, still clutching, covering, or keeping at least one hand near his groin like he thought Peter might try to dick punch him or exact some other retribution. Revenge was not what Peter was about. Especially not for something so petty in the grand scheme of things. He had far bigger things to be angry at Sylar about. Inappropriately placed morning wood didn't compare. He looked away and shrugged, trying to make the motion relaxed. "It doesn't count then. It doesn't have to be a big deal." He looked back. "I'm not hurt by...what happened. I can go back to sleeping on top of the covers." Not that he wanted to. If he were honest with himself, being held like that had been so nice that…he couldn't let himself think that. It was too tempting and too wrong to allow.

XXX

Sylar could only stare at Peter like he'd suddenly decided to speak in tongues. _Not a big deal. Doesn't count. He's not hurt. He'll still sleep with me? It's not a big deal, like my dick isn't to size? No, he supposedly doesn't care about that. Not a big deal like…he's used to that? Or…he liked it?_ He still hadn't moved from his rushed repositioning and his erection was only now deflating somewhat. A breathless, humorless chuckle slipped out of him. "N-" he began, "You…On top of the covers?" he asked incredulously. Sylar could easily grasp the concept of his wants being purposefully ignored, but the part where his screw up went unpunished, when punishment had been explicit… _Or maybe he's counting on me fucking up something else so he can punish me._

XXX

Peter raised his brows briefly and tipped his head in an ambivalent motion. "We're supposed to be safe in bed. Remember?" Telegraphing his action, he reached out to touch Sylar's shoulder, trying to show him nothing bad was in the offing. If Peter stayed on top of the covers, it was just to keep them both safe. _I'm an adult. Nothing happened. It's the same as what I did a month or so ago to him when he crawled in bed with me. I even told him I might do it again, accidentally, if we slept together again. He was fine with that. So now it's him doing it. It's still okay. We can just…work around it._ "That applies to both of us. This doesn't have to change anything." He let his hand fall away and headed off to the bathroom, more to give Sylar space than because he had any urgent needs.

XXX

Of course Peter took the bathroom first. _I don't think he enjoyed it enough to get hard over it._ It still left Sylar with confusion and lingering arousal. _I get my dick on him and I'm asleep so I can't remember it._ The dream portion was fading but the sensations remained – his shaft against the man, dickhead poking at him, arm wrapped around him, bodily pressed to him, smelling him. It was almost an invitation to do it again, since Peter wasn't punishing him (yet). Perhaps it was some subtle message of what Peter wanted or would tolerate. _More likely he finds me completely pathetic._ Sylar stayed put out of laziness and because he'd awoken the bruise on his back with his hasty retreat earlier. That wouldn't keep him in bed all day but he had nothing else to do until he could have the bathroom.

XXX

He didn't stay in the bathroom long – only enough to empty his bladder, get a drink, rinse out his mouth, and wash his hands. He came out with no stealth so only the most inattentive would be surprised (in case Sylar was…busy, which Peter would have found both rude and flattering, and both kinky and gross to do in a bed they shared). Sylar was just lying there, neither surprised nor interrupted. It was unlike him to remain abed when Peter was up, but the morning hadn't started like any other morning. Peter perched on the edge of the bed on Sylar's side, Sylar being more-or-less in the middle, having previously been spooning Peter on Peter's side. The two of them simply looked at each other for a moment. Peter broke the silence before it could get too uncomfortable. "What are you thinking?"

XXX

Sylar turned over to observe Peter walking over. He didn't know what to make of the sitting on the bed, with him, on his side of it. _Is this the punishment? Or at least, the lecture?_ It didn't look like it, either way it didn't make sense. Neither did the question, of course. _What am I thinking?_ he thought to clarify to Peter because it was a strange question; then, _What am I thinking?_ to himself. He supposed his reply should be something contrite, to show that he'd learned his lesson (without any punishment; how was that possible?) So he said something that wasn't exactly the truth because he felt he had to explain his second lapse – staying abed. It still boiled down to being and feeling rejected because he'd wanted to finish so badly. "Oh, you know…It's just my back." This was said softly with a light tone.

XXX

Peter didn't buy it. Not that he doubted the soreness of Sylar's back (his own shoulder, neck, and arms ached and begged for a good stretch and maybe even a workout to get them back in order), but it wasn't the real reason Sylar was still in bed. Nor were physical woes what he thought was on Sylar's mind. He suspected Sylar was afraid of how Peter would respond to waking up to being used like that. _How do I say I didn't mind without sounding like I want it again? (What if I do want it again?)_ It made him restless just to think about – his desire, Sylar's desire, the rubdown(s) of the day before, getting off in the shower and how innocently good it had felt to have Sylar rub tiger balm into his achy shoulder and upper back later. _It wasn't a big deal,_ he tried to tell himself. _None of it was. We didn't do…much. We didn't do anything wrong. He didn't, I didn't, do anything wrong this morning. How do I show him that's okay?_

He reached out to touch Sylar's shoulder again, like he had before he went to the bathroom, and he reached just as carefully as he had earlier. As before, Sylar did not stop him, brush him off, or seem to resent the touch. Peter very much wanted to touch him. He'd enjoyed waking up with someone holding him so close. Even though he couldn't allow that (probably) in future, there were other things he could do. "Roll over on your stomach and I'll rub your back." It was mid-way between an offer and an order. His desire was starting to outstrip his scruples.

XXX

Sylar accepted the contact because there seemed nothing else to do about it. Every action from Peter only added to the tornado of confusion. _H_ _e can touch me when he likes; that's okay of course_ _._ He paused at the order, sure he'd misheard it. His back could use it there was no doubt, but this seemed far too good to be true. Was it another trick? _Is he going to fuck me now?_ At last, something that logically connected to the situation. It took Sylar less than a second to check his own reaction, deciding that if this was punishment it seemed fair (Peter wanted to express dominance and get off), not to mention that Sylar had incited it, invited it, and he certainly wasn't able to back out of it. He rolled over, more tense than he'd been a few moments ago and also entering a mental fugue, his awareness shrinking, disassociating from his inevitable reality. Fucking this man wasn't…a turn on. Peter wanted him turned into someone else, wanted him dead, and the brother angle was lingering, though the idea of fucking a willing Petrelli would be an evil achievement and that didn't mean Peter might not do something rough and arousing on accident. Once he was in position, Peter commanded him to take his shirt off, so he propped up to obey.

XXX

Peter looked at the gorgeous, bare back laid out before him, only slightly marred by the darkening bruise and carpet rash. Sylar smelled of sleep – that relaxing, comforting, lovely bed-scent that spoke to Peter of warmth and safety, of having someone want him and want to spend time with him. It was intensely pleasurable without necessarily being sexual. He hadn't fully connected Sylar's desire to sleep with him with the idea the man might actually want to be near him, with him. He wasn't sure that was accurate even now – why _would_ Sylar put up with him, if Sylar had any other options, if he wasn't so starved for human contact by years of perceived aloneness? It was depressing that it took so much torment for Peter to be worth more to Sylar alive than dead. It was worse that Peter was desperate enough in turn to find hope in Sylar's…tolerance.

He leaned forward and took the bottle of unscented lotion off the nightstand, where it had been sitting prominently since their weird joint shopping trip. Sylar had picked it with the obvious implication that he (and/or Peter) would masturbate with it. Peter smiled slightly and squirted a liberal amount into his palm. Replacing the bottle, he set his other palm over the gel and warmed it while he looked over Sylar's body again. It was nice. From the back, Sylar wasn't looking at him, judging him, taunting him. From behind, he was vulnerable and Peter could help.

Peter put his hands palm down on either shoulder blade, feeling a familiar tingling stir through his hands and forearms. He was starting to really like that feeling and associate it very directly with Sylar. He made small circles to spread the lotion, then larger ones to get it further out. He breathed in deeply, then out, relaxing as though he were the one getting the massage and not the one giving it. He rolled his shoulders with the motions, working out the kinks he'd woke with. He flexed his hands, too, feeling the knuckles creak (one popped) as the tendons in his hands loosened. He extended himself forward and back, letting the effort roll up his spine, getting the stretch he'd known he needed. His hands gripped and released, changing points of pressure from fingers to palm and then to the heel of his hands. He let his left hand take over where his right couldn't yet apply pressure without hurting himself. He confined his attentions to Sylar's deltoids, shoulders, and upper back, working every inch of them thoroughly and attending to every knot of tension he found, which were plentiful and stubborn. Lower on Sylar's back was the bruised and probably tender area where he'd landed. Peter avoided it. And higher…Peter thought Sylar didn't want him touching his head, but Peter's reluctance was more for the level of intimacy implied by putting his hands in the man's hair, which reached well down his neck. Too, the lotion wouldn't agree with hair. Fortunately, Sylar's upper back was fairly hairless. His lower back was the opposite, and quite tempting, but Peter stayed to the area he'd assigned himself. Sensual, he could allow. Sexual…he wasn't supposed to.

XXX

At first it was difficult to keep up his state of tension when hands were actively trying to rid him of it with specific purpose. _I wonder if that makes for a better fuck somehow_ , he considered briefly. More likely this was intended as a mind fuck. Either way, there seemed no point in hating the experience while he had it. Sylar sighed, coming back to himself more for the moment. He allowed himself a forbidden fantasy (weren't they always?), that Peter was doing this to make him feel better after yesterday and the screw up today. It warmed him and it helped with mental categorization and emotional soothing.

The presence of lotion ruined everything, a confirmation that he was getting fucked shortly. _Who uses lotion for a massage?! (I didn't get the lotion for that!) It doesn't matter. He can use it for that. I practically told him that he could._ His eyes widened, his breath came fast, and he stiffened, but it all passed in minutes. Through it all, Peter's strong hands worked at him and the addition of the lotion was what he imagined a professional massage must feel like. It was heavenly in the way that good sex might be. Those hands didn't stray anywhere inappropriate or even painful, which was fine with him until he relaxed too far, nearly panting, and his penis beginning to stiffen again. "Oh…" he voiced nearly on accident as he grasped at the sheets, imagining he could feel the heat from Peter's body and breath.

XXX

Peter finally stopped where his hands had started, palm-down over Sylar's shoulder blades. He waited for several breaths, feeling the body under his hands, feeling the shift of Sylar's breathing and more faintly the throb of his heart. Healthy. Strong. Peter shut his eyes and breathed, at peace for the moment and intensely enjoying the stolen moment. His arms burned with unreleased, tingling energy from his fingertips to his brain, but he let that be. Sylar's response had been a long time coming (which had pinged Peter's radar that something wasn't right), but the hands gripping the sheets were an excellent sign the man had enjoyed it. That one syllable he'd had from Sylar had been musical with how genuine it was. "I hope that helped," he said softly, pulling away even if it was like pushing aside a bowl of his favorite ice cream half-finished. He wanted more, but he knew he'd had enough. Further, and he'd get into the 'things I shouldn't be doing' territory of the day before. This was adequate to satisfy his immediate needs. Peter rose from the bed and went in the kitchen to wash his hands. Feeling serene and pleased, he set to making omelets for breakfast with buttered raisin toast on the side.

XXX

By the end of it, Sylar felt completely worked over (in a very good way, except for the erection), his shoulders felt unlocked and full of motion if he ever decided to move. He exhaled aloud, probably not for the first time. _What helped?_ Sylar tried to orient himself to the moment in time. He almost _wanted_ to be fucked, or he felt that it might not be as much of a burden to perform after a massage. _I'm already hard. Is that going to be a problem for him? Then he shouldn't have fucking massaged me._ When Peter rose, Sylar quickly did the same, thumbs in the waist of his sweatpants facing the bed in preparation to strip and bend over…Only to see Peter walking away. He watched with a nearly haunted expression. Sylar felt some urge to emote when the confusion became overwhelming. He escaped to the bathroom, feeling more humiliated than ever. Peter had touched him without price, foregoing the promised punishment for Sylar's lack of control…it was all too much. If he cried when he splashed water on his face, he blamed the water. _What the hell was that?_ It took longer than normal to compose himself but he emerged with his usual perfect appearance. Quietly, keeping his head down, keeping to himself he set up for breakfast with milk and plates and utensils. He wasn't sure if he should express gratitude because he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with anything right now. When they sat with the food, he said, "Thank you." A few bites in, he asked so he didn't blurt out his confusion over the lack of punishment, "Have you done that before? Given someone a massage?" _I know you have. What does it mean?_

XXX

"Yeah," Peter said with more defensiveness than the moment warranted. _Whoa. Check yourself_. A quick scan of Sylar's face and demeanor confirmed there was nothing aggressive directed Peter's way. _I'm out of line_. "Yes," he said much more gently, tone softer. _I gave him one yesterday. But…yeah…okay, maybe he's asking if I'm making a pass at him? He knows what I did after yesterday's massage in the locker room. This morning, with the way we woke up and then me…as soon as I got back from the bathroom, getting all over him. Maybe that's how it seemed to him?_ Sylar was not acting in a way that was normal for him. He was quiet and subdued. Although that had given Peter the psychological space to take the lead, ask for, and do what he wanted, at the same time, there were those brief alarm bells Peter had noticed during the massage to consider. He proceeded carefully, "I've given a lot of massages." Thinking he needed to dispel the idea that it was solely erotic, he added, "In the course of my work - I gave a lot of them to hospice patients. Some people hadn't had anything like that for years." Or ever, which Peter found sad. "Human touch is underrated. It's like a…need. We need it," he said with the slightest stress on 'we'. _I need it, but he does, too. That's what this place is all about – hell for him is a place with no people, no touch, no contact ever of any kind. I don't want this to be hell for either of us._ He watched Sylar carefully, the toast in his hand forgotten for the moment.

XXX

Sylar squinted at his breakfast, frowning for a few seconds before covering it. _There's that 'we' that doesn't mean 'we' again. And that 'human need' thing that doesn't apply to me._ Or did it? Peter was willing to give him a massage only because he thought Sylar 'needed' it. _Only on his terms, where he doesn't feel…pressured. (Or when he doesn't have to look at me or hear me, I'm sure that helps)._ That much synced with other things Peter had said, or done, in the past. It made blessed sense at last! Sylar wasn't sure he was happy with such a non-starter answer to that mystery but it was an answer. Peter made it sound like massages (plural) were a natural part of life and anyone who (Sylar) had never received one was a freak. Hospice patients, though, excluded a sexual motive, which of course, didn't help his confusion. Then there was the part where Sylar had tried to say the same thing before with an attempt to kiss Peter. He decided he didn't really want to talk about it. Irritated and still wound up on the inside, he had to say it, "That really didn't upset you, waking up…like that?"

XXX

Peter pursed his lips and looked away for a moment. He spotted his toast. This seemed like a great time for another bite, so he took one while he thought about the question. When he'd washed down his bite with some milk, he answered, "The first time you got in bed with me, you woke up the same way." He looked away, slowly licking a few stray crumbs off his lip. He reached up and wiped brusquely at the numb patch to make sure it was clean, too. "I had this dream, last night." He glanced down at his eggs, remembering too clearly and too graphically what the inside of his own chest cavity had looked like. Somehow it mixed with the feeling of burning numbness he'd felt when he'd stopped time just a little too late after Jeremy had shot him point blank in the chest. "It was," he swallowed roughly and moved his fork around restlessly, "not a good one." He looked up at Sylar. "I was trying to talk in the dream. I suppose I was making noises in my sleep. I didn't wake up completely, but you hugged me, from behind." He looked up now, breathing out. "I woke a little. Enough to know what was going on but not enough to do anything about it. And I went back to sleep, but the dream was gone. Nightmare," he amended, since it clearly had been. He looked back to Sylar. "How you got there, if I'm remembering right, was innocent. You were trying to help me and you did. When I woke up later, things were…different, but no, it didn't upset me."

Peter was quiet for a moment. "You said a while back that if I got hurt enough that you needed to take care of me, that you'd be kind of rough – 'no balloons and flowers' was what you said. It doesn't have to be that way. When you help people, it usually feels good."

XXX

Of the similarity, Sylar thought, _But that's different._ He remembered the disturbance in the night but it didn't cancel out the inappropriate contact. More importantly, Peter's words were actively darting through his head time and again, 'We're supposed to be safe in bed. That applies to both of us. This doesn't have to change anything.' Sylar couldn't comprehend a designated safe zone like that. _So if I never get out of bed, he won't do anything to me? Ever? Like my feelings count when I'm lying in bed? What if I say I don't want to fuck while I'm in bed?_ _Whose_ _bed is it?_ He didn't think the safe zone outweighed the crime. It demanded to be tested further, both the concept of punishment and of safety. He ate reflectively, not paying as much attention to Peter as he probably should, snapping out of it when he realized he was being quoted on something. He wasn't sure what Peter was getting at exactly. "I'm sure it is nice to help people who need it. People are probably happy to see you when you show up," he said, a bit pointedly in reference to Peter being the friendly hero, not some walking nightmare boogeyman and hinting that he didn't 'need' a massage because he wasn't a pathetic, emotional weakling. Before a taking drink of milk, he added, "All I meant was you don't need balloons and flowers to heal. No one does."

XXX

Peter frowned sharply. _Is he implying he didn't want any of that? (No, he's saying he's not so weak that he needs kindness.) That's dumb. (He's saying he doesn't need_ me _.) That's mean._ "But it's nicer if you get them," he said as though explaining to a five-year-old, and yes, Peter knew it was insulting. He didn't stop there, either. "And about being happy when I show up and wanting me around?" He jerked his chin at Sylar. "You among them." It was a challenge. _Tell me you don't want me here. I dare you. Tell me you didn't want me giving you a rubdown, that you didn't have that erection for_ me _._ Peter stared Sylar down, waiting for an answer.

XXX

Oh, that tone. Nathan had been an expert in ignoring its parental moralizing _. I knew it. I knew it. No punishment then, just humiliating me. What did he say before? 'I won't do anything with the information except try to help you'?_ Sylar acknowledged the cleverness but after the events of earlier he didn't necessarily know what to say. He took quick stock of his options. Saying no outright wasn't smart unless he wanted to endure loneliness by day and by night and possibly another fight; saying yes was dangerous but perhaps not as bad as it usually was to advertise a need. _He already knows. It's not like it isn't obvious. (I don't want to be obvious!_ he worried). _I didn't mean to wake up holding him like that. He just wants to hear that I want to be around him, that I want to fuck him? Yeah right. He wants a pressure point he can exploit. He wants me to say it out loud._ Sylar hated being cornered and forced to capitulate. _(If it wasn't weird for him to wake up with my dick – or to come back and massage me – then maybe it isn't weird if I hit on him and pretend I like this arrangement, whatever it is?)_ That would be the smart thing to do – taking Petrelli's barb and blunting it by…accepting it and playing against the attack.

After Peter said his piece, Sylar was left to think and respond. At first, he stared across at his most stressful companion, gauging him and his words. Then he broke off the stare, which he easily could have continued, and affected that he was pausing to consider his reply in order to buy time. If Peter was stupid enough to ask the question, then he was probably desperate enough to swallow whatever hook Sylar could devise. He thought of sassing, 'My back isn't going to massage itself' but Peter would find that 'insulting.' "Apparently," he said with a lilt, head angling to one side before lifting his eyes to Peter's. Seducing the man now had several motives. Sylar layered on a smug, purring pleasure, "I didn't know you would be so talented at massage."

XXX

_Ohh...he's playing me._ Peter picked up the body language immediately, the eye contact, the tone of voice. _But that's not a 'no'. It's not a 'no' at all._ He gave a single, muffled laugh and looked away, coloring slightly. It wasn't the words of the compliment, but the intention behind it as Peter understood it. "You have no idea," he flirted as he looked back, completely inappropriately, but he did it anyway. It was fun. He was tense. They weren't going to do anything ever, right? He let his eyes roam over Sylar's face in an also completely inappropriate manner, then his smile faded to quietly pleased as he looked down at his plate and went back to eating.

He didn't want to let Sylar take the conversation further along these lines, so he changed the subject. "My only plans for today are to work out and play piano. Did you have anything in mind?" Peter tilted his head and looked away and up to the left briefly, then back, "Anything that doesn't involve things we might joke about but not do?" He assumed Sylar would get the message – 'flirting is fun, but I'm not serious, so don't get any ideas'.

XXX

Sylar felt a surging thrill. It wasn't the feeling of flirtation. Instead his sense of victory came from getting Peter to flirt with him, that it was received and returned. _Fuck. I want him to massage me somewhere else,_ he mentally leered, definitely feeling teased and challenged in a way that demanded action. He wanted to push Peter around, push him down and…well, he was torn about wanting to hold the man down while he had his way with him or if he wanted Peter to make it interesting. His face showed his prurient intent, he was sure, and uncaring. If Peter didn't like it then he needed to make up his mind and stop…allowing and inviting such temptations. It had nothing to do with liking Peter and a lot more to do with appreciating the tension the little empath stirred up and even wanting to problem-solve through physical contact and hatred. Peter was (almost) delightfully inconsistent in his rejections. _He enjoys massaging me. Little pervert. (And I enjoyed being massaged. Is that normal or does he think of me like some hospice patient skeleton he'd never dream of fucking?)_

Of course, Peter had to ruin it. _Yeah, those are the things that come to mind._ "I wouldn't dream of it," he grumbled. _Am I supposed to say if I do have plans?_ "Just exciting stuff. You know, washing the dishes." Sylar said this as he focused on his food, intent on ignoring the hard-to-follow flip-flopping from Petrelli for at least the rest of the day. He'd get plenty of time to irritate Peter in turn while he stalked the man's workout. _Drive him up a confused wall of nonsense. It's only fair._

XXX

He raised his head to watch Sylar after the grumbling answer. There was a little bit of a smile on Peter's lips – something pleased and victorious and tickled all at once. He ducked his head. It would not do for Sylar to see him gloating. _He backed down. He just let it go! Cool!_ The push-and-pull interplay helped map out areas of safety – and apparently certain kinds of flirting were okay. _He takes 'no' for an answer really well…._ That opened up possibilities Peter wasn't willing to think about, but he felt the excitement building inside. He could play much closer to the line of acceptability if he knew he would be allowed to back out. He could hardly sit still.

With a last hurried bite, he finished his eggs and carried his plate over to the sink. Wanting to burn off some of this sudden energy, he decided to take Sylar's statement as volunteering for the task of cleaning up. _I made breakfast, so he'll be okay with cleaning up, right?_ He wiped his hands on a towel and headed for the door, not bothering to gather up his winter wear. He shouldn't need it and didn't want to precipitate some scramble to accompany him like he'd seen Sylar do when he thought Peter might leave. With that in mind, he gave a statement of his intentions: "I'll come back up after the workout to wash up here." That was new – most of the time he went over to his apartment. His reasons for being okay with the proximity were another thing he didn't want to examine, so he occupied his thoughts by trying to remember if he'd done mainly upper or lower body exercises last time.

XXX

Peter was happy because he thought he'd gotten one over on Sylar. How foolish of him. _Peter likes to trust others. (Maybe it isn't such a great idea to rid him of that delusion…?)_ It was enough to temporarily halt his mental plans to bring Peter's imagination crashing down. _I don't like being commanded like a dog: flirt now, stop flirting now._ He had been too self-absorbed to see the abandonment building on Peter's face. He did see the move for the door. _Wait! What?_ Sylar rose to his feet, grabbing for his dishes. Peter was treating this like…like it was nothing. It was no more surprising or random than anything else this morning. _He's in a good mood so he wants to…be alone. But he said he'll come up here to shower._ That was a break from the pattern, though it was still just words. _Wait, wait, wait…_ he pleaded.

XXX

The scramble was happening anyway. Peter stopped immediately, taking his hand off the doorknob and turning back. "No. It's okay. Just finish your breakfast. I'm coming back," he insisted. _I'm not going anywhere. It's just downstairs. Not even leaving the building. Come on!_ He waited, hopeful that Sylar would change his mind, finish his food, and give him some space.

XXX

Sylar looked at him steadily for a moment, holding his plate, bowl, and cup while weighing the words. He failed to see the importance of finishing what little was left of his breakfast, especially if Peter was still going to leave. _Is he testing my obedience?_ It didn't help his suspicion and only added to his current helplessness and feelings of being trapped. Seducing someone you dreaded fucking had that affect. He was angry at the implications. Pushing back, he said, "No, I'm good."

XXX

Peter let out a stifled sigh. "We had a big fight yesterday. You need to eat. Just…" He made an open-handed gesture at the dishes in Sylar's hands, not quite up to issuing orders or even suggestions. What he meant was clear enough, though: just sit and eat. _I can't promise to stay until he finishes, because then he'll come with me._ Frustrated, he headed into the kitchen and started migrating all the used utensils and dishes next to the sink. Maybe Sylar would settle back down if he thought Peter was sticking around.

XXX

His head canted as if to demand, 'really?' His body language probably reflected it, too. Now, he was twitchy, confused, teased, irritated, likely insulted, and somewhat vengeful and breakfast wasn't even over. _Petrellis_ , he thought with a sneer. "I said I'm good." _Are you really going to push this?_ It was ridiculous even by his screwy standards. With that, he approached the kitchen to make it look like he was going to wash the dishes. That would probably fool Peter into leaving. Sylar had every intention of following him. Starting the water, he took up the scrub brush. _That was stupid. Why did I say I would do the dishes? He couldn't count on me to say I'd do that or anything else so he could escape. He planned to leave anyway._

XXX

"Okay. Yeah." Peter retrieved a few other things from the table while Sylar began on the dishes. He put away the butter and moved the loaf of raisin bread back to the spot on the counter it had previously occupied. The carton of eggs went back in the refrigerator. _He's not looking at me. He's busy. Maybe I could just walk out?_


	120. Triggered

Day 67, February 15, Morning

Sylar was listening carefully for footsteps and/or the door. Soon enough, after the dishes had been emptied of food and were covered in a ruse of soapy water, he heard the door shut behind Peter. _What the fuck does he think I'm going to do up here by myself? Why would I stay up here?_ Sylar groused venomously. He decided to finish the dishes and give Peter a false sense of solitude before interrupting. Even if Peter was making a break for it, he would be able to see where the medic was going in any case.

Sylar grabbed his coat anyway (his book still being downstairs and a perfect excuse) and hustled downstairs, his back much loosened from the medic's hands earlier but his shoulders were as tense as ever once again. He hated even losing sight and sound of Peter for those few moments. The silence and emptiness was terrifying. ( _Will it ever not be?_ he wondered). A peek into the small gym confirmed Peter's words and location at least; the relief felt arguably better than the massage. He watched for a moment as Peter squatted with a bar across his shoulders. It was hypnotic and graceful, sexy if he allowed himself to think it, but mostly it tempted him to go in and mess with Peter any way he could.

Sylar gathered his book first before opening the gym door and letting it close loudly on its own. "Squats, huh? Is that all you do at the gym?" he followed up with a pointed, appreciative glance at the man's ass before catching his eyes. He'd been up against that ass this morning…

XXX

Squats were the first thing he'd done, following throwing on his workout clothes and doing the minimum of stretching to warm up. He'd just begun to slide into the zone when Sylar came in, snapping him back to unwelcome alertness. He was scowling when he looked up to respond, but then he saw Sylar's face and his line of sight. _He's checking me out. Um…cool?_ Being held, Sylar's 'oh!' during the massage, and the flirting over breakfast all became much more interesting to think about than any irritation at the interruption. Peter flexed more on his next rep than was required. He smiled. "It's preventative," he joked. "I wouldn't want to get noassitol disease."

XXX

He smirked at the still-warm reception. It was like Peter had woken up on the right side of the bed today. Finally. And with it, Peter had decided that not everything was so damn serious but more like 'everything is a game.' _How is it that I'm telling him the rules and he was the stick in the mud?_ When Peter spoke, Sylar just stared blank-faced. _What kind of disease requires squatting? Is that a dirty joke?_ After a few long seconds, he blinked. He didn't think it fair that he should be expected to know what noassitol disease was, big brain and abilities aside.

XXX

Peter said it more slowly, though not to be condescending: "No-ass-at-all. You know when a person doesn't have much development in their glutes? That." It was actually more of a genetic trait than something a person could change with exercise, but Peter found it funny nevertheless (probably because of the pride he took in his own appearance).

XXX

Sylar snorted. None of the Petrellis had that particular problem. _I wonder if that's an Italian thing._ "Oh. Development, is it?" He didn't think Peter was serious about 'development' or any kind of disease. _Are we actually having a conversation about Peter Petrelli's butt?_

XXX

Peter chuckled in response, flashing an amused look at his companion. The bar on his shoulders swayed as his balance shifted. It was going to be impossible to work out if he was busy making eyes with Sylar. Despite his enjoyment of the looks and banter, Peter actually wanted to work out. He put his eyes forward and got on with it.

XXX

"What do you do as a warm-down for that?" Sylar asked about squatting, intending the question as innuendo as he walked in much closer, within conversational distance. _We are talking about his butt. I'm sure that's weird, but he's not freaking out._ The forbidden pleasure was dashed when he realized it was pointless to notice Peter Petrelli's backside. Their eventual arrangement wasn't going to include Peter being bent over.

XXX

_A 'warm-down'? What's that?_ While he was distracted, his form suffered and his knees protested. He hadn't taken any special injury to them the day before, but he'd spent some of the brawl on one knee on the hard floor. "I'm trying to work out here. Leave me alone." He spoke in a mostly normal tone of voice with only a slight edge of irritation to his words. This wasn't the same as trying to hurt Sylar by refusing to talk to him, or to protect himself and avoid conflict through the same. Peter just wanted to be allowed to get through his exercise without Sylar verbally jabbing at him. "We can talk later," he added so as to make clear his intentions.

XXX

From his vantage point, Sylar had a view of Peter's throat, and the curve of his back, too. The teasing was really getting to him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had tormented him this way, almost on purpose. He wasn't familiar with being teased sexually (that bothered him for entirely different reasons, like testing his self control and feeling more like a pervert). Peter was the focus of his irritation because he was holding out and pretending to be clueless about everything. They'd had a very unsatisfactory fight only yesterday, which Sylar took into account when it came to how far he could push Peter (especially after unconsciously trying to hump Peter through their clothes). He stepped closer still, holding his book in the hand farthest from Peter; the other hand was buried in his pocket. "I don't want to talk," he growled, his eyes boring into Peter. He wasn't sure what would happen, didn't care too much, and liked the mystery. Peter couldn't just…leave and now, ignore him.

XXX

Peter straightened and lifted the bar over his head. There was no way to keep using it without risking hitting Sylar with it. The man was that close, practically standing over Peter's shoulder. The way he was looking at Peter made him warm. Peter turned to hold Sylar's eyes for a moment, absorbing the desire that was coming off him. His breathing was speeding up. What Sylar wanted was quite clear, but it wasn't what Peter wanted to give. With an overstated roll of his eyes, Peter said, "I thought you didn't like the silent act." He put the bar away and turned to the leg adductor machine, his shoulder brushing Sylar's as he passed. The tension was thick. Peter didn't feel like it should be his job to defuse it.

XXX

Sylar thought…he detected more Petrelli mixed signals. It would be some elaborate torture. He couldn't explain it. It wasn't his fault he if misunderstood Peter's mood swings. Worse yet, he found himself needing Petrelli's attention more, like it was his only reality. Briefly narrowing his eyes at his prey, he trailed after the man over to some leg contraption. His voice still low and frustrated in a leading tone, he replied, gesturing at the world using the book in his hand, "You can make as much noise as you want."

XXX

_He's eating this up. He thinks I'm sincere. He looks like he's ready to pounce. On me. God, he's intense._ Peter felt a thrill run through him. Although he knew he shouldn't encourage it, he couldn't stop himself from playing more. If Sylar couldn't take a little teasing, then Peter wanted to know that now. And if he could, then Peter wasn't going to pass up the attention. He put on a momentary act of looking like he was seriously thinking over Sylar's suggestion. "Then I suppose it's a good thing we don't have any neighbors."

XXX

_Is he implying that he's loud? Or that I'd make him scream? That he'd enjoy it?!_ Sylar felt his dick twitch at the very (perverted) idea. _Down, boy._ He couldn't deny he had ideas to make Peter…loud, not all of them intended for enjoyment. Boldly, he stepped between Peter's spread legs now literally interfering with the workout. It put his hips suggestively between Peter's legs, scandalously close to the man's junk as he looked down on him for a moment with some innocence. Changing his expression to inviting, he bent at the waist and brushed his free hand through Peter's hair before resting it on the seat back. It put their faces within a foot's distance or less, exchanging heated looks. He was close enough to see the muted green in Peter's irises, close enough to smell him. "No need to go upstairs to bother them."

XXX

Peter's eyes flitted to the touch and he inhaled deeply. A prickle of excitement ran along his skin. Sylar was…reciprocating: Peter had brushed his shoulder earlier, so Sylar was returning the light contact and escalating the intimacy. It was a dance. Peter liked to dance – especially this one, even if he didn't intend to get past the opening steps with this particular partner. He leaned back against the chair, simultaneously looking relaxed and chill, while getting an extra half inch back to better see his looming companion. Matching Sylar's tone, he said, "We could bother them from here, is that what you're saying?"

XXX

Peter did nothing about the very personal touch in his beloved hair. It was an unmistakable green light. The satisfaction of a successful manipulation (and several, more physical things) were making him high. Without moving his eyes, head, or body, Sylar dropped his book to the floor (usually a sin in itself but it was important). They both continued staring into the other's eyes like animals, challenging, not backing down. Someone who would meet him at that animal level was a turn on. History and instinct told him Peter had it in him; it was part of his appeal. Reaching down he traced his left hand up the inside of Peter's thigh until he grasped at the man's dick, groping him. "Exactly," he rumbled.

XXX

As Peter stared back, he felt the heat building inside him. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to take the next steps in their gypsy stare down. But he couldn't. It was all off-limits. What had begun as playful flirting was turning too serious, too fast. He was frankly relieved when Sylar seized him. The light fingers along his thigh had been a line of tingling fire he couldn't resist or even bring himself to protest, but the direct contact at the end was enough to break the paralyzing stalemate between what he wanted to do and what he knew he _should_ do. Sylar had broken the choreographed dance, escalating things past where Peter could let him go. "Hey!" he barked, grabbing hurriedly at Sylar's intrusive hand. He shoved the offending appendage away. "Fuck off!" He had to assert better boundaries, for both of them. He squeezed his legs together and banged the guards of the adductor machine into Sylar's knees. Peter sat forward and shoved at the man a half-second later.

XXX

For an instant, he felt Peter's penis through the thin shorts. No underwear, of course. He detected a slight fullness in his grip. Sylar had no opinion of the dick in his hand, though he enjoyed getting a reaction. And of course, the reaction was swift rejection. Petrelli slapped him away, painfully banged his knees with the metal plates of the machine, then shoved him. Sylar's hand caught on the back of the other's neck as he initially fell away. He grunted loudly about his knees, pulling himself up onto Peter, nearly falling on him, pressing against him between his conveniently opened legs. The control felt good. Without some tenuous, twisted connection Sylar felt his reality slipping. He needed something from Peter to accomplish it. He was sick of more than just talking; he was sick of being denied – a lifelong problem it seemed, and Peter was intentionally adding to it. "I thought you said you'd done this before?" he rasped in Peter's ear, enjoying the proximity while it lasted, grinding on him a little as he was able; his other hand around the man's waist keeping them tight together. "Maybe you want me in the chair, huh?"

XXX

This was not a good place to fight. Peter had the machine set to a full, normal lifting weight, which meant although he could close his legs, there was a constant pressure dragging them open. Plus, with the padded guards in the way, he couldn't immediately get his legs out of it. He struggled under Sylar, trying to climb upward and out with the man on top of him, embracing him. They moved against each other in ways that were inconveniently thrilling and unmistakably erotic. It pissed him off – both at himself for enjoying it and more at Sylar for causing it. _Asshole!_ "I wouldn't mind," he grunted, twisting a knee between them. At the moment, any reversal of their positions would not be to Sylar's favor. Peter was rapidly getting angry. His hand caught on Sylar's collar and he yanked, trying to dislodge the man. The cloth tore, but Sylar went over anyway, helped along by Peter's other hand and his knee.

XXX

Sylar sneered at Peter for tearing his shirt. Gracefully righting himself from where he'd allowed himself to be thrown, he found himself laughing. Nothing made sense anyway. "You Petrellis are all the same." It wasn't amusing. It was utterly depressing. He was frustrated enough to swing on Peter. "What is your problem? You didn't mind it before."

XXX

Peter finally managed to extricate himself from the exercise equipment, scrambling away so he stood a few feet from it. He was in the walkway with the machines to his left and the free weights against the wall to his right. "You don't get to do that!" he snarled about the groping. " _You_ are my problem!" He pointed sharply. "You won't help, you fuck with me, you start fights, and you won't leave me alone! I can't," Peter hesitated, making a vague gesture between them, " _do_ any of this." And then the reasons came out: "Who else are you going to kill next time you see them? How long am I going to last?" The off-balance, conflicted feelings he'd been having faded as he continued, getting hotter under the collar as he went. "I am not going to be how you get revenge on all of 'you Petrellis', like how you held my mom down at Thanksgiving and kissed her just seconds before you tried to cut the top of her head off!" By the end, he was flushed with anger and sweating with the intensity of his emotion. His teeth were bared. He wanted to fight. He wanted to put Sylar in that chair (or any chair, anywhere) and beat the crap out of him like how Peter had been beaten senseless in Cork. That scene of Sylar molesting Peter's mother right in front of him, forcing him to watch powerlessly, lit him up inside like he was on fire. In a lower voice, he growled, "Let's see how well you do without your abilities to save you this time, asshole."

XXX

Sylar squared off, thinking Peter would stop ranting at the end of each sentence. Or even at the end of each topic of mortal, patriarchal injustice. He was confused (that was probably the intention), as once again the main thrust appeared to be something from the past, not anything from now. It just seemed so inappropriate, not to mention disorganized. It didn't answer his question in so many (many) words. Sylar had nothing to say to such babble and no real defense that would suit if the argument had been worth it. "Such a martyr for the unasked-for cause. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he smirked, standing taller to intimidate this crazed little man. "Being the first Petrelli to get to third base. But I forget, does masturbating when I'm shape-shifted into members of your family count?"

XXX

_He wants a fight._ (Peter saw no other reasonable explanation for the crude insult to his family.) _I'll give him a fight!_ They were close enough he didn't have to lunge or even step forward. It threw his wind-up off, but he was pissed enough to try to hit Sylar with a roundhouse anyway. It was a powerful blow; if it connected, the fight would be over right then and there.

XXX

Of the two of them, Sylar wasn't angry per se. So Peter came at him like an idiot. Sylar aimed and swatted him down like a fly with a swift, satisfying left hook across the face before the other man's punch landed.

XXX

Obviously, the fight was not going to be over right away. _It's never that easy._ Peter staggered from Sylar's punch, managing to avoid most of the momentum of the blow by turning away from it. He caught himself on the wall, took a half second to shake off the effects and think. _Strategy, or I'm going to get pulped again._ That fast, he had one. Pushing off, he ducked under Sylar's next swing (or grab – he didn't pause to find out what it was) and came up with his right fist across the front of Sylar's face. He was watching the blow and aiming as carefully as possible. In the middle of a fight, it was very difficult to coordinate – hit solidly enough to count and on the right spot, yet not so solidly as to hurt either the bones of Peter's still-tender right hand or aggravate Sylar's concussion. But for once, it seemed he got what he wanted. He felt the satisfying pop as his fist hit the target of Sylar's large nose.

XXX

He was too focused with grabbing onto Peter with his right hand to pay much attention to the other man's incoming fist. That turned out to be a mistake – apparently Petrelli's hand was sufficiently healed, though that hadn't stopped him from using it in fights before. Sylar immediately tasted blood and felt it hot running from the impact to his nose. It startled him more than anything else.

XXX

A punch to the nose caused a variety of involuntary physical responses – watering eyes, blurred vision or stars, and a second or two of distraction even in a life or death situation. Not that it was life or death. Peter didn't want to kill him. He just wanted to hurt him and he'd gotten the impression that was...acceptable for Sylar. Maybe even desired with the way he kept egging Peter on to do it.

Peter took his instant of advantage to slug Sylar in the ribs with his left, then crowd in close for more blows to the gut, chest, anywhere he could reach. Head down, he worked to stay inside Sylar's range, clutching him as needed to keep the man from pushing him away enough to fight back effectively. Peter hit him hard, so gratified to hear the air rush out of Sylar's lungs. He grunted and redoubled his efforts, with no intention of stopping until Sylar was down and staying there.

XXX

This was the fight he'd craved yesterday. Peter was ferocious, doing what had worked so well in the past, attacking his torso and abdomen, pummeling soft, already-bruised tissue and areas required for breathing. At first, he had space to hit back, punching at the man's back and shoulders using full force (because he wasn't stupid enough to punch his head or neck even if it might end the fight). Sylar could withstand it with his superior pain tolerance, with Peter's kindly support to stay upright, but he was given no time to recover. The Italian wasn't taking enough damage and Sylar's attacks didn't hinder him. Peter had the better leverage and angles. Each blow took his breath away and clenched his body inwards.

XXX

Peter backed Sylar up several paces, with Sylar finally falling in front of the closed door. Snarling, Peter climbed on top of him. He put his knees into Sylar's armpits and his weight squarely on Sylar's chest. He'd make his enemy work for every bit of oxygen he got. He batted away the flailing arms, bracing himself against the nearby wall for any bucking or twisting Sylar might do, but the punches to the man's mid-section seemed to have taken a lot of the strength out of him. It was either that, or the suffocation. He knocked Sylar's arm aside to grab his chin, fingers tightening on either side.

XXX

He'd been optimistic because he hadn't been backed into a wall. That quickly changed when Peter stopped hugging on him in such a violently supportive way. There wasn't any time to breathe or recover after he fell. Sylar barely saw the other man coming after him and then it got worse when Peter sat directly on his chest. His eyes went wide when he felt the hand on his chin as he immediately understood the tactic. He wasn't worried about dying, or even mockery. The vital concern was Peter touching his head or face in any way, being turned into…someone else. It struck a very real chord of panic in his already struggling chest; likely sapping away what air he had left. Sylar writhed and pushed with all his failing might but Peter had every advantage and he could feel his chances of survival plummeting with every desperate gasp. He had no time to truly think. It was frighteningly familiar.

XXX

When he felt Sylar begin to weaken, Peter knew he had him. It was a heady rush of vindication to be so close to him, on top of him even, and feel Sylar struggling, faltering, and _losing_ under him. If it was a game, Peter was winning. "Is this what you did to me a couple weeks ago?" he said, voice rough from the intensity and exertion. He knocked Sylar's arm aside to grab his chin, fingers tightening on either side. Still holding Sylar's face with his right hand, he cocked back his left fist like he was going to let Sylar have it. With an amused tilt of his head and a bitter smile, he asked, "Got me down and beat the crap out of me? And you saying you had to scrape me off the floor after?" The black humor on his face vanished. "You put me there, Sylar! I didn't run into a fucking door fifteen times. Your fault. Your mess!" His right hand tensed, as did all the muscles in his left arm. But instead of swinging, he shoved Sylar's head to the side and dismounted. _I'm better than him. I am._ Peter crouched to the side, half leaned against the wall and not even a full arm's length away. He watched and listened to Sylar's breathing attentively. No matter the brutality or his rage, he had no intention of letting Sylar die on him. _I should probably watch him for signs of pneumonia. If all those gut shots limit his breathing, then he's going to have a problem._

XXX

Left staring up at his attacker, Sylar tried to calm down and couldn't. He could breathe, but just barely. It wasn't anywhere near enough to maintain a life-or-death struggle, not the way his heart was pounding. He needed to think and even seeing that Peter's other, raised hand was in the form of a fist (not some other, worse assault) wasn't helping. There wasn't time to feel betrayal, since he'd laid down the law about his head not being touched and this was twice that Peter had threatened with it. His vision was very fuzzy, limbs like clumsy lead because he didn't stop squirming and pushing, trying to get a hold of one of Peter's hands to free himself or at least protect himself – he didn't care how it looked. And then Peter was up, the weight lifted off his lungs. Sylar gasped and panted, turning on his side and pushing off against the floor to inch away. In doing so, he felt his foot push against something human – of course, Peter was still close; he wasn't finished yet; he hadn't finished the job. He groaned in terror and kicked the other man while he could.

XXX

Peter's brows pulled together at the kick. It was off-script. _That's weird. We're done fighting, right?_ He studied Sylar. There was something going on beyond mere lack of oxygen, but Sylar had his hands over his face enough that Peter couldn't get a good look at him. When Sylar didn't kick him again, just rolled to his side in an appropriate recovery position, Peter moved on to checking himself (while making a note that Sylar needed attention as soon as he was sure he was stable enough to give it).

So many spots on Peter's upper back and shoulders were stinging or even throbbing that it was tough to tell how many times he'd been hit. He suspected it was more than he'd hit Sylar. He thought he was fine until running his hands through his hair returned a smear of blood. He didn't feel anything – he could have sworn Sylar hadn't hit him there. _Was that on purpose? I bet it was._ He ran his hand through his hair again to confirm he didn't have any unfelt injury. His fingers sported another smear of blood before he realized it was Sylar's, not his. He reached for the most expendable piece of clothing he had in the untidy stack next to the door and wiped his hand off on his t-shirt. _His blood on my hands._ Peter was half-ashamed to admit he knew how hurting others reflected on him as a person. It was a dilemma – honor his family and punish the one who had hurt, killed, and molested them, or be a better person and turn the other cheek. _I just wish Sylar would quit making me choose. That's not who he is, though. Even he said he expects better of me._ Done with his inspection and having recovered somewhat from the exertion, Peter turned to Sylar.

XXX

Croaking as he was able, Sylar rasped, "I put you on the ground to stop you…You came at me, threatening me with…" he shook his head against the floor and couldn't say it. He felt like vomiting. Yes, he could see Peter somewhat seated, still too near, between him and the door. He didn't know why that fight was mentioned (and so vehemently), he couldn't guess at the actual argument, and he didn't know what was going on. Failing to understand and defend himself when he felt he was being blamed for something that wasn't his fault (at least, in regards to the other fight). What he wanted was to curl up and be left alone because that was safest. When he looked down along his body, he saw Peter wiping blood of his hands and didn't know what to make of that, either – the nurse who didn't clean up unless he was finished. Sylar hurt everywhere, tangible and intangible.

XXX

Peter's brows knit again. He tilted his head slightly, listening, looking, and seeing something that had been there since he'd climbed on top of Sylar that he'd only now noticed. _He's afraid. This wasn't just a fight. I fucked him up. Shit._ Peter felt mortified in a way that was incongruous for someone who had just gleefully beat the crap out of another person, but he'd thought the fight was…consensual. Looking back on it, he still thought it was, but somewhere in there he'd done something wrong. Or Sylar had had something wrong happen to him. Peter wasn't sure who was to blame, if anyone. The two of them had so much baggage it could be anything. He folded the shirt so the dirty part was inward, and shuffled the half-step over to Sylar. He touched him lightly on the shoulder with his right hand, extending and raising the shirt in his left.

XXX

Sylar smacked away the incoming hand, knowing he was obviously paranoid and acting like a freak. Quickly, he sat up and shoved himself away to put much-needed distance between them even though it hurt badly to do it. He felt…used, and not in the usual good ways; he felt deceived. _Why would I ever trust him enough to sleep next to him or let him care for me? He's a Petrelli._ The blurry vision from earlier originated from his eyes. _He can't understand._ "Don't fucking touch me!" he snapped, glaring his weakened, undermined best at Petrelli. He had every intention of fighting over simple contact, too. His chest, gut, back, and nose pained him worst as he stood himself up, all the while keeping both eyes on the threat. _You said he could do whatever he wanted to you. (I didn't promise I could handle it. I don't come with a lot of rules, but he's broken them)._

XXX

Peter froze for a second, then carefully eased back, leaning away without actually moving from where he half-sat, half-crouched on the floor with one knee down and the other up. _He's crying. I'm so sorry. What did I do? No, not me. What happened? What did he say? He said I threatened him, then he couldn't talk. (Because he was choking? Or was he choking on the words because the idea upset him so much? Probably that.) What did I threaten him with last fight? …getting Nathan back. Mind-wiping him. And then this time I got on top of him and grabbed his face. He must have thought…_ Peter nodded slowly to himself. It made sense now. More than anything else, he wanted to give Sylar a hug, to touch him, to apologize and achieve forgiveness through Sylar accepting the comfort. _But that's not what he wants. This isn't about me_. Peter took a deep, slow breath, frowned briefly, and palpated the knuckles of his right hand. They were throbbing, but he didn't think they were any worse than they'd been before the fight started.

"Okay," he said quietly. He got to his feet a few seconds after Sylar stood. He dropped the t-shirt onto the pile and waited, hands empty and at his sides. "It's your ballgame. Your rules." He waited a moment while Sylar processed that, then added, "What do you need from me right now?"

XXX

Sylar couldn't move. He was incredibly tense even as he ignored the pain from his injuries. Peter stood now, still blocked the door. He stared the man down. He hadn't really been listening, too busy evaluating the threat. When Peter didn't make a move, Sylar decided to make an escape attempt – obviously Peter was trying to keep him here for something. Approaching his captor directly, he raised both hands to plant them on Peter's chest, pushing him away from himself and the door. Sylar shifted sideways to keep Peter in view as he darted for the exit. Because he watched, he saw Peter coming after him. _Of course, he'd chase me._ It made his gut go cold. Peter didn't appear bloodthirsty, but that was all part of the Petrelli charm.

XXX

_Oh fuck_ , Peter thought as Sylar approached him, hands out. Sylar's directive of ' _Don't fucking touch me_ ' darted through his mind along with his own request ' _what do you need from me_ '. It left him wondering if what Sylar needed was to get hold of him and hurt him, bad. Two things countered that impression – Sylar's face read more of fear than rage, and his hands landed flat on Peter's chest. He wasn't grabbing, he was pushing. Stiffly and awkwardly, Peter let himself be manhandled out of the way, only belatedly realizing Sylar was bodily moving him away from the door. _He could have asked!_ After Sylar slipped by, Peter caught the door and followed, asking, "Sylar?" _I don't like where this is going. He seems lost in his own head._

XXX

He didn't register what Peter was or wasn't in that moment. "Go fuck yourself, Petrelli!" he immediately barked with a cracking voice, amazed that he held it together long enough to not fall apart then and there. Pointing intentionally at the man, then at the vast expanse of world Peter should inhabit, he wanted to spook the Italian away by any means necessary. He waited. He had to; blood rushing through him so hard he could barely see.

XXX

Peter stopped, putting his hands up halfway in surrender. He winced when Sylar pointed at him. It seemed like such an unnecessary attack. _He'd be cutting me if he could_. But he wasn't cut. Peter let his hands fall, uneasily watching Sylar, who looked as wound up and near the edge as Peter had ever seen him. _He's running away, just like he did before. I chased him into that police station then and trapped him, stopped him. Should I do that now? That's what I did when I first came here, too, ending up in his apartment. It's what the Company did to him for years. Maybe it's time to let him run._ Peter backed up a few steps and when Sylar didn't do anything else, Peter turned and wandered over to the elevators with a lot of looks back at the other man. He reached towards the button to open the elevator doors, but didn't actually push it. Sylar was already on his way out the door.

XXX

For a few seconds that took forever, Peter didn't…do anything; he just stood there. Sylar nearly sagged after those few seconds when Peter got the fucking message and moved away, elsewhere, anywhere. The trip back to his building was full of anxiety about being so damn obvious with his major weakness. It wasn't as if it was a surprise that Peter would do it, or that Sylar hadn't explicitly warned him about it either. What was there to be done about it, especially if Peter hadn't…backed down? He remembered how he'd threatened to kill Petrelli if he did it – tried it? – again. Killing his only companion was catapulted back to the top three of the list of options, though as a last resort. He didn't have an abundance of hope that Peter wouldn't push murder into first place.

He didn't go to his apartment, the place he considered 'home.' Peter knew about it and had forced his way in several times before. Instead, Sylar went to his building and picked a floor at random, hastening into a random apartment and locking the door. He curled up on the couch, desperately needing the security of the back cushions. He stared dead ahead at the door and tried to piece his mind back together because he was terrified and pathetic.

That night, when he had the space of hours to finally calm his racing heart and brain, he kicked himself for provoking someone with so much hell to unleash, someone who was notorious for being unshakeable. _I have to convince him that Nathan's really gone._ It was the only way. That assumed that Peter would be safe enough to be around to explain and debate it. _He did it twice. Three times, if I count Mercy._ Once more, he adjusted his plans. Sex, sleeping together, having company, being special, they all paled in comparison to the very real chance of being turned into someone else, or just being held down and tortured until he snapped. If anything could break him, it would be that.

Sylar didn't want to sleep. He didn't care for any injuries besides looking for a towel and tissues to clean his nose and face of blood and applying some ice. His body forced him to sleep. The nightmares consisted of not waking up as himself, in his own form, of being in another body but being invisible, ignored, not special or welcome until…he screwed up, then he was hunted until he found a new person to inhabit.

XXX

Peter cautiously went to the front doors of the Pegasus, looking out the glass sideways to see what direction Sylar went. It looked like it was to Sylar's apartment building, but he couldn't be certain without opening a door and sticking his head out. That seemed likely to draw attention and besides, Sylar could look back at any time. Peter didn't push his luck. Instead, he went back inside, into the rec room, and flopped on the couch to decompress from the second knock-down brawl in two days. Eventually, he rolled over and looked at the scattered Monopoly pieces. Shortly after that, he picked them up, pleased to find nothing too broken. He put the game away with the others, reflecting on how rough he and Sylar were on the world, as well as on each other. _Irony, considering how our careers before abilities were about helping people and restoring broken things._

He moved on. He changed clothes and spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon at the Y, then went grocery shopping. He experimented with cooking for the evening, trying to grill or dry cook some mushrooms in the skillet. It didn't work out – they stuck and burned, but he added butter fast enough that he managed to salvage them as a sauté. Shredded Swiss cheese on top of them to try to make stuffed mushrooms that weren't stuffed also didn't work, but the cheese-covered 'shrooms were still tasty. He ate them on a few pieces of bread coated liberally with either mayonnaise or hummus. It filled his belly and the otherwise empty time. He'd been expecting Sylar to come back. At any time. He went to bed alone.

Day 68, February 16

The next day, Sylar did not return. After his usual routine, Peter fetched his guitar and then searched through apartments until he found the one where they'd discovered the instrument. Among the various craft supplies, he found what he was looking for – wood stain, varnish, sponges, and brushes for application. He was no more skilled at what he was going to try than he was at tuning a piano or repairing windows, so he brought down several pieces of extra wood to use as test cases. When he'd found the guitar, he'd noticed right away the delicate traceries of a decorative pattern carved into the wood, needing only stain to make them more apparent and varnish to lock it in. Now that his hand was better, he wanted to pick out tunes and he wanted the guitar done.

XXX

He woke up in a strange, quiet apartment. For while, Sylar couldn't place it or how he'd come to be there as he lay on the couch. Then he worried about déjà vu and rushed to check his face, his body in the mirror – it appeared his own face. There was the mole on his ribs. He had all his teeth. His eyes were their normal color. The stress and movement brought his injuries roaring back to life: his back, ribs, gut, and nose ached abominably like the ice the night before had been for nothing. He cleaned himself more thoroughly today with a shower, not that he would be seeing company (he didn't think Peter was smart enough for that though he was apparently motived enough to try); tending to his wounds as best he could with more ice. There wasn't any ben-gay. He wondered if he'd hurt the other man. Nothing comforted him as he whiled away the hours going through every object in the place for amusement's sake, too paranoid to make much noise or leave. There were no real clocks, and anyway, he had no tools, but there were a few books – mostly gardening (in fucking New York) and watercolor painting. While he read and faded in and out of sleep in the afternoon, he would start awake at every imagined sound, jumping at shadows. Sylar didn't walk too near the windows, either. Cheerios, a sandwich, and soup for one were his lazy meals. It felt too much like being all alone again, abandoned or imprisoned and tortured. He doubted his sanity and couldn't make sense of the world.


	121. Trust Fund

Day 69, February 17, Morning

Peter was still sleeping in the penthouse apartment, although he reconsidered his choice of abode as he went through his morning routine of working out, cleaning up, and then going down the street to the diner to make a hearty breakfast of eggs, hashbrowns, and gravy. He returned to the Pegasus, thinking that if Sylar made no appearance today, then he'd move his personal items back to his own apartment. It was more defensible. He was beginning to wonder if that might be important.

Without Sylar there to ask questions of, it was hard to tell what he needed to worry about and what he shouldn't; what was his fault and what wasn't. Suspicions aside, Peter didn't know what had set Sylar off or why he'd left. He had ruled out things like, 'I won the fight and he didn't like that', 'he's phobic of being suffocated', and 'it was the final straw of rejection after him waking up horny'. The only thing that stuck was 'he thought I was going to mind-wipe him', which didn't fit with what Peter had been doing, but it did fit with Sylar's reaction to it after. Only that had consistently broken Sylar. _Maybe me sitting on him was kind of like the nails in his hands at Mercy? Or like being strapped down on one of those gurneys the Company used?_ He was pondering the fine points of situational claustrophobia as he cradled the guitar, doing touch-up on the staining job he'd done the evening before. It had turned out really nicely, which he didn't credit to himself. All he'd done was make the beauty that was already there more evident.

XXX

That morning, everything was boring, silent, and just like every other morning. Sylar caught himself contemplating if he'd…dreamed it all; that was how unreal it seemed. He didn't want to imagine something like that had truly happened, again, but it didn't explain his pains from the fight. Just as he finished breakfast, he felt anger building. Why did he have to live so alone and feel fear like this – fear of something so absurd and impossible, so targeted that no one else, it seemed, had to worry about it? It was purposefully being inflicted on him. He wanted to smash the bowl against the kitchen wall and scream and rage and vent about….about… _Answers. I need answers. He owes me that._ The only way to do that was to find that bastard Peter Petrelli.

Sylar went to the most likely place and found him, this tiny, stupid, painful boy who made him so dependent.

XXX

Peter looked up. He wasn't surprised, because he'd heard the doors even though Sylar had been quiet. He waited until Sylar was visible at the rec room door before he put the guitar aside on the couch and stood, swiping his hair out of his still-bruised face. "Hey." His voice was uncertain, but it wasn't a question. He studied Sylar, wondering how this was going to go.

XXX

There were no immediate weapons around Peter. He seemed to be working on the guitar. "What do you want?" Sylar sneered. If questioned, he would say he was here to retrieve his books.

XXX

That was not a satisfying or calming response. Peter shifted his weight uneasily and shrugged in answer. "Are you still angry?" _The fight's over, right? Please let the fight be over. What about that kick? Maybe he doesn't think this is settled._

XXX

Staring the man down, Sylar magnanimously replied, "I'm never angry." He wasn't sure exactly why he was still stood nearly in the doorway even having half a conversation. There were things Peter could say (and do) to make this better, but those things weren't likely to be said and he didn't know if he could believe them if they were voiced. His eyes kept going to back to the guitar when he spared a second away from watching Petrelli. The instrument was just as much a target as Peter.

XXX

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes, finding a section of the couch a foot to the side where it was safe to flop down dramatically without perturbing any of his supplies. "That was a serious question, Sylar," he said with irritation. He put his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair. _That approach isn't going to work._ _He's not making any sense_ _._ More gently, he said, "Okay, I'm sorry. I get that you're upset. It would help me to understand what happened. Tell me what you're angry about."

XXX

"I never said I was angry." This time he practically snarled it, tensing up and ready to throw down because that's where this was going – that's where everything led to, just more fighting. _It's not about him and his fucking understanding! He knows exactly what he did! Now he's trying to play innocent._

XXX

Peter sat up straighter, face losing expression. His eyes went over Sylar and the change in the man's body language, taking it in even as he mirrored it himself. "Okay," he said slowly. Continuing the slow delivery, he said, "Tell me what's going on here."

XXX

With the repeated hammering on the internal wound, and it all spilled out, fast, loud, and very angry, "Where the fuck do you get off trying to do that? Again?! I told you I'd kill you if you tried it. I warned you and you never listen! You gamble too much and I never bluff about killing people." Sylar was circling closer, pointing fiercely at Petrelli and actively contemplating said murder, still strangely not wanting to commit to it and endure loneliness again.

XXX

Peter got to his feet in a slow rise. He cocked his head slightly. _It's the mind-wipe. What the hell did I do? Did he black out and imagine it and I just didn't notice? (I was looking right at him the whole time!) He told me he didn't always remember things right..._ Very firmly, he voiced, "I didn't do shit to you. I have nothing to apologize for." His eyes narrowed at the pointed finger, his lip curling slightly. "You, on the other hand…?" It wasn't a gamble if Peter didn't care what the result was. If he pushed Sylar over the edge, then so be it.

XXX

That was possibly the worst tone of voice to use – ever, but certainly right now. The idiocy of this Petrelli, pushing for his own murder, and insulting while he did it. "How do you figure? You're the biggest liar of the bunch then – you said you didn't want me to pretend to be that asshole brother of yours." They began to circle but Sylar stopped next to the end of the couch where Peter had been seated.

XXX

"Oh yeah? Then let's go," Peter invited. He wanted this settled. He didn't want to live in fear of what Sylar might or might not misunderstand. If he couldn't be taken on his word after weeks of being together, then he might as well check out.

XXX

Sylar wasn't about to throw down or murder his companion when there was another viable option to get what he wanted, though he was certainly angry enough to do either. His face blanked and he leaned over and wrapped a hand around the neck of the guitar, bringing the butt to his other hand. He didn't look at Peter, instead he studied the instrument. The threat was obvious.

XXX

Peter's eyes widened. His mouth went dry and his fists loosened when Sylar picked up the guitar. It was odd how an object meant more to him than his body, but it did. It was something he'd worked on and invested in. It hadn't hurt Sylar. He'd never used it to hurt Sylar. It was completely inoffensive. _I didn't even play insulting songs on it!_

"That's low, man," Peter said, voice tight. "That has no part in this." There was still a chance, however small, that Sylar might put the instrument down and move on to the part where Peter kicked his ass again. He took a few small steps away from the couch, trying to edge closer without looking like he was getting closer. That was impossible, so mostly he just looked very unsettled.

XXX

It was soothing his rage to see Peter so visibly distressed. It was fitting and karmic after his own suffering which Peter seemed intent on ignoring. That was the difference between other people and him – they had tangible objects, such easy targets, possessions and family that could be threatened. He raised the guitar still further to savor Peter's discomfort. He said nothing, torturing the other man with each waiting second.

XXX

Peter's entire demeanor changed as he abandoned the fight. Sylar's intention was clear. Peter didn't resist letting it get to him – they could always fight later, but he only had one guitar that meant anything to him. Everything about the situation had turned sideways, fast. _He doesn't bluff. (What do I do if he breaks it? I can't put that back together!) Then I kick his ass and find out what it takes to get me out of here._ "No- Wait!" Peter hastened to put himself into the path of Sylar's most likely direction to swing the guitar. Not that it would help much if Sylar wanted to finish it. There was too much floor, the couch was right there, and Peter couldn't block any but a small sliver of it. If the obvious occurred, Peter had no intention of holding back. "Wait, please!" He didn't want that to happen though – he didn't want any of this to happen: the fighting, the arguing, Sylar angry and accusatory, the guitar damaged – any of it. He was tired suddenly, tired of being anxious and never certain and always on alert around this perpetually angry man. He held up his hands at shoulder level, palms upraised. He tried to see if Sylar would give him a chance to talk him down.

XXX

_It's kind of pathetic that it has to come to this. Pathetic for him._ His estimation of the Petrelli only worsened. His questions, his needs had been reasonable. Sylar paused, if only because of the quick proximity Peter put between them. He hadn't raised the guitar but a few inches higher before, and now he clutched it closer to himself in the event Peter tried to snatch away what was apparently his only leverage.

XXX

_I need to explain. Just denying things isn't persuasive_. "I was trying to do what I thought you wanted – with the fighting. Nothing you wouldn't recover from…quick, a few minutes, maybe a week for the bruises. If it seemed like I had something else in mind," Peter shook his head vehemently, because there had been nothing calculating or manipulative in his conduct, despite what Sylar believed, "that was all it was, Sylar. That was all." He looked at the still-imperiled guitar, the carefully-wrought, fiery red design on it still intact and unblemished. "I don't know how to explain things better. I don't have an offer or a plan or _anything_ and I'm not going to come up with one just because you break my stuff. Please." He extended one hand partway between them, asking for the object. "Don't take this from me." _Too,_ hung in the air, but he didn't say it. He was close enough to begging as it was. Sylar had already taken so much from him and so much more important. That he might take this small, inoffensive pleasure as well seemed too much. It was the pettiness of it, that he might reach out and smash anything Peter enjoyed, and not even as retaliation for anything Peter had done intentionally. The guitar had turned out unexpectedly pretty. He had been so mistaken as to foolishly think about showing it off to Sylar, seeing some parallel between it and the noisy clocks his companion cherished. Now the only parallel he saw was the despicable way he'd treated Emma's beautiful cello. He wanted to hide the guitar away and protect it from this monster who threatened to do the same to it in some twisted karmic justice for what he'd done to her. His eyes burned as he remembered how upset she'd been – how upset _he_ had made her with his thoughtlessness and desperation.

XXX

Now he looked at Peter, searching his eyes. He was disgusted that he was, of course, the bad guy here. Peter could explain himself better (plan better or even have an offer) but perhaps that would come after the return of the guitar. "I still want answers, Petrelli," he warned as he extended the guitar out to Peter, thinking he had made his point and made the man vulnerable enough to fucking answer.

XXX

Peter took the instrument from Sylar's hands, slow and careful, hoping this wasn't an even crueler trick to offer and then snatch it away. But the guitar was given to him safe and sound. Peter drew it to himself and immediately retreated to the far corner of the couch, pausing only to move the paintbrush and a lid from the arm of the couch to the safety of a nearby chair. He curled up and held the guitar to him. "I'm not going to thank you for giving it back." He looked up at Sylar, eyes angry and shining. "You shouldn't be treating me like this anyway. It's wrong."

XXX

"Tell me something new," Sylar rejoined rhetorically with a shrug. "It's hardly the first time I've tortured someone for answers. You are the one who decides right and wrong here." He began to pace restlessly, scraping a hand through his hair and finding it sweaty from confronting his attacker, still prepared to kill him. He felt distracted and stuck, seemingly unable to ask what he needed to. It was making his gut churn and he felt sick.

XXX

"Then I say it's wrong!" Peter exclaimed, but he stayed where he was on the couch, hugging the guitar like it was the teddy bear Sylar had violated. _Antagonizing him isn't going to help._ But he was still too upset to be smooth about it. He vented instead. "What is it you want, anyway? You think I tried to mind-wipe you? I didn't! We've been over this! It doesn't matter what ability I have!" Peter held up his left hand, extending fingers as he spoke. "One, it's dumb. Two, it won't work. Three, I don't know how and like hell I'm going to 'practice' that. And four..." he waved generally up and down Sylar's body, "you're you and you stay you." He waited a beat, then said testily, "They're all the same fucking reason, Sylar. I'm not getting Nathan back that way." He waved his hand with energy and frustration as he went on, "Maybe time travel or something else, but it doesn't have to do with changing you."

Peter huffed, staying literally curled around the guitar in the corner of the couch. He felt threatened and uncomfortable, not knowing what to do about Sylar's issues. He wasn't even sure what he'd done to set the guy off. He frowned and asked in a slightly calmer tone, "Why do you think I tried? What happened that made you think I was doing that to you?"

XXX

Sylar couldn't initially respond. When Peter got to his reasons, he listened with increasing interest, his laser focus directed at the man. It was well-thought and the reasoning was very good – it was practically everything he needed to hear, but the man speaking was far from rational and that hadn't stopped him from making moves before. He found himself staring at Peter, eyes narrowing, frowning as if that would reveal truth and trust. He'd just pulled away a little, answering immediately in disbelief, "I told you not to touch my head!" There was more to it, but that was the main issue.

XXX

Peter was silent for a long moment as he mentally replayed the fight. "Punching you in the nose, holding your chin, or offering you the t-shirt?"

XXX

Again, he tried to stare into Peter. Was it even possible Peter hadn't connected the two? Could something like that be an accident? "My chin." Sylar said that with distinct enunciation, almost offended by the man's apparent density.

XXX

"I'm an empath, not a mind-reader," Peter grumbled. "Though technically, I suppose I'm both at the moment, but I can't use Matt's ability here. It doesn't work." He moved on to trying to figure things out between himself and Sylar. "I've touched you like that...before. Was it that I was holding you down, or that we were fighting, or...something else?"

XXX

_Yeah, but-_ Sylar began to reason. It made sense. Even if Peter's ability worked here, the empath would surely choose not to feel Sylar's emotions or fail to react to them on purpose, assuming the emotions were real, normal, or identifiable. _He really didn't know…?_ Never for a moment had he factored in Peter's ability – now he had to factor it out specifically, and account for the man's historical mental slowness. So rarely did actual accidents, mistakes happen to him because most harm that was done to him was intentional. That he could believe or prove that this time was quite unbelievable. He was back to looking at Peter with more belief and less suspicion, but his expression was more offended (both for being wrong and Peter for being so, so stupid). _I made it so obvious,_ he thought of his weakness. _Why even talk about it when he's just going to do it again to drive me insane?_ Now he was backpedaling, worried, and looking for anything to salvage and patch over his mistake. "You're not much of an empath at that!" he growled with bravado. "If you didn't want to torture me or make a joke of it, why the hell wouldn't you say it was a fucking accident when I first asked?"

XXX

Now Peter was the one looking at Sylar as though he were dumb. A little outrage colored his features as well. "You asked- No, you _accused_ me of doing something to you and I told you I _didn't_. I said I didn't do anything. That's what I told you. You're the one who followed up by calling me a liar!" He didn't sit quite so folded up on himself anymore. This seemed like 'talking' now. Or maybe arguing, but it wasn't the razor edge of violence and destruction that they'd been on nearly from when Sylar walked in the room. He could tell Sylar's anger was starting to ebb compared to his fear, but knowing the emotions didn't mean he knew what was causing them or how to defuse them.

XXX

Sylar wasn't done, getting the order of explaining, interrogating, and commanding mixed up and having a none-too-gentle delivery with it. "You have a death wish. That guitar saved your life just now!" He was…yes, angry at Petrelli for endangering them with his lack of listening skills and planning. The piano would have substituted for a valuable hostage if the guitar hadn't been available, but Peter had been that close to dying. It didn't matter if Sylar lost the fight and was allowed to live and leave – he would have schemed and hunted the treacherous Petrelli down and won to protect himself. "I didn't know I had to give you instructions on 'don't touch my head!' Why would you hold me down like that and think that I wouldn't…? That's exactly what it looked like! What kind of idiot starts a fight when he could just answer a few questions? You don't de-escalate at all, Petrelli!" So much of this was Peter's fault. "How could you be so stupid? Don't fuck around with that ever!"

XXX

Peter scowled at Sylar. "Fuck you!" he shot at him for all the familiar insults. The only thing Sylar hadn't thrown in there was Peter's general worthlessness and the supposed weakness of being softer-hearted than his father and brother had wished of him. "I didn't start that fight, you did!" He set the guitar partly aside and sat up to defend himself more vigorously with body language and gestures. "What was it you said?" Peter's face scrunched up in disgust. "Something about using shape-shifting to masturbate as one of my family?" He waved his hands in a 'duh!' shrug. " _That_ is starting a fight, Sylar! I'm not going to let you insult my family like that. Who threw the first punch hardly matters if your goal is to piss me off until I do."

He fumed for a moment, then narrowed his eyes and regarded Sylar. "You keep saying I need to answer your questions. I don't remember you asking me anything before the fight started." He grimaced as he remembered what they _had_ been doing. "We were…flirting…before that. What is it you need to know from me?"

XXX

Sylar spent his time simultaneously staring at Peter and not listening to whatever off-topic blather he felt was so important. _I can't explain! (I shouldn't have to…)_ "I know that!" he burst out, only just waiting until Peter finished. The relevant question at the end relieved and stymied him. "I need…" It felt strange to phrase it that way, so explicit, and by then, Sylar knew what he needed. "Don't touch my head. Any part of it. I don't…" Now he was back to being frustrated, both at having to think through the steps and having to give the instructions. "I don't care about my neck or my hair, but my hair is part of my head." He licked his lips, bit the lower one, then sighed as his pacing took on a less frantic speed, looking to and from Peter now. "Not even when I'm asleep or unconscious or injured – just _don't."_ A stare marked the end of his needs. He felt incredibly vulnerable still. _Because I told him a weakness. It's weak._ "I shouldn't have to remind you that I will kill you if you touch my head."

XXX

Peter listened with a serious, intent expression on his face. "Okay." He thought back over what Sylar was asking for – what the whole argument seemed to be about. Solemnly, he said, "I won't touch any part of your head, or hold you down and…threaten to do it." He frowned, looking away with knit brows. _Not being able to hit his head in a fight sucks. What if things are going bad and I need to win? How can I keep things from going bad in the first place?_ "I need to understand this fighting thing we're doing. I was trying to…" Peter glanced back to Sylar and made an open-handed, palm-up motion of offering, "play fair. To follow whatever rules you keep mentioning and not…beat you to a pulp the way you did to me last time." He considered his words, wondering what he could ask for and what Sylar would grant. Was there some middle ground between them? "I didn't like that. I got hurt too bad." He was quiet a moment before asking, "That was because I came at you saying I was going to turn you into Nathan again? Or use you to get Nathan back – however I put it?"

XXX

Sylar's head canted to the side at that. _He doesn't understand fighting at all._ That much was made very clear to him. _He's not operating with all his powers, his empathy and it doesn't work on me anyway._ "Yes," Sylar pronounced slowly, oozing 'duh!' in tone and limited in his facial expression. _He thinks I'm that unstable?_

XXX

Peter nodded slowly. _How could I be so stupid?_ It was obvious, really, and especially in retrospect when he had the right information. "I don't recall what I was thinking before you," he gestured at the floor of the rec room, "plastered me here, but during the fight in the exercise room I didn't have any intention of setting you off like this." It was said apologetically. "That's not a way I want to hurt you." He shrugged. "Or anyone. Ever. Not like that."

XXX

"Right," Sylar scoffed. "You didn't have any intention of _losing_ that fight, Petrelli." If Peter had won, he wouldn't have 'set Sylar off,' instead, in Peter's mind, he would have his precious brother back. It would have simply resulted in this fight today happening sooner, it seemed. After all, Peter had nearly ambushed him out of a dead sleep. The winner of a fight where the Haitian's power was used wouldn't have to apologize or explain himself because the loser would be…putty, dead, or be another person entirely. It was even more annoying that Peter couldn't stick to a subject, let alone an event. Sylar followed this current detour out of rebuilding irritation. "You didn't care. Besides, we've established that I'm not like everyone else. So _'hurting me like that'_ at Mercy was just…what? Ends justifying your means?"

XXX

Peter grimaced and winced. _That was...different. Why can't he see that?_ Patiently and somewhat apologetically, he tried to explain, "I wasn't trying to hurt you. I was trying to get Nathan back. I offered you a…deal." He rolled his eyes and looked uncomfortable. "I know it was one-sided. Yeah. I get that. You _murdered my brother_ , Sylar. That I wasn't killing you **immediately** , that I was trying to talk to you – that should mean something. I had those drugs so I could…try to work something out. I thought, if you didn't have abilities and I could sedate you enough, maybe there was something…" He shook his head. "I didn't have more of a plan than that. I didn't know what was possible or not, where Nathan…was, if he was in you somehow and I could…you know, pull him out like that future version of me did with me from Jesse. I didn't know. The drugs and taking away your powers was so I could have a chance to find out." He shook his head again. "But then things…yeah, escalated. You threw me out of the elevator before…anything." _He started that one, too!_

XXX

Sylar just frowned painfully at him. Even thinking about Mercy made him nauseous. Talking about it...well. He hated the very word, 'Mercy,' it was so painfully ironic. His voice was a cracking, husky whisper. "It wasn't a deal, Petrelli. You forced me into a shitty _choice_ using _torture_ where _death_ was the alternative. You weren't going to simply let me go if I chose Door Number Three. It wasn't really even a _choice_ because I was _completely powerless_. You are no different than the Company." He was panting when he stopped because it took all of his willpower to stay in the same room with Peter Petrelli, let alone talk or hear about Mercy. It was almost too much to say what he had; his eyes felt warm.

XXX

_Well...yeah._ That hurt to admit even inside and it threw Peter's mind into chaos about his feelings towards his mother, Noah, Matt, and what they'd done. He couldn't make sense of it. Feeling himself losing focus, he put his attention back on what had happened at the hospital that night and why. He started diplomatically, but his tone didn't stay that way. "I see you're upset. You have a right to be. That whole thing sucked for both of us, but especially you because things didn't go how you wanted them to. Didn't you show up there to kill my mother, change your mind that you'd rather crucify me instead first, and this was after you'd killed my brother and tried to take over the government by assassinating the president?" He cocked his head and asked with a mix of seriousness and sarcasm. "Did I miss something there?" He made an open-handed gesture to the side, sitting forward on the couch. "It sounds to me like you showed up thinking _I_ would be the one powerless, intending to torture _me_ to death." He gave a dip of his head for emphasis, "And then my mom, too."

XXX

He'd forgotten his agreement with himself not to talk about Mercy, or any crimes of Peter's for just this reason. _He suckered me in and I fell for it. I'm evil; I deserve it, so it's not 'wrong.'_ Sylar didn't attempt to argue the part about how his plans, including murdering his targets, was far less cruel than torture and mind-erasing in terms of pain. Peter was the cruel one in keeping Sylar alive each time. His heart sank and his face fell bitterly. It was a battle (or a series of them), which he knew he needed to win on many levels and yet he knew he could never win them. Instead of continuing along the beaten track, he took a deep, wavering breath to refocus on the real issue at hand. Petrelli was unapologetic yet acknowledged the supposed, wish-washy 'wrong' he'd done; promising never to so much as threaten Sylar or hurt a feeling and repeatedly fucking that up with dubious degrees of intention. "At least I'm honest about it and I own up to it," was all he said in his own defense because he didn't recall sugarcoating any of his deeds. _It's not about what I did - it's about him!_ Here was Peter, once again changing the subject to throw blame like it was a valid reason back onto Sylar. "So why should I trust you this time, _Petrelli_?" He said the name like it was synonymous with 'liar.'

XXX

"Yeah, you're honest," Peter said bitterly. But he appreciated that in its own twisted way. He raked a hand through his hair. "Trust is earned." His voice strained over that, because Sylar wouldn't be asking the question unless Peter had failed to earn it. That knowledge hit him hard. "I can't prove myself to you, persuade you to like me, or manipulate you into trusting me. Or," he glanced off to the side and made a sardonic roll of his eyes, "if I can, I'm not going to." He took a moment to gather his thoughts. "I've been honest, too," he said soberly. "I'm not perfect. I'm not even," he swallowed and huffed out a tense breath, "very good. I try to be. But…" he shook his head, "it's like Claude said – someday I'll die and they'll put that on my tombstone: 'Here lies Peter Petrelli. He tried.'" He frowned and shook his head again, feeling his eyes burn with moisture. "That's all I've got, Sylar. I'm trying. I want you to trust me. I want to be someone you can trust." He sniffed and ran both hands through his hair, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor and the faint outline of a since-cleaned pool of blood staining the carpet. He didn't even know which one of them it had originated from. It was a sad comment on the state of affairs between them. Peter looked up at Sylar. "What can I do to earn your trust? You know what would work for you. Tell me. Tell me what to do."

XXX

_I told him I'd never trust him. It's not possible. But we had something. It was better than nothing._ Sylar knew he was being very hard on Peter, hurting him, frightening him, and making him feel small. Applying the intentional stress came from desperation. At the same time, it was such a simple, small, and obvious thing. _I don't deal with shit like this. I just kill people._ His frustration shifted toward the solution he'd presented to Peter. Sylar's long-dulled survival instinct wouldn't shake even as he balked at the kill stroke. Peter, by himself, was a decent man – someone Sylar, or Gabriel, would have liked if things had been different. Nathan knew him differently, with love and familial history. He was trying to look past the evidence before him. Letting his companion live would be more pleasant by far, and more difficult. _(I don't want to. I don't want to. I don't want to). He knows it's serious now. I don't know what he can do to fix it. If only I could tell him what to do._ Sylar stood still as Peter spoke, torn by indecision so badly he couldn't walk around, lean against the pool table, or even sit next to Peter on the available couch cushion. "I don't need to trust you, Petrelli." Even that implied weakness he couldn't allow - he regretted using the word now. "At least- Not everything is…This is…" He couldn't explain how this was different than almost any other issue and eventually he gave up, still frustrated and confused.

XXX

Peter waited for Sylar to go on, but that seemed as far as the other man would go for the moment. He sighed. _You_ do _need to trust me! That's what this is all about._ _At least we're talking. What have I done that might weigh in my favor here?_ "I haven't ambushed you or killed you. I've taken care of you when you were hurt. I'm trying…" he shrugged, "to give you space when you need it. When you're angry at me and leave to just…let you leave and don't follow. Sylar, I fucking sleep with you! And that's not for my peace of mind. It's for _yours_ even if I'm okay with it." He was silent for a moment before continuing, "Yeah, there's ways I'd like to hurt you and see you suffer, but I wouldn't be human if I didn't feel that way after what you've done." He waved at Sylar. "Just because I've thought about them doesn't mean I'm going to do them, ever. I'm trying to follow your rules. It would help if you were a little clearer about what they are, but without that, I'm going to stumble around in the dark some. Maybe I threaten to hit you in the face and I don't know that's going to set you off. I know you came in here wanting to kill me for making that mistake. I didn't do it on purpose. I won't do it again. You _know_ me. You know me better than anyone, ever, probably. Because my parents…" He rolled his eyes and shook his head. His mother loved him, but she'd been busy a lot and especially as he grew older, she didn't take the time to really know him. "And Nathan…you know everything he knows. Plus a lot. Because you've actually listened to me the last however long we've been here. If you know all that and you still can't work something out with me…" Peter shrugged helplessly, because 'take it or leave it' wasn't an option when Sylar had made it clear he was to the point of seriously considering getting rid of Peter if they couldn't build some rapport between them. "Then let's talk about what I can do to be someone you can deal with." After a beat he added, "And fucking you isn't part of the equation."

XXX

It felt like Peter was playing dirty with the reminders of all the good things he'd done. There were many yet Sylar remembered them all and had appreciated them (or perhaps taken them for granted) too deeply to be able to express his gratitude. Some of the things were necessary for him to function and Peter did them automatically without question – and he was consistent with them (for the most part). Sylar couldn't help but yearn for more. Peter was an incredibly irritating balm against time and solitude and insanity. _What I want versus what I need. I…I need both, don't I? I need him alive and I need to…be able to keep my mind._

Sylar snorted a rough, single chuckle with a half roll of his eyes. Of course, Peter would throw in how sex wasn't going to happen even if it was laughably disinteresting right now. It broke much of the tension and it felt like he could finally breathe. Added to it, Sylar had…decided or deduced that Peter Petrelli did not have abilities here. _If he did, he wouldn't be here; the fights would be different, because he can't control himself. He said that before._ "You really don't have abilities here, do you?"

XXX

Peter frowned slightly. It was an odd deviation from the topic, but on the other hand, it was better than what they'd been talking about. Maybe it tied in somehow. _Maybe he's asking to make sure I can't mind-wipe him?_ Peter didn't have the most reassuring answer for that, but he wasn't going to lie about it either. "I can feel Matt's ability." He pointed at his head. "It's in there. But it doesn't work. I can't read minds. I can't get us out of here. I can't paint or draw the future. It's like being in a deep cave and trying to see. I know I've got my eyes open, but everything's black." He waved at his head in general. "I've got the ability, but..." Peter shrugged, "nothing works." He didn't want to mention the weird tingling in his hands. He let his hands fall and he looked at them for a while. _I don't want to be called a liar later for leaving things out._ "I can tell I've still got my own ability, too. But there's nothing to swap for, and mostly it seems to be turned off like with Matt's telepathy. It tingles sometimes, but nothing happens." He left off how it tingled when they touched, and generally only when they were touching in a friendly or more-than-friendly manner. Peter wasn't so dense he hadn't noticed the pattern. He still didn't know what it meant, though, and this was not the time to discuss it. He looked back up at Sylar and said no more of his unruly, inconsistent powers. "What about you?"

XXX

Wistfully, speaking almost to himself, Sylar said by way of explaining apology, "It's my abilities and the things that have…happened," he exhaled then sighed. Opening his mouth once and closing it in a false start, he managed quietly, "Do things still feel real to you? The world, me, the past and everything we knew…How do you tell what's real?" He couldn't phrase it as his own problem because he'd had enough vulnerability to last a long time. Instead, he took Peter up on the offer to talk, in an angled way because his mind was still in upset and he didn't want to question and explain any of the dozens of things Peter had brought up – he didn't want to work through it right now, if he could get away with it. He wanted to lie down and rest, really rest.

XXX

"I think we're trapped in your head here," Peter said gently, holding up a hand to hopefully forestall any objections. Sylar seemed to be struggling, wrestling with himself and his doubts. It reminded Peter of how lost Nathan had seemed after Peter's first death, and how he'd been when he showed up on Peter's doorstep, confused, frightened, and just beginning to suspect he wasn't Nathan at all. Peter worked to build the man up. "But that doesn't mean this isn't real. What's between us, our interaction, that's real. As real as any conversation or…relationship." He swallowed and took a deep breath. He had a relationship with Sylar, no doubt about it and it wasn't just 'enemies' anymore or else he wouldn't care about supporting him like this. "There are obviously things going on around here that don't seem right." Peter waved his hands out to either side. "The people are gone. It's all city. Some things are…disorienting – no faces, the trash disappears, the weather is weird. There's a lot that seems unreal. But you and I are used to a world where we can _fly_ , Sylar." Peter smiled at the mere mention of that. "Where you and I both held the power to level entire cities, to kill or to heal with a wave of our hand or a simple touch. That stuff really happened to us. I know it happened as well as I know myself. It's part of me. It's part of you. _We_ are meant for extraordinary things. So is it any surprise that we don't feel ordinary?"

XXX

Sylar didn't protest Peter's delusion about the world being a dream because as long as Peter believed it was some kind of reality, the empath would react accordingly. He didn't buy into it and it seemed that Peter was aware of that. Several things had potential but his brain didn't snag on them just yet: 'real…relationship,' the inconsistencies of their world, Peter's joy at flying, that _both_ of them were meant for extraordinary things. _What's happened is part of me. That includes the good and the bad. He thinks the bad outweighs the good and I can't separate myself from it._ Those thoughts zipped through his brain and left him feeling...vindicated at least that Peter knew some things were part of Sylar, bittersweet because he couldn't simply cut out his evil. _Is he saying that I don't feel normally or that I am not ordinary? Do specials have abnormal feelings because of their powers? Is my- our trouble caused by our lack of powers this time?_ It was a relief to be with Peter, the guy who never once doubted his own specialness and his mission, who, if anything, overestimated his capacity. Peter knew what reality was (more or less) and he could apparently…be trusted to figure out those dilemmas that still plagued Sylar's chaotic mind. _Either that, or he's manipulating me and lying like he said he wouldn't but I don't care. This lie is more pleasant than whatever truth he could be hiding._

"No," he said, accepting that for what it was. "No, I suppose it isn't." It felt like a very long answer to explain…why he suffered with all the people, possibilities, and realities in his head. _(He needs to feel special here, too)._ There were many thoughts that needed time. He was considerably calmer than he'd been in…well, since he woke up cuddling Peter. "I'm…going to read for a while. With my clocks." He angled away slightly, but waited to see how it was received.

XXX

Peter got to his feet, but that was as far as he went. He had a strong desire to move to Sylar, to touch him, to cup his elbow, grasp his bicep, or clap a hand on his shoulder – anything for contact. Being allowed that touch would be more reassuring than anything Sylar could say. Peter stomped on that desire. _He's paranoid right now. He doesn't like me touching him anyway, and most of my abilities work by touch. Just leave it alone. Leave him alone_. It was hard, though. "Okay." He shifted his weight insecurely. "Are we good?"

XXX

Peter rose but didn't approach. Sylar was grateful for that, too. His own passive way of showing it (since other gestures were frowned upon) was to answer that important question directly. "Yes. You're safe." With a final lingering glance, he made for his apartment, breathing a deep sigh of lessened tensions. When he was outdoors, he looked up at the clearing sky. There were ominous heavy rainclouds in the distance. He sent up a something like a prayer to Fate that he no longer had to worry about his mind and personality being mutilated. What could it be like to have that kind of safety? Even if it was temporary, it was something undreamed of. The most terrifying threat Peter presented seemed suddenly nullified, a huge oppressive, offensive, crippling weight off his shoulders. He was glad Peter's wits hadn't abandoned him completely, seeing how the man had managed to talk his way out of death, for the benefit of both. In the midst of his relief, Sylar had to ignore any fantasies he had about…what this meant between himself and Peter. If things had been different, he still felt that Peter would mutilate his mind and the lack of action was not a _decision_ on Peter's part. For now, it left their situation far more open with possibilities. The possibility of torture (maiming) was still present, as was being imprisoned and beaten but those were manageable. It left him feeling damn near _friendly_ towards Petrelli just for the reprieve.

Back at his apartment, Sylar applied himself to re-fixing his collection of watches that he'd taken apart and put back together dozens of times. His mind wandered into the future and where he fit in it. A few nightmares still plagued him but he slept deeply, getting much needed rest.

XXX

Peter nodded mutely and took a seat again, watching silently as Sylar left. When he was alone, he heaved a sigh, scrubbed at the non-bruised parts of his face, and raked his hands through his hair, alternating between scratching at his scalp and pulling at his hair. It took him a while to wind down, something the exercise room across the hall helped with. Worn out later, he took a hot bath, got a late lunch, and finally returned to the task of finishing his work on the guitar. That night, he changed his mind from his thoughts of that morning and stayed in the penthouse even though he didn't expect (or receive) company. He felt less alone there than he did at his place – more like he was waiting for someone to join him than living in exile.


	122. Make Me Sorry

Day 70, February 18, Morning

The next morning saw Peter at his usual routine and breakfast at the diner down the street. On the way back, he stopped in front of Sylar's apartment and set up shop on the curb across the street. He skimmed the book on Muhammad Ali as he whiled away the time, thinking Sylar would probably come out at some point.

XXX

After a reviving shower, toast, eggs, and an apple, Sylar brought his book down to the lobby with the intention of latching onto Peter. He found with amused pleasure that Peter was already waiting for him. _(He's not too angry. At least, I don't think he would bring his book to a fight. Yesterday, he didn't…lead me on, either – didn't make me afraid of the possibility that he was just messing with me)._ Sylar approached and sat next to the man, a comfortable distance. "I didn't expect to see you here. You're out early. Did you finish the guitar?" _Conversation, right? This is what normal people do._ With the whole world between them apparently suddenly opened up, he wanted to take advantage of it.

XXX

Peter closed the book, not bothering to mark the place with his finger. It wasn't the sort of book that required sequential reading. He smiled a little at Sylar's greeting and more at being joined on the sidewalk, even if the cold concrete wasn't the most comfortable hanging out spot. "No, not quite," he said of the guitar question. He took a moment to consider what danger Sylar continued to pose to the instrument. _Wasn't there something about how if you're ever taken hostage, you should tell your attacker all about you so they see you as a human being and won't hurt you? Would the same apply to the guitar?_

"It's turning out really nice. Beautiful. With the etching, it's kind of just paint-by-numbers, which is good because I don't think I could manage anything really complex. I went through a lot of masking tape and a bunch of different shades of spray paint." He gave Sylar a twisted smile. "You wouldn't expect a little experience tagging would come in handy, would you?" He'd been chased off from graffiti bombing runs a few times as a teen, but he didn't think word had ever reached his parents (much less the mostly-absent Nathan) about Peter's illegal extracurriculars while being a skate rat. "I was doing brush work for touch-up. The design is a phoenix. And fire, of course. I think all I have to do now is apply a clear topcoat. At least, that's what I gathered from reading the back of the different cans of paint and stuff in the crafter's apartment where we found it. I left it to dry overnight." He dipped his head towards Sylar. "Do you know anything about painting stuff?"

XXX

Sylar nodded before it seemed clear that Peter wanted him describe his knowledge – of course. "It depends how it was treated before you painted, you know, sanding, priming, that kind of thing, and how you finish it."

XXX

"Oh?" The guitar had already been prepped, so Peter didn't have any influence over that. Also, the answer was so vague as to be useless, but Peter thanked him anyway for responding. "Okay, thanks." _Maybe he'll have more to say about it when he sees it next. (I'm not sure I want him close enough to it to see it.)_ He stood up, stretching his legs, which turned into stretching most of the rest of him, too. "You want to walk somewhere? I've eaten, but have you?"

XXX

A brief pause denoted Sylar's reaction and thoughts. _Why is he thanking me? What I told him is useless now that he's nearly done._ He looked around after he stood. It was a fairly clear day, with only a few light gray clouds on the horizon. "Sure. Yeah, I ate." _I guess I usually wait for him, to see if he's eaten._ Only after he agreed, did he think about their destination and purpose.

XXX

After they'd walked for a block, Peter asked, "I've been thinking about what happened the other day and some of the things you said. It would help me to know what else is off-limits for you. Between the two of us, I mean, like conversational topics or things I shouldn't do. Other than your head and your mom. I got those." He took another stride before adding, "And, uh, mental stability. Or, at least, I need to be real careful about when talking about that."

XXX

And so it started. They'd only just begun this mysterious walk, only just met up for the day, and after the goings-on of rest of the week… It sent him into irritated and helpless faster than it should have. _Once you know what to look for, you Petrellis sure layer it on thick,_ he thought with an edge. _Why else would he want me so comfortable?_ Rather than answer, he said what needed to be said and no more. "How would I know? You can hit me and hold me down and do whatever you want. I'm not…picky." After a few steps, he snorted, "Besides, nothing that you've done is new. I've had worse." That was arguable, but Peter needed to feel challenged rather than…pitying.

XXX

_He says he's not picky like he's saying he's not fragile. Or weak. But wait, isn't this the opposite of what we argued about yesterday – that I_ can't _do whatever I want?_ Peter frowned, but decided to change the subject rather than pursue it. There was another thing Sylar had said yesterday he wanted to know more about. "You said I wasn't the first person you'd tortured for information. Tell me about that." He didn't regard Sylar threatening the guitar as 'torture', but that was how Sylar had labeled it, so Peter used the same word. Did he mean he'd extorted other people like with the guitar, or did he mean he'd done the more typical description of torture – inflicting pain just to inflict it? "Does that have anything to do with the Hunger or was that just … you?"

XXX

The pressure grated on him like sandpaper. _Why can't we ever talk about anything normal?! (Because I don't have anything normal to talk about and he'd rather talk about the freak so he can feel 'safe'). Why can't we ever just not talk? (Because I'm not his brother)._ "It was no different than some of the things you've done for friends and family. It has nothing to do with you. I'm tired of talking about me," he declared, throwing it down like a glove. His nose hurt like a bitch.

XXX

_Two strikes in a row._ He assumed the sniping about 'friends and family' was about the incident with Sylar at Mercy Hospital. He didn't think Sylar knew about the thing with Noah. "Sounds like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he grumbled, not interested in addressing his own failings. Peter gave Sylar a thorough look. _Did he really eat, or was he just saying that? We're going to the diner next. It's just a block over._ "We don't have to talk about you. Or anything, if you'd rather. I like the company, even if it's just you being there." Peter did not like being alone, especially here, and as long as Sylar wasn't being deliberately antagonistic, threatening, insulting, or disrespectful (which, Peter would admit, Sylar was one or more of those most of the time), then he made good company. Or he _could_ make good company. Or...well, actually, he was just the only company available. Resigned to this situation, Peter put the best face he could on it and tried to play nice. _A third strike will put me out of the game._ With a gentle tone, Peter said, "I was at the penthouse last night." He was trying to say, to hint, that he'd waited for Sylar, that Sylar might have slept better if he'd gone there, that Peter wanted and had wanted to be something other than apart last night, especially if he was going to pay for it today in the form of an irritable, easily-moved-to-violence Sylar. He turned at the end of the block, steering them towards the diner.

XXX

Sylar knew his irritation was due to his lack of compliance with being manipulated. He didn't want to accept any supposed 'help' from this man (ever, if he could help it) and never if it meant owing Peter something or being viewed as pathetic. The idea of Peter Petrelli seeing him as a person or a human was laughable and so was the empath's attempt to manipulate him that way. It was…clumsy. So Peter tried guilt. Sylar felt the twinge. _I'm still the fucking bad guy, that's all he's trying to say._ It made him want to give up on trying to be decent companionship. _It's always my fault, isn't it? Peter was just minding his own business (so he says!) before I came along and ruined everything. For everyone I'm sure._ Peter's words and probably a host of unvoiced feelings served to remind him that Peter had other, less pleasant options. _He was waiting for me?...Why?_ After threatening and insulting, the idea that they would sleep together hadn't crossed his hadn't slept at the penthouse because he hadn't wanted to. Was he implying that Sylar had some kind of responsibility to sleep with him now? _Or…_ Sylar sighed aloud, _He just thinks I'd have 'slept on a better side of the bed' there._ Since it was allowed, he took a few deep breaths to fix his tone and some of his attitude. "Yeah? I was reading a murder mystery - big shock."

XXX

"Yeah? Was it good?" Peter inquired politely. If Sylar had gotten the hint (which Peter was disposed to think he had), then this was Sylar's way of telling him to go fuck himself.

XXX

Sylar nodded. It had been easier to sink into the fantasy of a book than attempt to corral his wild thoughts about his own life, flipping upside down and back again every day it seemed. It had calmed him, having the space, much needed because he'd felt ready to fall apart yesterday. He wasn't sure how much he was supposed to detail about his read (or his sleep). He then saw they were nearing the diner and Peter intended to go in though it wasn't lunch time. "Are you hungry?"

XXX

Peter shrugged indifferently. "I want to pick up some biscuits to eat while we walk." He was sort-of lying. They weren't for him. He was hoping some food might lead to a better mood in his companion.

XXX

_You didn't answer my question…_ "You weren't paying attention, but I said I already ate," his annoyed tone was back.

XXX

Peter gave the most exasperated huff, rolling his eyes skyward in frustration. _Now I'm caught between lying or telling him I'm trying to manipulate him into feeling better._ "I pay attention just fine!" he snapped. "You need something you're not getting right now and I'm trying to figure out what I can do for you." He held up fingers and ticked them off insultingly, like Sylar was dense. "Maybe it's rest? Food? Water? Exercise? I don't know, Sylar! I'm trying to help. If you don't want any fucking biscuits, then you don't have to eat any fucking biscuits." _We're going to have another fight. I know it! I wish he'd stop this! (I wish I'd stop it.) Why do we keep doing this?!_

XXX

Sylar stopped outside the door, too surprised from all quarters to react properly. _Like I'm his pet? I am no-…I suppose I am his pet. Or his prisoner. Or maybe he thinks I'm a child because I_ clearly _can't take care of myself!_ It bothered him further that Peter thought his 'needs' were so simple as to be reduced to food/water, rest, and walking. He began to boil again on the inside but kept a lid on it for the moment. As a backhanded way of telling Peter just how vexing he was, he calmly stated, "I thought you said mental comfort was more important than the physical."

XXX

Peter almost stumbled he stopped so fast. His mouth was open while he mentally recalibrated. _We're fighting because all I'm taking care of is the physical. I keep checking his injuries and making sure he eats and sleeps enough (or at least I try to) and that's not what he needs. That's NEVER what my patients need. Or at least not all they need._ For the second time in twenty-four hours, he found himself asking _How could I be so stupid?_ "Oh. Uh." He shut his mouth. "Um, that's...why you went back to your clocks and books yesterday, isn't it?" He was thinking out loud rather than really asking Sylar. "Okay. Do you want to walk to the library or just go read today?" He was sincere (if rattled) and tried to convey that in his tone.

XXX

Sylar huffed, putting hands in pockets and looking about down the road in no particular direction. "Yes, Peter. I'd rather go to the library." He pushed past Peter, brushing against the man to walk into the diner, "But first, I want a 'fucking' biscuit. Sounds like you need one, too. Maybe it will improve my chances of getting a massage or getting laid." He hadn't forgotten that Peter had technically agreed to massages after fights.

XXX

_That worked!_ Peter watched Sylar's body language change from simmering anger to merely put out over the course of a few seconds – there would be no fight if Sylar's hands were in his pockets and he was looking around rather than straight at his target. It was enough of a surprise that Peter managed to quip, "Letting me help you would imp-" before cutting himself off mid-word. _No. Giving him tips is not cool. (But, hey, is he offering me a massage?)_

XXX

Sylar turned around and cocked his head. "Is that what this is all about? You have to _change_ me before you can fuck me?"

XXX

Peter was feeling needy. He was lonely and worried. He'd had multiple fights with Sylar in the last week, and had both his life and interests threatened the day before. But the moment he thought he'd figured something out to make things between them better, it soured. _Why is this about sex?_ If sex would get Sylar off Peter's case, then it was sorely tempting. _But it's just another extortion. He's going to be an asshole until he gets laid, books and clocks be damned. (He'll probably be an asshole after, too._ _And during?_ _)_ With deep insecurity, he wondered, _(Does he think I'm worthless unless I'm putting out?)_ He knew his mouth was writing checks he wasn't sure he wanted to see cashed, but he said it anyway with brimming offense: "I'm sure as hell not fucking you the way you are!" He stalked inside the diner after Sylar, waving his arms out to the sides to demonstrate how done he wanted to be with all of this.

XXX

_So much for not talking about me or not talking when I don't want to._ Sylar sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and coping a bit of an attitude. _See, this is what I don't want to talk about. How evil and wrong and horrible I am. Or how normal I should have been._ "I'm sure I've heard it before, but what do you mean, 'the way I am'?" Temporarily at least, he didn't remind Peter of what he'd said mere minutes ago (both about mental comfort and talking when/about what he pleased), ceasing his search for the biscuits as well.

XXX

Peter continued emphasizing his points with both arms. "Because you're an asshole! Unrepentant from what I can tell." He hesitated, calming somewhat, his face softening as he considered how difficult Sylar might find it to repent of having done so much. With a sigh, he continued, "I don't know if the blood washes off or not, but you have to at least admit it's there." He paused again. "Maybe not to everyone, but at least to the people you've effected. Otherwise, it's like you're denying you did anything wrong." Peter's voice had turned very earnest. The conversation had (at least as far as he was concerned) taken a turn for meaningful.

XXX

Sylar's face pinched then blanked. He felt – sensed? – that his words were being quoted back at him and that's how he understood it. _No. I don't have to admit to anything. I'm- I was powerful. I could change myself into anyone and do anything I wanted. Being covered in blood…stains me,_ he thought with difficulty. _Besides, who the hell would I admit anything to?_ Granted, a precious few like Luke, Micah, Claire (unwillingly), Elle, Danko, and Dr. Gibson had…tried to listen. More important than mere conversation was that when he'd sought help from nearly everyone he knew (anyone he could reach), he'd been systematically turned away with varying degrees of insult and violence. The last time he tried: _I ended up_ here _._ Despite the impossibility, he acknowledged the point, logically, for what it was. "Why would I do that? It only puts me permanently in the hot seat and doesn't solve anything for you. Besides, you have a ridiculously high tolerance for assholes who won't admit to anything and who won't help you."

XXX

Peter looked at him levelly. "It would make me feel better. If you don't admit to it, then I want to keep digging at it. It's unresolved. I want to _make you_ admit it wasn't right." He ignored the dig at his tolerance or lack thereof. He sat at the counter, one elbow on it, his hand supporting the side of his face. "I am so tired of fighting with you, Sylar. I don't want to. If you don't want this to be...us tearing at each other all the time, then something has to change."

XXX

_Then_ make _me!_ He instinctively longed to spit back. What Peter said did fit with his…singularly determined attention on nearly everything Sylar wanted to avoid. The idea of giving Peter what he wanted to…stop the nonsense took on a new light. It sounded far too good to be true. He took a moment to think it over and spot all the loopholes that would screw him over. The biggest being that Peter's word was garbage and he routinely went back on the things he'd said in casual conversation. Giving Peter answers or- Sylar mentally corrected himself – information would not end there. "Out of curiosity," he hedged, noncommittal, "What did you have in mind?"

XXX

"You've hurt a lot of people. You don't seem to care about it. That _has_ to change! You've hurt _me_ and you don't seem to care. You want sex, but," he sat straighter to make an elaborate shrug of exasperation, "why would I be with someone who didn't care if they hurt me?"

XXX

He gave a roll of his eyes at the demand. _Change, change, change, and more change. That's all anyone ever wanted and look what I am now. If he had half a brain-cell, he'd figure out that maybe yet another operation won't make Frankenstein into a nice guy – it will probably make him worse._ _I don't want sex- I mean, I do, but that's not what I'm asking for. I just want you to fuck me_ He didn't want to talk about sex, or how he was never going to get that opportunity. "I took care of you. I'm not stupid enough to hurt you every time I want to."

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a long, steady look, thinking over the care Sylar had given him. He wasn't sure how much of it was real or concussion-induced imaginings, but no matter where the line of reality was drawn, he'd been allowed to heal, been given time and attention throughout, and not abused or taken advantage of. That was the indisputable minimum Sylar had done for him and it was more than Peter required or, frankly, had expected. He had not forgotten how he should not take for granted Sylar not killing him. Even if he had, the subtext of 'I'm not stupid enough to hurt you every time I want to' was clear enough. But the reality of how Sylar had acted when Peter had been in genuine need, if his memory was to be trusted, was that Sylar had stuck with him, helped, not picked any fights, and even provided comfort. Peter knew he'd been cranky and not the best patient. He remembered clearly his apprehension that he might push Sylar too far, which was something he wouldn't have feared unless he was being difficult.

"Yes, you did take care of me," Peter said finally. "Now think about how you'd have felt if I wouldn't admit that? What if I said I didn't believe you would have helped me, so my memory must be wrong and since I was concussed, I can't be sure what really happened. That...frustration...is how I feel about you saying you had your 'reasons' for all those people you killed – like that makes it okay somehow."

XXX

His only reaction was a slow blink. "I do have reasons. What could I possibly say to make killing someone 'okay' in your mind? I did it in self-defense? To save someone else? For science? Because my ability made me do it? Because I was angry? Because I could? Because I can't tell right from wrong? What?! There's nothing I can say to make it 'okay' for you and you wouldn't believe it and you certainly won't leave me alone. I don't bother to justify myself to anyone and no one is stupid enough to ask - they just… _act_." Sylar turned away to get their would-be peacekeeping snacks from the kitchen _. It's too late for that, I think. I can't…give him anything he wants. I don't have my abilities._

XXX

Peter watched him go, frowning at Sylar's back and thinking. _What_ do _I want him to say? What is there he can say? 'Sorry' wouldn't cut it. I mean, it would be a start, but…he's right. I wouldn't be satisfied with that._ He stewed on that, imagining various scenarios where Sylar confessed and what he (Peter) might or might not do in response.

XXX

Returning with a pair of biscuits, sans any condiments, he added in a softer tone as he idly looked at the food in his hands, "I've heard it all before, Petrelli. For…years," he paused to consider how long he'd been hearing blame and complaints and horrified questions, "anything you could think to ask or scream at me – I've heard before. I've been with so many people – the Bennets, Claire, your parents, the Sureshs, Company agents, government agents, other specials, targets and their families, sometimes even normal people. I get that it comes with the territory – I mean, I did think it would be different, but it isn't. It…it gets old," he admitted, looking up at Peter and handing him his snack. "Talking doesn't do me any good. It just makes more trouble," he concluded sadly.

XXX

Peter listened quietly. "I suppose I'm not saying anything new," he responded in a resigned tone that matched Sylar's. "Here." He took the biscuits. "Let's pop these in the warmer and put some honey on them. They're better that way. Like little cakes with the icing on the inside." He carried out his plan, getting the honey while the biscuits sat under the infrared heater. He leaned on the counter while the heat cycle continued. "I haven't been looking at your memories. Would it make things easier for you if I did?" He looked over at Sylar at the end of the question, watching for his reaction.

XXX

He simply watched as Petrelli snatched away what he'd thought were their mutual snacks. He let them go rather than end up with a handful of useless crumbs, but he was confused. The grabbiness was explained shortly after and Peter moved on to another 'solution.' He went still, sucking in a breath and holding it, staring directly into Peter's eyes at the very thought. _(Would it be easier? I wouldn't have to say any-) Please! With him? I'd have to explain. And he probably can't control it so who knows what he would see?_ Grimly, he shook his head once and croaked, "No." _Is this the next threat I need to prevent?_

XXX

Peter nodded and went back to watching the biscuits, aware that Sylar had not taken the question well. "Just asking," he said quietly. "I thought maybe that way I wouldn't be going over things you've already had enough of from other people." He sighed and moved forward, removing the biscuits. "I don't mean to make you trouble, Sylar. At least I don't anymore. I'm trying to get through this." He sliced one of the rolls in half and liberally applied butter to one side and honey to the other. "How do you like yours? Or do you want to do it?" He gestured to indicate the preparation.

XXX

Of course he kept his eyes on Peter, both because of the question and the food preparation. "Butter and honey is fine; like yours." Since his companion was offering, Sylar was content to let him – the food was safe if he watched Peter handling it. When both were completed to Peter's satisfaction, he took up his designated biscuit.

XXX

"Sometimes I forget how long you've been dealing with this." Peter sat at the bar, taking a bite out of his biscuit and enjoying the warm, sweet, buttery goodness. "These are delicious, by the way. Don't miss out. Eat it now while it's hot," he encouraged. After another bite and a contented sigh, he resumed the main part of the conversation. "I've been dealing with the crap about as long. It's frustrating. I keep feeling like there's something more out there, some meaning or plan, if I could just figure it out." He frowned, picking up a fallen crumb and tossing it in his mouth. "And I'm not crazy or stupid or just…daydreaming. Because Hiro _did_ come from the future. There _was_ a plan – to blow up New York, the Pinehearst stuff, the Company, all of that. There _is_ more. I know it! I keep asking…and no one will tell me. Sometimes I think they know and won't tell me, but most of the time I think they don't and we're all trying to figure it out on our own. It just seems like we might do a lot better at it if we'd work together." He put the last of the biscuit in his mouth and got up to slosh a quarter cup of coffee into a mug, along with a nearly matching amount of cream. He washed down the biscuit without bothering to add sugar to the coffee. He had enough honey on the bun that he didn't need extra sweet.

XXX

Sitting beside Peter a moment later, he obeyed to keep the peace, nibbling on the biscuit at first. It was delicious with the honey perking up his taste buds and it made him wonder if Peter had prepared this before. Perhaps Peter would drop- But no, he just kept talking. Always with the talking. At least it wasn't a sensitive subject (for the moment). All too well Sylar understood that frustration. _What a concept – working together._ He kept his mouth full after that to avoid having to answer.

XXX

Peter cleaned up his spot at the counter, wiping away crumbs and a stray drop of honey. He rinsed his coffee cup and set it to drain next to the sink. "Library now?" As they left, he said, "I asked my mom…if we could finally talk to each other about things after everything with…" He made a slight gesture at Sylar, then looked away. His nose burned. He scrunched it up a few times and sniffed. He felt betrayed and rejected by her response. "She wouldn't. Not even now."

XXX

Sylar looked anywhere but Peter. When he'd 'been' Nathan, he'd gotten a little more out of Angela – nothing important, just 'fast cars and women' and 'don't go upsetting Millie' (which led to…well, a cover-up that had been formative in his- _Nathan's_ life). He had more understanding about mothers who refused to divulge and simply…say what needed to be said. He choked down the last of the biscuit and robotically placed his plate in the sink and followed Peter _I don't know how much more of this I can handle._

XXX

Peter straightened up, lifting his head and looking around. He was pretty sure they were moving in the direction of the library. "So here I am. Came to get you." He reached over and gave Sylar a little nudge. "Fucking suicide mission. Now I can't get back, but," he shrugged, looking away again, "that's not all bad. At least I'm only having to deal with _one_ person not talking to me." He laughed hollowly, having noticed that Sylar hadn't had much to say for quite a while.

XXX

Sylar stiffly allowed the contact. He wanted to blurt, 'What do you want me to say?!' in order to stop this subtle pressure, this interrogation, but he already knew what was desired. He wanted to snap a response a number of things as well. _What does he expect from me, then? Gratitude? And I'm not pretending because…? (He makes me so angry!)_ "You will have to try a hell of a lot harder if you want to guilt trip me, Petrelli. I was raised by the best."

XXX

"What am I guilt-tripping you about? Not talking to me? Please." Peter rolled his eyes. "You'll talk when you want to talk. Maybe it's not something that makes you feel better, because it hasn't worked out in the past." With that, Peter fell silent. _Or maybe he's not saying anything because I'm running my mouth too much? It's nice that he's listening, at least. He's probably still upset that I asked about the memories. That connects right back to the thing at Mercy Hospital. I need to focus on what his emotional needs are, not what I know will set him off._

XXX

Glancing at the pavement below, then up and around at the passing storefronts, he muttered, "I knew what to do when you acted like…yourself. Like a Petrelli." He was somewhat certain he intended to be overheard, so he looked at Peter's face for a moment. "I prefer your…passion." Another flick of eyes across Peter's form, "I've always enjoyed it." Not this…lukewarm friendliness that came and went too quickly. Sylar didn't mind being the center of that violent passion, either. This was his way of giving hints or communication tips to the man who clearly thought Sylar could be handled like everyone else, like a nobody.

XXX

Peter opened his mouth and shut it. He tilted his head in puzzlement and then gave the same once-over Sylar had given him, but Peter's eyes took a little longer to do it. _Passion? 'I've always enjoyed it' – past tense. I don't think he means sex. He must mean...anger. Or...determination?_ His eyes narrowed at Sylar, then he turned back to watch where he was going. _He's getting at something._ "What did you like the most about it?" His voice was a little softer, a mix of curious and intimate.

XXX

Sylar was silent for a few seconds. Framing what amounted to an emotional response took time. He stopped walking and waited until Peter did the same. They were standing in the cool shadow of the building beside them, just feet away was the warmer sunlight. It was fitting and ironic – he felt like he was luring Peter in so willingly. Sylar placed a hand in the middle of Peter's chest like a gentle gesture to 'halt' or perhaps gesturing his sincerest interest, as he looked right at him.

"What I liked most is that I knew where I stood with you. I'm a killer. You're right – there's blood on my hands. Do the reasons really matter when someone you loved that much is dead? I like knowing you hate me. You _feel_ _something_ for me that way. No one else will ever matter to you the way I do. You said you wanted to maim me and make me admit what I've done was wrong. Do it! Push me. Break me. Make me pay. Make me sorry for killing – Nathan, someone, any of them. No one ever has, Petrelli. They've tried. They've failed. Show me what you can do." With that, his previously flat hand tightened on the man's shirt, adding shock value to his challenge as well as keeping Peter in place to watch that precious reaction close up.

XXX

_Oh!_ Peter was aware of the touch without taking his eyes off Sylar's face. It was such a rare thing for Sylar to deliberately touch him that the motion captured his attention even more than usual. And then there was what he said! Something settled and finalized and resolved inside Peter, a nagging irregularity that finally smoothed out with Sylar's calm and unqualified admission of things they both knew to be true – he'd killed, Peter hated him for it, and there was no way to make up for it. But that was the challenge – 'Make me sorry' – Peter wanted to do that more than anything, but he didn't know how. Physical torture, psychological, removing himself from the situation and leaving Sylar in his personal hell? It was complicated. Not to mention the moral angle of intentionally hurting someone, but Sylar was giving him an out for that and not merely a convenient one. This wasn't some spontaneous utterance to be disregarded in the course of a fight or during emotional duress. Sylar was serious. Peter's eyes widened, but it wasn't in fear; more like heightened alertness. He didn't react outwardly to the grip on his shirt, but it gave him a thrill and his heart beat faster. "Do you know what you're asking for?"

XXX

In that moment, Sylar was quite certain he knew what he was doing and that was the very definition of insanity (doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results) in communicating with someone who routinely misunderstood his words. In that moment, he was committed, confident, even, that he still had something of the upper hand involved in getting what he – what they both – wanted. "Yes," he rasped, still not breaking the stare.

XXX

Peter reached up and wrapped his left hand around Sylar's hand, holding it against his chest. He locked eyes with Sylar, his brow twitching slightly in invitation. _You want to go?_ Sylar seeing that expression and recognizing it was all Peter was waiting for. He lashed out with his right hand in a heel punch to Sylar's undefended sternum. In the moment while Sylar was staggered from the blow, Peter twisted Sylar's hand free from himself and used the captured arm to shove him towards the ground. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? Have me beat the crap out of you a few times, you say you're sorry, and everything's all better! It DOESN'T WORK THAT WAY, Sylar!" He shoved him the rest of the way down, as flat on the ground and subordinate in position as Peter could get him. "STAY DOWN!" he shouted.

XXX

Sylar cursed himself for not thinking through all the potential stupidity of Peter Petrelli. Of course Peter would think he meant 'Let's go. Yes. Right now!' and act accordingly. He was not expecting…that. He took a shot to the chest and found himself on the way to the ground. The fall was jarring to his nose, back, and every tender bruise from only the day before fucking yesterday. The feelings passed through him, first surprise, humiliation, and pain as a quick one two three; then anger, then the disappointment, which had nothing to do with Peter's fury. _Why is he angry? Apparently, I'm offering him something he wants. He's been the one depriving himself of it this whole time! I told him-!_ Sylar began to get his feet underneath him before he was nearly flattened. Sylar blinked once with growing anger, but he bit it back for now and got comfortable on the sidewalk, awaiting some lecture to help Peter cycle through his emotions.

XXX

Peter glared down at him. "This isn't a game where you kill some people, sit in the penalty box for a while, and then it's all okay. I can make you sorry, but it doesn't mean anything!" In a sing-song voice, Peter mocked, "'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry' – it doesn't bring my brother back. Or any of them!"

He went to a knee next to Sylar on the ground, getting in his face. "You're going to _let_ me hurt you, though? Sure. I'm your man. I don't care what you get out of it. It won't change the past, but I'll be happy to hear you howl. Anything I do to hurt you will be because you're _letting_ me do it. You're _asking_ for it. This isn't blood on my hands. You don't get to make it my fault or my problem. That's the deal – another fucking, one-sided deal from Peter Petrelli," he said mockingly. "You going to take this one?"

XXX

Sylar's face exuded something between a glare and disinterested disdain at the dominant posturing. He had several snotty, counter-thoughts with plenty of logic behind them before Peter got to the end of his little rant. He just…stared for a moment, shocked by the very suggestion, offended at the infraction of the spirit of the game, and oh-so angry at the reprise of that damned one-sided Petrelli deal. He opened his mouth wide and laughed in Peter's face, deep, genuine and a touch bitter, long and loud. Once started, he couldn't stop. His hands clutched at his sides as his ribs painfully expanded and contracted with mocking laughter. He didn't care if Peter kicked him or took offense. "You're serious?" he got out when he forced himself to calm down, breathing hard. _To think that I would hand myself over- like that?!_ It was very amusing, Peter showing his ignorance this way. Sylar paused for some confirming expression or word.

XXX

Peter shoved him twice during the laughter. The first was hard, because this wasn't funny and Sylar didn't get to laugh about it. Peter's feelings didn't make a difference, so his second shove was little more than a push, hardly enough to move Sylar at all. Peter shifted to having both knees on the ground. "That's the deal," he said when Sylar asked. His voice sounded far from certain, however.

XXX

"Oh, God!" Sylar chuckled a wheeze and sat up before standing. "That's pathetic. That is…impressively pathetic." He brushed at his pants, disgusted at the dishevelment, temporarily ignoring Peter for a few seconds. He looked up. "I guess I thought too much of you. You're only interested in covering your ass, pussy-footing around responsibility. You don't understand the game – you never have. It's probably pointless to explain it. I shouldn't challenge maniacs who have no control," Sylar sneered down at Peter with plenty of frustration.

XXX

All of that stung. Deeply. Peter contracted slightly, shoulders falling and his face turning petulant. He remained kneeling, looking up at Sylar towering so far above him. Peter being in charge was apparently not in the cards _. I must have misread things. Badly_. "I know you believe what you just said," he said with an attempt at calmness, despite Sylar's insults, disregard, and completely shutting Peter down, "that I don't understand your game." He was thinking of game now not so much as a contest, but Sylar's mode of operation. "You can either not play, or you can show me the rules. Those are your choices, Sylar. You know I don't understand it, so stop beating me up over _not understanding it!_ " He gestured at the ground where Sylar had been a few moments earlier. "I am trying to give you what you want," he said earnestly.

XXX

_Not play?_ Peter said that like 'the game' was a choice _. I guess it is in a way._ Peter stayed down, on his knees and he stayed calm, both of which, whether intentionally or not, had the effect of making Sylar feel like he'd been the one to make a wrong move somewhere. At least, it confused him. Sylar raised his eyebrows and dropped them with fatalistic recognition. It was a fair assessment. _He's not listening, though. There is a chance he's not great at listening and applying. Historically speaking that may explain his family issues, the rebellion. And that might mean I'm not horrible at communicating. He's trying to force that deal on me – what a surprise._ "Oh, you think I _want_ another one-sided deal? Then what was all of that?" He frowned and echoed the gesture Peter had just made towards the sidewalk.

XXX

Peter sighed, his fingers gripping his knees. "I thought you wanted _penance_ ," he said sullenly. "It's a Catholic thing. You said you were Catholic. You said you'd locked yourself in a closet for days and prayed for help." He looked away. "In your place, I'd want penance. After all the things you've done. After all the things we've done," Peter's voice turned hollow. "People with abilities. I've been trying to…," he trailed off. "There's so much make up for." He was silent for a moment. "You said you wanted me to make you feel sorry. You said I should break you, maim you. I'm not a maniac if you're asking me to do it." With a tone of outrage, he added, "And I'm not shirking my responsibility, either! I want to kick your ass, yeah, and I want to help." He huffed a bitter, bleak laugh that was anything but amused, "The chance to combine those? Yeah, I'm there. Now you're telling me that's not it?" He shook his head. "Okay," he said, when it was anything but.

XXX

Sylar exhaled, then grunted, pursing his lips and crossing his arms as he straightened up. Penance and the Church really rubbed him the wrong way, as did mention of his past and it being used to make a point. Peter was judging him, too. _Yes, that's…helping but why does he think that would help? And why would he be so excited to hurt me and still want to 'help'? (I didn't want him to beat me up right now!)_ When Peter phrased it that way…it made sense – they both got what they wanted from that, right? _He's a maniac because he has no control. I'm fine with dying but I'm not going to sign away my body and die stupidly. I'd like to avoid being maimed. Wait, why does he care what I want? Why is he asking me? That was my point before._

XXX

_I just made a complete idiot of myself, knocking him down like that_. He got to his feet finally, brushing the dirt off his knees. Quietly, he muttered, "You make me feel two inches tall, just like Claude did. And just like him, you're too busy standing around laughing at me for not already knowing the things I'm asking you for, to help me, when people's lives are on the line." He started to walk without thinking about where he was going, pulling to a halt after only two or three steps. He'd been instinctively heading 'home' – his apartment or the Pegasus, somewhere that he felt marginally safer and more comfortable than out here. He turned himself around, reorienting. "No," he said to himself. To Sylar, he said, "We're still going to the library, right?" he began to head in that direction, ready, though, to change if Sylar told him to go take a hike, fuck off, or otherwise get lost.


	123. Another Misreading

Day 70, February 18, Mid-morning

Again, Sylar huffed, then rolled his eyes when Peter began to walk away. _My bad, I mistook you pushing me down and yelling about your feelings as you 'asking' me for an explanation._ Then Peter did turn and ask him something. He shrugged in response, "I guess so." He waited until the other was beside him before walking towards the library, like nothing had happened. It was quiet except for a light, brisk breeze. And it was awkward. _He won't let it go. Will I let it go?_ That Peter kept to the deal and didn't overreact comforted him. He placed hands in pockets, opening his mouth a few times to speak. Finally, a couple blocks later he got out, "Deals with Petrellis are the worst kind. What…what did you think I meant?"

XXX

"That's not something I would disagree with," Peter said with a quiet sigh. He gathered his thoughts for a few strides, deciding to focus on what he thought Sylar was requesting rather than his own emotional reaction to it. "I was...thinking you were asking for something like flogging, or self-flagellation, except you needed someone else to be the one doing it to you. There's a bunch of monks that used to do that, or maybe even still do, certain orders. I'm not sure. I've heard about it, but never looked into it. I just know they talked about it in Bible history class as a way some people use or have used to purge the body of evil and drive out sinful thoughts." Peter shrugged a shoulder ambivalently. "I suppose it works. It's pain. It gives a person something else to focus on. The body releases endorphins..." _Like with cutters. But I shouldn't mention that. He might think I'm saying he has a...behavioral issue or something._ "Some American Indian tribes do things like that, too. And there's kink, but I didn't think that was what you meant at all."

A few more strides passed. He decided to address the interactive part of what he'd thought Sylar was aiming at, still skirting his own motivations. "Whatever you meant by 'make me pay' would have to be something that I had your permission to do. That was the 'deal' – you have to actually, you know, _let_ me do it. It's consensual. And I realize we're not just talking 'I beat your ass and walk off'. I thought it was...a kind of emotional process you were asking for. I've been through...something like that." He looked over at Sylar inquiringly, not sure if the oblique reference to Ricky and his gang was clear enough for Sylar to follow. "Being hurt and taken care of? I know you'd need help pulling yourself together afterward. I'd have to make sure nothing happened that couldn't heal." Peter gave an amused wag of his head and half-smile. "Something I'm more qualified to do than most." _There's that at least. I can be good for that, right? (Well, I thought I could be. But if I was wrong, then he doesn't need my help that way, either. And he doesn't trust me enough for any of this.)_

"What I meant about it not working is even if you felt better after, like the sin was expiated somehow, it's not like I, or anyone else who lost someone they loved to you, is going to feel any different." That was all he wanted to volunteer about his own feelings on the matter. Anything more would require direct questions.

XXX

"Oh," Sylar voiced, frowning almost sadly – at least, it wasn't a frown of usual anger. _Monks, Bible class, Indians, kink, consensual, emotional…It happened to Peter? (When? Who? Why?)_ It was a lot to take in. "That…sounds about right," he said quietly, clearing his throat, embarrassed for several reasons now and it possibly bordered on shame for his freakish masochism. "Usually there's a big emphasis on…torturing me somehow. It's easy enough to do. They're all so good at it." He was babbling and blurting things that Peter probably made too much sense of and understood better than he did himself. Roughly with some anger he didn't want to evaluate, he asked, "Why would you bother asking for my…permission?" He paused to let his thoughts come full circle because he was so close to putting it together. "You're doing what everyone else does," it was half a question. _They hurt me and say they're helping (helping themselves, others, or even me). But it's really just fucked up because it doesn't help and they don't care what I want or what I need. Is that what he means by a deal? That it's okay to agree to it? Because he's going to do what he wants anyway and I'll be miserable. He agrees that it's...'the right thing to do.'_ Dipping his chin down a moment, Sylar skipped over his mental process and continued aloud, "I'm not picky about…surviving any given experience, but if you maim or even kill me, I can't save your girlfriend and you'd be left here alone. You know that, right?" He was appealing to what logic Peter had – both self-serving and self-sacrificing.

XXX

Peter listened without interrupting to answer. They were nearly to the library building now. "I know that," he said quietly as they mounted the steps to the big, imposing building. _This place still gives me the creeps._ "I'm not everyone else. If I wanted to torture you...I've had my chance. It's hollow. I don't want to. Not in reality. Stupid, angry fantasies are one thing. Actually doing things to you is another. Which is why I'd have to get your permission. It's the right thing to do. I like to think I'm the kind of person who values that." _Despite what you might think._ "And not the kind who hurts other people for kicks. Besides, logistically, there's no way for me to do what I thought you were asking for without you cooperating. If you don't want me doing it then we're just fighting. I don't want to fight with you. We get hurt. It's dangerous. I don't like it. It doesn't accomplish much of anything, either. It's frustrating."

"But if you wanted my...passion? I thought you were saying you wanted me angry and to show how what you've done has made me feel towards you." _I must have misunderstood. But I'm not sure I did. Maybe I just moved too fast and these questions are his way of double-checking what I was up to, and that I'm not a 'maniac with no control'._ He gave Sylar a level look. "Yeah, no one else is going to be the guy who killed Nathan." He looked away briefly to add, "It's always been you or me, one way or another."

XXX

He couldn't bring himself to believe this good news, not completely, not with Peter's history of lying and changing his mind. It was damn close, though. God, the idea of what Peter appeared to be offering was making his head spin with things he couldn't even name. It felt like something between them. He felt himself hardening with excitement. It would be too easy for Peter to agree and make this deal for Sylar's compliance then go off-script, with torture or worse, and justify it completely. He was still so tempted, curious even. _Peter Petrelli, playing along? Giving me what I want? (He offered to take care of me after…)_ Could it be any more perfect? Even if Peter did accidentally slip into real torture or maiming…then the empath was smart to think ahead and he'd be correct – Sylar couldn't blame him. He would be helpless against the man's righteous, deserved rage and grief.

"Right, because it's all about me," he intoned with amused sarcasm. "You don't have to shoulder that particular burden, I'll settle for doing it for you. It's probably better that way anyway. But while you're on the subject of what I want…" Sylar snuck ahead of him to block the doorway efficiently with both arms, casual and confident, giving Peter the patented cat/canary look. "You said you didn't care what I get out of it. Are you sure about that? I want your passion…I like knowing you're feeling every emotion you can about me all at once." Once more, he raked Peter up and down with a possessive gaze. "I like the idea of getting you off in every way humanly possible within my creative if restricted means." He then rolled his eyes with a tilt of his head about the lack of powers here.

XXX

Peter pulled up, lifting his head and gazing up at Sylar blocking the way. He noticed the wandering eyes (how could he not?) To be looked at so openly and with such desire gave him an illicit thrill up his spine. He could swear the hair at the nape of his neck prickled. He swallowed and kept his own eyes fixed on Sylar's, refusing to respond to the idea of Sylar getting him off. "I might care about what you get out of it, yeah," he hedged, because it was true. Hurting Sylar solely as an exercise in gratifying Peter's darker urges – that was wrong. If it were empty of meaning and merely sadism, then Peter knew it would be sickening instead of satisfying. Sylar had to be getting _something_ out of it to make it okay. "I'm more curious about what you get out of satisfying me. Repentance is one thing. But you've said you hate me."

XXX

Peter's reaction was impressively subtle, aside from the swallowing. Sylar gave a brief smirk. "It's not a religious thing. I told you I'm not a religious man, you may recall," that was delivered with an edge. It was yet another example of Peter not paying attention - not listening, stressful situation notwithstanding. "I'm not into any form of brainwashing," he said as they walked in towards the bookshelves. The mention of religion was a reminder and a bit of a smokescreen to lead up to what he really wanted to say. "Why do you assume it would be an 'emotional process'?"

XXX

Peter followed Sylar, sticking close and staying very attentive to the conversation. _Wait a second, he's exploring this. That's why he's not dropping it and changing the subject. He's…considering it. Maybe I didn't misunderstand him at all earlier and he's the one who misunderstood me. (I was kind of over-the-top there.) This…this is serious!_ "Because it _is_ an emotional process. I don't think you want to just be hurt; physical pain with nothing else. That's torture. You've had it. You didn't like it. That's not what you're asking for. You're asking for my emotions. You're asking me to be involved." He hesitated. "To…engage. Right?"

XXX

"That's ideal," he said simply, his tone intentionally blank. He had to play this right, not too eager or fucked-up in the head and, of course, Peter had to get something out of it. It felt like it might be something like a connection. _We…bond over beating me up?_

XXX

"Okay," Peter said, composed. "What I did earlier – I was definitely engaged, but you laughed me down." Peter pursed his lips and shifted his weight, uncomfortable to be asking this of anyone, especially Sylar, but there was no help for it. "What was I doing wrong?"

XXX

Sylar exhaled something of a snorted chuckle. "Why would I think you suddenly know how to 'play'? Forcing one-sided deals on people all the time maybe isn't the best way to go." That had been, and still was, off-putting. He didn't like it but sensed that was what would ultimately come to pass – with him agreeing to Petrelli's little cop-out deal.

XXX

Peter gave a very tight smile and nodded to acknowledge Sylar's words. He jerked his head back towards a reading area they'd passed on their way to the stacks. "I'll be over there. Come get me when you're done." He headed over and took a seat, turning up his collar and sinking into it, hands deep in his pockets as he brooded. _I'm not sure what to make of this. Is this right? Wrong? I'm not even sure what he's proposing. (Sounds like he doesn't know, either.) There can't be anything wrong with me just…hating him. Or at least hating what he's done. Those are my emotions. There's nothing wrong with that._ He was lost enough in his thoughts not to be paying too much attention to where Sylar was. The man was stirring around the shelves within Peter's hearing and occasionally within his line of sight, which was all Peter needed to know.

XXX

Sylar knew Peter would be stewing over the whole incident, words and all. The library had been Peter's idea. He browsed with intent for while, glancing over every few minutes just to see Peter. The little man was curled up, covered up, and looked lonely and appealing. It was the familiar razor's edge he was walking with Petrelli. Fighting with Peter Petrelli, maybe winning, possibly losing (perhaps even on purpose), experiencing pain and care, and basking in the empath's emotions, his lusts of one shade or another was a heady thought. Add some form of sex to that and it would be irresistible. It felt like the beginnings of understanding each other, of being understood – an exorcism without any deities, just the raw human power within Peter Petrelli. Sylar found himself staring at his companion through the racks of books and doing little else. Peter was paying him no attention, too absorbed in his own thoughts. Casually walking around the perimeter of the shelves, he circled around behind Peter. _He trusts me enough to take his eyes off me._ That boded well and excited him further. Sylar was very good at sneaking, not that he probably needed to use that skill much right now. He approached Peter, bent down and whispered not five inches from the man's delectable ear and throat, "So you admit you have fantasies. What goes on in these fantasies of yours, Peter? In _any_ of your fantasies," he stressed.

XXX

He tensed, straightening in the chair noticeably, but not enough to bring him into contact with Sylar or change their relative positions much. Muscles corded on Peter's neck as Sylar's breath puffed past his ear. He breathed out in a rush, turning his head just enough to see Sylar out of the corner of his eye. "You…" he said huskily. Peter smiled, showing teeth as he relaxed from the moment of surprise. He didn't object. Somehow, it was hot and sexy (far more than it had any right to be) to be ambushed by Sylar. The little jolt of adrenaline was neat. So was the idea that Sylar was interested enough in him to do it. _He's really happy about what we were talking about._

Peter pushed his chair back, telegraphing his motion well enough that Sylar had plenty of time to move out of the way. He turned in his seat, looking Sylar up and down as he considered the very personal question. "You want to know what gets me off?" _He never answered about why he wants to know that._ Peter had an active imagination and at times, a healthy libido. There was no shortage of things he might relate, should he want to. But then there was the matter of what his audience might like to hear. Talking about tearing Sylar a new one wasn't going to go over well. Peter was feeling buoyed enough by how their conversation had gone to flirt back. "My most recent favorite has you on your knees, sucking me off," he stated baldly, watching Sylar closely for his reaction. "You're looking up at me. You have this expression on your face that's hard to describe, but it's really the key to the whole thing. It's like…angry and eager at the same time." He smiled slightly.

XXX

Sylar didn't encourage the revelation further; he merely waited, unmoving. There was a little surprise at how unsurprised Peter was. _I doubt he was testing me._ He wasn't particular about what type of fantasy he heard just now, just some symbolism that he was burrowed deep in Petrelli's brain. Peter was like the ultimate drug dispensary – push a button, make a comment, ask a question, a little touch here…and the man reacted and emoted. The fantasy was sexual and approximately what he anticipated in the most basic sense. It was devoid of much detail to better gauge it and he wondered if that was intentional or just Peter's typical lack of planning. _I bet sex with him is chaos,_ he thought with some judgment. There was an interesting key point; Peter even singled it out: _My face._ The thought was a restatement. _My face? My expression. He reads my face, doesn't he? Or tries to. That's why he looks at me so often. He's actually paying attention._ It was interesting in a way that was nearly irrelevant to sex or power, but of course, they did factor in. _On my knees – submission. Sucking him off – humiliation. Eye contact – clear submission. Probably no hands. I'm angry because of something he's doing or just because I have to do it? And I'm eager…Huh._ He didn't make much of that but he did note it. It was so barren of any explicit malice.

Sylar didn't react much; a single slow blink, a glance down to Peter's zipper but there was nothing to see, then looking back to the eyes. Peter was still seated, did that mean he was expectant? "You want a blowjob?" Sylar asked, aiming for 'sexy' but confusion tingeing his voice slightly. That was the relevant question he had to ask, but he wanted to know why _his face,_ his expressionwas so important – it mattered to the man who used to be able to change his face and never expected it to be the source of fantasy, not in this way. _It's specific to me because I'm me, I assume. That's all he wants? It's so…so tame._ He wasn't certain if he should feel disappointment at the admission.

XXX

_Does he think I meant I wanted one right now?!_ The answer was 'no' in any case. A fantasy was a fantasy. Peter shook his head. "Despite what my family thinks, I know the difference between daydreams and reality." He did note, though, the absence of indicators of negativity from Sylar. There was no laughter, no 'fat chance of that ever happening', no scoffing. The question and the look at his crotch seemed to be halfway to an offer. Peter filed that away, next to Sylar's previous almost-an-offer of a massage and his statements appreciating Peter's 'passion'.

XXX

Sylar straightened, rolled his eyes, and dropped it with a sardonic, "Right." He didn't want to let it pass completely, not without pushing for more. Reaching out to cover the small distance between them, he slid his fingers into Peter's lush hair, brushing the scalp. He didn't care if it was 'allowed' but Peter had shown in the past that his hair wasn't off limits (how could it be, with the man parading it around). Sylar lingered, petting for a moment. The hair was a beautiful deepest dark brown that was almost black, soft and thick. Sometimes he would have the urge to groom the man's hair when it fell just right around his neck, clothing, ear, or face. He knew when he drew his hand away it would likely smell of Peter or his hair products; either was sufficient. With Peter sitting like this it made Sylar feel that he was petting Peter for his recent good behavior, which amused him even though the empath was far from being his pet or his property. His hand stroked free of the hair before he could lose himself in...whatever highly perverted thing he was doing or cross into Peter's idea of unacceptable. Turning back the way he'd come, he intended to get back to at least scanning the titles of the books over there.

XXX

Peter saw the hand coming in; wondered what the hell Sylar thought he was doing in being so familiar. After a few seconds, Peter shook his head as though to dislodge Sylar's hand, but he didn't do it decisively or strongly, because honestly, Peter didn't mind. He rather liked it, despite and because of the familiarity. When Sylar didn't let himself be brushed off that easily, Peter's expression shifted from annoyed to…accepting. Peter had made his token objection and could simply enjoy it now, being with someone in such a small way. He looked up at Sylar with attention, studying his face. _He likes this. He almost never touches me in a way that's not strictly practical. Is it my hair? That's what he wanted to touch for that New Year's Eve dare. Or is it some big brother thing from Nathan? Because the stuff he does verbally, talking like Nathan, probably isn't the only thing – there'd be behaviors, too. Nathan usually grabbed my shoulder, though. I_ _think_ _this_ _is_ _Sylar, not something from Nathan. That's cool._ He watched as Sylar ended the confusing, but pleasant, contact and headed back to the books.

Peter swallowed and straightened in his chair, mood buoyed. He wanted more of that, even though he didn't want to ask for it. Not from Sylar. He called out, "You haven't said what you had in mind. You're a lot more likely to get it if you do."

XXX

Nearly in the aisle, Sylar paused, tilting his head. He considered that request and other things associated with it. _He really likes me to say things, aloud, doesn't he? I can't blame him entirely because of his constant misunderstandings. Does it make it more real for him or something? He likes my admissions, my…secrets._ It was the exact opposite of Gabriel's upbringing, where genuine discussion and asking questions was severely frowned upon, by now, it was a deeply ingrained habit or belief system. Peter had always been this way, regardless of any Petrelli disciplines.

And what was this about the likelihood of satisfying his needs and wants? Historically, it was the opposite for that, too. The likelihood of Peter switching to torture down the road was treated as a 'when', not an 'if.' With that in mind, Peter knowing exactly what Sylar wanted would backfire with horrible consequences and he would be assured of never getting what he wanted. He'd more or less assumed that agreeing with the other man's description of 'what he had in mind' had been sufficient – again, Petrelli misunderstandings and interrogations. He was left feeling…vulnerable. _I don't know that I know what I have in mind._ It still circled back to why Peter wasn't doing whatever Peter fucking wanted to do, instead of this overly polite asking-for-permission going on. "Hmm," Sylar hummed assent, at least to the first part of the request. He was aware of where things stood. It was both a pressure and a comfort to be somewhat 'in charge' for the moment because Peter wouldn't proceed without him and he wanted to enjoy that feeling.

XXX

Peter sighed, sinking back in his chair at the non-answer. _We're doing the same thing here – wanting things from each other, not wanting to admit it. Does he have the same reason? Doesn't want to ask for things from someone whose brother he killed? (He shouldn't go around killing people, then.)_ Stubborn as ever, Peter tried another tack. "What do you get out of satisfying me?"

XXX

Again, Sylar paused mid-read of a sideways book cover. He concealed the pause by keeping it brief and only glancing at Peter from the corner of his eye. It was a good question, even if Peter was somewhat foolish to press it. "If you understood the game you would know that, Petrelli," he began in a warning tone. "There are many reasons, most of them too complicated to explain. I suppose you could say it amuses me." That much was true. "Besides, this is better than any of the offers and ideas you haven't had."

XXX

"The game, right!" Peter said sarcastically and much too loudly in the quiet library. He huffed at the way his voice echoed, but it only made him double-down. "It's that game where I can do whatever I want and you'll adjust, but you won't tell me the rules other than to tell me I'm not doing it right. What part of 'I can do whatever I want' am I not doing right, Sylar?" His eyes bored into the back of Sylar's head.

XXX

Sylar sighed, then turned to glare. "How about all of it, Petrelli?" That was the source of the entire misunderstanding. If Peter was doing what he wanted, then why did the rules matter to him?

XXX

"You know, I'm thinking the game might be you trying to coerce me into acting different for you. Like, you'll only approve of me if I play by your rules. It's a bait-and-switch. I've seen this before, Sylar. You know the house I grew up in. I've played that game before. I moved out, became a nurse, talked Nathan into taking the case against him, and eventually I tried to kill the son of a bitch. You're not even related to me. You're not my mentor like Claude-" Peter paused in his rant to roll his eyes, "like I wanted Claude to be. You didn't save Nathan's life like Adam did. You're not my niece's adoptive father like Noah. You're the guy who killed my brother. There's no reason why I should put up with your shit. Quit fucking around with me!" All of this was angrily said without rising from his chair or even significantly changing position. His hands were back in his pockets. The lack of body language was because he felt painted into a corner, disregarded, and disrespected. "I'm not a kid! And if I'm too stupid to understand your over-complicated crap, then you'd better use that big brain of yours to cut it down to little words that I can understand!"

XXX

Sylar lifted his head and straightened back and shoulders as his expression shifted to annoyed. There was a significant grain of truth to what Peter said, he realized quickly. _(Yes, why am I trying to get him to act differently?) Because I don't measure up to being anything for him, not a brother, a savior, an acquaintance, nothing. He can't be normal with me, so I have to…change the situation so he can interact with me._ In the back of his mind, he noted the lack of gesturing with Peter's apparent anger but he was more involved with figuring out his own motives (if Peter's accusation required any defense) and what his response should be. _(Arthur – he thinks I'm channeling Arthur? Who he didn't specifically name, not even as 'Dad.' Huh). Why would my approval matter?_

"You're right!" Sylar bit out, more harshly and defensively than he felt. He breathed harder for a moment, just staring at the other man. It sounded like an admission to fucking around with Peter and intentionally treating Peter like a kid; perhaps he had been. _I'm not like any of his other, good people who do good things._

Sylar disliked being put on the spot for this and having to articulate what he felt could barely be explained. "If you want my approval, such as it is, then act like a fucking hero. Or a villain, I don't care. This good-guy, middle of the road crap doesn't work because…because I'm _me_. Everything you've done shows that I-I'm…" _I'm so far away from ever being okay with you,_ he couldn't say. "I expect you to know the rules because you're smart enough to figure them out and I don't know if it's something anyone can teach. I had to learn them myself and by the time I did…" Sylar pursed his lips over a grimace, glancing away with a bitter snorted laugh, "It was practically useless because it's a _fucking…game,_ Petrelli. The rules are in _your_ favor. I hate the rules. I always have. Why would I enjoy talking about them? They're part of the reason I…" Another set of pursed lips cut him off from describing his lifelong struggle. "The Peter Petrelli I know wouldn't ask me if I was 'okay,' if I was comfortable. He wouldn't ask how I wanted to be tortured," that was delivered in a building growl. "He sure as hell wouldn't give a shit of what I _approve of._ "

XXX

Peter shifted his chair so he could study Sylar as the other man spoke. He was very focused on him. _It's like he's talking about social rules of high school – the soshes, the jocks, the nerds – who's on top of the social hierarchy and who's not._ Peter's lips tensed and brows pulled together. _The society of specials isn't all that different – the Company are the teachers and hall monitors, the heroes are the popular kids who can get away with anything and the villains...can't._ He cocked his head a little as Sylar wrapped up.

"That's not the Peter Petrelli sitting in front of you. It's the one in your head that you're thinking of – the one you have memories of, the one you ran into a few times while we were trying to destroy or save the world. It's not the Peter Petrelli who has lived with you for the last couple months or who expects to be dealing with you for months or years to come. _That_ Peter Petrelli _does care_ if you're okay and what you approve of, because he's not as stupid as you think he is. He's not- I'm not going to torture you when I have to deal with you tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Or when I have to depend on you to be the one there for me when I need scraping off the floor. You are that person now, Sylar. We're not going back to being strangers just because that's what you've always known." He was quiet for a long moment before adding, "I've mentioned this before, but here it is again: Nathan didn't really know me. A twelve year age gap meant there was a lot we never shared and we sure as hell never shared it as equals. He knew me just as much as he wanted to and that was it. If you have this image in your head that's coming from him? It's wrong."

XXX

Sylar crossed his arms with a roll of his eyes and a sigh. He knew Peter was defending himself as he felt he needed to but it was far from the point – it was off topic. And he halfway embraced it so he could delay voicing what he wanted from the man. "Quit trying to put words in my mouth. You're obviously not stupid. You do stupid things and you have moments of stupidity but _I'm_ not stupid enough to discount what /I-/…What Nathan and I know about your stubbornness." That ended his irritated bickering portion.

XXX

Peter frowned at him, but held his peace. He'd made his point and Sylar seemed to have absorbed it.

XXX

"Don't tell me what I know! I've got…fuck, four people? More? In my head," he pointed viciously at his own temple. "I know you as m-…" he took a longer pause to regroup. "I've told you before how confusing that is. I know so much more than he ever did, Peter. While he may not have had a use for you, _I do_." Now his voice was cajoling, inviting, sharing his plans and views, desiring Peter to be on his side and intentionally not mentioning the love Nathan had harbored for Peter, in his own, neglectful way. "I see your potential. All of it; I'm not blind." His arms dropped to his sides as he walked forward, towards Peter a few paces. Peter was as dangerous as he was useful – a temporarily evenly balanced scale ready to be tipped in either direction at any minute. "I know how things work. I know what I want," he insisted, voice deep with internal thought and seduction to include Peter.

XXX

Peter shifted his chair another quarter-turn to get closer to facing Sylar. His eyes were engaged – with Sylar's hands and posture, but mostly with his face and his eyes. Sylar was radiating a lower-key version of that focus, that aura, that so turned Peter on at times. He swallowed, mouth dry. "My potential? You've mentioned that before." _He doesn't mean fucking me. That's not the use he means. He's the one who said, 'The world ain't seen nothing yet' on the roof at Mercy. That was Sylar._ Peter cocked his head slightly, thinking. He was still looking up at Sylar, working his way through what the man meant. _The biggest potential I've ever had was when I could hold so many abilities all at once._ "You think you could fix my ability, don't you?" Peter asked it wonderingly, not even sure if he would accept that from Sylar (or anyone) if it were possible. He'd never thought about Sylar doing anything with Peter's ability besides killing him for it, but now that he did, he could see why that would fascinate Sylar and why it made Peter unique beyond all others.

_But does he want me, or just my ability? Are the two even separable? I don't think they are._ Carefully, Peter said, "You could take it and maybe use it…better." He didn't know if 'better' meant the fully powered version, to gain abilities by borrowing them rather than killing people, or just being smarter about how he used it. In any case, it would be a huge addition to Sylar's repertoire. "Is that the…use…you have for me?" Peter asked warily. "An ability on tap for you?" If so, it shed a different, more disappointing light on Sylar's comments regarding Peter's broken empathy. _If that's true, then he wasn't asking about me; he was asking if my ability was intact for him to…harvest._

XXX

Sylar blinked once, slowly, applying his patience. _I assume he isn't offering himself up that way,_ but the thought was tinged with a little doubt because Peter would like to be a martyr. Fortunately he didn't need to beat around any bushes to reply. It was simpler to answer this insecurity. "Like I told you before, I don't want your ability. For a number of reasons. I have many other uses for you."

XXX

"Okay," Peter nodded, noting the lack of comment about Sylar fixing Peter's ability. It wasn't something Peter wanted to dig at, though – not until he'd thought more about it himself. He moved on to a more current interest. "That's what you get out of satisfying me then, isn't it?" Slowly, Peter added, "I'm worth something to you. And me happy, liking you, and enjoying being with you is worth something to you, too." Peter studied Sylar, weighing the answer and feeling it out in his mind. It fit. It was good enough. It made sense. Despite how abrasive, confrontational, and defensive Sylar was, he needed Peter's 'engagement'. _He's just crap at arranging it, so he's offering to let me hurt him because that's what he thinks turns my crank – my passion._ He nodded again and moved on without requiring confirmation from Sylar. "What do you mean by having four people in your head? There's more than just Nathan?"

XXX

Sylar looked aside, hastily trying to piece together Peter's thought process that led him to that apparent conclusion. It didn't sound like Peter misunderstood something important that Sylar would later have to correct – that was relevant because Peter had grasped the his point and if there was no cause to argue, then Sylar was content to let it lie. It seemed too easy, getting Peter where he wanted him. Suspicion gnawed at him. Sylar wasn't certain he should agree to that in its entirety. _Wait, he 'likes' me now? No. No, he doesn't. (It's worth a lot to me, actually)._ He was stuck on that, his own response, before Peter moved on. "No, not…It's different. Just…people that I knew. It…used to happen when I shapeshifted." _That doesn't make me sound any less crazy._

XXX

Peter's eyes widened as he thought he realized what Sylar meant. "You'd get their memories when you shapeshifted into them?"

XXX

"Oh, God, no." Sylar shook his head as a shiver ran down his spine at the very thought _. Imagine how fucked up I would be if that was the case. I would barely be able to use it. I don't even know if I could use it now, not that I'd have much choice._ His heart beat faster as he was unable to think of anything but his body painfully, unwillingly turning from form to form at random, often staying that way on its own. _Maybe if I explain it, he'll drop it…(Like that ever works)._ "It's more of their…body affecting the mind – my mind – with their personality and the feeling of being that person. It," he took a deeper breath, "gets worse the longer I stay…that way."

XXX

"Oh. That makes more sense, but I can't really say why. Abilities do so many things already. I didn't expect to get your memories when I-" He exhaled slowly, not finishing. "That must have been really fucked up then, to be shapeshifted as Nathan for weeks while having to deal with thinking you were him." Peter's brows drew together slightly in compassion. "Is that anything I can help you with?"

XXX

Many nameless emotions burst, sizzled, and swirled through him lightening quick. It was…strange, he decided, to have someone appear to understand what that had been like and voice it. It sounded like sympathy, well-deserved, and Peter definitely deserved to give it, but he couldn't stand pity. All his muscles felt tight. "No," he rasped, sounding less offended than he was, and feeling less than he thought he should.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said softly. "If you want to go pick some books," Peter offered, "I'll wait here." His main question had been answered – why Sylar would pursue Peter's happiness. It left a lot to consider and ramifications to explore. The details of 'how' were murky, too, but Peter was going to leave that alone for the time being. He found it likely that Sylar didn't know either and the whole 'rules' thing was just a cover for ignorance. At least he hoped it was, because if Sylar had a plan and wouldn't share it, then he was a bigger asshole (and possibly dangerous) than if he were simply trying to pretend to know what was going on.

XXX

All the acquiescence was making his head spin. He kept it together on the outside, nodding and disappearing because he'd needed space twenty minutes ago. Sylar perched upstairs, angled behind and to Peter's left to keep an eye on him and not be seen. He wasn't here for books. Curled in on himself, elbows around bent knees over crossed ankles, he felt completely vulnerable and pathetic because of it. What should he feel at the possibility of getting what he wanted? It was both exciting and terrifying with a lingering sense of self-disgust. _I should think it's fucked up for Peter to agree at all, let alone as quick as he did. (What does that do to my opinion of him? He said he'd take care of me after. He knows I'm not…normal). Does this mean I owe him?_ His stare at Peter became shrewder.

_Does that include sex? It would be easy to seduce him that way, make him think he's getting what he wants. (He'd 'take care of me' after that, too?) How do I get around this 'deal'? (It's no different than saying I'd fuck him however, whenever, wherever). Does he know what he's…agreeing to? (No. How could he, I haven't told him yet). I look like a pussy for taking so long. (He's the closest thing to a connection I'll ever have. I'm not alone anymore)._ Sylar knew that in assuming this role, he would never be anything more to Peter. That was saddening but it was also the price to be paid. There was no way he could resist this double-edged temptation even knowing it was going to spiral out of control. It was an arrangement, not a relationship, and it was a familiar struggle. It would take longer than a few minutes to shove Nathan from his consciousness. _I'm barely anything to him._

XXX

Peter waited quietly, picking at the edge of the table and trying to keep his mind blank. He failed after a while. _If he thinks he can fix my ability, then what's the deal with wanting this…passion from me? Wait, what if that's the key to fixing my ability? What was it he said? Something about me feeling every emotion about him all at once. That's...that's how my old ability worked – feeling things about people. If that's the case, shouldn't it have already worked, flipped a switch and given me back my old power? No, I was...I was always controlling it. I didn't want to get carried away, there at Mercy. I had to get Nathan back, so no matter how much I hated him, I was channeling it, holding down my feelings so I could do what I had to do. What would happen if he got me to really let go? But I'm not going to do that here either, because I've got to make sure I don't hurt him too bad. If hurting him is what I'm supposed to be doing. This better not be another way for him to try to get laid._

Peter cocked his head, listening. It had been a long time since he'd heard anything from Sylar. There was no whisper of the man's shoes against the floor, no shuffling of books as he pulled one out or replaced it. Either the guy was reading avidly somewhere, or he'd left. Without rising or turning his chair, Peter shifted to look around him, obviously checking behind him because Sylar hadn't been in his line of sight for quite a while.

He caught sight of a knee, elbow, and a shock of Sylar's hair. The man was sitting on the landing of the next level, almost entirely hidden. But Peter could see enough to tell Sylar wasn't reading a book. _He's just sitting there. Folded in on himself._ Peter turned back, thinking through their day. It had been stressful, to say the least – ups and downs, things realized and incorrectly acted upon, invitations issued and then retracted, the relationship renegotiated without enough specifics to know what either of them was agreeing to...except that they were both agreeing to try to work something out. That much, Peter was sure of. _And now, he's hiding_. He rose from the table, intending to find out what was going on.


	124. Title of Ownership

Day 70, February 18, Afternoon

Sylar knew his time was up, already pushing the probability of the time limit for browsing (even for him in a library). He wandered back to Peter, picking up some history tome to maintain the illusion. The urge to touch him was incredibly strong and resulted in probably some awkward stares at the man's face, hair, and upper body. "I'm ready," he said with multiple meanings, watching Peter carefully to see if he understood.

XXX

Peter lifted his head, tilting it back further than normal as he assessed Sylar's mood, stance, body language, and tone. The choice of words was almost immaterial, although they basically complimented everything else Peter was reading. Sylar was just as defensive, vulnerable, and needy as Peter's previous glimpse of him had suggested. The man's motions were a little too tight right now; his expression too schooled. Sylar's eyes darted and lingered on different parts of Peter – shoulders, arms, hands, shoulders again, face, hair.

_He's telling me he's ready because he's been over there psyching himself up for something. Well, crap. It would be helpful if he'd tell me what it was_. "Okay," Peter answered mildly. He gave the thick book a long look, willing to bet Sylar couldn't tell him the title if he asked. But he didn't. He didn't want to challenge him or amp up the tension. Peter tried to be patient and give Sylar the opportunity to calm down. _He'll tell me when he tells me._

XXX

He led Peter back the way they'd come. Peter had been more than patient with him but that didn't help his nerves. Arriving at the door first, he held it open for his companion and tousled the man's hair once again as he passed. It felt like he was trying to appease a barely tame thundercloud before it burst. Sylar knew Peter may very well turn around swinging and start things without any deals or other dialogue. _I do enjoy playing with fire._

XXX

Peter glanced at the contact, immediately registering, _That's twice. Twice in one day that he's touched me out of the blue, just because he wanted to. He's being friendly. Or trying to be. Is that what he was psyching himself up about?_ Peter smiled back, a warm expression that centered mainly around the corners of his eyes rather than his lips, but it was a pleased look by any definition. He didn't say anything about it, but communicated in another way – when Sylar's steps fell in next to him, walking closer than usual, Peter didn't move away. He just gave Sylar another aware, knowing look and continued on. _Nathan always walked this close to me._

XXX

Sylar walked ahead a second time when they neared the Pegasus, holding open the door to see if Peter would allow it. He didn't intend to touch him. _I wonder if he likes it. He must. Nathan was just as touchy as_ _Peter was to him_ _._ A smirk followed Peter when the Italian didn't bat an eye and preceded Sylar indoors.

XXX

Peter went to the guitar as soon as he entered the room, casting Sylar a wary look that disappeared when he saw there was no pending threat. Making a small grunt to himself, he went to gather up his different supplies, putting everything away in a paper box except the clear coat.

XXX

He was left following Peter and he caught the disapproving look. _It's kind of late to glare because I touched your hair, Pete._ It confused him until he saw the guitar. Sylar rolled his eyes. _Once the bad guy, always the bad guy. He just makes my points for me._ He saw also a box belonging Primatech Paper. That was…off-putting when they were probably about to discuss his torture. Sylar frowned at the inanimate, otherwise innocent object that bore no possible threat. He sat on the far side of the couch to watch Peter do whatever. Clearing his throat, he asked, "What did you mean by 'taking care of me and pulling myself together after'?"

XXX

Peter put the can of paint stripper into the box on the floor. He was kneeling next to it as he turned to look at Sylar. "That depends on...what we're going to be doing," he said slowly. "What I'd imagined was that you wanted me to hurt you, or you were okay with me hurting you." He studied Sylar for a response.

XXX

_Does it?_ Sylar mentally sassed. _Does it depend on what 'we' are going to be doing? And what if I say I don't want you to hurt me?_ He contained another eye-roll at Peter making everything infinitely more difficult than it needed to be. "I assumed you would be." This time it was Peter being vague. The word 'hurt' could imply pain of various forms or actual injury itself. _Is that an important distinction to him?_

XXX

Peter made a slow nod. _Why is he being so cagey about all of this? So I get some free punches in, or hit him with...something. But he could start fighting back at any point, right? The way he's acting, that's not the deal. He's acting like this is all or nothing. Is it?_ "Okay. What I meant was that after that, I'd make sure you were okay physically...and emotionally." Physically, Peter doubted Sylar would need much. Even without knowing what was on the table or off, Peter wasn't going to do anything that risked broken bones, internal damage, or much in the way of open wounds. Even if he did break the skin, the environment here seemed nearly sterile. Peter would certainly apply disinfectants as needed just in case, but the fact remained that he didn't think physical injuries were what he'd need to do something about. He swallowed. "We'd need to talk about what you wanted – if you want me to leave you alone, I can do that, but I can also stay with you." He was quiet for a long moment, registering Sylar's reaction to the two options and contemplating what he, Peter, was offering Sylar before putting it in words. "Help you. Tend you. Get you somewhere comfortable. Clean you up if you need it. Clothes." Flashbacks from his time in the backroom of the Wandering Rocks Pub kept cropping up. "Talk to you," he said before falling silent, overwhelmed by intrusive thoughts he couldn't shake. They weren't entirely unpleasant, but it made it hard to stay focused on the now. _What happens if Sylar bonds with me the same way I did with Caitlyn?_ He stared at the floor, struggling with impressions of the cargo container, the back room, getting beaten to death, rediscovering his powers, loving Caitlyn, holding her after finding her charred brother and knowing it was his fault, losing her and knowing that was even more his fault.

XXX

Sylar watched as Peter appeared to zone out with no clue as to the reason. _Torturing me or caring for me doesn't upset him. Is he moralizing something? Thinking about…him? Or Emma?_ The silence dragged on as his curiosity grew and worry beginning to build. _It doesn't look like a panic attack,_ he reasoned. _I didn't say anything provocative._ Telegraphing his movements, he approached the man, a hand extended towards him, "Peter? Earth to Peter Petrelli, come in Peter Petrelli."

XXX

Peter oriented – someone was closing with him. His heartbeat accelerated. It was Sylar, which was both soothing and not. Peter looked up at him, startled for a moment. _How'd he get so close? I must have zoned out._ He gave himself a shake and wiped his face with one hand. "It happened to me. I was kind of...raw." But he didn't want to talk about this and get lost in the memory hole again. He switched the topic back to Sylar. _What were we talking about again? Oh yeah, now I remember._ "I'll take good care of you. What did you have in mind for aftercare?"

XXX

Sylar's expression was disbelieving. "You asked someone to beat you?" _What does 'raw' mean? I don't doubt he'll take 'good' care of me._ He didn't think that with any real malice (and the thought was more for the beating and very little about the medical care Peter would provide because Peter was a good nurse).

XXX

"I...was beaten." He grimaced and looked away briefly. "It doesn't matter. I need to know what I should do for you afterward."

XXX

Sylar frowned about Peter's reply, then shook his head, "I don't know. I'm not asking for it. Whatever you're willing to do will be more than fine. I won't need any bed rest." _At least, I don't think I will. Unless he wants me in bed. But he won't want me in bed and anyway, he thinks 'bed' is some kind of safe zone._ He felt conflicted about what he was supposed to decline. Usually he wanted space to lick his wounds without the additional salt of the company of the person who beat him.

XXX

_You don't even_ _know_ _what I'm going to do._ Peter looked up at Sylar blankly, then wiped his face again. "Okay." _He doesn't know what to ask for. No one's ever done it for him; I've never done it for anyone._ "We'll figure it out." He put the last of his supplies in the paper box and moved to sit on one end of the couch. "What is it I'm supposed to do? I'm not going to hit you with my fists – I'd break them. Are we talking flogging?"

XXX

Mouth beginning to open, Sylar's eyes faded off to the side when Peter declined to hit him with fists. It sounded like bare-knuckle punches were his default, his instinct, and that he knew himself well enough to know that he'd hurt himself from the frequency. _Oh. That makes sense. It's smart, too. I guess most people use a convenient object._ He felt stupidly disappointed at Peter's words. It wasn't like he had some precise plan to share. His desires had included Peter's fists beating him, in the moment with that delicious passion. So there Peter sat, watching him, pressuring him for answers Sylar hadn't thought of yet. He sat down again. "I want you to beat me. However you want to, however is convenient, whenever you feel like it," he shook his head, speaking slowly. "Strangle me, kick me, pull on my hair, fuck me; I don't care." In the middle of speaking, a thought popped into his head: _Will he still sleep with me?_ He hadn't mentioned fucking until now, but it was only in the hopes that Peter would see the connection between the fighting (or beating him) and fucking. "I know...everyone is different. Some people want to scar my body, others want to…" he swallowed and took a breath to fortify himself, "do things to my mind. Sometimes it's constant; sometimes it's whenever you feel like it. Some people don't care if I defend myself; other people are offended by it. What I want and what I'm allowed to have are never the same thing." He gave Peter a wary look then applied more manipulation, "The important thing is that I'm the bad guy and I don't think you're the type to let me get away with killing your brother just because I wanted to." Sylar quickly leaned in, took hold of Peter's face, and kissed him solidly on the mouth. It was forbidden. He wanted to prove a point and to rile Peter up a little.

XXX

Peter was sitting there, mouth half-open as he tried to process Sylar's words. There was so much there he wanted to ask about, talk about, and understand. There were parts that nauseated him and made him want to reject this whole thing, whatever it was. But then Sylar kissed him. More energy shot through him than if Sylar had punched or even electrocuted him. It scrambled his thoughts. A moment later (a long moment of warm lips pressed against his and Sylar so close he could literally taste him), Peter shoved him away with both hands, gently, and held him at arm's length. There was so much to process. _'Killing your brother just because I wanted to'_ – he raised one hand to slap Sylar, but head shots were off-limits so it hung uselessly, poised in the air as if about to strike. He needed to say something – he knew that – and so he grabbed semi-randomly at the chaos going on in his head. "Don't fight back!" Maybe that would protect him and buy some time. He definitely did not want a fight right now, not with Sylar acting like that was what got him off. 'The game' was starting to make sense, complete with sexual component. As was the period he'd gone through wondering if Sylar felt compelled to do what Peter told him, and the way the man flinched from him so much of the time. It all fit. He didn't know if he'd ever so thoroughly misunderstood someone's signals.

XXX

Sylar reveled in the noticeably longer pause of several seconds before Peter pushed him away (none too violently, either). He'd wanted the contact and momentary acceptance from the kiss, too. He licked his lips when he knew Peter could see it and waited for the rest of the man's reaction, which wasn't long in coming. A hand was went up to slap him – clearly that's what it was – and Sylar waited, eyebrow raised, daring him to do it. _A slap? That's it?_ But Peter didn't even do that, despite the amount of violence they'd just been discussing. With the 'command' that he not engage in fighting and simply let Peter beat or hurt him his eyebrow fell into something more of a defensive sneer. _Not even a slap!_ Sylar rolled his eyes and continued to wait because if Peter wasn't hitting him, then he would have some lovely lecture.

XXX

Totally winging it, Peter grabbed Sylar's hair instead of hitting him, pulling him close. It was a move that would have irritated the hell out of Peter, and had Sylar done it, Peter would have come around swinging. It was also perilously close to 'don't touch my head, ever'. This was a test. "Strangle you, kick you, pull your hair?" Peter cocked his head to emphasize the question.

XXX

But it wasn't a lecture. At least, not at first. Sylar's eyes widened when his hair was yanked and used to position him still closer to Petrelli. He darted a glance at the other man's hand (usually the more dangerous one if it were going to punch him or…do other things to his head), yet that free hand was motionless and relaxed. He looked back into Peter's eyes, easier to do than looking down and around at anything else because their faces were a mere six inches away, maybe. Some part of this seemed very familiar and not in a good way. _The limo at Stanton!_ Peter looked about as friendly as he had then. Sylar hadn't been tense before, but he was now, paying more attention to the temporarily invisible threat. He lifted his chin up (partly to see if the motion would be allowed) and grinned affirmation, which was cockier than he felt right now.

XXX

_This is what he meant by engaging with me_. He surveyed Sylar's face up close and personal, much like he had in the president's limo after Sylar had shaken his hand and been startled by the feedback from trying to replicate a shapeshifter's form. Peter half-expected to be dismissed and laughed down for the second time today, but he was going to try for this anyway – this strange new territory Sylar was offering up. He released the grip on Sylar's hair, carding his fingers through to smooth it while being careful not to touch the man's scalp. "Get used to me owning you," Peter murmured, looking deep into Sylar's eyes only a few inches apart, his own gaze being hard and angry. "You owe me something you can never pay back." He pushed the man away with a hand to his shoulder. He gave Sylar's entire form a long look up and down, then said, "Read your book. I have a lot to think about." Peter reclined in his corner of the leather couch, body still half-turned towards his companion.

XXX

Sylar angled his head away from the touch, stuck between getting away from it and thinking to make…patting his hair easier for Peter. If that was what he was doing. It was frightening for all its confusion, coming from this man. He stared right back, his own eyes more narrowed with suspicion. _I'm the king of fucking stare downs, Petrelli._ This time he moved with the push, shifting to make it look like he'd been uncomfortable in the position Peter had shoved him into. _Well, at least he gets it now, finally,_ he thought of the comments about being 'owned' and 'owing/paying back.' He stayed put because it suited him. He didn't take well to being commanded to read, so he didn't yet, but kept his eyes on Peter and let his gaze drift over the room as he thought.

This victory felt somewhat hollow. He had deep, lingering, irrational disappointments that Peter had been so easily seduced by his offer. All that talk of better solutions instead of violence, of him being presumably all of Peter's people here, of Peter not leaving him, of caring for him, wanting to understand him more deeply than most had ever tried, and feeling like he was the empath's brother…It had made him feel like there was a sliver of humanity left in him – not good or worthwhile, but humanity nonetheless. It had felt good that someone was trying to dig deeper. He'd been testing Peter, tempting him with darkness. And of course he'd known what this victory would mean, saying goodbye to any friendliness they'd had because Sylar couldn't live up to acting 'normal,' couldn't fake it anymore, not on a scale of years. He had to go back to being worthless again – or nearly so, because he always had his body as a final playing card. At least Peter was interested in that. The upside of being hurt and possibly fucked nearly gave him butterflies of a dubious nature.

XXX

' _Take me' – that's what it boils down to._ Peter sensed a yawning emptiness behind Sylar's offer of his body, and if necessary, his mental integrity. _He'll give anything and everything – in exchange for not being left. Not left alone, not left behind. He wants engagement, all right. Mine, anyone's._ Peter glanced over Sylar, who was sitting still, a little lost in thought, glancing at Peter occasionally. _But I'm his only option. I'll bet everyone in his life has either turned their back on him or died. He's said as much – there's never been any help for him. Even me beating the crap out of him whenever I want, totally on my terms, is a step up for him because he's ruined every other chance he's had at a human connection._

_Is it a step up for_ me _?_ It wasn't an equation he normally would have bothered to work out, because normal people deserved Peter's attention and effort much more than any self-interest on Peter's part. Sylar wasn't normal. Any punishment Peter wanted to dish out was fair. _I'd be safer, if this is how we do things and Sylar plays ball. This is what he meant by me acting like a Petrelli – using him. This isn't manipulation. This is entirely out in the open. I wouldn't be lying or hiding anything and I'll bet that's part of why he wants this. But…is it right to treat him like this? Even if he wants it, what's the difference between this and sadism as far as I'm concerned? Should I be concerned? He doesn't have anything without me. I was just thinking about his emotional needs earlier today. Was that for real? All he's asking for is for me to beat the crap out of him if I feel like it (and to let him get me off in every way possible, to feel everything I can for him – I'm not so sure about those, but I can always stop him if he gets too sexual)._

"Is that why you killed him – just because you wanted to?"

XXX

This time Sylar rolled his eyes with a sigh of helpless anger. _Of course that's all he fucking heard! Nathan; always Nathan._ "Part of it, yeah." _Mostly I just wanted a reaction from you, but I don't know that I'm going to get it. Don't cry on me,_ he mentally warned.

XXX

Peter frowned and his nose wrinkled slightly. "I can do this, sure. But right now," he said standing up, "I'm going to finish the guitar." He collected the clear coat spray can and the instrument itself, heading out to find a place with better air circulation. It was, in a way, a deliberate snub of what Sylar wanted. It was also Peter probing to find out if Sylar wanted Peter to do something to him right here and right now. Peter had other priorities at the moment, but he was giving some thought to the 'whenever you feel like it' portion of Sylar's proposal.

XXX

Sylar got up quickly to follow Petrelli, slightly disbelieving that the guitar was his purpose and destination. He didn't care if he was invited or not. He stood outside Peter's range when he caught up to him and watched a clear coat of spray paint cover the red painted carving of a phoenix. The guitar sat on a large piece of smeared cardboard to prevent any mess that Sylar would have complained about. After several even passes of glistening, smelly paint, the Italian gently took the guitar back to the rec room and laid it there to dry. Sylar noted that it was more or less in neutral territory and, if he needed to, he had access to the guitar because Petrelli had left it out.

XXX

When he was done, Peter announced. "I'm getting hungry. Let's go upstairs and score some chips and sandwiches. We can read up there." He snagged his book about Ali and waited for Sylar to precede him out the door of the rec room. Peter put a hand on Sylar's shoulder as they headed towards the elevator. "Does it have to be violent - what I do to you?" He gave Sylar a couple casual squeezes before letting go.

XXX

On top of everything else, Sylar felt pathetic to be forever following Peter Petrelli around like a dog because he had no life and no options and now Petrelli knew it, too. He felt his insides go still but he kept walking, tolerating the hand on his shoulder and fixing his face to something blank. It had taken Petrelli moments to figure out exactly what Sylar did not want – every 'non-violent' way of making someone's life miserable. And Petrelli had already proven himself to be quite resourceful, unexpected, and creative. His voice lacked excitement, "No. No, it doesn't."

XXX

Peter frowned and let his hand drop. There was nothing there – no tingle in his fingertips, no feeling at all beyond the physical sensation. It marked the first time he'd noticed the absence. He had no idea if it correlated with anything. More pressing was the way Sylar was acting. It was as if having made the deal, Sylar wasn't happy about it. _Of course, if he thinks I'm going to randomly beat the crap out of him, then I can understand that. Maybe I should explain._ "You mentioned a massage earlier."

XXX

Once in the elevator, Sylar picked a side of the car, leaning against the railing as he eyed Peter. "Yes," he said, a bit slowly. "I did mention a massage."

XXX

"I don't want to beat you up right now. I want to eat lunch and then read my book, with or without a rubdown. To be honest, I don't care too much what you're comfortable with or what you approve of. Just 'will you do it?' and 'will you let me do it?' If the answer's yes to either of those, then let me know. We can work out me kicking your ass some other time, like this evening, or tomorrow or something. If I get to pick 'whenever I want', then whenever I want isn't right now."

XXX

Sylar heaved a sigh, leading them from the elevator because just maybe that would shut Peter up, or at least minimize the talking. _What else is there left to talk about?_ "Then we'll eat lunch and read; I don't care when you do it. The answer to both is 'yes.'" When they reached the door to the suite (their suite), he held it open for both of them. "Why are you complaining? You're not the one who's going to be hurt. We're both getting what we want." Peter passed him by and Sylar followed up with an encouraging look and welcoming tone, "I don't have any problem giving you a rubdown. You did mention a blowjob earlier, too." _I would be remiss if I didn't mention that._

XXX

Peter gave Sylar an arched brow as he walked by, heading over to the bed to toss his book on his side of it. "I wasn't complaining. I was telling you how I want things to be." That was new for Peter. "As for the other…" He turned to face Sylar, giving him an interested look on behalf of the latter topics, mostly the massage. "I'm not interested in a blowjob. That's a fantasy – nothing more." Then after a pause, his libido prompted him to add wiggle room (in case Sylar insisted, which Peter would have a really hard time turning down) by saying, "It doesn't have to be anything more than a fantasy."

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes and shrugged, but he wasn't disappointed. "Fine. Just the rubdown then." That had been almost too easy. Getting his hands on Peter would be…nice. It was difficult to believe Peter would, well, _let_ him. _Wait, I'm giving him a massage, right? Not the other way around…No._ A quick review of the conversation with logic made more sense if Peter was offering to give him a massage – asking for one seemed…random, almost lacking context. _He does want me to be his pet servant, killing or saving people as he pleases. Massages would fit into that, even though it has nothing to do with his goals._

XXX

Peter nodded and drifted over to where the wheelchair sat near the front door. He tended to use it as a coatrack, which was where he put his jacket and winter things now. He didn't hurry. When he was done, Sylar was stirring around in the kitchen, putting together the makings of two cheese sandwiches. Peter appreciated that, even more when he figured out Sylar was going to grill them. He got out olives, chips, plates, utensils, and drinks while the other man managed cooking. Lunch was quiet. Peter was still mulling over the conversation from earlier. He had so many questions that he didn't know how to approach, or if he should. Wait, see, and react seemed like the best policy, even though he'd rather be the one initiating than responding.

When they were done, he ferried dishes to the sink, olive jar to the fridge, and chip bag to the cabinet, while Sylar did what dishwashing was required. Peter leaned against the bar and tried not to leer too obviously at Sylar's backside. _What he's saying is that I could have that whenever I wanted, right? That's…wrong. Nuts. Crazy. Stupid. Immoral. Idiotic. But that_ is _what he's saying, right?_ Sylar was done and looking at him expectantly now, so Peter asked, "Where do you want to do this? The massage, that is."

XXX

"Don't look at me. You're the one who wanted a massage." Sylar stood in the kitchen, hands at his sides, aiming to appear willing and able. He was prepared to give a massage but he was waiting to see what Peter meant exactly.

XXX

Peter moved over to one of the dining room chairs, shifting it a few inches experimentally. _I could sit facing away and he'd be behind me. He'd have to stoop._ It was also arm's length and Peter wanted something less impersonal if he could manage it. He glanced at the bed. _Is that too much?_ Then at Sylar, who stood with one eyebrow raised as if to say, 'Really?' while Peter figured himself out in the awkward pause. "What would you be comfortable doing?" he asked, trying to put the decision on Sylar.

XXX

"If you're asking what I want, why not get naked on the bed? I don't think I'll fit on the couch with you, short or not." That was his way of saying it wasn't about him, but about Peter. Case in point, because if it was about him, then Peter would be naked on the bed (assuming the bed wasn't too intimate).

XXX

"Um, no," Peter said quietly. "Not naked." But he looked back at the bed again, heading towards it anyway. He wasn't ready to be that compromised with Sylar, or that (literally) exposed. Also, he wasn't entirely sure if Sylar's answer had nothing to do with a massage and everything to do with 'what Sylar would be comfortable doing', which would mean he was comfortable doing Peter. The thought made Peter warm. He touched the bedspread on the side of the bed that faced the room – the side Sylar normally slept on. There was one way to find out where the limits were here. He took his shirt off and flopped on the bed, arranging himself facedown a little below where the pillow rested.

XXX

This was the point where Sylar began to reconsider letting Peter skip right where he wanted him – and where Peter apparently wanted to be. _A massage. Right. (Never done one of those; let's just hope that's not code for something). How hard could it be?_ He hopped on the other side of the bed, on Peter's side, crossing his ankles under folded knees to be nearer. It was a nice looking back, defined without being explicit and overdone. He remembered Peter being obscene with the lotion but he wanted skin-on-skin so that's what Peter would get. Wide, long-fingered hands spread over Peter's back felt like nirvana as he began to squeeze and rub.

XXX

_Oh-kay. He's next to me, not on me_. He'd expected Sylar to straddle his thighs or butt, which made it easiest to get both hands on his back in an even fashion. It was disappointing, and not merely because it meant Sylar's efforts were unlikely to be symmetrical. _Might as well have used the dining room chair._ Peter didn't want to think about how much he wanted…more – more that he wasn't going to ask for, nor was likely to get, and would refuse if it was offered because refusal of inappropriate intimacy with Sylar was something Peter had to do if and when it came up. But this wasn't inappropriate, especially with Sylar sitting next to him. Asymmetrical or not, Peter sighed and relaxed into the comforter a few seconds after the first laying on of hands. He made a murmuring, barely articulate sound of approval as Sylar's hands worked over him. It didn't matter whether Sylar was good at it or not – it was the contact Peter wanted, and the intention to make him feel better. He encouraged it as much as he could with sounds of appreciation and little motions of his fingers against the blanket. They were loosely duplicating the motions of Sylar's hands. Peter turned his neck to one side and then the other when Sylar rubbed it, so the man could access it better. He moved his whole body a little closer to Sylar to make the reach easier.

XXX

Sylar exhaled as he warmed to his work. Peter was really into it. Almost too into it, making Sylar wonder if he was faking it for some unknown reason but he quickly ignored that idea. Peter had no reason to manipulate him when he was allegedly getting exactly what he wanted. Sylar added pressure from his body and superior height, but not too much, easing into it and backing off repeatedly. He began at the mid-back, working his way up, then back down, gripping and caressing with fingers and palms the whole way, feeling the drag and motion of flesh between them. This was…different somehow. He assumed perving wasn't allowed so he didn't try. There hadn't been enough pressure for him to want it, either. Peter wasn't asking for anything more than this yet. It was simple and rather normal (if two grown men gave massages on a bed which they usually shared without sex). _Nathan never did this for him._ Oh, Nathan had done it for girls a few times, but for all the touching on his younger brother, never gave him a massage. _I'm doing something Nathan didn't,_ Sylar thought with satisfaction. He enjoyed wringing pleasant noise from someone; he enjoyed being useful. It wouldn't be long before Peter pushed for more and worse so this was one of those rare moments to savor. In addition, what made it better was his previous drought of human contact; before there had been no one to touch – not for any reason. He'd gone years without sight or sound of so much as an insect. And now he had someone half naked, demanding his touch. Sylar wanted to lie on him, trap him, feel his fantastic skin and just breathe, but massaging was an acceptable alternative. It was…important.

XXX

Peter would have melted into the bedspread if it were possible. _Phasing,_ he thought muzzily. _Phasing would make it possible._ "Mmm," he hummed when Sylar finally stopped. He wriggled and stretched, still on his stomach. Reaching above him, his hands found the pillow, which he pulled down and face planted into. It smelled of Sylar, he noticed immediately. "Mm?" It wasn't a bad scent. He liked it, despite and maybe because of all the complicated associations. It reminded him of the time he'd slept on Sylar's couch and had one of his pillows then. He turned on his side and regarded the author of the signature scent. "Thank you," he said, voice thick with pleasure. He suspected he had an erection, but he didn't draw attention to it by checking. At the same time, he didn't care if Sylar saw. He knew he was on display. He kept his stomach tight and reached up to brush his hair out of his face as he studied Sylar's reaction to him.

XXX

Eventually his hands became tired. It wasn't as if he was used to this kind of exercise. Sylar rested his wrists on his knees, raising an eyebrow in acknowledgement. The gratitude wasn't necessary, but it was nice. Peter was good about that, he noticed, not for the first time. Curious, he glanced down to see Peter's visible excitement and the flexing muscles and flat belly, so strangely hairless. _I did that to him. Or he…feels that way about me. It's happened before. He's making this way too easy for me,_ Sylar thought of his entire grand seduction. That disappointed him because he wanted, no, expected – needed – more of a challenge from Peter Petrelli. His eyes returned to watch Peter finger-comb his hair. "Are you always that noisy for a massage?"

XXX

Peter snorted and blew off the implied criticism. "That's because it felt good, asshole." Peter smiled and sat up, gesturing at the bed behind Sylar. "Get over there and let me do the same to you." He sat up on his knees waiting for Sylar to get settled.

XXX

Sylar controlled his expression and gaze though some surprise widened his eyes. _Uh…I thought this was just for him? But I don't need one. Why…?_ Badly he wanted an excuse to get out of it but couldn't think of anything, especially when he remembered how the last massage had felt… To have someone touching him like that, stimulating him was orgasmic in a non-sexual sense. _It's happened before and nothing bad happened. Is this time a trick?_ Again, he could think of no ulterior motive besides maybe 'now you owe me,' which was ridiculous because he'd just serviced Peter. _(I did offer him sex…)_ And that was more worrisome. Sylar blinked a few times, casting about for a moment before complying, hesitantly stripping off his shirt. _This isn't weird,_ he tried to tell himself. This was nowhere in his familiar script. Slowly but not trying to look like he was stalling or reluctant, he settled himself on his stomach; head turned enough to watch Peter with a fair amount of mistrust.

XXX

Feeling awesome, Peter adjusted himself so that what erection he had left was riding high and not hanging down one of his pant legs where Sylar would feel him. Then he literally mounted Sylar – planting himself on the other man's ass, knees on either side of him carrying most of Peter's weight. He waited a beat to make sure Sylar didn't freak out and buck him off, then gradually leaned down so his hands were on Sylar's shoulder blades, palms flat. Peter drew in a deep breath, feeling Sylar's body moving under his hands just like the first time he'd done this – breathing, heartbeat, minuscule shifts in the body compensating for Peter's weight on him. The sexual side of his arousal continued to fade because this wasn't about sex at all for Peter. It was just as human and intimate and basic, a primal, bonding contact with another human being. Sylar was right where Peter wanted him to be.

There was a purpled bruise marking where Sylar had hit the floor only four days before during their last fight. It wasn't like Peter had forgotten the altercation, but the violet, green-rimmed mark was still a reminder of Sylar's (and his own) human fragility. Peter lifted his hands and made a few light passes, trailing only his fingertips over the skin, barely brushing up and down the spine, then over the shoulders and down the flanks. He circled and lightly stroked the bruise, putting no pressure on it as he traced over it. When he was done, Peter moved up to start just below the neck and work his way down, using firm strokes on Sylar's lean, hard muscles. He avoided the bruised area and an inch or two to either side of it, kneading everything else, manipulating and rubbing until as much of the tension as possible was out of Sylar's frame.

XXX

Instinctively Sylar sucked in a breath and held it, every muscle as tight as possible for a second, then relaxing. Peter…sitting on him, getting on him in a questionably sexual way was…not what he'd done to Peter. _This is not the same as what I did to him. What is he doing?_ Though his muscles had released (by force of habit), he was far from calm. The first breath was let loose and he quickly regulated that, too. _His- Is he-? (I didn't ask for this! Any of it!) Shut the hell up. I told him he could, so he can; and he_ will _if he wants to._ _There's nothing you can do about it._ There was no press of an erection against him, no initial motion of Peter's pelvis and he would have felt it because he stayed still, waiting for just that. Peter nearly tickled him, tracing random parts of his skin with his fingertips, causing a purely sympathetic shiver before Sylar could stop it. A nervous swallow preceded Peter actually massaging him, just below his neck, leaving that part out to some of Sylar's disappointment. _(It's just a massage. I don't like being freaked out every time, though…) It's really not about what you want, is it? Enjoy this._ Sylar kept his hands underneath the pillow above his head, loosening from the uptight fists they'd previous been, flattening them against the mattress as he stretched out, luxuriating, breathing slowly. _Ooh, that's it. Sit on my ass, Petrelli. You little pervert._

XXX

"I like doing this," Peter said quietly as he was finishing. His fingers lingered on the gently curling hair at the small of Sylar's back. "Am I…understanding this right that you're giving yourself to me?" His tone was soft. As soon as he'd asked, he wished he could see Sylar's face, but on the other hand, perhaps the privacy of facing away would help the man answer. He rubbed a few of the longer hairs between his fingertips, taking a liberty he would only dream of doing if he didn't think the answer had already been stated as 'yes'. It was more than he ought to be doing and he knew that, but damn if his fingers weren't doing it anyway.


	125. Pillow Fighting

Day 70, February 18, Evening

Sylar inhaled, holding that breath for a moment before letting it go. This was the third time Peter had touched on his lower back in a slow, deliberate manner that could only mean one thing. He flushed with heat but didn't think it extended to a visible blush. He wasn't sure what to make of that gesture. It was sensitive, sexy, almost ticklish. Sylar stretched out once more with a squirm, pushing his face further into the sheet. It took effort not to move his lower body. He was still waiting for Peter to do something more overt, grind against him or- _Is he masturbating back there?_ But there was no motion to suggest it. After everything, he nearly missed the words. _What would he say if I said 'no', I wonder. As if I could._ As far as Peter knew, Sylar offered up what he could, what Peter would be interested in, which was far from his full potential, his full self. "I'm giving you what you want," he murmured. With that, he began to slowly roll over onto his back. Part of that was his desire to force Peter to deal with him, face-to-face. Taking some control and getting a glimpse of Peter riding him with his shirt off were involved, too. _I kissed him, touched his hair today, and now this._

XXX

Peter didn't know what to touch or do as Sylar twisted under him. He lifted his hands and his center of gravity, coming up on his knees as Sylar turned. As a knee-jerk reaction, he wanted to argue what Sylar had said. _I don't want him like that!_ His face hardened. He sunk back down with his hands on his thighs, unwilling to let the alteration of position run him off. He was, after all, still hoping and testing if he was in control here _. I didn't ask him a fair question. He's opening himself to me completely and I'm questioning it, so how is he supposed to answer that? He's giving me what he thinks I want. He's giving me the only thing he has to give._ He looked down at Sylar's bare, hairy chest and angular, expressive face. Sylar was curiously non-threatening like this. He was just a guy, a guy trying to salvage his pride in the wake of Peter's insistence that he verbally surrender himself even more explicitly than he already had. Peter's expression softened and he gave Sylar back that respect, acknowledging, "You." He hadn't spoken as a question and he wasn't waiting for an answer. He dismounted, getting off the man and moving to the other side of the bed to give Sylar space. Sylar's hands stroked over his legs as he moved, expressing a quiet desire for him to stay, and a willingness to tolerate Peter's touch and company. That gesture, more than anything more overt Sylar had done, tugged at Peter's heart. _He's the only one here for me and he's telling me he_ **is** _here for me._ "You're right," he said, reaching over to jostle the other man in a friendly manner. "I do want you." _Want to kick your ass, want to make you pay, want to hear you scream ... yeah, but they're all things I want from you._ He tried not to think of the other things he might want from Sylar - the less violent, more pleasant, and entirely off-limits things. Peter snagged his book and slid it over, propping himself up on the pillows as he prepared to read.

XXX

Sylar kept a leering smirk off his face for a while. He was luring Peter down the increasingly slippery slope to sin. He didn't think he needed to apply himself to it anymore because Peter was doing so much on his own. _If you make this easy for me, Petrelli, I will destroy you._ That was how badly he wanted to play. It was probably an exaggeration, but he would think of something to do if Petrelli was an easy lay. Letting Peter look his fill cost him nothing. He reveled in the view of Peter shirtless and straddling him, quite taken with the experience. _I've touched him_ – the surprisingly soft, humanly warm skin of Peter's back. His fingers itched to grab at Peter because he'd dared to climb onto him. He was strongly considering making some kind of move when Peter left, rolling away. Immediately, Sylar missed the weight and heat from the other's body _. It's completely sick to do anything with him_. He wasn't looking forward to the fallout when Peter remembered the same. He didn't move after, but stayed where he was, even through the playful nudge. "Tell me something I don't know," Sylar rumbled at the ceiling. He did smirk when Peter made no move to put his shirt on. "So which comes first, fucking me or hitting me?" Absently, he rubbed at three-quarters of an erection.

XXX

Peter split the book, flipping towards the back where he hadn't read yet. He'd been reading random sections as struck his whim. He glanced over the top, noticing Sylar was…stimulating himself right in front of him. Coolly, Peter said, "Hitting you." He looked back to the book, opening to a chapter titled, 'Money'. "I'm not going to fuck you." His eyes still on the text, he asked, "Are you going to get off on me hitting you?" _He always had such a weird expression when I'd hit him in the fights we had before getting trapped here._

XXX

Sylar turned to glance at cock-teasing his bed partner. He felt wound way too tight – like Peter usually was. The rest of his body was dancing on a dangerous edge. Peter said nothing about his inappropriate hand placement despite the fact that they were still in bed together, so he continued caressing over his jeans, keeping his touch light. "Maybe," Sylar teased back, his tone leading with 'What are you going to do about it?' _I have…mixed feelings._ "I didn't think that was the point of the exercise." _But that hasn't stopped me before…_ "It might be nice to relieve some of this tension." Of course, that was a bit pointed towards Peter because he wasn't putting out.

XXX

Having looked up to see Sylar's face as the other man spoke, Peter couldn't ignore the repetitive motions Sylar was making. "I'm looking forward to relieving some tension, too. Just not the sexual kind." _Probably more than you if you keep acting this way_. "Don't do that in front of me." His tone was no non-sense. He looked pointedly at where Sylar was stroking himself. "Go in the bathroom or the guest room." He looked back at his book, staring fixedly at letters his eyes wouldn't focus on.

XXX

Sylar paused, more to reply than to obey. "Why not? It's nothing you haven't seen before." _Such a prude now._

XXX

Peter frowned heavily and snapped with exasperation, "We're not going to fuck; we're not going to have sex at all. And you doing that in front of me means I'm having a kind of sex with you. You quit, you leave, or I leave - your choice."

XXX

Eyes narrowed, Sylar had to consider what that meant and how it made sense in Peter's head. _By touching myself I'm making him party to it, to my…sexual pleasure, which is basically sex. But he can't see anything! No 'kinds' of sex at all?_ He groaned in exasperation, sighing, "You're impossible!" He was still wound up, frustrated despite the advances of the day. Fighting back may not have been allowed, but throwing his pillow at his partner was fair game. Whipping it towards Peter's torso (though the man's hands, arms, and book interfered) as he stood and made for the bathroom, he sassed, "Enjoy having blue balls just to keep your precious morals, Petrelli."

XXX

The pillow took him by surprise, trying as he was to not look at his companion. Expanses of skin and tufts of hair that Peter had not viewed in a sexual light while giving the massage were inexorably being re-coded in his head as something arousing now that Sylar was masturbating in front of him. Peter grabbed the pillow reflexively, bouncing up to a full sitting position in alert readiness to fight or flee depending on Sylar's follow-up. But Sylar was walking away, snarking. Peter scowled as the adrenaline washed through him and his heart rate slowed again, then he smiled when Sylar left the room. "Yeah, I will," he said with a chuckle. _Blue balls are not even the start of a reason to do something immoral, you jerk._ Mostly mentally, he laughed it off, chucking the pillow back to the other side of the bed and sorting out his book.

XXX

Once there, Sylar leaned his hands on the sink, grasping for self-control. He was not appreciative of how Peter was able to wind him up and twist him around like this. He didn't enjoy the process of being toyed with (and it was obvious that Peter was enjoying himself). He was torn between jerking off out of spite or…abstaining to prove Peter couldn't control him. Sylar also knew his…neediness didn't stem as much from sexual dissatisfaction as it did from other things. He decided to make Peter suffer for it. Standing with his back against the wall, he unzipped his jeans and removed his somewhat-faded erection. As he began stroking, he entertained himself – and tortured Petrelli – with increasingly loud grunts and continuous moans, "Uh, oh, uh, uh, ooh!" They were mostly simulated and exaggerated too, but his imagination supplied him with visions of Peter's reaction to hearing him. His dick hardened again until it was engorged and sensitive in his grasp. When that happened, his noises came easier and his breathing harder. His mental image of Peter's expression sharpened. The idea of Peter touching himself to the noises out there (the little exhibitionist pervert) was doing it for him. The unrefined fantasy of Peter not stopping during that massage was doing it for him. The warmth of all that flesh, most of it bared for his touch, but some of Peter's body had remained hidden, teasing. That part was even hotter. Those touches to his lower back were torture, significant towards Peter's interest in him. _React to me! You're helpless. He said he wants me._

XXX

Peter rolled his eyes and flopped backwards against his pile of pillows, closing the book on his lap. He gave a aggravated groan at Sylar's overdramatic noises, obviously being generated to annoy and frustrate Peter. _I did tell him to go do it in the bathroom. He's doing what I told him to, and twisting it. Asshole._ Peter set aside the book, sitting forward and wiping his hands over his face. As long as the sounds were fake, they were irritating, but it didn't get under Peter's skin. It was more, _I can't believe he's doing that. That's so childish._ But then the sounds changed. It would be hard to tell exactly what the difference was, but some part of Peter heard it and every part perked up in response. _Wait, that's…he's really…oh. Whoa._ A memory of listening in while a dorm neighbor got it on with a girlfriend came to mind, quickly followed by that of overhearing the breathing shifts and furtive movements of one of his apartment mates, who was jerking off under a blanket on the day bed while the rest of them watched a movie and pretended not to know.

Peter swallowed, mouth dry. It was unbearably sexy, because this time, he was sure Sylar wanted him to know. Sylar was doing this because he wanted Peter involved. Peter was wanted. In a few seconds, he was off the bed and pacing, shirt in his hand. _I can't stay here and listen to that. I told him I wouldn't be part of this. It's one thing when he's faking to be an asshole, but this is_ … He listened. The crotch of his pants was too constraining. He adjusted himself against the folds of cloth. _He's doing that while he's thinking of me._ Peter looked at the door out of the apartment. Leaving was the obvious action to take, but he lingered a minute more, too tempted to go right away.

XXX

 _He even left me some lotion._ After leaning forward to pump a few squirts of lotion so conveniently placed on the sink, Sylar leaned his head back and applied the slickness to his throbbing organ. The lotion felt cold at first, but the contrast worked and within seconds he was rapidly making a mess of his groin and the floor where the lotion slipped off his dick and now both his engaged hands. "Uhmm!" He gripped harder and thrust languidly into it. His release had been building for what felt like hours, as early as before trip to the library. Sylar panted as his pleasure mounted, muscles clenched as he spilled onto the floor – _I think he'd rather I come on him_ , he thought as his dick pulsed. He left his eyes closed, hands holding his penis for a moment, savoring his obscene act.

It only lasted a moment before his habit of at least attempting to clean up kicked in. Sylar wiped and washed himself clean before cleaning the floor, though he knew it would be even kinkier to leave his ejaculate there for Peter to deal with. Finally, he thoroughly soaped his hands and the faucet handle.

XXX

Downstairs was quiet, lonely, and devoid of arousing, confusing temptations. After putting his shirt on, Peter busied himself in a restless cycle between the piano, the pool table, and even the foosball table (although it was near-pointless to mess with the game without an opponent). It was only after at least a half hour had passed that he settled down, deciding that Sylar wasn't going to make a sudden appearance and upset the quiet. Then, more relaxed, he hit up the speed bag with light, strumming blows and played the piano more slowly and thoughtfully.

XXX

The bed was empty except for Peter's book. There was no sign of his shoes but his coat was present. Sylar sighed, once again feeling a growing familiarity with a variety of emotions, disappointment being foremost, cutting into his post-orgasmic relaxation. _I should have seen that coming._ He got the message, though. It was not about his needs or even his wants if they didn't fit into Peter's idea of things and that he was alienating his companion. Sylar felt the shame more clearly for Peter's absence. To soothe himself, he laid down on the bed after donning his shirt, taking up one of his mystery books that had never left the suite and pretended to himself that Peter was still beside him. It didn't work particularly well, though he was able to focus on the text, story, and details. Perhaps Peter would come back tonight.

XXX

It was maybe an hour later that Peter rose with the intention of heading up, but found himself tarrying in the lobby instead. Thoughts of going up brought thoughts of Sylar, and with them thoughts of what had been going on when Peter had left. It was something he'd tried very hard not to think of for the whole time he was downstairs, and had largely been successful at it. But if he was going back up, he couldn't ignore it – the noises, the looks, Sylar palming himself through his pants right in front of Peter, the feeling of the man between his thighs with Sylar looking up at him, the caress of lingering hands pulling gently at Peter as he dismounted and moved away. Yes, Sylar wanted him. He adjusted himself in his pants for the second time today.

He sighed and retreated to the bathroom, going into a stall so he'd have some warning if Sylar entered in some combination of the man's impeccable timing and Peter's lousy luck. He shoved his pants down to just above his knees and got to work. Even with the fodder of Sylar masturbating for Peter's listening pleasure, and everything else that had happened, he found release denied to him. He gave it up eventually, packed himself away, and washed his hands. _I tried._ There was nothing for it. He resigned himself to his blue balls and whatever testy behavior came with it.

Peter knocked when he got to the penthouse suite door. Sylar might be there or might not, but Peter had decided to spend the night here either way. He waited a few beats for a reply, then opened the door and entered. "Hey."

XXX

Before the second rap of knuckles on the door, Sylar had his book shut in his lap and was sitting up. He hadn't expected Peter back so soon, if at all. _Maybe he only came back for his coat…_ "Hey," he answered, poised to…intervene if Peter made to leave again and he didn't care if his need showed. Otherwise, he was waiting to see what would happen. Peter had his shirt on now. _Still no punishment, I bet. He wants it on his terms. Me jerking off didn't qualify, but he left me alone. (Maybe he'll stay the night)._ That was what he wanted from his companion – the opportunity to hold him in the morning, testing Petrelli's word and his tolerance.

XXX

Peter piddled around in the room, making his way to the bed gradually. He noticed they'd swapped sides again, back to the usual setup where Peter's side was close to the wall and Sylar's on the side open to the rest of the room. It meant Peter circled the bed to get in on his side, taking off his shoes, picking up his book, and settling in like normal. _This is what he likes, right? The reading? That and me being near_. A glance to the side confirmed Sylar's tense posture was only now beginning to relax. Peter pretended to take no notice of it. He flipped back to the chapter he'd started on earlier, 'Money', and quickly became engrossed in the betrayals and tribulations that Ali faced as a result of success. After a half hour or so, Peter gestured at a page of print, saying, "Don King was a real son of a bitch. I'd heard that about him, but this…" He shook his head and glanced over at Sylar to see if he wanted to talk.

XXX

 _That is so weird,_ Sylar thought when Peter returned to the bed, apparently set on reading just like they'd been about to earlier. _Just like that, like nothing happened. Except he wanted a massage at random. He sat on me, let me roll over, and didn't get up. He doesn't think that makes…sexual tension? What did he expect me to do?_ _I'm not going to act like a trained animal if he won't punish me._ Sylar himself laid back and cracked open his book, reading it a few moments after that because it took him a few moments more to pull his mind from the gutter where it was lingering (even after his release). _I wonder if he got off, too. I bet that's exactly where he went; he didn't want to risk me walking_ _in_ _on him!_ That pleased him immensely. Of course, if the opposite was true so much the better – blue balls, just as he'd predicted. His eyes snaked to the side to view his bed partner. "Hmm?" He wondered if there was some analogy being made. _Doubtful. Why does he think I want to talk about Don King then? Another rousing discussion about morality?_

XXX

"Ali made a lot of money. A lot of people took advantage of that – they had their hand out. But King wasn't happy with that. He wanted to drain Ali dry. Use him up and take everything he could get." Peter shook his head. "It's just too much." He thought about the people in his life, and probably in Sylar's, who had hollowed them out in different ways. "Some people…don't seem to have a sense of where they should stop taking. Or maybe they know, but just don't care – the Company, my parents." He left Nathan off the list for now, given Sylar's role in his death. Peter didn't want to discuss anything that made it sound like Nathan had deserved his fate.

XXX

Sylar continued with the side-eye, now more suspicious. _Back to 'I'm a selfish jerk who doesn't know when to stop?' Just like Nathan._ He was still listening but didn't feel he had enough to go on to respond just yet. At the same time, he noticed how cautious Peter was when he 'took' here. It wasn't reluctance or desperation (not purely) because Peter lusted.

XXX

"Ali would always forgive the people who used him. He was lucky to have some real friends around who looked out for him. Even if, according to this," Peter lofted the book with a finger tucked in to mark his page, "they didn't do a very good job, they at least kept the worst people, like Don King, off his back." He gave a bitter chuckle. "For people like me and you…we kind of miss out on that, without anyone there who has our back." ' _You came back for me', 'That's what brothers do', and 'I wasn't going to leave you here',_ ran through Peter's mind. "Aside from Claire, you're the only one who ever came back for me." Peter dipped his head to the side, reluctantly adding, "And sort of Nathan, but he always had his own reasons, too." He couldn't leave out the moments when Nathan had come through for him, but he wasn't going to let his brother off the hook, either, and pretend Nathan didn't have other motivations more important than looking out for his little brother. _Selfish even in his selflessness_. He hoped Sylar left the subject alone, or else he'd have to jump to the defense of the deceased.

XXX

 _Now we're drawing analogies between Ali and…us. But specials don't…have friends? Keep them? Ali wasn't normal._ He thought back to when he'd manifested, when he'd killed Brian Davis. He'd thought specials would be rare (even with the knowledge he had from Chandra), never grouped like the Company or the Carnival. He'd even overlooked the part where the List was a government project. Elle's kind emergence had thrilled and touched him before it went sour.

Sylar frowned as he considered Nathan. People in general failed to make sense to him. It was so easy for them to betray their own next of kin, sell them out, murder them, twist their mind and emotions into an unforgivable tangle. _Maybe we hang onto more false ideas, like love. I bet Peter hangs onto that pretty hard. It doesn't matter if it's real._ "/You were always in trouble, Peter. You disappeared a lot; you were…dead a lot./" Clever Peter, going off the grid so successfully as to make Nathan, the Company, and the government nervous. There were several times that Nathan had genuinely intervened in spite of and also sometimes in aid of other, bigger things than just family. Confessing his ability on that rooftop had been the start because he'd known Peter wouldn't stop there. Kirby had been literal and political suicide; flying a gunshot Peter away from Danko; not to mention the last time at Stanton…but his back was usually in a corner. _Mine wasn't, not when I came for him._ "I didn't expect a support group when I got my powers."

XXX

Peter gave him an annoyed look for what sounded suspiciously like something Nathan would say. But maybe also Sylar. He couldn't place the quote well enough to call Sylar on it, so he merely huffed about it and responded about the support group, "It would help if abilities came with one." He ran his thumb restlessly over the ends of the closed pages of the book. "I know…I came here asking you to do something. That's not what this is about anymore. That's not part of it." He didn't expect Sylar's help and didn't even particularly want it at this stage. It came with too many complications. Peter assumed he'd seen the dream wrong, or misinterpreted it somehow. It seemed like something that had happened months ago – the details fuzzing with the passage of time. He remembered himself remembering it now more than he remembered the actual dream itself.

XXX

Now Sylar was looking at him fully, not looking away. He didn't believe a word of it and his face showed as much. Besides that was way too much to hope for. As if Peter would set aside the future to…to what? "What is it about now?"

XXX

"Just," Peter shrugged, having not thought that far ahead conversationally, "getting along, I guess. Getting…okay…with you. You're the only one here, so I'd better. It's not like I'd rather be alone all the time. Alone with my hate – pretty crappy way to spend my life." He wasn't sure what else there was to say, so he opened the book again and wriggled the pillows into a more comfortable nest. He gave Sylar a considering look before going back to reading.

XXX

 _You know how to 'get okay' with me. It sucks that it has to be your choice because I can't be okay with you. Ever. Is he implying that he'll set his hate aside?_ That was too good to believe. The timing of it struck him as extremely convenient for this confession. _He's going to manage his hate by hurting me in the day and pretending everything is fine at night._ Sylar supposed that was to be expected. It fit the pattern. It was laughable, Peter Petrelli would turn away from his mission simply because Sylar declined. "I don't believe you, Petrelli, but whatever you need to tell yourself," he replied calmly. "Before you 'get okay' with me, you should know you can hit me in the head or the face. Don't think I haven't noticed you avoiding it."

XXX

Peter gave him a frown for his disbelief, but otherwise didn't address it. _At least he's not calling me a liar. He can believe what he wants, after all._ The other statement, though, got his attention in a more wide-eyed, intent manner before Peter scaled it back to being less emotive about it. _He's noticed? Does that mean he believes me that I can…play by his rules and won't hurt him too bad? (Stupid rules. Stupid game. We shouldn't be hitting each other at all.)_ "Really?" Peter sat up a little and leaned over, fist extended in a slow, thoroughly telegraphed motion to lightly chuck Sylar on the chin. He watched for Sylar's reaction.

XXX

Sylar kept very still, eyes once again slanted to the side to watch. He was genuinely unsure how to take that – sexy, playful, threatening, or passive-aggressive. He was certain Peter was interested in punching his face because he'd said as much before, seemed to enjoy doing it in the past, and now was quickly testing the waters. "Really," he rumbled. _I think I want you to._

XXX

Peter settled back, considering that. Sylar's stillness was tough to read, but his tone of voice resonated with sex. Peter smiled faintly, then asked for safety's sake, "When's the last time you had a headache?" _He must really want to get beat up. Guilt. All those murders. He said he knew it was wrong. But it doesn't matter how much he wants it. Making his concussion worse isn't worth it. And then there's my hand to worry about. I broke it on his thick skull to start with. It's only now healed up. I'm not doing that again._

XXX

Sylar snorted. All this careful, tip-toeing about was too polite for something as dark and perverted as this discussion. _Why are we even discussing it?_ "I don't know. You're always a pain in the neck," he deflected with a motion of an eyebrow.

XXX

"That's funny, but I need to know. You had a pretty bad concussion. I don't want you back in that state again if I can help it." He eyed the man. "How long has it been, Sylar?"

XXX

Peter's desire to avoid babysitting was logical. "A week or so maybe." Sylar realized he'd had other things on his mind (such as the safety of his literal mind around Petrelli); even the pain in his back wasn't any kind of active awareness.

XXX

"Okay." He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, over his teeth. "Head shots aren't what I was planning to do anyway. If you don't have a preference, then I was going to start with something safe, on your back – something like flogging." Again, he was watching Sylar closely for a reaction, struggling to navigate unfamiliar waters without any landmarks. Sylar's 'directions' amounted to 'just sail anywhere you like', but Peter knew that would get him into trouble.

XXX

Sylar shot a quick glance at his companion, making somewhat unintentional eye contact. It was enough to see that he was being closely watched. "If I don't have a preference?" he asked softly, hesitantly, almost as if he were speaking to himself. _Flogging. Safe. I'd rather not be scarred but…_

XXX

"Yes." Peter nodded, still trying to figure out where he stood with Sylar on all of this.

XXX

"It doesn't have to be on a schedule, you know. It's not as much of an agreement as you're making it."

XXX

Peter made a small, exasperated exhalation. _I'm not going to let you derail this._ He repeated his question. "What would you prefer?"

XXX

"Just-!" Sylar began in frustration. "Hit me! When I piss you off and you want to hit me, just fucking do it! If I really piss you off and you can't stand it, then just…do whatever. Like I said, kick me, strangle me, fuck me, pull my hair. It's not some religious, torture, bondage thing unless that's what _you_ want. You've done it before," he added reproachfully.

XXX

 _'You've done it before'_ – Peter didn't know what that meant. _I've beat him up before? Or I've done bondage before?_ In any case, he felt challenged. Sylar was inviting him to act, so he acted. He reached over, grabbed Sylar's shoulder, and shoved him down and to the side. Peter came up on his knees, looming over Sylar, one hand still on his shoulder to make sure he stayed down. The other was loose in case he needed to do something. "It's not going to happen on your schedule either! I don't want to beat you up today. I said I'd do it tomorrow and I meant it!" He glared at Sylar, but there wasn't a lot of heat in it. The whole situation was comical in a way – Sylar asking him to beat him up and Peter declining.

XXX

Sylar snarled up at him, regardless of what Peter said. _You didn't say anything about beating me tomorrow! You mentioned it! Of course it will be on my schedule – who is the one making you react? I could make you do it right-_ Another thought intervened. _What about the bed being a fucking safe zone? Is this him respecting that or…not?_ The idea that the safe zone was voided because of this haphazard agreement was also disappointing but somewhat expected. Further frustration ironically stayed him from kicking (strongly nudging) Peter.

XXX

"Read your book and leave me alone. I've had enough of you!" With that, he pushed on Sylar's still-flat-to-the-bed shoulder, and then went back to his own side to gather up his book. But his feelings on the matter, which were clear enough in his tone and behavior, weren't rage, but more exasperation mixed with a hint of mischief or playfulness. It was funny. Peter wasn't sure if he should find this funny, or if it was safe to find it funny, but that was how he saw it anyway.

XXX

"And fuck your mother, too," Sylar muttered treacherously under his breath. Peter was busy shifting around in the bedding and wouldn't hear it. He'd had enough of…being had enough of, with no resolution immediately available unless he wanted to sleep alone. _I can't have both._

XXX

Peter flipped past the chapter he'd been on to start the next one. "Oh...wow, just-" He shook his head and rolled his eyes. He opened the book in Sylar's direction so the man could see the chapter title. "The name of the next chapter. Jeez. If that's not the universe trying to tell me something..." He repeated the head shake and eye roll.

XXX

Sylar was grumpily arranging himself to read again, having lost his page when Peter thrust his own book at him. Without seeing too much of the motion, he tensed, paused, and leaned away for a second before comprehending the gesture – clearly an indicator for him to view something within Petrelli's book. Still, he didn't get too close. He didn't have to when the font of the chapter was large and loud. It read 'The Beating.' Sylar's eyes went past the book to meet Peter's eyes, not amused. _The fucking universe is telling you to beat me? A book is telling you? But you're not listening. It has to wait until tomorrow._ "Yeah, it's full of irony," he responded about the book and the universe of late, voice dripping with sarcastic resignation _. I would love to beat the shit out of you with a pillow._

XXX

Peter scoffed about the title, then settled down to read what the chapter had to say. _Maybe it will give me some hints on how to handle this weird asshole I'm stuck with._ He wasn't angry about that, either. He thought Sylar was giving him control. That meant he wasn't threatened, wasn't afraid. And therefore, it was safe to be amused by things. He felt better than he had in a while. With Sylar next to him, Peter read.

XXX

Frustrations simmered down through dinner and taking turns in the bathroom. The reading helped once he let go of Petrelli's stupidity and stubborn self-righteousness, at least temporarily. Peter stayed, eventually getting in bed beside him, facing away. Sylar, being tired of so many things, felt a pathetic wave of gratitude for the simple presence and even for the rough agreement of tomorrow, which was sick of him – of them both, possibly. He reached out, sniffling, to briefly touch the man's back with a few fingers and the barest hint of a palm. He still felt needy and knew there was no cure, only poor coping mechanisms, like tomorrow.

XXX

He was hot. He was uncomfortable. Too much so to stay asleep. Peter tried to move to a cooler spot, but there was someone wrapped around him. It took him a long, sleepy moment to distinguish blanket from human, then realize there were two layers of blankets on top of them. He threw back one of them. He settled back against Sylar, arranging his arms around the man before his conscious mind caught up with his sleepy/subconscious one. _Wait, what am I doing?_ He drew in a deep breath, trying to think clearly. It felt nice, especially now that he'd cooled them both by ridding them of the blanket. But... _I'm not supposed to sleep like this. Not with him._ He lay there for a few more breaths, feeling held and wanted and very reluctant to change that. _How did I end up like this? Was this him or me?_ Then, _Is he awake? What if I just...go back to sleep like this and pretend I didn't wake up_ _?_ _(That would be lying. And he might be awake anyway.)_ Peter huffed, whined, and extracted himself from Sylar's embrace.

XXX

Sylar awoke, dragging himself from sleep from all the wiggling. He was aware enough to watch Peter's delicious hesitation in the dark. Without considering it, perhaps wanting to cajole Peter into returning, he remembered similarly pleasant times, /"I remember you used to love sneaking in to sleep with me. You used to do it all the time."/ He gave Peter's side a familiar, brotherly set of pats.

XXX

Peter's face hardened. He was already unhappy to be moving, unhappy that he had to make this decision in any case. Whether he'd started the closeness or Sylar had, it was caused at its core by Sylar's insecurities and Peter's unwise attempt to address them by sharing the bed despite knowing his own sleep issues. Obviously, Sylar knew them as well. The comment dredged out of Nathan's memories confirmed it. Angry now, Peter put a hand flat on Sylar's chest and pushed him away, saying emphatically, "You're not Nathan! You're not my brother. What I remember is that you _killed_ him. That means we don't do this!" With that, he got out of bed entirely, grabbing around for the extra blanket and a pillow. He retreated to the discomfort of the couch.

XXX

Having been pleasantly half-asleep, the shove was unnecessary. He was already down, not pursuing Peter. The words were insult to injury. Sylar retorted immediately, sounding drowsy but meaning it, "You wouldn't sleep with me if he was alive, either. Don't pretend it's all about him." It was fucked up to be jealous of the attention the guy's dead brother still demanded. Growling, he rolled over into Peter's spot, warm and smelling of him. It was a poor recreation for the man himself. _He didn't want me for a brother even when I was a Petrelli. What makes Nathan so great?_

XXX

Peter threw his pillow into the corner of the couch. "No, you're right," he said crankily. "It's not about him. It's about _you_. Those aren't your memories. This is like the third time tonight you've used what he knew, and you're starting to use it to try to manipulate me. I don't like it! I want you to cut it out." He glared in Sylar's direction, which was pointless because he couldn't see the man's response. He could see Sylar's shape on the bed and a few contours lit by the hallway/bathroom light they always left on as a nightlight, but Sylar's face itself was lost in shadow. Peter was much better lit, getting both the light from the hallway and the combination of starlight and moonlight from the huge windows to his left. He scoffed and got on the couch, throwing the blanket over himself.

Day 71, February 19, Morning

Peter was in a sour mood when he rose. He'd slept badly, both from the uncomfortableness of the couch and his certainty of the comfort he'd given up in the bed. He was angry at himself for wanting what he shouldn't have and angry at Sylar for continually offering up the temptation. He said nothing during their normal routines and when he did look at Sylar, his expression was irritated. As he waited impatiently for the coffee to finish percolating, Peter made his first statement of the morning. "I'm going to beat the crap out of you today. Don't eat anything heavy." He went back to scowling at the innocent, but too slow for his liking, coffee pot.

XXX

Sylar was in the middle of pouring himself a glass of juice when he heard that. He stopped and turned to look at Peter, his face serious and a bit disbelieving. It was a little surprising (he'd thought Peter was full of typical Petrelli hot air yesterday), quite bold, and very threatening. _(Why does what I eat matter?) If he's going to be kicking me in the guts, I'll be puking. (Oh. He is serious, then. Good? He didn't say when or where, or even how. So…do I finish breakfast or what?)_ "Okay," he acknowledged without any particular inflection. Without further directions, he returned to pouring his drink. While he might wish he could accomplish his goals without this kind of event, this kind of pain, he knew it was inevitable (and earned) to some degree. It would do him no good to dread, or avoid, or stall. Sylar decided on ironic Life cereal, going about retrieving bowl, spoon, milk quietly and staying out of Peter's way and keeping one eye on him because he knew the kitchen was a very nasty place for a fight. Digging into the cereal to try to get something on his stomach, he thought, _But it's not a fight._ There were so many questions; Peter was bound to misunderstand something or take it easy on him and further complicate things beyond what Sylar wanted to fix. _No matter how many times I tell him, he doesn't understand. Telling him again won't help._

XXX

Peter's breakfast was light as well – crunchy peanut butter on toast, three slices, washed down with coffee that was much darker and stronger than he usually took it. Once consumed, he went over to the medical bag to rifle through it, pulling out a few things and bagging them separately. _I don't think I'll need much. He's afraid of medical stuff anyway. Fear isn't what I want._ He looked over to see where Sylar was in his breakfast.

XXX

Sylar was returning his dishes to the sink when he saw or heard Peter rustling around in his medical bag. _Do you really think you're going to need any of that?_ He paused to give Peter a lingering glance about it, though he couldn't see what was selected. _Probably not Batman band-aids._ With a longer exhale, he moved on, adding water to the bowl and glass. _(Should I brush my teeth?) I'll brush after. He's impatient and he thinks he's going to make me puke._ Sylar didn't bother with his coat as he followed Petrelli into the hall, partly because he doubted Peter had planned far enough to have a specific location in mind, at least, a location that would require a coat.

XXX

Once inside the elevator, Peter pushed the button for the lobby, psyching himself up for this. Sylar stood next to him. That was where Peter's thoughts were, as well as his attention even though he wasn't looking at the man. He thought about the elevator in Mercy Heights; how he'd stood there with a red canvas bag very much like this one, Nurse Hammer next to him; how she'd morphed into Sylar and assaulted him – no threats, no announcement, just an ambush – an ambush Sylar later said was meant to end with Peter's literal crucifixion, probably to be followed by a similar attack on Peter's mother. It was too easy to visualize what those threats meant. Peter had seen Sylar's work and although he'd never run across the work of such a psychopath as an EMT, he'd seen plenty of blood and injuries. If he, or his mother, survived, it would be so they could remember Sylar's power over them. He took a deep, controlled breath, and let it out slowly. He turned his head just enough to give Sylar a long, aggressive look of direct eye contact. The expression on Peter's face was clearly trouble. He looked away casually as the door dinged open, gesturing for Sylar to go first. As Sylar started to leave, Peter slugged him in the gut.

XXX

Sylar had since begun to doubt that Peter would do anything remotely terrible. It was all hype. Then came that expression from Petrelli. It made him reconsider. The Petrellis were a slippery bunch. He felt himself tense just thinking about Mercy, in the elevator. This was also a bad location for a fight – a small, confined, hard box. He didn't think Peter was that stupid, or keyed up, or desperate. Because of that, Sylar looked away to see where he would be walking through the doors once they opened. Half a step later he didn't even see the punch coming. His air was gone so quickly he was left gasping for more, his gut was cramped, and instinctively doubled over. One hand caught himself, sort of, sliding down the wall leading to the door. _So that's how it's going to be. Payback for Mercy._ He gave Petrelli a fierce stare from beneath his brows and through a curtain of his hair before he straightened up. Not being much of a fighter, with this man and their complex history, he felt and fought the urge to rush Petrelli and plaster him flat into the elevator wall.


	126. Step One

Day 71, February 19, Morning

Peter held his ground, fists held about halfway up in front of him – low for a fight, but this wasn't supposed to be a 'fight'. He scanned Sylar vigilantly for confirmation of that, testing the bounds of the agreement. When no counter-attack seemed forthcoming, he said, "You wanted me to feel things for you?" Peter raised his brows. "I'm feeling them." His gut was clenched. His heart was racing. Adrenaline flooded him, but he backed away. Confident Sylar would follow him one way or the other, Peter caught the elevator door as it started to close and walked out into the lobby. He went to the exercise room and pulled out a thick charcoal-colored resistance band. Turning, he faced Sylar. "Rec room." He gestured for Sylar to precede him. Peter was struggling with emotions both for and against what he was doing. The rational part of his mind was present only to nudge him towards more sensible options than knocking Sylar down and raining blows on him until Peter broke both his hands on Sylar's face, and who knew what damage to Sylar. He wanted to dish out payback – even a small serving, and the possible opportunity to do so was making him high.

XXX

"Oh, goodie," Sylar replied with attitude. He was angry, on edge, thinking through any loopholes or ambushes (obviously) yet not overthinking his reactions and the meaning of all this. _I know he slept with me all night,_ which eliminated any serious surprises. Standing as tall as possible to intimidate, he walked calmly after Peter. The idea of making Peter afraid when Peter was supposed to beat him senseless was a welcome challenge and an amusing thought. He watched Peter's eyes nearly the entire time it took him to enter the rec room door, going first in the aftermath of the sucker punch because he didn't fear another. Then he immediately scanned the room to see nothing amiss.

XXX

"Shirt off." Peter looked around the room: couch, piano, metal stack chairs, foosball table, folded up ping pong table, pool table, long punching bag, speed bag, floor, walls. He tried to decide where he wanted Sylar to be. He dropped the medical bag next to the couch. Then he turned, running a hand over the resistance band, gathering up the handles at one end to leave a yard-long loop of tubing. _What kind of injuries do these things leave? Just bruising and welts, right? It's a start. He's probably going to make fun of me for not doing anything worse. I think I'll just pop him in the face if he does that. That should shut him up._ Peter snorted softly and waved his hand at the pool table. It was the heaviest and most stable piece of furniture in the room. "Lean against that, facing it."

XXX

Sylar scoffed, "Yeah, I'm sure." Since he'd already been dressed before he knew the order of the day, he began unhurriedly unbuttoning his long-sleeved dress shirt, staring at Peter as he did it. He took long enough so Peter was forced to check on him, then shucked his undershirt up over his head and set both aside on the row of metal chairs. He was left with his tight, low-rise jeans and shoes. _I wonder if he'll ruin my clothes._ Now he was curious and a bit worried. _He can touch my head from there, or stab me with something…He brought something from his medicine bag…_ Strangulation or whipping were possible with the elastic tubing, both were acceptable (though the whipping was considerably more pathetic). "You're going to whip me with an exercise band?" he sneered with a judging look at the band.

XXX

Peter gave a lop-sided grin and chuckled, unfazed by the expected criticism. He was a little far away to hit Sylar in the face for the disrespect and he certainly wasn't going to rush over insecurely to mete out punishment. Instead, he said easily, as though amused by the other man's doubts, "I could fuck you up with a glass of water, Sylar." _Let the psychological games begin_ , he thought wryly. "This is where I start." In no hurry, he moved closer. It gave him more options if Sylar continued to mouth off. Peter looked at him expectantly, not gesturing at the pool table or anything else to indicate what he needed Sylar to do. He'd said it once. If the game really was played by the rules Sylar had laid out, then he shouldn't have to say it again.

XXX

Sylar stared at that reaction. It was much more typical of the 'old' Peter. He noticed the use of the word 'start' – this was the beginning of more, as if that wasn't terribly obvious by the threat of…Sylar's head came up and canted to the side. _Is he going to fuck with my food? Or is he going to start putting drugs in my water? He knows I hate that._ That element was more worrisome, guaranteed to increase his paranoia. It was not lost on him that Peter was taking to the game very well, better than expected in fact. After a moment, he pulled himself away from ruminating, remember what his role was and what was going on; it helped that Peter was clearly waiting for him. Sylar turned, attempting to time it right so he wasn't over-eager or lazy (which might come across as arrogance). He set his hands against the edge of the pool table without a word.

XXX

Peter sighed softly, taking a moment to admire that lovely back. It would be a shame to mar it. He resisted the impulse to touch Sylar up one last time before getting started. He didn't feel he had the right, not with what he was about to do. _'Kick me, strangle me, fuck me, pull my hair' – there it is again, sex right in the middle of talk of punishment. Why is that?_ His brows knit. He shook out his right arm, shaking the resistance band with it and working out how he would hold it. Peter put his wrist through the handles and hooked his fingers into the round metal links at the top of the tubing. He left Sylar waiting while he took his time getting used to the grip. He made a few practice swings through the air, catching the tubes with his left hand. It made a nice swooshing sound – inoffensive by itself; but that he intended to use it to hurt someone made it unsettling. He squeezed the tubes between thumb and forefinger, staring at them blankly for a moment. _Am I going to be able to do this?_

XXX

Sylar did glance back at being made to wait longer than he expected. He saw Peter probably overthinking (for once) or reconsidering for some stupid reason. _This is ridiculous._ The threatening sounds didn't bother him, but otherwise Peter was more or less standing there.

XXX

Peter saw the motion of Sylar's head. It snapped him out of his indecisive fugue. _I need to get going on this._ He directed his thoughts to why he most wanted to hurt Sylar: Nathan. Peter had doted on his brother and looked up to him. Nathan had been the dashing hero Peter wanted to be – fighting for right in the military and then for justice in the courts. If he ended up doing wrong from time to time, it had been easy to think that a fault of a corrupt system and not of Nathan himself. Peter had taken it on himself to fix that system so people like Nathan could do what they needed to do to make everything right. Peter knew he'd been naïve…and might still be. But in any case, Sylar was the asshole who had stepped in and taken Nathan, and all his options, from him. Nathan had been erased from Peter's future, knocking out the only shaky support left in Peter's life, putting him in free fall. This asshole. He'd done it. Intentionally. Deliberately. And would do it again if the opportunity arose.

Sylar knew what Nathan had meant in Peter's life, possibly more than anyone other than Peter himself. He'd either mocked it or acted like it didn't matter. Peter's pain was inconvenient to Sylar's wants and needs, and so, it was ignored. _Like I don't count. An afterthought. A second-rate copy of someone worthwhile. He treats the most important thing that's happened to me like it was nothing. He knows what it meant to me. He's not that dense or stupid. He_ knows _. Everything he's done to me, he's done to others – dozens of families, maybe hundreds of people. Not like an accidental bomb blowing up part of the city, but one by one, on purpose, with his own hands channeling the power._

XXX

And still the inactivity dragged on. Sylar rolled his eyes, impatient and fed up. "Quit stalling," he called over his shoulder without moving much.

XXX

Peter snarled at him, balled up his left fist, and slammed it into Sylar's side in a kidney strike. _I hope he pisses blood for a few days from that._ Sufficiently worked up, he shifted to the lash, bring it down as hard as he could. The sudden, unaccustomed swing wrenched his shoulder right off. The tubing didn't even land where he'd wanted, ending up right where Peter had just hit and wrapping around Sylar's far side to score his flank as well. Peter wrinkled his nose and grimaced, rolling his shoulder as he adjusted his position and stance. He aimed more carefully for the upper back where ribs and scapulae would shield any important organs from taking too much damage, though he wasn't sure how much 'damage' his swings would transmit through flexible rubber. It wasn't like a cane that had a narrow leading edge and a lot of snap to it, nor like a leather belt or whip that had heft. So he simply swung it as hard as he could muster, keeping it up through the formation of welts and finally the appearance of spots of blood.

As he looked down at Sylar's back, now crisscrossed with angry weals, he thought, _I did that._ Peter didn't feel proud, or happy, or satisfied. In fact, he felt profoundly _dis_ satisfied. It wasn't enough. It didn't help him or Nathan or anyone else. He wasn't even sure it helped Sylar. He felt angry that Sylar wanted Peter to be the instrument of his … whatever this was. Outlet. Experience. Sylar had said it wasn't penance despite that being the only reasonable thing Peter knew to equate it to. He stepped close and put his hand on the heated flesh, feeling the stripes he'd raised there. In a moment of angry spite, he dug in the nails of his left hand and slashed sideways, from Sylar's shoulder blade to his floating ribs, tearing at the sensitized skin. He knew that even his short, nubby nails would hurt worse than another blow.

XXX

Sylar sucked in air at the punch he hadn't seen coming for the second time that day. He arched his back and one knee weakened but his arms managed to keep him upright by holding the table. When the first few initial throbs of deep pain passed, he exhaled a noise of severe discomfort. _Oh, God,_ he thought. He knew Peter wasn't playing anymore; why else would he inflict lethal blows to vital parts of Sylar's body – the kidney, the unprotected gut earlier? After that, Sylar was gasping and panting, straightening quickly enough into the whipping. That part was wild, poorly-aimed at first, the rubber thin enough that it snapped and stung, surely leaving marks. He allowed himself to wince and grimace but didn't make noise. Peter kept at it for a good while, strong enough and now angry enough to do it as long as he liked. "Ah," Sylar hissed during the break at the feeling of the man's sweaty, hot palm on what felt like the open lacerations of his back. He didn't turn or attempt to understand that contact and soon enough the unasked question was answered. Raking, stinging, dragging pain came from that hand, scraping into the marks from the band. Sylar straightened further, exhaling forcefully, and tilting his head away, "Uhn!" He kept a tight hold of the pool table. Somehow this intimate pain was more satisfying. The cruelty, thought-out, this time, was strangely welcome.

XXX

Peter grabbed Sylar's hair with his right hand, tangling hair with the handles of the resistance bands. He pulled Sylar's head around to see his face. "Why do you want this? What do you get out of it?"

XXX

Sylar released his breath, feeling a bit shaky (or shocky), but still very present. The grip in his hair was different, reminiscent of other things and other reactions. It got his attention immediately. He would have preferred that Peter grab his hair and pull straight back, instead the fist in his hair directed him to face the man. "I'm a monster. I'm sick. I get off on it. Is that enough for you?"

XXX

"You said before that you didn't get off on it?" Peter challenged. Sylar wasn't acting aroused. _He has to be lying._

XXX

 _Oh, I'm so glad you were paying attention._ It pleased him immensely to have a clever opponent. At times. When said opponent decided to be clever. Sylar didn't care for such a weak grip on authority as it applied to him. He fired back, "You said you didn't care, so get on with it and quit being such an unimaginative pussy."

XXX

 _He's definitely lying._ "Your face is the last thing my brother saw. Is that a memory you have, too?" Peter punched him in the mouth with his left hand, pressing him back, using Sylar's hair to keep him at an awkward angle of half-leaning on the pool table and being unable to stand up completely. "You remember everything about how he died, don't you? Last thoughts, intentions, everything - none of that belongs to you!" He hit him a second time. Like the first, it was intended to hurt, jar, and startle more than actually deck Sylar. Serious damage was not his goal. "Is that where you got the idea for what you said to me on top of Mercy Heights?" He didn't wait for a response this time, either. He just punched Sylar again. He winced when he felt a stab of pain on one of his knuckles. "You lying son of a bitch. This doesn't let you off the hook for anything with me!"

XXX

That garnered still more of a reaction, an attempt at a blank expression before Peter's closed fist crashed into it. Sylar tasted blood though the blow was hardly Peter's best effort. His face, his own face, or even whoever's face he wore, was…a touchy subject. It reminded him of a loss of control and his inability to figure out how to be special so he could wear his own face and be welcome, see smiles, hear laughter. He'd wondered several times up until now how Peter could stand it here, seeing the face of the man who had been and who had murdered Nathan. _I didn't ask for it! I took his form and threw it away!_ He snarled at Peter, keeping a hand in contact with the table for balance and reference as his trapped hair held him in place. He wondered distantly if Peter would bend him over such a flat surface. _I wanted-!_ Another pop to the face rattled him. _What? Mercy? He had nothing to do-_ A third impact had him confused. It wasn't damaging or especially painful, yet Peter was holding him here with the occasional hit just to rant and vent. To get some kind of response in, Sylar spat the small amount of blood he could gather, aimed at Peter, and after, gave a wide, bloody, smug smile.

XXX

With an expression of disgust, Peter shoved Sylar down and away from him. He flung aside the exercise band, then wiped the spittle from his face and flexed his left hand to test it. Whatever he'd done to it didn't seem serious, so he reengaged with Sylar before the man could get to his feet. He crowded Sylar, looming over him. There was no opportunity to kick him without risking Sylar's hands; the man had them in the way as though to block Peter's feet. Instead, Peter went to one knee and grabbed Sylar's throat with his right hand. Snarling, he said, "Fight me, then!" He squeezed, not bothering to be precise in his grip. He expected Sylar to knock his hand away immediately.

XXX

Sylar went down, stumbling, onto one knee and sat poised there. Peter probably wasn't able to handle much more aggravating stimulus with normality – it was amusing to watch the spit anger him. Sylar was smirking when he saw Peter wasn't going to walk away in a snit, the hand on his throat had him grinning madly and he chuckled into it as best he could, completely allowing it, even stretching his head back. "Fuck me, then!" he croaked and swung quick and hard, connecting with Peter's face. He fell backwards, holding Petrelli's wrist to bring him along for the ride. When Peter struggled with being off balance, Sylar wrapped his legs around him and hauled him to the side to sit atop him.

XXX

Peter oriented in the new position, having gone to pure defense (tucking his chin, curling his spine, and keeping his free hand between them) when he lost balance and was dragged to the floor. Surprisingly, Sylar didn't swing at him beyond the once. Peter did a quick glance around them. They were midway between the pool table and couch, with nothing within reach except his medical bag, and that was only if he stretched. That was the direction he was going to take them, even though there was nothing in the bag that would help. The muscle relaxant he'd brought on a whim wasn't even in a syringe. He rotated the arm Sylar had hold of to wrap it around Sylar's matching limb. "You'd like that?" he snarled. Holding the arm tight, he bridged up and to the side, rolling them both over again to flip their positions – putting Sylar on his back and Peter on his knees, still between Sylar's legs. He put both hands on Sylar's thighs, leering down pointedly at their position. "I think you'd like that a lot." He snaked his hands to the back of Sylar's legs, as though he intended to cup his ass. He looked back up at Sylar with a smile that was more a baring of teeth than anything else. He growled, "Not happening."

Peter lifted and shoved with hips and hands, forcing all of Sylar's weight onto his back and then across a few inches of carpet.

XXX

Sylar was…listening, watching Peter in the middle of a fight. It was foolish, hanging on every look and the adrenaline. When Peter flipped them again, Sylar was busy grabbing at his shirt – for what, he wasn't sure yet – but Peter had the advantage of height, gravity, and leverage. The hold on Petrelli's shirt or the supportive elbow he pushed against the floor with did nothing to help or save him from being rashed across the short, crappy carpet, tearing into his back. It was so clever of Peter. Sylar's eyes went wide in surprise and pain, before he hissed loudly then began to cackle like a maniac; like he had at fucking Mercy. There seemed nothing else to be done in that moment of helpless pain. It felt like he was being fucked across the floor, purposefully adding to the damage, the whipping done to his back. As soon as that came over him, he was aroused, just like he'd said (when he hadn't thought Peter could actually arouse him). Peter wanted a fight and Sylar was completely involved now, that not-so-old desire to fuck up his enemy and be the one to walk away filling his awareness like a drug. After a brief moment of arching to alleviate the sting of carpet continually burning his lacerated flesh, he slapped Peter flat-handed across the face, gripped the man's waist tight with his long legs, dragging Peter's neck down with a hair-hold and sunk his teeth in, _hard_.

XXX

Peter had let his center of gravity fall too far forward. Sylar had pulled on his shirt as Peter had shoved the man into the carpet. What it meant was that he wasn't braced to resist getting yanked down. He didn't mind that; it was part of the fight and he was winning. Then Sylar bit him. "Fuck!" he called out loudly at the sudden pain. This was no love bite like before. It felt like the man was trying to take a chunk out. Peter panicked at the thought ( _Have I pushed him too far?_ ) and scrabbled at the side of Sylar's face. His fingers touched temple and eye, but Peter passed those by despite their obvious deterrent factor. Nose and then mouth, tight against his skin. He jammed a finger inside Sylar's cheek and pulled, fish-hooking him to get him off of him.

XXX

Sylar growled about being dislodged but it was pointless to hold onto Peter and stay in place when Peter had a less painful-than-expected grip on his mouth and was actively pushing him down and away. He still had his legs around Peter. It was time to see if that could be useful again.

XXX

Pulling himself upright, Peter immediately swung at Sylar's face. He tagged him, but he was overextended and didn't hit hard. Sylar's torso was long and given the position, Peter could either keep himself upright and barely hit, or lean forward, off-balance, and hit more solidly. Not wanting Sylar's teeth on him again, he opted for another punch from where he was, turning his shoulders to counteract Sylar's dodge, but he could tell this wasn't going to work.

XXX

 _What is with the love-taps?_ Sylar wondered even as he saw Petrelli's dilemma. A quick tilt of his hips pushed Peter further back and out of range. He began smacking at Peter's incoming fists more to confuse things and hit back than any manner of self-defense. It dragged his skin across the floor for the dozenth time.

XXX

Peter whiffed one more failed punch, this time not hitting at all. Frustrated at the sort of pin Sylar had on him, he slammed his fist into something easier to get to – Sylar's stomach.

XXX

A grunt flew out of him as his body contracted around that punch. The instinct was to roll to his side or at least pull his knees up to comfort his gut – and for a moment, he did the latter before pushing Peter back again and actively applying himself to blocking. Sylar grabbed the incoming hands to completely foil their attack. Suddenly, he let go of one hand while Peter was pushing at him. His free hand went into Peter's hair once more, yanking it down.

XXX

Peter bared his teeth in a snarl. He hated having his hair yanked on. _You'll pay for that!_ He let Sylar pull him down, going willingly into the motion. He used the momentum and his own weight to drop an elbow into Sylar's midsection. If he could hit the liver, he would.

XXX

Sylar had time to be surprised (and suspicious) of how easily Peter was being led before he felt an even sharper, deeper pain in his stomach. It felt much heavier and did not abate or bounce off like Petrelli's fist had. His arms and legs relaxed considerably in the face of that leverage as he focused on breathing around the pointy obstruction.

XXX

Peter wrenched free from Sylar's loosened grasp. He still lost some hair, but more important was that he finally got out from between Sylar's legs. He had to deal with Sylar kicking at him on the way, so the man wasn't entirely incapacitated. Peter got to his feet and hurriedly moved out of range. He touched his neck, coming away with blood on his fingers. Sylar hadn't managed to bite anything off, but he'd left a lot more than a mark. Peter scowled at Sylar, noting the flushed (and bloody) face, hair in disarray, sprawled on the floor, still shirtless. Aside from the blood, Sylar looked incredibly sexy – and clearly, this was sexy to Sylar. An erection filled the man's pants, and an answering thrill ran through Peter, even though Peter thought he should be seething. Angrily, he said, "I told you not to break the skin." He looked at Sylar's crotch openly before looking him in the face to finish, "Asshole." He wasn't sure what to do with his arousal – the situation was completely inappropriate, almost a non-sequitur if it weren't for how Sylar was responding to it. "We're done," Peter snapped. He backed off further, glaring and pacing as he mulled things over. Hopefully Sylar would either stay down, or accept that the fight was over, or both.

XXX

Angered enough, and whether he could continue the fight now notwithstanding, Sylar kicked out and connected with the side of Peter's calf and shin. It rubbed his back against the carpet again, but it was worth it to see Peter scramble. Sylar panted, staring at Peter, mostly to keep eyes on him and determine if this was merely a break in the action. He raised an eyebrow at the mild tirade and prolonged look at what must be a visible erection he hadn't intended at all, then rolled his eyes and scoffed. "And I told you to make it hurt," he sassed back. "See if your job's done now, Petrelli." With that, he began levering himself up on elbows, then to a sitting position. He ached and his back throbbed and still stung, his breath seemed slow to come back but he wanted more. He wanted to be hurt so badly that Peter would leave him alone or…perhaps, even take care of him. It was a confused desire.

XXX

Peter turned his head to the side, still watching Sylar. Subconsciously, his body followed the movement, blading himself relative to Sylar. But he abandoned the defensiveness a moment later when it was clear Sylar was remaining on the floor. "If it doesn't hurt now, it will later," he said as he walked closer and then around Sylar, putting out an open hand, palm-down, with the intention of signaling Sylar to stay where he was. Moving slowly, he looked at Sylar's back. It was more savagely striped than he'd intended, but if Sylar was spouting off about it being insufficient, then maybe it was a good thing he'd done more than expected. He bent and touched Sylar's shoulder with one hand as a warning of the following contact he made with the other hand, fingers skating upwards along one shoulder blade. It was marked with both carpet rash and a minor, but open, laceration. He could feel the swollen areas and the heat from the angry tissues. _There's no way that doesn't hurt._ "This is only step one, anyway."

XXX

Sylar watched the approach warily. The comment about wounds and the healing process (especially if it wasn't properly handled) was obvious and therefor suspicious. He obeyed the gestures all the same and stayed where he was, very uncertain about what was going to happen next. He allowed the proximity, more tense than he had been when Peter was several feet away. Sylar inhaled and stiffened as the man's sweaty, textured palm slid over his tenderized flesh. _He planned more than one step?_ He didn't know whether to be impressed or concerned. _Was the fight part of his plan or did I push him into it?_ It was difficult not to run his mouth automatically, as was waiting to see what his tormentor had in mind.

XXX

Peter went to a knee and snagged the medical bag. He fished around in it for the can of benzocaine. His shoulder hurt, but he ignored it for now. He pivoted and showed the aerosol can to Sylar. "I can spray this on your back and it should numb everything for a while. It'll be cold at first." He paused there, having a brief internal debate. _Does he want this? (Maybe he likes it hurting?) He's going to be a grouch if I don't use this. (Maybe he wants to go to the bathroom and get off and then have it numbed?)_ He looked to Sylar's expression to figure out what to do. His eyes were drawn to the smears of blood around Sylar's mouth. _Did I split his lip? The blood came from somewhere. Maybe just a cut on the inside of his mouth._

XXX

He looked quickly between the can and Peter's face before his own expression went blank for a number of reasons. Sylar simply, really, hadn't been expecting that. While, yes, he'd believed Peter about their agreement, first pain, then caretaking, he still hadn't thought much beyond…the pain part. Now he wasn't sure if they were going to continue and this was part of the plan he needed to accept, or if there were some other subtle reason why he should refuse treatment.

XXX

 _No, that's no good_. Peter shifted his weight back, reaching to find the medical bag behind him and drag it around to his side. "I don't have to use this at all, if you don't want it." He set the can down, unattended between them, and looked into the bag as he dug out a packet of gauze. He tore it open and folded the loose cloth on itself twice. "If you want to work on your face, I'll go get some water. We'll get you cleaned up."

XXX

After rubbernecking to see what his companion was reaching for inside the bag, mostly blocked by the other man's body yielded nothing, Sylar was able to relax a bit more. "Is…is that what you would do? Use the…?" He indicated the spray can. His thoughts ran towards Peter being a medic and what 'normal' procedures were. Would Peter offer that to another patient or was the spray part of Step Two, for better or worse? This was Peter's plan after all and he'd probably foreseen the need to use this spray. _That's why he brought it._ It felt strangely confusing now that he had some of what he – they – both wanted, the punishment and pain and now… _Step Two is taking care of me? He doesn't clean up unless he's done fighting._ Sylar was unsure of his place if he were to be actually taken care of, in less pain than he deserved and in less pain than was intended. That was the most confusing element of all: why intentionally hurt someone only to lessen their pain after? But he knew the answer. It was a greater mind-fuck to wash-rinse-repeat the pain and pretend with the comfort after. Recognizing the pattern made it easier to swallow. _Maybe that means he'll sleep with me tonight, to keep an eye on my 'condition.'_ That thrilled him and it overwhelmed his suspicion because he craved more contact.

XXX

Peter followed Sylar's gesture at the can, seeing the uncertainty and wariness on Sylar's face. _Do I explain what it is and what it does? He wouldn't believe me anyway._ "Yes. It's safe." _Does 'safe' even mean anything to him?_ "It won't hurt you." He didn't think Sylar would believe that, either, but Peter waited patiently in any case.

XXX

Sylar nodded, slowly at first, then more assuredly. He would allow Peter to sooth him in this way. Once again, Peter had no idea what was really going on and that suited Sylar just fine for now.

XXX

Peter nodded in response. He picked up the can and rose to stand behind Sylar. He swept the man's hair off his neck and held it out of the way for a second as he adjusted his finger on the button. Pressing down, he started on the neck and proceeded down, making overlapping horizontal bands of medication to the bottom of the lashed area. He went down on a knee again and reached out to unnecessarily check with his hand what his eyes had already told him – he hadn't hit Sylar below the top of the lumbar region, leaving the small of his back untouched by the tubing. There was still a red splotch over the left kidney where Peter had punched him. He touched over it, too, then stopped, putting his other knee down and both hands on knees. He looked at the visual reckoning of misery he'd inflicted on another human being. _I still don't know if this is right or wrong._ He switched back from a full kneel to half and leaned to the side to catch Sylar's eyes. They were brown, dark, and so expressive. Peter took a few seconds to simply look.

XXX

The only outward reaction he gave was to inhale, first at the cold, then at the increasing absence of pain. Sylar tilted his head to move with the other man's touch on the back of his neck. It tickled his scalp and almost caused a shiver. His eyes were closed but his lips parted when he felt a hand on the small of his back. _He didn't strike there. He likes that spot for some reason._ Sylar smirked briefly, to himself. Dozens of ways to tempt Peter to touch him there sprung up in his head in an instant. _He did it before, too. I just didn't notice._ Lazily, he opened his eyes, staring at the floor, at nothing. The uncertainty from before merged into contentment because he had Peter exactly where he wanted him. In a way, it excited him all over again. He detected an intent look when Peter's face entered his peripheral again, so he turned to look, expecting no more than a glance to pass between them but it held. He couldn't guess what Peter was looking for (probably guilt) with that…open, searching expression.

XXX

 _They're so human,_ Peter thought of Sylar's eyes. Nothing the man had done in the past marred the simple beauty of his eyes, the windows to his soul. There was neither pain nor rage nor fear in them at the moment. There was just...attention, without judgment or intention. Peter stood, touching Sylar again – this time a tap to the shoulder – "I'm going to go get some water so we can clean your face."

XXX

The instinct to keep his companion present surged without warning. Sylar eyed Peter with a bit more hunger. It would be easy to trip or tackle him to the floor and then…then…Something about the unnecessary gesture, the selfless action, the care involved of cleaning his face of blood so he could pretend he was clean and human again made him feel strange. The tap on the shoulder only added to it. _I can walk, you know,_ he thought with distant amusement, knowing full well why Peter was kindly bringing the water to him not the other way around. As Peter stood, Sylar reached out to touch his outer thigh, just a few fingers tracing down the leg through the man's jeans. He didn't know what that meant, either. He glanced up to see if it had been noticed.

XXX

Peter noticed. Despite his earlier absorption by Sylar's gaze and the engagement of looking after his injuries, Peter hadn't lost track of the danger the man could pose, or of the unpredictability of things between them. He didn't flinch from the touch, but he stopped for it. He looked at Sylar's hand, then at his face. There were so many emotions there, less guarded than normal as if the pain had stripped away a layer of defenses. If he were to try to describe the expression, Peter would say it looked like Sylar was checking in on how things were between them – the same explanation for more than half of Peter's more-frequent touching of people. "We're okay," he said, then added to reassure, "I'll come back." With that, he stepped away.

XXX

He blinked after Peter. _We're okay?_ Instead of immediately dismissing that, he considered it. _How could we be? He just said- That's not what I really wanted to hear…_ Sylar gave up and focused on what he'd wanted. _He'll come back._ With Peter's back turned, so to speak, Sylar took advantage of the presented opportunity to look through the medical bag. If Peter had planned this out, what else had he planned? The bag contained little of note – there were no loaded syringes and only two vials of liquid drugs. Zofran (harmless and familiar) and Diazepam, which worked on the brain's central nervous system as a muscle relaxant. It was frighteningly similar to curare.

XXX

Peter went to the vending machine, pressing a button for a bottle of water and smiling a little at how he didn't have to put in coins to make the machine operate. _This place is crazy_. He hit the button a second time to get a bottle for himself while he was at it. When he walked back in the room, Sylar was as he'd left him – sitting on the floor, knees slightly drawn up before him, waiting and watching. Peter offered one of the bottles to Sylar. "Drink up." He sat next to Sylar's right side and plucked the previously opened and folded gauze off the floor. _I didn't put this there. He must have been in the bag. Not that it matters._ Peter dropped the gauze and dug for a new one even though the first probably wasn't 'dirty' in a world with nonexistent germs. He opened the packet, folded the gauze, and wet it after unscrewing the other bottle of water. He offered it to Sylar.

XXX

Sylar took up the water and drank. He'd lost some blood and more sweat. He was the following directions of his nurse. He saw the wet gauze held out to him and pretended not to see it. After all, he was obediently drinking.

XXX

"Your face…" Peter said uncertainly, gesturing at the area he had been told not to touch, although an exemption had been given for hitting.

XXX

He scoffed, bringing his knees in, Indian style. The balance that was so easy for the other heroes, even Petrelli kin, clearly did not come naturally (if at all) to Peter. It was forever too much or too little, sometimes too late. It was ironic. Canting his head back a little and to the side, Sylar intoned seriously, "You know, one reason why I don't tell you things is because you…do this. You treat me like I'm glass." _I have to…be careful what you know. Can he grasp that?_

XXX

 _He thinks that after what I've done to him today?_ Peter tilted his head. The trust Sylar was showing him overrode any need to take offense or be defensive. "You're the toughest man I know, Sylar. I'm not likely to forget that. Now how are your teeth? I know I hit you in the face a few times."

XXX

 _I'm the toughest man you know and you were playing nice, how do you think my teeth are?_ Peter's overestimation of his efforts was amusing because Sylar…was tired and he wanted to be done, at least for now. That feeling prevented him from starting up again; he chose to see it as amusing. His excitement was waning, too. He checked his teeth with his tongue because Peter wanted it. "My teeth are fine." _Am I the toughest man you know because your father and brother are dead?_ He knew how Peter's perception of the order of life must have been.

XXX

"I just want to be sure I'm not going to hurt you more by trying to clean you up," Peter said quietly, taking Sylar's chin in one hand to stabilize him as the other began to lightly swab at the blood, letting the water do most of the work of removing it, rather than scrubbing. Sylar seemed comfortable, head-touching or not, and Peter was alert for any signs of anxiety. He was getting the opposite. Sylar's eyes were on him constantly and not warily. The gaze on Peter was more open, relaxed, and watching, just like earlier but this time Peter suspected it was intentional and perhaps calculated. He didn't mind. He wiped gently. Sylar's mouth moved easily, lips twitching this way and that with the light pressure Peter was using. By necessity, Peter spent most of his time looking at what he was doing rather than meeting Sylar's eyes. The man had lovely lips, perfectly shaped when not bruised and swollen from blows. They were ample without being overdone – wide, capable, and emotive. It was, as he had noticed before, a supremely kissable mouth. Peter's eyes lingered on it. His thumb, where he held Sylar's chin, shifted slightly over the smooth skin that had been shaved less than an hour before. "Did I split your lip?" Peter asked softly, brows drawing together slightly. "I don't see where the blood came from."


	127. Dropped Connection

Day 71, February 19, Morning

Sylar meanwhile lazily stared at Peter's face, mostly those big hazel/brown eyes. Petrelli eyes. Petrelli face. Yet this man would always be a contradiction when Sylar's memories held him as a kind, stubborn brother and reality was…complicated, in flux. He moved with the motions, allowing any additional touching, ready for those hands to stray down to his neck or up to his forehead. "It's…" Sylar swallowed, "on the inside. A cut, I think."

XXX

"Can I see?" Peter asked. He put the gauze down on his knee, lifting the now-empty hand halfway. His other hand moved from Sylar's chin to his cheek. It was probably unnecessary to brace him, but Peter didn't want to stop the contact. It was like a mild narcotic, soothing him with the faint, buzzing tingle between them. He liked it.

XXX

Sylar took that literally. It amused him greatly, how erotic this could be, how easy Peter was. Peter asking to see what was doubtlessly a tiny cut, hardly remarkable. A cut inside his mouth, after the empath had already been cleaning around his lips. "It's on that side," he indicated his right cheek, clumsily plucking down his lower lip. "I can't see it…" He wanted to see if he could lure Peter in, if he could get the man's fingers in his mouth, and oh, the things he could do with that.

XXX

Peter took the lip between thumb and forefinger, glancing at Sylar to make sure he had permission, since it hadn't been given explicitly. Sylar's expression was plenty...explicit. Peter had seen less interest on the faces of people about give blow jobs. He smiled a little, his own lips parting. He rolled the lip over and leaned forward a little. He had to shift the grip once to find the spot – a shallow incision, nothing to worry about.

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth wider than necessary, keeping his lips slack, eyelids hooded. He considered a hypothetical situation where Peter suddenly made him suck on his fingers, humiliating and explicit, but not beyond what was on offer. For his part, Sylar imagined at least a dozen things he could do to entice, hint, or even overtly seduce Peter with just fingers applied to his mouth. He thought about doing them. What did that that mean, having Peter's fingers practically in his mouth, touching his saliva, probing into him?

XXX

Peter could feel himself being drawn in, much more than he wanted to be. "There's nothing I can do about that. It looks like it will be okay." He moved his hand back to Sylar's chin, pulling his face down a little so as to get a good, straight-on look at him, trying to find his anger from before to create some distance between them. He met Sylar's eyes for several seconds, holding the look as he took him in. In a voice only slightly rougher than he'd been using before, he said, "You're the last person he saw, the last face my brother laid eyes on." _Not a bad face, really_. Peter let his hand fall away, but he didn't move back. He wasn't finding the same emotion as before. He felt empty and sad instead, like his rage was a limited commodity that he'd spent. Peter looked down at the blood-stained gauze on his knee. He picked it up to wipe at some of the blood on his knuckles before looking back at Sylar. "You said something before that made it sound like you stayed with Nathan while he died. Did you? Was there a…routine or something you had for when you…?" He was not angry, loud, or accusing. He simply wanted to know.

XXX

Sylar tensed but didn't withdraw, not yet. His expression shuttered. It nearly stung, the jab about his face. "No," he hedged about staying with Nathan until death, giving a restricted miniature shrug. "I don't." That wasn't entirely true. At the height of his prowess in hunting, he'd had a system of stalking and cornering his targets. The get-away was…less certain. Claire had been the strangest by far, actively speaking with him, questioning him as he searched through her brain. Nathan was…so simple, quick – too easy. In his opinion, it was a pointless attempt at attacking him or even at stopping his accession to power. It was strangely offensive. He felt sure Peter was categorizing him with other mundane killers he'd read about or implying some humanity in him that simply wasn't there.

XXX

Peter sighed, looking away, but staying where he was. He didn't want this to become an argument, much less a fight. He tried to explain. "A death watch is an important part of passing out of this world. You're witnessing and … honoring someone. No one wants to be alone, at the end." Peter looked back to Sylar, lips pursed, eyes intent. "You understand that, right?"

XXX

Sylar grit his teeth. Peter was hitting on another sore point, a major contention he had with the Company and its heroes. _And now he's treating me like I'm some stunted, stupid creature who could never understand that. Of course I fucking understand!_ The mere topic sent anger crashing through him where it hadn't been even during the fight. _(Why did Hiro bother saying 'sorry' when he told me I would die alone?)_ "I understand it." His voice was tight, a confused tone of spitting the words and grating them out, not bothering to hide his anger. "Don't pretend you would have held my hand if you'd succeeded at Stanton." _Hell, he kind of did, with the syringe in the President's car. Fucker._ "And what about trying to roast me like a discarded marshmallow at the Coyote Sands Petrelli Family Barbeque in the middle of nowhere? What a dignified, convenient way to make me disappear. No paper trails or red tape. Hell, there wouldn't even be any clean up."

XXX

"You can add that to the list of reasons why I don't eat meat, right after 'Ricky' and having tasted my own blood too many times." He rolled his eyes and huffed. But back to the subject, he thought, _None of that_ _was my idea_. But that, Peter knew, had nothing to do with the morality of his behavior in the incident. He pursed his lips, displeased with Sylar's continuing venom. "If they had asked my opinion, then I would have said I thought it was okay to have your remains buried in a graveyard for people with abilities, especially one where you didn't have any victims." He gave Sylar a sour look, expressing his opinion of how difficult it would probably be to find a group burial ground for specials that didn't feature someone murdered by the serial killer. "It was a lot better resting place than a storage locker. From what you've said," Peter said slowly with half a question, "you didn't have any family to notify." _Not that I asked at the time. I should have. I remember thinking about it._ Just as he remembered leaving it to the others so he could extract himself from the whole grisly situation as quickly as possible.

XXX

Sylar glared. _The unequal treatment again. Please, remind me how I'm similar to normal people or even other specials again,_ he thought with biting sarcasm. His ire edged back a bit at the mention of family, or rather, his lack of family even when he'd had it. _The Company didn't notify my mother when they planned to lock me away forever and torture me to death over and over. I would just…disappear._

XXX

"Who was that guy, anyway – the one we burned? Why did they just happen to have a shape-shifter who looked like you?" Peter knew the answer as soon as the words left his lips. The shape-shifter would have had to have touched Sylar to take his shape – and Sylar had shape-shifting now. The chain of events was obvious, aside from the question of how Sylar's victim had gotten into Peter's mother's hands – or maybe Noah was to blame/credit for it, Peter didn't know, but in either case, he didn't want to fight about it. Peter put a hand on Sylar's knee and looked down for a moment, sober and disappointed that he'd even asked. He looked up again. "Who was he?"

XXX

Sylar waited, merely staring at his companion until he comprehended. It didn't take long. He looked down at the unnecessary hand touching his knee and then at Peter's bowed head. _I'm confused. Who is he really sorry for?_ For a moment, he longed for the forgiveness he imagined the gesture granted. It hit him so hard he couldn't react for several long seconds, frozen and breathless. The feeling that someone understood him and everything about him was so precious and rare, though Peter did manage it sometimes. _It's…enough_ , he told himself, knowing all the same that Peter didn't mean it that way, didn't understand (and certainly didn't forgive), and was probably thinking something else entirely. _Does it make any difference that Danko helped me find and kill Martin?_ "James Martin. When I- we found him, he was a high school geometry teacher. Or, pretending to be."

XXX

Something struck Peter. He cocked his head, a confused expression coming over him. "If you killed him, why wasn't his skull cut into?" Peter pointed to his own forehead to illustrate how the shape-shifter had not been missing the top of his head. "Unless you didn't kill him. How did he die?"

XXX

Sylar gave him a squinted side-eye, pleased Peter could keep up on more than just the obvious. "I needed to touch his brain, so I cut into the back of his head, got what I needed, and made it look like someone stabbed him in the back of the head to cover the incision. I'd hoped to fool Bennet, but…" He rolled his eyes to say 'c'est le vie.' "I had too much fun fucking with his head after that," a half smirk betrayed the evil he'd inflicted as long-planned vengeance. "Aren't you supposed to be taking care of me?"

XXX

"Talking about people you've killed and fucked over doesn't do good things for my desire to help you," Peter said with a judgmental frown. He looked Sylar up and down, shifting his own weight back so he was sitting on one butt cheek rather than kneeling actively close. It was a more relaxed pose, while giving him a foot more distance between them. He felt like he was getting honesty out of Sylar, but at the same time, it was unpleasant truths. Peter uncapped the water bottle he'd been using to wet gauze and took a long pull off it. "You look okay. What you need next is ice." He wet the gauze further and finished cleaning his hand. He fussed over a small cut over one knuckle. "This is probably from your teeth." Furrowing his brow, he reached up and touched over the bite mark, another legacy of Sylar's teeth. "Mouthy bastard," Peter muttered with no anger at all, as though it were a neutral observation. Peter's only other injuries of note were the bruise on his cheek from getting socked in the face and his generally wrenched right shoulder. He could live with that. "What did you do to Bennet, anyway?"

XXX

"You don't want to know," Sylar snorted quickly. _He's so naïve; why does he want to know such awful things?_ He wanted to ask a few questions of his own. "How did that feel, beating me up? Was it good for you, too?"

XXX

Peter grimaced at the non-answer for Noah, then his face blanked for Sylar's questions. _He's uncomfortable about what I'm asking. This is the second time he's tried to divert the topic – first was saying I needed to be taking care of him instead of asking him this stuff._ He weighed it in his head and decided to let it go – let Sylar have his way and drop the subject. He turned his thoughts to what Sylar was asking. Peter lifted his head, making a long inhale, then breathing out just as slowly. "I liked it," he admitted, watching Sylar carefully. The 'too' implied Sylar had enjoyed it as well, or that might only be sarcasm. "Did you get what you wanted out of it?"

XXX

"Uhmm," Sylar hummed appreciatively when Peter answered the affirmative. That was the point of it all. Well, one of the points anyway. He answered calm and smug with a considerable smirk on his face, "Sure."

XXX

"Okay then." Peter wadded up the damp gauze and collected the various scraps of wrapper. "Sounds to me like we're done talking – you've tried to change the subject a couple times now and you're giving me non-answers even when you don't." Stuff gathered, he stood and offered Sylar a hand up (the one not currently occupied with trash). "Let's go upstairs and get some ice on your face. Mine, too."

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes and didn't care if Peter saw it. He eyed the hand extended to him, then looked up the arm to Peter's eyes.

"I stalked him. I showed him Martin's body, watched his reactions. I played with his paranoia, had him chasing shadows. He was certain I was alive but no one believed him. Danko wanted to fuck with him, too. He helped me do it. I made Bennet, and the government, think he'd shot an innocent agent when he was so convinced it was me. And it was! I put _him_ on the run. I was going to fuck him using his wife's body – surprisingly they were having issues," he said the last with airy sarcasm.

XXX

Peter's hand fell away, but he remained where he was, repelled, repulsed, and still hanging on Sylar's every word. Too easily, he could imagine Noah's state of mind, being hunted and harassed over what must have been days, by a fickle yet implacable stalker. Peter had felt hunted here - the stacks of cans at his apartment door hadn't been merely for show.

XXX

"I found something better. I sent him divorce papers and didn't bother to mimic her signature because I knew he'd catch it. I arranged it for him to point a gun at her and threaten her, thinking it was me." Sylar leaned forward a bit, working on his best self-satisfied-and-evil-yet-innocent expression, "I cut him off from other people, his family, his job, what he loved, the people he cared for and tried to protect. I made him afraid of ghosts only he could see." The slightest smile lingered on his lips as he straightened. "I think we can both be grateful that it's you here with me instead of him. Bennet and I would kill each other, when we were through fucking with each other." With a shrug, he summed up, "You wanted to know."

XXX

His voice hollow, Peter asked, "Why would you do that to someone?" He couldn't fathom it. He felt sick to his stomach, but he couldn't deny it was all of a pattern. This was the same man who had started to kill Peter's mother right in front of him, had intended to crucify Peter, had fucked Claire up in some manner so visceral and thorough that even her indestructible body didn't heal right.

XXX

Sylar was on his feet in an instant, pointing, waving, roaring and screaming so hard his throat hurt and the room echoed, getting louder as he went on, pouring out in a rush, "Because they did the same – and worse – to me! To other specials! Bennet has probably killed more people than I have! But I forget, he's your Mommy's little assassin, always protecting the family pedigree. Bagging and tagging – one of _us_ , one of _them_! When I was partnered with him when you were stuck in some inmate's body robbing banks, he tried to have a target suck me into a black hole when our mission was to bring him in. That was _after_ I'd saved Claire from a black hole and tried to _apologize_! When he _knew_ I was trying to quit! He has _hunted_ me and threatened and hurt and killed anyone I so much as talked to! For _years_! He was the one who set me up to kill my second victim! I bet he failed to mention any of that!" He inhaled so deeply he found himself leaning back from where he'd hunched forward. He was staring at Peter with eyes so intense he felt he would burn through the man, waiting for the inevitable, pathetic defense of the real monsters.

XXX

Peter backed off a step as Sylar came up, then bristled and set himself defensively when the yelling started. He dropped the guarded posture within seconds though; intent on listening once he figured out this wasn't an immediate prelude to a physical attack. It didn't mean his heart didn't speed up anyway – that was an involuntary empathetic response to Sylar's agitation. The violence of the emotional assault was as hard to weather as had been the horror of what Sylar had confessed doing to Noah. It hurt in a weird way he wasn't unfamiliar with – muscular pangs, pressure on his chest, eyes watering, nerves firing at the wrong moments. Grimacing, Peter took a few steps to the couch, where he sat in a deliberate attempt to calm things down, or at least not contribute to tensions remaining so high.

He clasped his hands, waiting in the moments of jarring silence that followed Sylar's brief tirade. The man wanted a response, an answer…validation. Peter frowned, weighing his ability to validate what had happened against the likelihood that Sylar would see that as approval of it. He didn't see a reason to placate someone who had so intentionally and systematically tortured. "I want to…hurt you for what you did to Noah. I want to walk out of here and never interact with you again. I want to yell back and argue. I want…a lot of things. I have a _choice_ in which one I do." Peter looked up at Sylar, eyes angry. "You're not going to convince me that you didn't have one, too. You _chose_ revenge." Peter snorted. "Funny thing to choose, given how bad off you'd be if everyone else did the same."

XXX

Sylar pivoted to watch Peter seat himself. That Petrelli wasn't leaving meant he was probably listening and that he wasn't immediately defending his scumbag friends meant he wanted to talk more about it. Sylar wasn't sure how to feel about that. His eyes were narrowed, his frame still tense, braced for what came next. As it was, Sylar was…okay with Peter's 'choice' right now. He sensed that wasn't the end of Peter's reaction so he in turn passed over answering anything about revenge or choices.

XXX

He cocked his head, eyes shrewd as he looked up at Sylar. "Did he start it?" Not that it made much of a moral difference, but Peter wanted to know the sequence of events. "Or the Company? You said he set you up with your second victim. Are you saying you'd already killed when they found you?" That made sense, as it explained what had happened to clue them in. Peter's working theory about Sylar was that the man had killed his own mother as his first victim – a traumatizing event that cascaded into everything else.

XXX

Sylar inhaled raggedly, struggling with composure after losing it so thoroughly, blurting out things he hadn't intended to disclose. "Yes," he whispered emphatically to all the questions. "How else would I know about the Company? They always make the first move."

XXX

Peter looked up, undeterred by Sylar's forbidding face. He had hope. "You...can break this cycle. This isn't like taking an ability. You're in control. Don't kill people. Don't torture them. Don't...fuck them as their wives!" He threw his arms wide in an exasperated gesture. "This isn't dominoes where you hit one and it knocks over the next. It's...different. You kill Nathan and you affect me, my mom, Claire, Heidi, two little boys who will never know their father again, whoever he was having an affair with lately, his staff, his friends – a lot of people, Sylar! A lot. Not one. A bunch," he repeated just in case Sylar was foggy on the concept. "Every time you hurt people, you create problems for yourself. It's a ripple effect. Like stepping on butterflies. You can't outrun it forever. You're going to run into things like..." He fished through what he knew of Sylar's life, getting several undesired flashes of things he was pretty sure were Sylar's memories. Peter shook his head in irritation and grabbed at something he knew was his own knowledge. "Like going to Matt to talk and having him trap you here."

XXX

 _(What else was I supposed to do? Why does no one ever talk to me about that?)_ He felt low, insulted, and even more misunderstood after he'd just warned Peter not to make assumptions and put words in his mouth. It bothered him that Peter either knew or guessed his purpose for visiting Parkman; it was even more humiliating because Peter probably knew how that encounter ended – and he _still_ preached tolerance for those who abused him. _Matt didn't trap me here._ "I'm so glad you have it all figured out. You may never have to ask me any questions ever again because it sounds like you understand it all so well. I mean, you were just the paragon of discipline and forgiveness when you had my ability." Sylar's sarcasm was well-delivered but cutting like acid.

"Don't even talk to me, Petrelli. Don't even feel curious about why I don't talk about myself or my past; you'll condemn me if I talk or if I don't. Just enjoy demonizing me. That's clearly all your tiny mind can handle." He made a pinching motion next to his temple, eyes narrowed. "And I didn't come here for a lecture." Sylar shrugged his shoulders a few times to stretch his stinging back even through the numbing spray. "If it pisses you off so much," he pointed back to the resistance band lying on the floor, "you know I'm up for Round Two."

XXX

Peter listened. He took in the body language – Sylar was in unsurprising physical discomfort, and the suggestion to take another whipping was an indicator of how little the man appreciated being lectured. Because _Yes_ , Peter acknowledge to himself, _that was a lecture_. He leaned back on the couch, arms spread to either side along the back and frowned at his still-shirtless companion. _A judgy, you-know-better-so-why-did-you-do-it lecture. I knew better, too. Both when I had his ability and now – that I shouldn't talk to him that way. He'll cut me off if I do and not tell me anything._ He let his eyes fall from Sylar's face to the band, the previous instrument of flogging. He only regarded it for a moment before dropping his arms and looking to Sylar. "You're right," he said, simple and tight. He rose from the couch and went to take Sylar's elbow.

XXX

 _I am?_ Sylar couldn't prevent his initial surprised reaction, though it immediately begged the question, _About what?_ Peter stood and approached him, reaching out to touch his arm, but he didn't get the feeling this was something leading into Round Two. At least standing still, allowing the touch, waiting for directions worked in any case.

XXX

"Come on," he said, voice gentler. He didn't try to move Sylar by his arm, but indicated the way out with a wave of his free hand. "Upstairs. Ice. I don't want Round Two right now." He waited for Sylar to respond, not looking or feeling particularly apologetic for his monologue, but wanting to change the subject.

XXX

It was Peter's patient tone of voice and the lack of push/pulling on his arm that sold him instantly – there would be no second go-round. _Maybe that's for the best. I'm not…doing what he wants. Not answering him or…lying? (Does he want me to lie? Or deny I have an evil nature?) I bit him. He didn't like that, not the blood anyway._ He thought this as he took two steps forward to the pool table for his shirt, then turned, preceding Peter into the lobby. "What am I right about?" his murmur sounded raspy to his ears.

XXX

"You didn't come here for a lecture," Peter answered, taking a step back himself to pick up the medical bag and toss the aerosol can in it. "You've told me you've already tried a lot of stuff to…stop killing. I know it's not as easy as just not doing it." Peter chuckled. "Like an ability-related 'just say no' campaign." He smiled at Sylar, who looked blank. "I'm glad you don't have your ability here, or at least that aspect of it." He gave Sylar a guarded look as they walked into the lobby to the elevators. "Do you think you would have been able to control it if you did? For this long? Because I know you weren't killing everyone you met. You had to have _some_ control." Peter's brow furrowed as new thoughts occurred to him. "At least towards the end. In the beginning, was that how it was – anyone you saw with an ability was an immediate target?" _It would explain a lot._

XXX

The new subject made him regret asking, starting up Peter's unending questions once again. Control. If he said he had control or could control it (as Peter had noticed), then it made his actions almost entirely ones of choice. If he said he didn't have control, then he would appear weak, addicted, and indeed, _controlled_ by his own ability. Technically, Petrelli had asked two questions. Neither was preferable. So to avoid them, Sylar answered with what he hoped was a more provocative question, "What did it feel like for you?" He jammed his thumb into the 'up' button of the elevator.

XXX

Peter shrugged, then regretted the motion. He grunted and rubbed at his right shoulder. He noticed the evasion, but dismissed it for the moment. "For the short time I had it, it was just a drive. Like...propelling me." His brow furrowed. "Curiosity, maybe. I wanted to know. I wanted answers." He frowned at the floor of the elevator, thinking about how good it felt to be able to talk about this with someone, finally. "Speaking of which, how did the control you had work? Do you know why you picked some people but not others?"

XXX

Sylar sighed, staring up at the ascending numbered lights blinking too slowly, trapping him with this dialogue. "Is that how your ability works? You understand the exact reason or trait or emotion that you latch onto when you copy someone's ability?"

XXX

 _Two evasions._ Peter arched a brow at Sylar, considering mentioning it, but deciding it was too rude. He turned his attention to the question he'd been asked. "With my first ability, at first I didn't know when I'd get an ability. It just happened. But later on, I learned to feel it when it happened. It was sort of like..." Peter leaned to the side to illustrate his words, "when you're off-balance somehow, and I'd feel that ability click into place," he straightened, "and everything would be right." He smiled. "That was usually a good feeling. It wasn't like that until when I was with Adam." They exited the elevator on the penthouse floor. "Even then, I didn't have any way to _not_ get an ability."

XXX

That had his attention. He turned to look at Peter, gazing at him as if he could discern the truth (not that he suspected Peter was lying) or rather, confirm it. "Oh," was his elegant reply. It made perfect sense. Their abilities were similar – of course it would feel 'right' and good to have that connection in Peter's case. For a moment, he felt envy. Peter had that elusive human element that didn't involve murder, blood, or hunting or being on the run. Peter could feel a very similar high and maintain a relationship with the person without acting outside of society or the law.

XXX

They went in the apartment. Peter set the medical bag on the table and glanced over at Sylar. The man didn't volunteer to answer any of the several questions Peter had asked or to elaborate on the 'oh'. So Peter spoke on. "When I first got my current ability, it was sort of the same way – I'd touch people and get their abilities without even meaning to. But I've been getting more control lately. It's not automatic unless I'm really distracted, so I can hold the same one without losing it just because I brushed up against the wrong person."

"My ability and yours aren't the same, though." He reached into the freezer for the ice packs they'd brought back from the Y. Peter's movements slowed as he considered what he'd just said. "Do you think that's true?" He crossed the room to offer an ice pack to Sylar, then looked at his empty hand after Sylar had taken the pack. "Do I touch people because I want to or because...I have to?" He was very hesitant and spooked about that thought, feeling his way through it and trying to remember his motivations for doing things so normal that he'd never given them any thought. It was like trying to pin down why he liked variety. Or people. His eyes had an unfocused look to them as he saw past his hand, trying to remember.

XXX

Sylar had since trudged to the bed, meaning to sit down. When he got there, he remembered how filthy and possibly bloody he was. Setting his shirt aside, he stood there as if lost, waiting for something, still listening. He pursed his lips tiredly at the denial that their abilities were 'the same.' They weren't, and so far Sylar had said several things to differentiate them. But Peter was going out of his way to demean Sylar's ability and claim his own was some angelic form. He really didn't feel like talking though he had things he could say; and he couldn't tell if Peter was distracted and thinking aloud or actually asking. "What do you think?" he said, pressing the ice pack to his face – because how was he to put it on his back or anywhere else right now?

XXX

Peter thought on that for a few moments, finally answering with the simple truth, "I do it because I like it." He reached out and touched a few fingers along the outer edge of Sylar's shoulder. "As for 'why do I like it?', I don't know. I just know I do." He let his hand drop. "And it's something I can _not_ do, or choose not to do, at least for a while. I...picked a job where I could help people...and touch them, I guess, but that sounds wrong. I don't mean it that way." He shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, this isn't sexual. You know that, right? It's not for you – your ability."

XXX

 _It's an addiction. A vice. A weakness,_ Sylar summed up. He braced for the touch without moving a muscle. Peter's near-constant touching quickly took a new meaning. He watched Peter intently, picking up on the other man's nervousness. That's when the answers flooded in, explaining Peter's behavior: all the unnecessary touching, the medical care, sleeping together, the questions, offers to talk...When Peter admitted to taking his ability in the past or some imagined future and now claimed he had people to save and had arrived here specifically to get Sylar to do that. Peter just wasn't willing to fuck to get what he needed, but other manipulations were apparently acceptable. Sylar felt his heart drop into his stomach. It was all for his ability, or one of them in any case. Petrelli had played the game so well _. I knew something was going on. I asked him…How did I not see it?_ Petrelli had been honest in one thing, at least: _he did not come here for me._

Clearly, Petrelli was hoping to empathize with him, rubbing shoulders just enough to get one of his abilities. That was the only reason for his continued presence here. Once Petrelli got what he wanted…he would disappear, gone as soon as he'd arrived. If for no other reason, Sylar couldn't allow that to happen, though it complicated everything. He didn't know how he was going to care for his back without Peter and the inevitable contact. It complicated things even further, now that they'd made their agreement with Peter hurting him, 'helping' him after, and Sylar forced to make a choice about whether or not he could refuse that 'help.' He was still gazing at Petrelli because he had yet to look away. "And you have to touch someone to get their ability," his voice lilted in slight question.

XXX

Peter looked back into Sylar's eyes, trying to figure out what was going on there. The unwavering eye contact, without any indication of friendliness, was setting off warning bells. It made his answer more cagey than he'd been talking before. _I've been talking about myself too much. But he wouldn't talk when I asked him…. Maybe it's just the whole topic? I still need to answer._ "Well...yes. I do now. But I touch a lot of people who don't have abilities – my patients, strangers, people I've just met or the ones I've known for a while. It's not something I do to try to detect abilities, if that's what you're getting at." He waited for some confirmation or other response that would confirm where Sylar was emotionally.

XXX

"Hmm." His tone was falsely contemplative, halfway between a grunt and a sigh. Really, he was resigned and…disappointed. In a way, it was better now that Peter's ability was limited. Sylar knew what he had to do, at least, for now.

XXX

Peter turned his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. He was suspicious, but there was nothing to act on and he wasn't sure what was going on. Sylar seemed upset, but not aggressively so. Knowing the emotion did not elucidate the cause. _Did I set him off somehow? Is it me talking about my ability? Or was it before that, when I asked about his?_ Peter exhaled sharply, nodded to Sylar, and said quietly, "I'll be right back," before going to the bathroom. _I think I should just shut up._ He washed his hands and face, wetting a cloth to wipe at the bite mark on his neck. _Never had anything like that before._ It wasn't entirely true - he'd been bitten on the arm once about as badly by an overenthusiastic lover, but this had not been a love-bite. He wasn't sure what it was, because 'battle-scar' wasn't it either. He tossed the cloth on the edge of the sink and got a fresh one damp to take out to Sylar.

XXX

As soon as Peter was making noise in the bathroom, Sylar took his ice pack and snuck out the door and into the hall. _I won't let him…try to empathize with me. As if he could. (What if I empathize with him? On accident, of course. He doesn't know about that, does he?)_ He felt…sad. He'd been so looking forward to consummating their deal, of being taken care of, and what's more, the added bonus of apparently sleeping together. He'd needed it and now…He had to focus on more practical matters. _How am I going to clean my back by myself? Was any of this intentional? He had some things planned…_ Underneath the sadness was anger at himself for falling so thoroughly for such an obvious trap because he'd _known_ Peter was up to something. _I didn't push deep enough to figure it out. (I…I didn't want to know)._ Beneath that, was self-loathing for wanting to believe it. Sylar took the elevator, then walked quickly down to his apartment building. There, he stopped in for pajamas, his most recent mystery novel, and the clock Peter had given him. He would take up residence across the hall.

XXX

"Sylar?" Peter called out after looking around and not seeing the other man. One thing about the artsy open floor plan of the penthouse suite was that it left few places to hide, or even be casually or accidentally unseen. _Surely I would have heard if he went out the door, right?_ But Sylar could be very, very quiet when he wanted to be. Peter stood at the end of the hall, holding the now-useless cloth, wondering what the hell. He checked the guest bedroom just to be sure – it was the only space in the apartment he couldn't see. It was empty. He didn't bother with closets. If Sylar was actively hiding, then he could hide. _Maybe he just went down the hall to get something? Maybe he had to pee and went somewhere else because I was in the bathroom._ That made sense, even if it would have been polite to say something. Sylar wasn't that talkative, though, so it seemed possible. Peter put away the cloth. He restocked his medical bag and used some of the numbing spray on the bite. He piddled around until enough time had passed that there was no way Sylar had merely stepped out for convenience. Then, Peter walked down the hall and punched the elevator button in an act of basic detective work. It didn't open immediately. _He used it since we came up. He took the elevator and left. Why? Was I being that much of an ass? No…this isn't on me. If he didn't like what I was saying, then he should have said something and not just ditched me. Maybe he wanted some time alone after all and didn't realize until now._

The elevator dinged open. After considering his options, Peter took the stairs instead. _That's his problem, not mine._ The first floor was empty as well. _I wonder if he bugged out because I said I had to touch people? I know he doesn't like to be touched. Did that freak him out?_ Peter scowled. He'd been dumped more than his share of times in his life, and in the times where he felt he'd been at fault, it always came back to him being too needy, clingy, or expressing vulnerabilities and feelings too soon or too profusely. He had consciously decided that wasn't something he was willing to change. _If that's why he left, then good riddance_. It still hurt. He spent the rest of the day getting his workout in, cleaning up, playing piano, fiddling with the guitar, and reading. When Sylar didn't show up after dinner, Peter retired to his apartment across the wind-blown street, setting up his defenses just in case. Mister Bear had no complaints about him, which was better than having an irascible Sylar around. He slept badly, disturbed by fitful, incomplete snatches of nightmare where Sylar was trying to break into the apartment, intent on taking something or someone from him.

XXX

Sylar moped as he showered, using only lukewarm water after he'd scalded his back on accident and after that, mostly faced the showerhead. He felt miserable without using cold water and his choice also stemmed from a thought about heat and germs. He had clean pajamas of basic soft cotton, and he lay on some ice until it successfully numbed the worst patches. His mystery novel was depressing to read alone and he felt physically, and otherwise, uncomfortable as he struggled to doze off.


	128. Tender

Day 72, February 20, Morning

He found Peter at the diner. Sylar opened the door, making mutually checking eye contact as he slid inside. The weather was still chilly and windy but less wet than before. He approached the bar and took up a stool as if nothing untoward had happened or would happen. Without a word, Peter offered him up a piece of what appeared to be buttered raisin bread toast on a napkin, which he accepted with a strange twist inside. Even that tiny gesture was full of meaning, like acceptance and more of the same manipulation he was trying to avoid. Sylar took a crunchy bite though he'd already eaten. He sighed as he chewed. When he swallowed, he looked around for something to drink before he spoke but found nothing and continued, slowly. "I know what you're doing, what you want here. I'm not going to let you touch me and ' _empathize'_ with me to get my abilities, any of them." _I told him that before._ His tone hardened, "You don't get to waltz in and take what I've earned. I had to put my hands in people's brains and blood and bleed myself, and be hunted and tortured and imprisoned for them. I don't exist for hypocrites to use me." Sylar took a deep breath, glancing at the toast he still held, as if the delicate bread would prevent a fight. "But out of curiosity, which one did you come here to steal?"

XXX

Peter's brows rose slightly as he listened. He took in a slow, deep breath and let it out, spooning up the last of his eggs and gravy. But he was in no hurry. He set his spoon down and pushed the plate to the side, drawing his tan-colored coffee closer and cupping it in both hands. He considered his answer and made a brief study of Sylar's body language. _He's wound up tight_. Peter stayed still, kept his voice even, and his gestures restrained. "If I wanted one of your abilities," Peter said calmly, "I would have taken it." He held up his right hand briefly. "It's not like I haven't had plenty of chances. I don't need to 'empathize' anymore. I've gotten people's abilities from fighting when they were a stranger – not a word exchanged – or even brushing up against them in the street. That's the way my current ability works. I can stop the power transfer if I'm aware of it, but I don't need to know you to do it." He took a small sip of his drink. "I thought you wanted me to be engaged?" he asked, turning his cup slowly, working out where he wanted the handle to be (which turned out to be at the 2 o'clock position).

XXX

Sylar spared a few glances at Peter's utensils as the man continued eating. It was off-putting because he didn't know if that meant Peter was just being calm or didn't give a shit. Petrelli seemed calm enough, but whether or not that should be insulting was something else. "So you _can_ take it. If you want to," he added dubiously, a bit mockingly. "But you haven't. It's more likely that you _have_ been trying and you haven't been able to yet, for the same reason I don't have my abilities. Like you said, you didn't come here for me – you came here for me to do a little job for you." He huffed, still holding the toast and now feeling even more stupid for doing it, then muttered, "As for the agreement…What you're doing is…different."

XXX

"I made that deal because I wanted the opportunity to beat the crap out of you, consequence-free." Peter sighed, latching onto that to avoid the whole issue of what he could and couldn't do with his ability here. "It's a shitty reason, but it's the truth. You said you wanted me to feel for you." He gave a dry chuckle and lifted his coffee cup. "You didn't say what I had to feel." He took a drink.

XXX

This time, Sylar gave a glare at Peter's cup. He felt mocked. Petrelli wasn't looking at him (and he couldn't decide if that was to prevent some kind of aggressive stare down or if pretending to ignore him was some superior act). Then there was the part about his own failure to be specific (though 'feel everything for me' included the likely emotions of…anger or vengeance). Sugary sweet, Sylar intoned, "I didn't know that worked with you."

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a perplexed look. He set his cup down. _Is he afraid I'm here to steal his abilities?_ "I can only copy people's abilities, Sylar. I don't take them like my dad did."

XXX

"I know that." The words were out of his mouth before he thought about what was said. _Do I know that? Great. Another thing I hadn't thought of, another thing that he knows and…Ugh!_ "That's not…the main point." He hedged and shifted his weight on the stool. It was tricky to address his concern without being overtly needy and pathetic. "According to your story, if your abilities were working, you'd have what you want already and you wouldn't still be here." Sylar sneaked a longer side glance at Peter as if waiting and testing him.

XXX

 _Ah, that's what he's afraid of_. Peter gave a single nod. He swiveled to face Sylar and intoned seriously, "I've given you my word I won't leave without you. On a more practical level, I probably can't. I've held to my side of the bargain by not looking for a way out. Your abilities, and mine, don't make a difference in that." He turned back to his coffee. "I don't like being alone, Sylar. Less than you do, I'll bet. You don't have to worry about me avoiding you unless you're being intolerable or I don't feel safe, which is pretty much the same thing." He took a drink. He was beginning to feel irritated that he had to repeat these assurances so often. It was like Sylar was questioning his word. Peter had to admit Sylar had good reason to do that (both from his experiences with Peter and with others), but it was still irritating. "I've been used for my abilities, too, Sylar. I didn't like it. That's not what I intended."

XXX

Calmer now, Sylar argued though it felt like he had to defend his accusation, "But this explains everything about your behavior." Sylar knew he was still suspicious; he had the right to be and it was instinct by now. It still bothered him, and probably still would even after this conversation. There was no way to know the truth (that was more a reminder of his own unspecialness) except to _ask_ Peter Petrelli. He didn't like being forced to trust a Petrelli and Peter…he was acting strange, had been for a while if Sylar paid attention to what he and Nathan both knew. _I've been doing a lot of asking lately…_ In several ways, Peter had earned enough goodwill that he _would_ ask, but Petrelli had also had enough fuckups to make him paranoid. _(I don't know what else to do. I'm doing the best I can. Act like I have all my marbles, like I'm not a pathetic pushover). He likes talking, so I'm just…talking. This is normal, right?_ He usually believed Peter enough to not kill the guy and feared what would happen when he didn't believe Peter. "How do I know you're not always touching me, offering to help me in order to touch me so you can steal my ability and get out? I know your abilities don't work right now but you're not the type to sit with me – especially when you say you have a mission. You keep testing to see if they work - that's what I would do."

XXX

"I've had your ability," Peter growled over his cup. "I don't want it again!" He shook his head, muttering, "Some of the others you have are pretty cool, though." In a normal tone, he said, "The only proof I can give you is that I _haven't_. And like you say, there are all kinds of reasons why I would, but I _haven't_. That's because I can't, as far as I know, and I'm not doing anything to test it and find out. Not without your permission."

"Listen." He turned to face Sylar. "I had a dream. It was that you were going to save people. Not that I was going to take an ability from you and go do it myself. Not that you had to do something specific. I didn't see what you did at all, in the dream." His voice rose with tension and suppressed frustration. "Just that you saved them. I don't know _how_. I don't know what made you think it was a good idea. I don't know what you do before or after. I don't even know if I'm still alive at that point, because I didn't see myself in that dream." He looked Sylar in the eye. "If you kill me, please go save them." He looked away and exhaled heavily. "I'm not 'using' you. I'm asking you to do something. If you say no, then that's it. There's no blackmail. There's no reward. There's no extortion, no manipulation – nothing, Sylar! You say no, fine. It doesn't change what I asked for, because I'm not going to stop wanting that to happen." He waited a beat, catching his breath from the spill of words. "It just means we'll find other ways to spend our time. Like me beating the crap out of you because I'm frustrated." He snorted and turned away, staring into the area behind the bar. "And because of Nathan," he added unnecessarily, in case Sylar thought his anger was solely due to the man's recalcitrance.

XXX

Sylar pulled his head back, frowning. _I'm not the only one with trust issues and suspicions. (How does he handle it so much better?)_ More than anything, the martyr complex stuck out to him. 'If I kill him, please go save them.' It worried and insulted and…touched him all at once. _If I was going to save them, I wouldn't kill Peter. Hell, I'd want him to watch!_ Sylar recovered with a roll of his eyes about Nathan. He'd been so lonely the night before that he itched to bring the conversation back to a manipulation of sorts that could potentially satisfy them both. "So you'd have no problem with agreeing to tell me if and when your abilities start working here?" Sylar probed, not putting much effort into a casual tone, instead sounding smug with victory. That had not been his plan, to arrange that, but it came to him and if Peter was telling the truth, well, they'd have an agreement.

XXX

"No," Peter answered. "No problem at all."

XXX

"Good," Sylar said, his mood improving as he chose to believe what he wanted to believe. _I have enough demonizing what-ifs to be worried about._ A few large bites and quick chewing finished the toast. He desired things from Peter, things that were readily available, provided he wasn't being actively paranoid. He could see the deep purple-red of the bite on Peter's neck from yesterday morning. In a deep, inviting voice, he continued on with a tilt of his head, "I wish you'd manipulate me with some things, Petrelli. We might both get something out of it, you know. Other ways to spend our time when you're… _frustrated_." With that, he extended his right hand, resting it on Peter's left shoulder, pulling aside the man's bright flannel over-shirt to brush a pair of fingers over what must be the tender site of his teeth marks. _Fuck. I want him._

XXX

Peter was glancing down at his fingers, rubbing them together and wondering if he should say something about the occasional tingling, when Sylar spoke again. He was looking over as he listened to Sylar's seduction, so he saw the hand heading to his shoulder. He tensed a little, just starting to say something in response when Sylar continued the motion to touch his neck. Now Peter stiffened. Sylar's expression became even more lustful. Peter felt his face heat – hell, his whole body – in a sudden flush of awareness. The faint touch to the sensitive bruising on his neck felt almost ticklish. His lips parted and he pulled his eyes away to focus on his half-empty coffee cup, mind blank of anything but the prickling of his skin as the hairs on the back of his neck did their best to stand up. A wash of complicated feelings flowed through him about yesterday's session, the bite, the previous bite marks, how Sylar knew and intended that to be sexual, how he was offering more right now, wanted more, Peter could see it on his face and hear it in his voice and feel it in the so-careful way he just touched him, the contact leaving a tingling trail that came from Sylar's hands this time instead of Peter's. He stared at the tan coffee, fists curled on either side of it, and focused on breathing, coping, and keeping it together.

XXX

Sylar gloried at his success. Peter did little and said nothing in reaction because he didn't take 'facing away' as a strong or clear rejection. _He really likes being touched._ It was hardly a new fact, but the idea behind it, that Peter might (probably) need to be touched, even by him, was easy to capitalize on. _He doesn't like me touching him sexually – not his dick or his ass, nipples, or mouth, but everything else…_ "Hmm," Sylar said, satisfied with that. He stood, leaving his hand on Peter's shoulder as he walked around him and the stool and the end of the bar to pursue coffee. His hand dragged across Peter's shoulders and back as he moved away, only breaking contact when physics intervened. He could practically taste Peter's reaction this time. "You were supposed to take care of me after," he remarked more normally about yesterday, finding a mug and filing it up. "My back…" Sylar shifted his shoulders in honest discomfort, intending to infer guilt and Peter's responsibility.

XXX

Peter straightened again at the sweep across his back, head snapping to follow Sylar with intense eyes. He made a noise in his throat. He wanted, rather desperately, to go jerk off. _Get a grip, Peter! Focus. He's a killer. He's a… monster, like he says? No, he's a human being._ Peter blinked and wiped at his face, touching over the spot on his neck. It was hot and sore, but the rest of him seemed to be cooling off. "I'll…take care of you…later," Peter said slowly, fully aware of the double meaning in the words and not finding it within himself to care about the mixed message. Or whether it was mixed at all. On impulse and to distract himself, he grabbed one of the single-serving sized plastic jelly containers and peeled off the foil. He recovered his spoon from his nearby plate and dipped out the jelly, sucking it clean. "If you're still interested in the project, this afternoon I'll use a belt."

XXX

Sylar glanced up underneath his brows at the initial response. _Oh?_ Peter's tone or body language or both didn't match up with the suggestiveness of his words, somewhat to his disappointment. He paused in the act of preparing his coffee long enough to see Peter move on to…a jelly packet. A pang of annoyance went through him. _Maybe I didn't turn him on like I thought…_ Peter's plan for the day was not what he'd expected and caught him off-guard. _So that's what he meant? I'm his project? Or it's a project- our project? So soon?_ It was a bit worrisome if he was honest. His back was extremely tender, even to wear clothing. _Is he going to do this every day? I did frustrate him, but this – the belt – wasn't what I meant to happen. Is he going to do that every time I frustrate him in any way?_ His expression probably showed his confusion and surprise before he cleared it but Peter's attention was still on the damn jelly. A few drops of creamer and sugar were then absentmindedly stirred into his cup. "Of course," he replied – agreed? – blandly.

XXX

 _There's that weird non-reaction again._ Peter scraped the last of the jelly from the container. He wondered why Sylar was so unenthused about something he'd been the one to propose and push, but Peter had something more pressing to discuss. "Let's talk hypothetically. What if I could take your ability, or an ability from you – copied, not stolen – how would that change anything between us?"

XXX

Every suspicion he'd just ignored came racing back. "It's not hypothetical!" he retorted quickly. It wasn't! It was a very real possibility. Sylar frowned across the bar. _How would it change…?_ He desperately felt as though he had to convince Petrelli not to do just that. "Like, I said. When you get what you want, you're not going to stick around long, whether you have people to save or not. You'd be even more of a hypocrite and less of a hero, so why would anyone trust you?" Sylar took a tentative sip of his drink; glad he'd been cautious because it was still scalding hot as coffee often was. "And copying is just as bad as stealing, in terms of my abilities. You'd have to be stupid to copy my abilities because I'd still have them. It's not like you'd ask permission."

XXX

"So," Peter said slowly, "it's not me taking an ability, it's what I'd do after." _Specifically, the leaving part. He's got me there. I...probably wouldn't stick around._ He nodded, disappointed in himself and the situation. Any lingering sexual charge from earlier was entirely gone. He couldn't think of how he could do right in the scenario Sylar was concerned about (saying he'd come back for Sylar wouldn't cut it), but he could at least be up front with the man in the here and now. "I just promised to tell you if my ability worked here, so…" Peter waggled his head, uncertain of Sylar's response, "I think it does. I haven't tested it. I can't test it. I have Matt's ability right now and I don't want to lose it. Of course, I can't seem to _use_ Matt's ability, so maybe hanging onto it isn't the best idea, but it's the one I'm going with right now." Peter showed his hands to Sylar, palms up. "That's how it's been since I got here. I haven't left you; I haven't tried to experiment. I'm trying to be honest with you. That's the best proof I can think of."

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth with another 'I know' because Peter did tell him that his empathy was working here. Interesting and something to keep note of, but it was hardly alarming (He suspected the empathy didn't work well here, in addition to Peter having some synthesized, limited version, or perhaps it just didn't work properly on _him_ ). His head tilted quickly, pulling back, eyes narrowed. _Wait. His ability has multiple facets, like mine. He's saying…he feels things sometimes?_ _(So does mine. I feel the_ _habit_ _to_ _cut into him to see how he works but I know that wouldn't…satisfy._ _I'm not hungry for it; I just want mine back_ _). I swear he's tried before to…do things to me, or with me, whatever._ It wasn't all about what Peter would do with a 'copied' ability, but that wasn't the most important thing right now. "You're saying you can feel your other ability here?" That wasn't news. "Or…you feel that you can copy abilities here? Or…?" _What are you feeling?_ Hands tightening around his warm cup to stabilize him, he murmured with a distant expression, "I can't feel mine here. How does that work?"

XXX

"You and me, being here? I'm not sure we're on the same wavelength – different situations." He breathed out for a long beat, toying with a second pack of jelly, but not opening it yet. "I feel my ability. I still have it. I didn't have it for a while, you know, after Dad…so I know what it's like when it's gone. It's not gone. I'm pretty sure I can feel Matt's, but it's like a book I can't open, or words I can't bring into focus. It's not like it's messed up," he said with curiosity and concern, "but it's walled off." He frowned, set down the jelly pack, and took a drink of coffee instead. "I don't know if I can copy abilities here. I've thought about it, and it's like committing suicide here – I'd better be sure it's going to work the way I want before I try it, because there's no second chance. And that's not just," Peter dipped his head to the side and gestured at Sylar, "yeah, you, but I might not exist anymore if I lose Matt's ability while I'm in here." He took the last swallow of his coffee, staring into the now-empty cup and refusing to let his thoughts go down the familiar path of what it meant that no one had pulled him out.

He looked up at Sylar. "For the record, I haven't read your thoughts. I don't seem to be able to. Not that I've really tried super-hard or anything. We've already talked about how I don't 'practice'." He peeled the foil off the second jelly packet. "I haven't been looking through your memories, either," he said quietly, picking up his spoon to collect the next bit of sweetness.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar said, neither here nor there as far as a specific response went. He was still thinking. _It's 'walled off,' he says. Just like his empathy. Yes, Peter, I know how to fix you._ Honestly, he'd been much more worried with the idea of being brainwashed than he was of having his thoughts read or even having his brain probed. Matt had always been stupidly obvious with it and Peter lacked finesse and had good reasons not to practice. "And that's all?"

XXX

"Sometimes I get wisps of your emotions. It seems to be happening more now than it was a few months ago. It's not constant. And mainly it's like stupid Deanna Troi moments – you're raging at me, yelling and threatening to kill me, and guess what?" Peter chuckled dryly, "I can sense you're angry! Wow, useful, huh? Or just a few minutes ago." He waved at the stool Sylar had previously been sitting in when he'd been exuding desire and attraction. This time he didn't elaborate on what he'd felt. He knew Sylar wanted him – the lust was genuine – but there was no affectionate flavor to it, no softness or friendliness, no tenderness or caring. The rough promise and raw sensuality was a turn-on, but it wasn't one Peter was going to act on.

XXX

"You're not telling me anything I didn't already know," Sylar hinted, because why would Petrelli repeat himself if it wasn't some attempt to placate or otherwise manipulate him? _What did he feel moments ago? My…suspicion or…?_ He tilted his head to observe Peter.

XXX

Peter pursed his lips and looked up at Sylar, under his brows. "I know," he said simply. Glancing away, he looked back to ask, "Are we good?"

XXX

"I'm not going to kill you, if that's what you mean." Sylar gave him a similar look and went back to sipping his coffee. He wasn't sure if that was genuinely more interesting or he wanted to make it seem like drinking coffee was more interesting.

XXX

"Good," Peter said with a sour look. "Because I don't want to be dead. There are things I don't want to talk about if I'm going to get hurt because of it, one way or another. They're not your business anyway. They don't affect you."

XXX

 _Aha!_ He finished swirling his coffee around in his mouth, now looking at Petrelli. _This bouncing back and forth between 'I'm innocent and harmless' and 'stuff is going on that you don't know about' is getting irritating fast._ "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

XXX

Peter huffed, but answered. "There's something else going on with me that I don't understand. This is just a bunch of suppositions and impressions. I would…never…have talked about this with anyone before here – never had anyone I _could_ talk to about…trivial stuff like this, things I can't prove and I don't know what it means." He sighed. He was beating around the bush, avoiding the subject, he knew. "When I touch you, sometimes, when we're calm and things are okay, or more than okay, there's a tingle, a feeling, like an itch or a…a vibration inside or something. I don't know how to describe it, but it happens. I'm not imagining things. It's like when I borrow someone's ability. I feel like I could push it, concentrate on it, and maybe that's what it would be, but I don't do that because I don't know what might happen and I'm not sure I really…want to? If that makes any sense? I don't know. It's just…an awareness, of you." He looked down, pursing his lips again. "It happens when we're close. I don't remember it ever happening outside of here."

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed in knowing, smug amusement. "We have 'more than okay' moments?" Of course, his curiosity was piqued about that and how it might be similar to how Peter felt about other, normal people. _I give him tingles and vibrations?_ That thrilled him with the most stupid kind of hope. _What does that mean? What could it be? (Should I be worried about that?)_ Distantly, he knew it did, but he wanted to press this first. _Why does he bother admitting these things? Because he likes to talk and I bet he thinks I have answers._ _._ _Has he considered that he'd just horny?_ Sylar knew it could very well be part of an ability.

XXX

Peter smiled a little, looking off to the side and then back. "Yeah," he said gently. "I guess we do. Don't ask me how it happens."

XXX

Sylar stared out the window for a moment, considering that. _Does that…mean anything? About me? Or him, 'us'?_ For so long he'd been told, he'd known that people didn't have 'more than okay' moments with him, so to hear Peter confirm that was amazing and unexpected. Was it possible this wasn't something to worry about? "Have you ever felt that before? Before here, this, before me?" Sylar asked in a quiet voice, still very focused on Peter, hanging on his response.

XXX

"I don't remember it ever happening outside of here." Peter sobered a little under the concentrated scrutiny. "Do you think it's because of you and not me? Maybe it's not something I'm doing, but something I'm feeling from you?" Peter looked at his hand uncertainly. "I never felt it before you," he said, addressing his hand. "I thought it was a 'me' thing. But," he looked up at Sylar, "there's no reason why it couldn't be a 'you' thing. Do you ever feel anything like that?"

XXX

Sylar frowned, torn between disbelief and a self-deprecating amusement. "I don't think 'tingles' and 'good vibrations' are usually associated with me. So, no. I don't feel anything like that." _There's every reason it's not a 'me' thing, Petrelli._ He wasn't about to tell Peter about his own strange empathy that Arthur had discovered. "Not to say that I can't give you tingles and good… _vibrations_ ," his expression made his innuendo clear.

XXX

Peter gave a brief roll of his eyes at Sylar's comment. Then he rubbed his fingers together uneasily. "I don't know. It could be nothing. What I've thought it was, was like a shadow of my ability – my normal one, you know? The one I have now. Or did. Whatever – the one-at-a-time one. So, like, if there's something metaphorical about all of this," he waved at the world in general, "then when we're really close, maybe that just means that's when my ability _could_ work, if it worked here at all, but since it doesn't, then nothing happens but a weird sensation. If that's true, then it really doesn't mean much of anything."

XXX

Sylar sighed, "That takes the prize for lamest reason not to fuck, Petrelli. Are you afraid you might get too close?" He glanced up from under his brows to pin Petrelli with his challenging gaze. _He might be. He has every reason to be afraid of…what he might see._

XXX

Peter snorted. "That is _not_ the reason, Sylar." He tilted his head emphatically, "And anyway, I happen to _like_ the way it feels. I didn't describe it as hurting, or even being uncomfortable. It's nice. I'm just...uncertain about what it means."

XXX

Sylar raised a knowing eyebrow at that. _Maybe that is a metaphor for something – or a lot of things. He likes it, he wants to, but he doesn't…see how he could betray his family that way, with…me. And family comes first._ Slowly, Sylar began again, "Do you…see anything when that happens? Feel anything that…doesn't belong to you? Anything strange?" Fun, forbidden tingles aside, if Peter was seeing things-that would be trouble.

XXX

Peter's gaze lingered over Sylar's face, wondering what exactly was behind the questions. "You know something?" he asked with raised brows, but in the pause where Sylar didn't respond, Peter answered anyway. "No, I don't feel anything else or see anything. I don't stop being me. It doesn't mesh with the times when I sense your emotions. It doesn't connect with your memories as far as I can tell. So spill. What are you thinking?"

XXX

Quickly adopting his best blank-and-innocent expression, Sylar kept his mouth shut. _It was the way I asked it,_ he reasoned as to how Peter knew to return the question without first answering. _Or…he's surprised I knew?_ Sylar relaxed from what he hadn't realized was a tense moment. He let out a breath, focusing on his hands on his mug for a moment. He chose his words carefully, knowing that he didn't have to answer this, "I'm- I was thinking that Lydia's ability requires erotic touch to…see things about someone." He shrugged. "Just a theory. I don't think your ability ever worked that way and you didn't pick it up from her." _Or me. (I think?)._

XXX

Peter frowned. He wanted to argue that the sensation he was trying to describe happened when he was doing intimate and sensual things rather than erotic ones, but he knew he was splitting hairs. He didn't want to claim that anything he did with Sylar was intentionally erotic. Any elaboration would sound defensive, so he made none. He picked up his plate and utensils, taking them over to the sink where he set to rinsing and washing. "Well, that's the long and short of my abilities here. I don't think it's anything you need to worry about." He cast a look at Sylar for emphasis before turning back to the dishes. "I still worry about yours – what you'd do if you had them, or had yours working normally."

XXX

Sylar lazily trailed after him into the kitchen, sipping at his beverage. Peter hadn't phrased any of that as a query. A throaty sigh voiced his annoyance before he said, "I still wouldn't kill you for your ability, Petrelli." That was tap-dancing around killing Peter for other reasons but whatever. "If I had my abilities here, you'd probably have yours." Under his breath and into his cup, he murmured, "And that wouldn't end well." He didn't enumerate his lack of knowledge about what he would do if he had full possession of his powers and his proper mind, with only one special who had a singular, dangerous, undesirable ability whether it worked or not (when that special had fucked him over and thought he should off himself, or needed help doing it), and was 'nothing to worry about.' It was not a common, or even anticipated experience. Sylar zoned out and thought about the Carnival and being welcomed at first, feeling…close to safe and accepted there. That was before he'd been framed for the police chief's murder, tricked into being with Lydia, and his empty personality manipulated. _But I never killed anyone there. Peter would never believe that._

XXX

"Hm," Peter grunted, not making out what Sylar had said at the end. It didn't seem to be meant to be heard, so Peter didn't ask. He finished with his dishes and dried his hands on a bright blue towel. "How's your back?"

XXX

"I imagine it's how you left it." _It hurts_ , he didn't say. _And you said you'd make it worse later today._ He was a little wary and…anticipating rather than confused.

XXX

"Can I see?" Peter made a gesture at Sylar as though asking him to turn around, but Peter himself stayed where he was at.

XXX

Sylar canted his head as he felt a flush of humiliation or…He didn't answer, set his cup aside, and slowly shuffled around to face away from the other man. He began to unbutton his favorite pea coat, then his dress shirt outer layer, then untucked and began to wiggle his undershirt up. It dragged on the damaged surface of his back, but he gave no sign of that, unavoidable as it was. There was always the small possibility that Peter would be sadistic and hurt him through the now-exposed injury instead of helping.

XXX

"Did you do anything for pain management?" Peter asked as he helped Sylar with his shirt.

XXX

Sylar blinked, though he was facing away and Peter couldn't see it. "Uh…" he began in surprise. "I didn't know if…Um. Just ice." _I didn't know if I was supposed to take anything. He-we…you…didn't talk about that._ Of course, he'd showered and done his best to clean his back, having been scraped across the floor. He'd worn a clean shirt to bed and slept on his sides though they weren't untouched either. He'd been wallowing in his thoughts, the worry that Peter was somehow using his power or the touching, testing him in some way – he'd been distracted and hadn't given painkillers any thought until it was much too late.

XXX

Peter nodded and looked at the exposed flesh – welted, still swollen, and tender. That was about what he'd been aiming for. The skin had been broken in a few places, which hadn't been his intention, but it wasn't so bad as to derail his plans. "Do you want me to put some more of that spray on this?" His voice was distracted, one hand was holding Sylar's shirt while the other touched lightly at the injured area. He noted the heat from the skin and the refill rate as he pressed a particular spot. The underlying tissues weren't bruised except for a few marks over the scapula. The rubber tubing had been a good choice. _I'm going to need something wider tonight, though. And_ _to_ _not hit so hard._

XXX

There was no immediate answer from Peter and no sound to give indication one way or the other as to his reaction about the lack of painkillers. He was sure he'd feel it if Peter dropped his shirt for any reason. _No. He's a nurse. He's an empath. He has to look; it's like a compulsion. (I wonder if he doesn't believe me?)_ The last was a quieter, more pensive thought about his describing his symptoms. Then came a question and gentle touch from Peter. It had Sylar inhaling and closing his eyes with…some strange, unnoticed relief. It nearly made his head spin, and not because of the offer of what was essentially a painkiller. Sylar grabbed at the counter top in front of him though he didn't actually need the support and he could have groaned at the touch. His back was sensitive, raw even to that soft contact. _The back is a sensitive spot anyway. Which explains the invention of whipping as punishment._ He knew it wasn't really any of those things, not even the offer of the numbing spray, at least, not any one thing alone that made him react this way. It was Peter living up to his word, being kind and truly taking care of him despite Sylar having run off and started the fight yesterday – it was the touch of his hand being gentle, whether or not Peter beat him again later today. He'd wanted this so badly before and it was making him high to receive it now. Voice husky, Sylar croaked, "Sure. If you think that's best." _If he's going to use a belt, it might actually be best. Even if he does take care of me tonight. (Will he sleep with me?)_

XXX

"Okay." Peter glanced up and down, taking in Sylar's reaction. He liked it. "We'll have to go back to the Pegasus. I wasn't carrying it around with me." He pulled the shirt out a little, helping it down Sylar's back.

XXX

Just as quickly, Peter's hand was gone and Sylar felt his shirt sliding down his back. "Yeah. Okay," he agreed, immediately looking to find where Peter was and how soon they were leaving. He already wanted more and didn't care about the cost. _The pain is completely worth it. Being needy and fucking dependent on him is different,_ he warned himself. _He wants this, too. (He doesn't understand what it's about),_ Sylar thought grimly. _Clearly that's the only way to get him to do it. It means something to him._ Partly in jest and insecurity, he teased, "You're not wearing a belt around either."

XXX

Peter chuckled quietly. "Yeah, I'll have to find one. I remember that clothing store where I worked on the storefront had a rack of belts. I've got all day to get one, though." He gave Sylar (and the man's coffee cup) a brief look up and down, trying to figure out if he was ready to go or was going to hang around. "I'm going to deal with you first. Were you going to eat?"

XXX

 _Ooh. 'Deal with me.' Because I've been so naughty?_ Sylar's lips twitched at an amused smirk but didn't go very far. He knew the real reasons Peter wanted to hit him. Or touch him. Or think about either of those things. What's more, he thought it was funny just how…willfully ignorant Peter was being with all this, mainly failing to consider what Nathan would think of it. It was just too easy. "No," he responded simply, turning in order to look at Peter. He didn't wait for much of an answer, instead taking his cup to the sink to wash it quickly. _You already fed me toast anyway. Not a meal, I know, but he fed me something after I'd already eaten._

XXX

Peter nodded. "Let's go back, then." He moved over to where he'd left his headband and gloves on a table near the door, suiting up for the winter weather.

XXX

Not for the first time, mostly since he was still dressed for the outdoors, Sylar took the time to assess Petrelli's outfit. _Why a headband? Isn't that for women? What do they call it –_ _an_ _'ear warmer' or something stupid?_ As they left the building, braving brisk wind that had warmed since he'd arrived, Sylar following behind Peter, he tilted his head as a more rational thought occurred to him. _I bet it's hat hair. He's…that vain? I wouldn't want to ruin my hair if it looked like his._ Of course, Peter's watch was a useless addition because it was literally non-functional. Sylar spared it a scheming glance.

XXX

His tone reserved, Peter asked, "Did you sleep last night?" Not 'did you sleep okay?' or 'how did you sleep?', but simply did Sylar sleep at all?

XXX

Guiltily, Sylar raised his eyes, putting on an air of someone who was – and had been – paying attention all along. The appeal registered after that. After still more pause, he hedged uncomfortably, "Some." He was not proud of his tone. It snuck out as something he should be ashamed of and so it sounded weak to his ears. _What did he expect? It was difficult to sleep alone, not to mention my whole body hurting and torn up... (I wanted to sleep with you!)_ Feigning politeness, he returned the question, "You?" _Let me guess. He slept perfectly fucking fine without me._

XXX

"I slept. Kind of paranoid, but I got to sleep anyway after a while." He glanced over at Sylar for a moment. "It's really quiet here," he admitted. "Especially at night." A few strides later, he said, "I thought I'd play some music this morning. Maybe sort out what sheet music I have that will work for the guitar."

XXX

 _Ah_. Sylar understood immediately the reference to the source of the man's paranoia. _If he left like I did…Yeah. (That still doesn't change-) He's never to blame, though._ "It's better this way, actually. Or, um, it would be. You know, not necessarily here." That was because Sylar had too much experience in hunting human beings, with just the two of them here, there was only Sylar to be heard. He knew he'd snuck up on Peter before, almost unintentionally, which didn't help the other man's well-founded paranoia. _He handles it well. Better than most._ His next observations were useless to Peter because of that. "Normal noise patterns in the day time versus at night, and you were born in the city, and the predisposition to be more attuned at night." _That probably wasn't what he wanted to talk about. (I sound like a freak). I am a freak because I know all these things. (Peter can't deal with that)._ Clearing his throat, he addressed what he hoped was more relevant, "That- the music, sounds like a great idea."

XXX

Peter nodded in agreement, and spent the rest of the walk listening to the silence that was broken only by his own sounds and Sylar's quiet footfalls.


	129. Backlash

Day 72, February 20, Morning

When they arrived in the lobby, Peter gestured to the elevator and headed towards it. "I took the kit upstairs yesterday," he explained, punching the button to open the doors. He walked inside, hitting the penthouse button as Sylar joined him. "It's still there."

Once upstairs, Peter retrieved the bag and paused to get a couple bottles of water from the fridge. Stuffing them into the bag along with the supplies that were already in it, He turned to Sylar. "You want me to do it up here, or in the rec room? You'd have a bed to get some rest on here, but…I'll be going on downstairs." Peter smiled a little at himself. "I wouldn't mind the company," he said very quietly, with a leading tone to his voice.

XXX

Sylar gamely followed along, blinking at Peter in the suite. He hadn't given any thought to separating. Briefly he worried that the mention of it was some hint, but it sounded like Peter wanted anything but distance. "No, no. The rec room is fine."

XXX

Peter smiled a little, again, looking away and shifting uncomfortably. It was almost a wince – it didn't feel right to say he wanted Sylar around, at least not without some disclaimer about being driven together by the inherent loneliness of the world. Which, while that was a factor, Peter knew it wasn't all of it. He liked this...thing they were doing, if it meant Sylar was supposed to agree Peter was in charge. "Well…let's go on down then. Unless there was a book or something you wanted here?"

XXX

"Hmm," he said about his book. He had several here and even more at his own apartment, recent and stockpiled favorites. _I may just sleep while he does his thing. Until he's ready to...get the belt, I guess._ In a few strides, he had his book in hand, Peter with his medical bag. Sylar gave that a wary glance, once again wondering if it had been tampered with. _I wish he'd leave that…somewhere else. Maybe with me._

XXX

 _I feel like we're almost on a date,_ Peter thought as the elevator took them past the various floors. _I asked him to come hang out with me, not do anything else,_ he argued back at himself. _I'm not doing anything wrong. This is…I mean, this is better than normal. We're getting along. Sort of. Right? He listened to me earlier, didn't freak out about the ability thing, the touch. He didn't blow me off, either, or tell me to never do it again._ The doors opened and he headed to the rec room, still musing on things. He waved Sylar towards the couch. "You'll have to take your shirt off again." He set his bag towards one end of the couch and scanned the walls for a thermostat. He headed over to it and turned it up four or five degrees, satisfied when he heard the heater kick on.

XXX

 _Just the shirt, huh?_ Sylar made his way to the couch as directed, casting a sly, knowing look over his shoulder. A flush of heat went through him when he thought of something taboo. _He likes my back, specifically my_ lower _back. And he agreed so easily to do this – beating me, taking care of me – repeatedly and as often as he pleases._ Sylar chuckled darkly to himself, noting the unnecessary kindness of Peter resetting the temperature of the room because of his soon-to-be partial nudity. Still facing the couch, he unbuttoned coat and over shirt, then he waited until he could feel Peter's presence, his attention. Playing it up a little, he groaned a seductive sound as he began inching his undershirt up slowly, up over his head. _I've got him eating out of the palm of my hand and the best part is, he doesn't even know it._ Peter had capitulated with merely the truth/excuse that Sylar wanted to get him off. "Do I need to bend over?" he asked in a quiet but very deep voice.

XXX

At Sylar's first noise, Peter took a quickened step as though to help, but then the timbre of the sound made clear that wasn't discomfort he was hearing. It was- _oh!_ He hesitated then deliberately took a step back for a better view, shamelessly ogling as Sylar took way longer than necessary to pull that shirt off. _Oh, that's nice_. Even despite the welts and marks, it was a nice back being bared very specifically for him and his enjoyment of the view. In the better lighting than the diner had, or maybe it was the position and more time to look in a leisurely fashion, Peter noticed the bruise on Sylar's lower back, where the kidney punch had landed. He stepped forward and touched it lightly then slid his hand to Sylar's flank, cupping his side. "No," Peter said with a quiet smile at the innuendo of the offer. "Just sit. Maybe sideways here, facing away." He made a downward stroke that ended at Sylar's jeans then turned to pick up the medical bag and dig through it.

XXX

Sylar inhaled and remembered to exhale. The touch was so intimate, so familiar of Peter. It was fitting that the pressure stung what must be a bruise on his back. It made the pain totally worth it and it thrilled him to see his plan coming together. _(How much longer until he fucks me?)_ Peter touching him like that was and was not as strange as it should have been. Sylar then adjusted his shoulders with something of a shrug, sitting as directed. He kept the bag in his peripheral to make sure all that came from it was the spray can.

XXX

Spray can in hand, Peter examined it to make sure it would spray in the direction expected. It was always embarrassing to screw that up. Then he turned to Sylar, gathering up the man's hair to lift it from the nape of his neck. "Don't look," Peter said quietly. "You don't want this stuff in your eyes." He sprayed it on thoroughly, getting the backs of Sylar's upper arms as well, because there were a few welts there, too. He pushed the medical bag out of the way and sat on the edge of the couch next to Sylar, moving his head one way and then the other to see if there were spots he'd missed. He sprayed the two he found then dropped the can in the direction of the bag. He looked at the other man for a moment, thoughts churning around in his head about the intentional display with taking off his shirt, the confession that he couldn't or didn't sleep well without Peter, and this whole request thing of Sylar's, that Peter should own him, engage, and take charge in doing whatever he wanted with the man.

Peter touched Sylar's flank again, the opposite side from the bruise this time, and just with fingertips rather than his whole hand. The skin was fantastically soft. It was smooth and unblemished. He turned his hand to use the backs of his fingers, more on Sylar's lower back now than his side. He reached the indentation of the spine, turning his hand again to feel idly at the ridges of vertebrae until they disappeared below his waistband. _He wants to bend over for me? It's not something I want right now._ Peter scooted in and leaned sideways against the back of the couch, still taking the liberty of touching another's body. _I probably shouldn't be doing this, either. Um, no 'probably' about it, really._ He sighed, but what he was doing seemed so minor in the grand scheme of things. So he kept making little touches, from the bottom of the welts to the top of Sylar's jeans. "That...tingling I mentioned? It happens at times like this. Sometimes stronger, but I can feel it." It was definitely subdued at the moment. He wondered what that was due to. _The degree of reservation maybe?_

XXX

Peter finished and then, without so much as a comment or a warning, continued to touch him – gently. Sylar closed his eyes to savor it even as part of his brain shied from the fact that this was a Petrelli touching him like this. The caress was something his mind struggled to categorize, emotionally, to know how to react (if he had to, and so far, he didn't). It felt like something so pleasant should go into a mental box for pleasant things but he couldn't utilize that box. It had never been allowed; it was wrong. He kept trying to put it in that empty 'pleasant' box, knowing it didn't, couldn't belong there; so he kept searching and kept returning back to it all the same. Sylar didn't move an inch except to breathe calmly.

XXX

Peter watched the profile of Sylar's body and face. He figured he could be seen, but the other man wasn't looking directly at him, so Peter didn't feel pressured by the observation. He tilted his head lazily against the couch cushion, looking at how Sylar's side curved around to his belly. There were a few black hairs there, streaming away, pointing towards the middle of his stomach. After eyeing them for a few moments, he reached around to touch them, expanding the area he was stroking. Really, that Sylar was allowing this much was remarkable. He twitched the hairs upwards and down then smoothed them out in their proper orientation. _Okay, that's enough. Anything more and I'm going to get an erection._ He sat up properly, having underestimated how his body had been reacting this whole time. _More of one, that is._ Peter cleared his throat to signal the break, and stooped to put the aerosol can properly back in the bag. He had to shift his dick in order to bend over without hurting himself. _I don't think I'm as embarrassed as I should be about all this. It was nice to touch him._

XXX

His well-tuned senses began to tingle at that. It was the shift in…intent that he picked up immediately. It was far more sexual and because it was Peter, a male, and their situation was so fucked up, the touch on his stomach was perverted. It didn't disgust him or even turn him off, simply more awareness and perhaps wariness intruded on the sensations. He allowed it, of course. It wouldn't be long before Peter wanted to pet and ogle other parts of him. Sylar pivoted to be side-to-side as he watched the spray can drop into the bag. Peter stood and then all he could see was the other man's bulge in his jeans. _Oh. Oh? Oh! Fucking empaths,_ he smirked. It made him hungry. It was an incredible ego-stroke to inspire such a reaction, especially having done so little to get it. "Are you sure you don't want me to bend over?" he rumbled, amused and completely suggestive.

XXX

Peter glanced down, seeing that he was obvious – his clothing was not being cooperative in hiding what was going on with him. Rather than denying it, he just rolled his eyes and answered the question. "Completely."

XXX

But Peter wasn't hustling away, trying to hide or cover himself. _Fucking shameless, too._ So he continued to stare, trying to make out the dimensions of Peter's piece. It did not look like a monster, much to his relief. Nathan was…well. Sylar straightened to cover his squirm of discomfort about those thoughts. _Thinking about Taub's dick doesn't give me that…feeling. I've been him for weeks. Then Donner…_ Shapeshifting aside, he lacked experience with average or otherwise male anatomy. Peter's dick, still clothed in jeans, looked…long enough, thick enough. _I think the jeans are deceptive. He could be smaller or larger than what I'm seeing – what's that saying about growing? What the hell is a man supposed to find desirable in another man's dick?_ He was being given plenty of time to stare and he took advantage of it, considering angle and shadows and the density of the fabric of Petrelli's denim.

XXX

Peter moved away awkwardly, using his foot to shove the medical bag around the corner of the couch. His thoughts were a mess of appreciative sense-memory of how nice it had been to touch; a growing awareness of how inappropriate that was to do to a patient, how unwise it was to encourage Sylar's lusts, and flat wrong it was to do to someone who had killed your brother; and his rapidly-becoming-urgent desire to do something else besides dwell on what he'd just done. _The piano, right? No, the sheet music. That's what I was going to look at. Looking…_ He glanced over at Sylar, who was staring at Peter's groin like he wanted to suck him right then and there. The mental image made him harder. Peter turned away and said in alarm, "Stop looking at me! God. It's not going to go away if you keep staring at it!" _Especially like that!_

XXX

"Quit being so modest, Petrelli," Sylar leered. It was his way of pointing out Peter's failure to hide his erection. "Are you implying I can make you come just by looking at you? Either way, I'm not sure you really want it to go away." If he could have, he would have leaned back against the couch cushion and laid his long arms along the back in dominant amusement.

XXX

Peter snorted and looked back at Sylar only long enough to fix him with a scowling dirty look before moving off to the piano bench. He crouched, even if the scrunching fabric was very unkind to his privates. He was facing away. Sylar probably didn't see Peter's grimace. Out of stubbornness and determination to make his erection go away through pain alone if necessary, Peter stayed squatting there as he sorted through papers.

XXX

Sylar didn't need a look or answer. He was fairly certain the man did protest too much, as the saying went. _He already admitted he liked to show himself off; so being ogled is part of that._ He rose and wandered over to lean against the piano. He made a casual, unhurried caress from chest to groin, lingering there. "Is this like 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours'?"

XXX

Peter growled, dipped his head, and turned his face away from Sylar. It didn't keep him from seeing the gesture. "No. This is like 'You leave me the fuck alone or I'll kick your ass'." He looked back to stare blankly at the clump of sheet music in his hand, still painfully aware of the half-naked man lounging against the piano in his peripheral vision. _I don't want to have to back that threat up._ "I shouldn't have touched you like that. I get it. Not just your reaction, but mine. It was stupid. I'm stupid." His voice trembled slightly under pressure. _Great. I sound like an idiot, too. An over-emotional, over-sensitive, never-thinking, idiot._ "Just leave me alone." He tried to make out the words on the paper. It was some kind of hymn, which wasn't what he was looking for. His face was burning with embarrassment and no, the mentioned arousal was not going away. Nor would it, he suspected. Not so long as it was the subject of discussion. No matter how embarrassing it was, it was sexual, and it was still attention. That hit something more visceral for him than his thinking brain could easily override, although his disgust at himself was starting to drain off some of the stiffness.

XXX

Sylar scoffed and rolled his eyes. He wasn't pleased at Peter balking, apologizing, backing out from his previously committed course. Additionally, he didn't understand the other man's apparent fear of continuing – it was just a simple, allowed, if rather intimate, touching. _How was my reaction…bad? (Was I supposed to react some other way?)_ It was food for thought at a later time. "Why?" he sassed, pushing even though he could clearly see and hear Petrelli's current strain. "You already said you'd kick my ass, so what are you going to do, beat me twice? You didn't even bring a belt." It was a little chilly and the lack of pain and the previous warmth of Peter's hand had him feeling buzzed.

XXX

 _Why should he leave me alone?_ Peter didn't have a good answer to that. At least not one he wanted to give. If he didn't want to walk away and he didn't want to fight then he had to find a middle way. That wasn't his strong suit, but he opted for intimidation. _I'm supposed to be in charge here._ He rose slowly, letting the sheet of paper fall from his hand as he turned his eyes from face forward to direct them towards Sylar. The expression on Peter's face showed he was near the limit of his limited patience on the matter. He locked eyes for a long few seconds, before giving Sylar an unhurried once-over, handsome face, hairy chest, bare belly, slim hips, lean legs, feet, and back up to pause with curiosity at how Sylar's hand continued to linger over his groin. _Hiding himself. Protecting. He never moved when I was touching him earlier. Not a single sign he liked it._ Peter's boner died a swift and sudden death. _And now he's being aggressive. It makes sense._ His eyes quickly flicked back up. With clenched teeth, he said, "Because you're faking. You don't want me. You don't like me. I backed off. Now leave me alone."

XXX

"What?" Sylar blurted, so surprised that it just slipped out before he could otherwise think or react. _(How the hell does he kno- Is he guessing?)_ In either case it confirmed that somehow, somewhere he'd had an incorrect reaction to Peter petting him. A lightning-fast review of earlier still supplied not the slightest theory of what his mistake might have been. That done, he internally groaned in frustration. _Not this again. What does that have to do with anything?_ All the same, Sylar overwhelmingly felt the need to defend himself against the (mostly true) accusation – and ironically prove to Peter the apparent depth of his desire and interest by jumping on the man. He entertained a flash image of shoving Peter onto the piano bench and getting atop him once more, perhaps a hand on his throat or a hand up his shirt…But he still had to respond verbally first. "I am not!" Thankfully, an easy, legitimate retort sprung to mind and he delivered it with sarcastic, biting indictment, "I forgot, you decide everything."

XXX

Peter raised his brows, unconvinced by Sylar's denial. "Yeah, I do," he said in answer to Sylar's last shot at him. He showed his teeth as he spoke. _You're the one who gave me that power._

XXX

"You touched me, fucker. It's not fair," he growled in a low, frustrated tone, slapping the top of the piano with the intent of startling Peter as recompense. Since neither of them wanted to fight (or fuck) and he had nothing better to say, Sylar shoved off the piano and stalked to return to the couch, flopping himself face down with a huff, facing Peter and the instrument. _He touched me! Why does he make me feel like I'm the one who fucked up?_

XXX

Sylar got the jump he'd expected. It wasn't extreme, but it came with Peter's unceasing glare, head swiveling to follow as Sylar went to the couch. Peter frowned at him then turned his back on Sylar so he was facing the piano again. "Don't call me that," Peter said mildly, only barely loud enough to carry. "It's crass. I don't like it." He bent down and scooped all the papers out of the compartment in the bench, then glanced over to make sure Sylar was still lying down and not being a threat. It seemed safe enough, so Peter sat on the floor, body at a right angle to Sylar so he could keep an eye on the guy as he sorted through the sheet music. He divided them into stacks then put all the uninteresting pieces back in the bench. He looked through the couple dozen he'd held out.

XXX

Sylar's head snapped up to glare at that massive load of hypocrisy, but Peter didn't see it with his back turned. _You wanted to fuck me just now! You've fucked how many people before? That kind of makes you a fucker, Petrelli. Just own up to it! He thinks everything is crass (until he does or says it). Who the hell does he think he is trying to make a killer be PC? It is all about what he 'likes' isn't it?_ He scoffed a very frustrated noise and flipped him off because Peter couldn't see. "Yes, dear," he sneered with the intention of being even more upsetting than if he'd said 'fucker' again.

XXX

Peter glanced over at the answer, but didn't dignify it with a response. It amused him despite or maybe because of the marital tone. His thoughts were on his companion rather than the music in his hands. _'It's not fair' –It's one of two things – either I touched him and I wasn't supposed to, so it was unfair that I go around touching what I shouldn't, or I touched him and he didn't get to touch me back. The first doesn't make any sense, not with everything else, like him letting me hit him and stuff. The second makes perfect sense and even matches up with him asking if this was a trade – 'I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.' He doesn't like me, but he still wants...me. To touch me, to act on me, to get revenge on people through me, which probably includes revenge on me through...sex._

Peter set aside the papers and rubbed at his face. _So that's it – he thought that was going somewhere, that he was going to get some of those things he wants, and I shut it down. But he doesn't really want to have sex with me, he just wants to fuck me over._ Peter frowned and picked up the music again, doing a quick sort and putting the less-desired half back in the bench drawer. What was left was good enough for his purposes today. He shut the drawer and got up, retrieving the guitar from its corner. He went back to the bench, putting down the key guard and using the rack above it to hold the sheet music he was going to play on the guitar. He pulled out the bench and straddled it, cradling the guitar and making some adjustments to which piece of paper was where. Then, slowly, finding his way through the melodies, he began to play 'Fire and Rain'. It was complicated enough to occupy him for the rest of the morning.

XXX

Initially, Sylar still stewed about it all. Being turned down, told to behave, told to submit to things that made no sense all with the promise that he'd be beaten later on top of his already well-bruised flesh. _(It makes him happy. I'm…doing what I'm supposed to. This is supposed to satisfy me),_ he told himself. This should have been the height of his existence – the only higher plane he could ascend to was if Peter fucked him. It was depressingly familiar. Fortunately, the silence between them helped. Peter produced normal, expected noises, even if they were slight: shuffling papers, hefting the guitar, sitting on the bench, shifting body weight and the noises that came with each. He'd since stopped watching Peter, probably out of his own shame and self-disgust (and the lingering resentment), but he heard the sounds and they relaxed him because they came from someone else in a very lonely world. Shortly after, the musical attempts began. Sylar couldn't help but try to guess the song. For a while, he couldn't – perhaps it was a song he didn't know and he wondered how that would work if they were truly 'trapped inside his mind'; would it be like accessing certain parts of the brain, namely memory storage? If he'd heard this song, ever in his life but hadn't been able to consciously remember it, would he be able to now? Sometimes he thought he had it…

XXX

Much later, Peter leaned the guitar against the piano. His fingers hurt and his hands felt cramped. It had been a long, long time since he'd played for hours at a stretch. "Sylar?" he called out softly. When the other man didn't respond immediately, Peter repeated louder, "Sylar?" He waited for a sign of wakefulness.

XXX

Sylar stirred, making a noncompliant noise at first. Then he jolted with his hands coming towards his face only to realize that he was lying facedown on the couch. This wasn't Peter's bedroom in New York (for one thing, it didn't smell like Peter) and he didn't have a hangover but that didn't mean as much as it should. He opened his eyes to see the familiar rec room and Peter still sitting on the bench and _He's (still) not my brother._ "Yeah?" he croaked, not entirely ready to be dragged away from his blissful rest.

XXX

Peter noticed the automatic defensiveness. _I wonder how long it will take before either of us can really relax around each other? Or at all? Hey, he was able to fall asleep with me here to start with, so that's something._ "I'm going up for lunch. You coming?"

XXX

"Yeah," he repeated about lunch after clearing his throat. Sylar glanced behind him and located his shirt, slipping it on quickly. He was a bit surprised he hadn't gotten cold as he slept but it was a warmer afternoon. He stood to button the shirt, leaving his book, he followed after Peter.

XXX

Lunch was simple – soup and fruit. Peter sipped out of the bowl in what he knew was a completely uncivilized fashion, but his hands were still hurting. Holding a spoon seemed like an unnecessary burden. He watched Sylar for any judgment or criticism, but aside from Sylar giving him a lingering glance with a slightly raised eyebrow, nothing was said. When they returned downstairs, he rubbed and stretched his hands thoroughly before slowly picking his way through California Dreamin' and Sitting on the Dock of the Bay. He did poorly on them, but he hadn't expected it to be easy.

XXX

The second time around, Sylar read from one of his mystery novels. It was still good and he was able to pick up where he'd left off. It was lovely to read with background musical sounds (he couldn't quite call it 'music' as it was still disjointed and hesitant); nearly as soothing as the nap had been. He glanced at Peter a few times as the man played. Sylar was ridiculously grateful for the opportunity to be with someone and even more so to be allowed to…sleep (which he knew he probably genuinely needed) or read in someone's presence without any other, less pleasant demands. For all Petrelli's faults, Sylar was able to have this. While it didn't satisfy him completely, what with his ever-present drive to compete with himself, it would likely be…enough, at least in terms of bare minimum sanity.

XXX

Finally, Peter set the guitar aside. The tunes had become unrecognizable as his hands were unable to manage. Also, the afternoon was wearing on. It would be dark soon and he didn't want to be out wandering the unlit streets if he could help it. "I'm going to go get a belt," he told Sylar as he went over to collect and put on his winter wear. "You stay here. I don't want you with me while I pick one out."

XXX

Sylar partly closed his book with a finger in the pages to mark his place (not that he really needed to), shifting to be more alert and attentive. That – the belt – wasn't quite what he'd been expecting right now but it wasn't his place to protest. And he wasn't being allowed to come along, which begged the question, "Why?" Sylar frowned.

XXX

"Because it's...it would make feel weird." Jacket on now, Peter fussed with the headband in his hands, gloves tucked under one arm. "Self-conscious or something. Just stay here. I won't be long." He weighed his thoughts back and forth about the likelihood Sylar would come with him anyway, or follow him, and what Peter would do if that happened. He decided he wouldn't do anything, except maybe be grumpy and tell Sylar he wasn't following the rules, just to see how Sylar would handle that sort of complaint.

XXX

 _It would make_ him _feel_ weird _. He's going to hit me with a belt, again, and his feelings…?_ Sylar made a scoffing exhalation. _I don't believe this. (He probably wants privacy so he can pick out something really nasty – a belt with studs or spikes – without me complaining. Or maybe so he can pick up…something other than a belt)._ Either of those things were logical. Sylar pursed his lips and slumped back into the couch. _And of course, he'll make me wait and dream up horrible things while he's gone._ "Wouldn't want to damage your sense of propriety," he said dryly with a look to match.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a tilt of his head and sardonic rise of his brows before settling the headband in place. He nodded and set off.

XXX

The moment Peter was gone, Sylar regretted not inviting himself along, whether his presence was desired or not. It was better than being left alone with his thoughts, better than irrational worrying that Peter wouldn't return. The numbing spray had since worn off to a degree and now he understood why Peter had waited until this moment to fetch a belt, though he didn't understand why the man hadn't come prepared with one if that was his plan. Truthfully, his back hurt enough that he wasn't thrilled to be hit again but that was the deal.

XXX

Gloomy, frosty twilight lit Peter's steps on the way back. He'd found what he wanted easily enough and right where he'd expected it. Then he unaccountably stalled (or perhaps it was perfectly understandable – his gut was twisted up about what the belt was for and he was about to do). It was only the impending night that had made him finally hurry back. He tossed off his jacket, gloves, and headband with sharp, abrupt motions. His lips were pursed as he glared at Sylar as he did it. "Let's get this done," he said, tone as clipped as his manner.

XXX

Peter's mood was palpable when he hustled back in with what appeared to be a normal leather belt. Sylar's spirit sank a little at the negative feelings but he stood quickly and went to the pool table to assume the position. He kept a wary eye turned over his shoulder partly because of Peter's behavior and partly because there was no need to rush. _It's not like he tells me his plans._

XXX

Peter made sure the medical bag was where he'd remembered it and still stocked. The trash can was over near the speed bag – the last place he'd used it. He glanced around the room otherwise, wondering again if he really had to do this, if he really wanted to do this. His desire to hurt Sylar, to beat him down, to make him hurt and pay and crawl for what he'd done – that was still there. But Peter knew himself. He knew people. He knew pain. He knew misery. The white-hot rage inside of him, the wound of Nathan's death which was more sensitive than any gout-sufferer's affliction – those parts of him knew nothing of compassion or humanity. But he knew when the lash came down, it wasn't going to be one or the other, but both together. It was going to be him hurting another human being who was no present threat to him. It was the whisper of sadism stirring in the back of his head.

His hands, still aching from the ill-considered guitar practice of the day, clenched and unclenched on the strap of the belt. It was perfectly plain, dark brown leather with a simple, silver buckle. Peter was standing some twenty feet or so from where Sylar waited for him. _This is something he wants,_ Peter repeated to himself. _It's something he asked for. He wants me to make him feel sorry. He said no one else had. (Like I'm going to? I can't do that!) This is his idea. I'm not doing this without his consent._ He felt scared. It was a little like he'd felt while staring through the gun sights at his father, the last time he'd seen the man alive. He didn't want to pull this trigger (metaphorically speaking) any more than he'd wanted with that one.

XXX

Peter was…delaying for reasons unknown. _Is he trying to freak me out?_ So he waited some more until it was clear that Peter was not jumping in like he'd said. "Let's get this done," Sylar said in a quiet, almost questioning tone, repeating the man's words back to him.

XXX

Peter bared his teeth at nothing in particular – the whole situation, really. _Gotta get this over with!_ He stalked over to where he needed to be to do this, giving Sylar a shove with his left hand to put him where Peter wanted him. He rolled his right shoulder, trying to loosen it. It still hurt from the day before. Fortunately, he didn't think he'd be hitting as hard tonight. He gave Sylar's back a quick, professional look. It looked fine for what he intended to do. He noted a few welts he'd have to avoid unless he wanted to risk leaving scars, which he didn't. He put his left hand on Sylar's shoulder blade, resting it there and feeling the warmth of the man's skin. With a tense tone, he asked, "How many people have you killed, Sylar?"

XXX

 _Again with the touching!_ Sylar dipped his head forward, which would appear submissive but in reality was more frustrated. Then came the question. He didn't mean to, but he tensed. _Is that what this is about?_ "I don't know," his reply coming out similar to a disbelieving chuckle.

XXX

"I want to know how many!" He slapped Sylar's back, palm coming down hard, and watched closely for how Sylar took that first blow. "Give me an estimate!"

XXX

 _Fuck!_ Sylar grunted and grimaced because he faced away and Peter couldn't see, instinctively, belatedly cringing towards the area of impact. It was literally just a flesh wound, barely a wound at that, but it stung and the offended, sensitive site felt larger than it should have. His voice was rougher this time, closer to a growl, "Fifty? Eighty? A hundred?"

XXX

"That many," Peter said quietly. Brief thoughts ran through his mind of the billions (or hundreds of thousands, depending) he himself had obliterated in possible futures. Were they still dead if the present had been changed? He didn't know. "Do you regret any of them?"

XXX

 _Well, I lost count,_ he grumbled but wisely didn't say it. Peter didn't hit him again for the answer (or the number, or not giving a specific number) but that didn't necessarily mean anything. It probably meant he wasn't finished with his interrogation. "A few," he whispered gruffly. _When did I sign up to talk about shit?_

XXX

"But not all of them?"

XXX

"No," Sylar shot back with some heat. He didn't bother to explain why, because many of his kills had resulted in an ability he cherished more than the previous owner.

XXX

Peter stroked the nearer side of Sylar's upper back, not lingering, just getting a feel. "You should," he told the man, before removing his hand and bringing down the belt with a solid swing.

XXX

' _You should' – fuck you!_ The only warning he had was Peter no longer touching him. Sylar exhaled hard with a sound and bit his lip, "Ah...!" He shifted his weight but didn't squirm beyond that. It was just as bad, if not worse, than he'd anticipated.

XXX

"Describe one of them!" Peter demanded. "Tell me who you've blotted out of the world. Someone I don't know."

XXX

 _How do I know who you don't know about? Don't all you stupid heroes talk to each other?_ Sylar growled. "James Walker," he blurted out, remembering one of his earliest kills because he could remember the name as part of his hunting process. He felt tingles of guilt because of the man's daughter – not being able to kill her and put her out of her misery and ensure his own rise to power with her ability, but also because he'd left her orphaned and very much a threat to him. "He had the ability of freezing; he tried to freeze his head so I couldn't cut into him. Why the fuck do you want to hear about this? It's not for my benefit, I can tell you that much."

XXX

Peter's nose wrinkled in disgust. The description was scanty, but imagining James Walker's plight was enough to give him the fire he needed to lay into Sylar. He swung the belt again and again, trying not to lose sight of his ultimate intention of inflicting the maximum of pain with a minimum of damage. It turned his stomach though, and fast – the sounds Sylar made with each blow were the worst, but the dull slapping sound of the belt itself was a close second.

Peter hit Sylar until he couldn't. That should have been a long time, but it was almost farcically brief. Some muscle in his shoulder was spasming, but far worse than that was twisted up he was about this. He was infuriated, so angry he was shaking, and yet nauseated and sweating at the same time. His fingers were cold and his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He dropped the belt, wanting nothing more to do with it. With his right hand, he grabbed a fistful of Sylar's hair and wrenched the man's head back. "Why? Why are we doing this? What the fuck do you get out of it?" There was absolutely no way Sylar was getting off on this – all the signals were wrong. Nothing was making sense.

XXX

Peter brought the heat. It was considerably more painful than yesterday and Peter, a medic, had to know – he'd planned it that way. Sylar's mind was stunned, his body squirming, biting back strained, choked cries at first. The belt smacked and stung what felt like open flesh and deep bruises to both skin and muscle. The previous damage spread the impact and didn't abate.

Then the hits came non-stop and hard. He arched his back as instinctive protection that failed, shaking, struggling just to stay in place and take it like a man. He gripped the edge of the pool table as his knees buckled at the acidic spread of pain, though his arms barely held him up, gasping and heaving roughly for breath that sounded like crying through the relentless blows. At the last, he was howling wordlessly, slumped and unsteady against the table.

As Peter spoke, finally, there was a reason to Petrelli's strange behavior. The empath was reluctant. He wasn't into it, as stupid as that was. Instead of frustration (or perhaps because it had built to an unendurable, ridiculous level), Sylar laughed up at the ceiling, his head forced and held backwards. "You need to feel like you're winning, Petrelli. You need to feel like the fucking hero. Maybe then you'll loosen up to get over your delusions and forced morals," with all the tension in the room, he took the opportunity to shove his ass back into Peter's groin to make a point.

XXX

Peter released his grip, stumbling backwards with the unexpected shove. "Forced?" _My morality is not forced!_ He could be outraged about that single word in what Sylar had said, but the rest of the accusations were too accurate to deny. _Am I hitting him because I need to … win?_ That whisper of sadism stirred in the back of his head again, the delight in inflicting pain on a target who thoroughly deserved anything Peter might do to him. He did want to win. And sometimes, he knew himself well enough, it was almost impossible to put aside a grudge or a challenge or an affront and let someone else claim victory. _Is that what this is all about – me stroking my stupid fucking ego at his expense?_ He looked like someone who had just had the tables turned on him. Peter stared at Sylar as his mind raced back through the last couple of days, lingering over how eager he'd been, almost literally jumping on Sylar and making a fool of himself when the offer was made, when he'd found out he might be able to beat Sylar down just like he'd fantasized. He looked at Sylar's face now – laughing at him.

This was for nothing. Nothing at all. All this flogging and pain was pointless, petty, and evil. _Because I needed to feel like the hero. But I'm not a hero by beating him up, or by torturing him. (He's letting me do this so I'm dominant, topping him, pushing him around. It's sex. He's letting me hurt him so I'll fuck him. Because he thinks that's what turns me on. Because I've acted like that. Because I_ am _acting like that.)_ Peter took another step back, still staring, but now revolted by himself and with self-loathing on his features. He had nothing to explain why he'd stooped so low.

XXX

Sylar felt like a fucking wreck, though he was impressed at the amount of pain compared to the actual lack of damage inflicted. His eyes had possibly reacted with actual tears (hopefully not visible) on his face. For whatever stupid reason, Petrelli didn't seem to get off on that anymore. Now Peter looked like a frightened rabbit. "No, come on. Not this again, Petrelli," Sylar nearly whined. He didn't think he could take more today (or even tomorrow, but that wasn't his decision to make), still he pressed on. "Don't chicken out on me again. I'll even tell you about the agent I tortured if that helps you 'keep it up.'"

XXX

That was a repulsive suggestion, like they were partners in this, driving each other on. Peter wanted to retort about how he'd been doing this for Sylar, because he'd thought Sylar wanted it, but the words caught in his throat. They were lies. He knew they were lies – unacceptable, craven excuses to avoid the truth. "No. This is wrong. I wanted to hurt you." That was the truth and it was a truth Peter found abominable, repellant, and disgusting. "You killed Nathan and I wanted to even the score. This is cruel. This is mean. This is sadistic." Tears sprang up in his eyes. He knew who the fuck-up was here and it wasn't Sylar. He felt worthless, stupid, and defective. Peter shook his head. "This is not who I'm going to be. This is not who I am!"

XXX

Sylar gave a facetious, fatalistic raise of his eyebrows but it took effort. Peter was rambling, arguably more emotionally shaken than Sylar was, physically. It was ridiculous and he didn't want to expend energy to figure it – Peter – out right now; the man seemingly flipped on a dime. Sylar sighed. _It's 'mean'? Since when does he care about fucking sadistic? (That has to be new, right? He didn't give two shits at Mercy). He'd better not pretend I forced him to do this…_

XXX

"I can't change what I've done, but I can change what I'm going to do." Peter pointed at Sylar. "The agreement is over! I'm not playing your game anymore! I don't own you. I don't want anything to do with you. No more!" He shook his head again, nostrils flaring as he backed up, then turned, heading out of the room, not stopping for his coat or anything else. None of it mattered – not even the guitar at that moment. The cold outside could go fuck itself for all Peter cared. _It's not real anyway!_ he thought of the weather, but what he'd just done to Sylar – that was real, and that he couldn't escape, but he could at least never do it again.

XXX

Sylar was really fed up with Peter's weirdness. The heroic speechmaking was so old. He felt more than a twinge of panic when Peter began to disavow everything – no agreement, no games, and Peter wanted nothing from him. It was exactly where Sylar did not want to be. _That can't happen._ Obviouslysome manner of placation was needed, and fast. Petrelli was not following the script. "Wait, Peter…" he began slowly, assuming that Peter would gather his outerwear before braving the cold, but he was wrong. "Peter!" he shouted and jogged to follow. "Peter!" he tried again, trailing Petrelli at least to the doors where his own shirtlessness and injuries made him pause. His next shout was lost in the rising wind and snow. "Fuck!" he exclaimed alone.

He wondered if he'd done something wrong (again?), some reaction or word out of place that made Peter freak out but he found nothing on his part and Peter, well, didn't exactly explain himself. In the wake of Peter's presence, he felt small and the pain of his injuries mounted, sapping more of his attention. _(He was supposed to take care of me)_. He pondered if Petrelli's conveniently timed exit had anything to do with him ditching Peter yesterday before any medical care could take place. _If that's some kind of 'fuck you,' he's really needs to be more specific. (How am I supposed to…?_ he thought of caring for his back, alone, once more considering if that, too, was intentional). Sylar huffed, worried, pained, and lonely. Not knowing what else to do, he picked himself up, book and shirt, and made his way to the suite.


	130. Civil Dialogue

Day 73, February 21, morning

Peter lifted his head to peer blearily around the strange room, only vaguely aware of being awake. When that fact impinged on his consciousness, he jerked the rest of the way to wakefulness in a disoriented panic, not sure where he was or of the situation – not even in a general sense. He struggled to get out of bed, tangled in blankets and lying sideways across the mattress. He fell out rather than doing it properly, but he was at least out. Instinctively, he grabbed at where he usually left his shoes, unlaced, opened, and ready at the bedside. Soothingly, they were right where they were supposed to be. That bit of normalcy stopped him. One shoe in hand, wearing nothing but boxers, he panted and finally got the higher orders of his brain to working.

He was in the apartment across the hall from his usual place. This was the one with the blacked out windows and no light bulbs, the 'higher security' place he'd only slept in once or twice before. It also had a lot more furniture with an elaborate headboard and posts on the queen-sized bed. The different setting had thrown him. Peter picked up his shoes and padded over to his regular apartment, where his clean clothes, food, and toiletries were. Plus, the other place had working lights. They were needed. He rubbed at his aching, stiff shoulder as he looked out the window, seeing that the dark night sky was only just yielding to the coming dawn. Snow was everywhere and still drifting down. He grunted and went about getting cleaned up and dressed. He'd gone to sleep fairly early the night before and was surprised he'd managed to sleep at all, with the degree of emotional turmoil he would have expected to be going on in his head.

But he was satisfied with what he'd done. Somewhere after dropping the belt and renouncing the twisted 'deal' between them, Peter had forgiven himself for letting his desire for revenge mislead him. He wouldn't have felt that way had the beating not been Sylar's idea, consented to at every step, and even there at the end, Sylar was asking him to continue. Begging, maybe. No – Peter had fucked up, but he'd made it better. He'd quit. He was done. He was, perhaps, even done with Sylar. Hence the ability to drop easily off to sleep.

After stopping into the Pegasus to retrieve his coat, gloves, and headband, Peter headed off to the diner, hoping he was early enough to evade Sylar's notice. It seemed to work. He didn't see any sign of the other man on his way to the Y either, having spontaneously decided to change things up and go for a swim instead of hitting the exercise room. He jerked off, this time to the idea that it was Sylar being a peeping tom. By the time he was dried, dressed, and walking back, the snow had mounted enough to be annoying, but his good mood persisted. He paused at the intersection, noting the partly filled tracks – a single set, unmistakably Sylar's because Peter hadn't walked on this side of the street – going to his apartment. He looked at them for a minute, then shook the snow off his head and followed. Looking through the glass doors into the lobby of his apartment building, there Peter saw Sylar, waiting for him in the chair provided for just that purpose. Peter huffed slightly, but that was in fact where he'd told Sylar to wait for him. He went inside, stomping snow off his shoes and shaking it out of his hair yet again as he removed the headband.

He pushed open the second set of doors into the warmer lobby, digging into a back pocket for his comb. Gloves and headband now tucked into his pockets, Peter got his hair back in order with casual, relaxed strokes. "How's your back?" he asked in lieu of greeting.

XXX

Sylar's head came up immediately at the sound of the doors. He'd begun to wonder if haunting the man's lobby would put Peter off, though he hadn't truly been waiting that long. Peter appeared…normal, perhaps cheerful. Sylar squirmed in the chair as he had to wait seconds more for Peter to approach and see what he would say and the result, while far from unpleasant, was not what he expected. Sylar opened his mouth, then sighed. _He's acknowledging what happened, but I bet he wants to pretend it didn't happen. No mention of…if he's 'done' with me. I don't have anything else to offer him._ "It would have been better if you'd stuck around to see to it." He managed to say it without as much bitterness as he felt – to him it sounded more like a statement of fact. After all, he'd needed the pick-me-up of sleeping together and being tended to just to make it through the worse, secondary beating.

XXX

Peter snorted softly, finishing with his damp, chilly hair and tucking the comb into his back pocket. "Yeah, probably. Would have been even better if I hadn't done it to start with." But that ship had sailed. Sylar would recover. Peter knew he hadn't given him anything more serious than surface injuries. He gave a roll of his eyes and headed for the stairs.

XXX

"No, wait! Peter!" Sylar was on his feet and starting after his erstwhile companion. "Wait, wait, wait…I'm- I-…Could you just tell me what I did wrong yesterday? Was it the crack about torturing the agent?" That was it, apparently. He needed an answer even more than begging for the man's presence – anything to make sense of what (or even who) he was to Peter, who dictated his status. The lack of which was…frightening. He felt abandoned, a bit betrayed, but mostly lost. It was pathetic that he even had to ask, because, of course, he should already know and his ignorance was offensive. He halted a good five feet away, outside Peter's shorter reach in case the empath felt threatened by his hasty stalking, though his hands palms were out and up – hardly expressions of violence. Surely Peter would jump on the opportunity to school and mock him.

XXX

Peter stopped a few feet from the door to the stairwell, turning to face Sylar a little faster and more warily than he would have spun to face anyone else who ran up on him. Seeing that Sylar had stopped, Peter stared at him coldly. "I was already leaving when you brought that up." He stared at Sylar levelly a little more in case he was unclear on how much Peter didn't appreciate the topic. "This isn't one you can fix, Sylar. I'd like to think I would have realized that wasn't right no matter what you did." He started to turn away, one hand reaching back for the door, then paused, eyes sweeping up and down Sylar to evaluate his body language. "You misread me. Badly. You have this idea in your head of who I am and it's not right. I can be better than that." _I'm_ _sure as hell_ _not going to let you pull me down._ He turned back to the door, pulling it open. He called over his shoulder, dryly, "If you get me, you get me, you know?"

XXX

' _It wasn't right'?_ _I 'can't fix it'?_ Sylar felt stuck, like a stripped gear that was moving too fast for him to analyze to figure out where the problem was. He stood there, frowning, knowing he still didn't understand what Peter thought was so obvious. _My idea of you is that you're either my little brother or my enemy and since I can't be your brother or you mine, that means we're enemies and all I know about you is that you...didn't help me. That's fact; it's truth…that you want to bury. You want me to forget. Because only my sins matter here._ He grasped the part about…being understood: if he understood Peter, then Peter could quite possibly be 'gotten.' His face shifted to sad and resigned. _That's asking a lot of me._ He found, since his manifestation to would-be glory, that he did not slip into the role of doormat as easily as he once had. "Yeah, I get you. You could be better, but it's not likely. I don't bring out the best in people," he snipped the last part because it was still, somehow, his fault.

XXX

Peter stomped off up the stairs, muttering to himself, "You might bring out better in people if you'd stop _torturing_ them." He spent the next hour or so rearranging furniture and raiding the other apartments for usable clothes. Eventually, he came back downstairs with the intent of eating out for lunch and perhaps retrieving his sketchbook from the other building. Spending time with Sylar was something he assumed would happen (Sylar being the only other person available), but it wasn't something he was looking forward to.

XXX

Sylar wasn't surprised when Peter continued on the stairs. He wanted to yell after the man because it felt unfair, it felt like he was being punished for being Petrelli's whipping boy and remembering the truth. He grit his teeth, growled aloud, and rolled his eyes as he turned back to his lobby chair all the while ignoring as best he could the sting of his shirt sliding across his skin. Perhaps Peter was just going upstairs to grab something…

XXX

Peter tromped down the stairs in no particular hurry, thinking about irrelevant things. _How do they make soup? Do you just throw everything together in a pan and cook it? What makes the liquid? Does it come out of the stuff in the pan, or do you have to add it? Is it water or milk or something special like vegetable stock? How do you get stock, anyway? Is that just stuff in water and boiled for a while? If so, then why would you use stock to make soup? Couldn't you just boil vegetables and call that soup? Soup juice, maybe? Could I make soup maybe, like from scratch?_ He pushed open the door to the lobby, seeing Sylar putting stuff aside and sitting up attentively. The attention was nice, but it was still Sylar, with all the baggage that brought. Peter grunted unhappily. He rolled his eyes in a put out fashion and headed to the front doors, where he paused to put on his gloves and headband. It had stopped snowing, at least.

XXX

In the midst of reading after he figured out that Peter was not immediately returning, he heard footsteps. He paused and put his book away, getting to his feet and preparing his defense of why he was still pathetically waiting in Peter's lobby. _Is it even his fucking lobby to own? (He thinks it is. Therefor it is)._ Peter's non-verbal response left a lot to be desired but it could have been much worse, too. It was gruff initial acknowledgement of his existence. Sylar started very small and hopefully inoffensive, "Where are you headed?"

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a sideways glance, but the tone of the question was mild enough that it would be rude not to answer. "Lunch. Maybe the grocery store or the diner. Depends on how quick my feet get cold." Which probably wouldn't be any time soon. His shoes were thick-soled, mostly waterproof, and had held up to the worst of a New York winter. The brand and style had come highly recommended by the other EMTs. They had not been wrong. Peter finished pulling on his gloves and headed outside.

XXX

Sylar nodded, relieved to get a mostly-civil reply (and a reply at all). "Did you eat breakfast out, too?" _Keep it simple._ He didn't explore his determination to remain in Peter's company today.

XXX

Having answered once, it was easier to do again. "Yeah. I don't like cooking in my apartment much. It's just me." He walked along quietly in the bitterly cold, dry air. The thick, powdery snow sprayed around at every step. Sylar had obviously invited himself along. Peter liked the company. "Cooking at the diner seems different somehow. And anyway, it's probably good for me to get out some."

XXX

Sylar expected that much, recalling Peter saying something similar about cooking. It meant that the medic had snuck out early and that, what with his current attitude, Petrelli probably wanted solitude. Sylar had what he wanted to a degree: Peter engaging with him again. That was a good sign. With the polite ice breakers out of the way, he dove into more pressing matters. "If I'm not supposed to think of you the way…the way _he_ did and I'm not supposed to think of you when you were probably at your worst with me, then…how do you think I should view you?" He phrased it intentionally in the hypothetical.

XXX

Peter turned his head to give Sylar a thoughtful look, then brooded over the question as they walked. "You have all of Nathan's memories of me. Matt made you think of them as your own. So even if you catch yourself and realize that's not yours, it's still coloring the way you see me, is that right?" He regarded Sylar.

XXX

Sylar made something of a grimace and shrugged. Perhaps it wasn't best to admit that neither he nor Nathan thought of Peter as the glowing hero Peter thought he was. It didn't really matter whose memory it was, not all the time, anyway.

XXX

"It would suck if you were never able to see me any differently than he did." Peter frowned sourly. "I loved him. We shared…a lot, a connection, sometimes I felt there was a spiritual component to it." He swallowed and sighed, realizing Sylar, just like Nathan, would dismiss anything he said if he continued in that vein. "But he always saw me as his little brother, like a kid who needed to be looked out for, couldn't be trusted to make his own decisions." He snorted softly. "I remember one time I was at his campaign office asking him about something important to me and he interrupted to have me pick out what color tie he should wear. So I did. And of course he wore the other one." Peter looked over with tight lips. "He did that _all the time_ , Sylar."

Tension flavored his voice. "The funny thing is, about him and Dad both, is they talked so much about how they respected people who stood on their own and didn't need anything from anyone. But the truth was that when they dealt with someone like that, they did everything they could to cut that person down and destroy them. It wasn't just me. It was like someone else seeing things differently was somehow dangerous to their worldview. I'm sure that had a lot to do with Nathan joining up with Homeland Security, trying to get control of people with abilities. Nathan and my dad both were insecure. For all their talk about the importance of strength, it was hard for either of them to find any inside."

Rant over, Peter shook his head in frustration about the whole subject and walked on for a while. "You've got all the power in the world, Sylar. You don't need to treat me like they did."

XXX

Sylar bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled. He was desperate to keep his mouth shut and not give in to the other Petrelli brother whose memories wanted to voice themselves about that exact, stupid, unimportant incident. _I'm not going to defend Nathan fucking Petrelli._ Everything Peter said was true and Sylar would have heartily agreed except for the mention of his powers and the manipulation underneath it all. _I don't have my powers, idiot. He knows that, so why…? Ah. Well, two can play that game, Petrelli._

"Nice speech," he began, pointing out that it was, in fact, a speech. "That's interesting that you would tell me not to treat you like Nathan did." He intentionally used the eldest brother's name now. "Does that mean Nathan treated you worse than I do – that I treat you better? Nathan was your brother and he loved you in his own selfish way and you say you don't want any part of that now. But you still want Nathan back though you said you know that's not possible. And if you don't want me to be your brother in any way, I think you're contradicting your obsession with being 'liked.'" Sylar smirked sideways at his walking partner; very satisfied with the amount of logic he'd thrown into Peter's emotional mix. _I'll make him choose me, every time._

XXX

Peter walked for a while, turning over Sylar's words. His attempt to appeal to Sylar's better nature (or at least Sylar's desire to be seen as better) obviously hadn't worked. The tone of Sylar's voice was a challenge. When Peter spoke, it was slow, with a quiet threat to it. "'Liking you' is a requirement for sex – yes. But where you're off-base is that having sex with you is not a requirement for me. I can dislike you all I want, Sylar. I have every reason to hate you." He gave the serial killer a long, sidelong look before moving along to a related topic. "Your judgments of my feelings about my brother are meaningless. Coming from the man who killed him, they're _offensive_." He gave Sylar another warning look. "I don't want _you_ to be my brother in _any way_. You're nothing like him."

XXX

Much of that burrowed under his skin as quickly as Peter said it. His head came up and tilted to the side dangerously, though he kept quiet for the first few precious seconds to maintain his temper, not looking at Petrelli yet. He burned with the judging looks sent his way. Peter was telling him things, in bits and pieces as he was drawn out. _He has to like me, too._ "You misunderstand me," he said finally, proud of his calm voice that almost completely disguised the edges he felt. He wanted to protest nearly every sentence of Peter's but he had a feeling it was a lost cause before he began. "Coming from the man who was _forced_ to be your brother, believe it or not, I do have some interest in what you think about it, whether either of us like it or not." Sylar broke his stare to blink, then face forward again, surprised at his own words and that they were fairly honest. _Did I just say I care about his feelings? I value his opinion? Well…'Go me' for managing to score romance points._

XXX

Peter side-eyed Sylar for several paces, watching the subtle changes of the man's expression. He didn't argue. What Sylar had said was accurate enough – Peter's feelings on the matter had been made Sylar's business, like it or not. _I thought I'd been crystal clear on all that. Maybe not? Or maybe it's just one of those things that a person has to hear over and over before they can really deal with it internally. It's not like I don't have my own hang-ups about how Nathan died and why he killed him._

XXX

With that unpleasantness out of the way (and disinterested in comparing himself to Nathan), he continued. "I never said you were required to fuck me. That much is obvious and that is not my intention," Sylar reached out to gently but firmly hook a pair of fingers into Peter's elbow, encouraging him to stop walking and face him. _He's not giving me much chance to win him over. (Or is he?)_ He chose his next words carefully now that he had Peter's complete attention. "I know what you want." He extended a hand to touch briefly at the man's hip – intimate and more familiar than they were. "And you'll get it." Whew, he breathed a sigh of relief to get that out and waited for Peter to react. It was better than addressing Peter 'liking' him, being willing or simply bored.

XXX

Peter looked down at the touch, immediately wary. He hadn't seen any warning signs, but the subject matter (Nathan's death, Sylar's sex drive) could set things off without Peter's intention. He stopped, his eyes quickly shifting to Sylar's face, but he looked down again at the second contact, this one to his hip. He was slower to look up, eyes a little wider when he did. He studied Sylar intently. He felt a flutter inside at the offer even as he knew it wasn't serious. Oh, Sylar probably meant it seriously, but Peter didn't think he knew what Peter wanted or was likely to give it to him, even if Peter's desires were kept in the realm of the possible. Peter didn't narrow his eyes or let himself be put off. There was no reason to be suspicious or defensive about something so open-ended, no matter how generous it sounded. He chuckled softly. "You know what I want right now? Lunch." He jerked his head in the direction they'd been walking. "Let's go get some."

XXX

Peter…appeared to accept that, not scoffing immediately or rushing to explain everything why it could never happen or even to make demands or lay blame. Peter didn't react much and didn't say anything about it, really. _What is that? Does he like that? That's not a no!_ It was nearly shocking to realize that. It was so tiny, and possibly misunderstood, but it was a glimpse, a speck of light at the end of the tunnel. It thrilled him to the core, even as forbidden and impossible as it was. Even if he didn't necessarily want to put out for Peter, it still felt like winning for now. Sylar's head tilted up as he began to nod in agreement, "Yeah? Okay," he replied with a matching chuckle and grin. He'd begun to be hungry after Peter left him in the lobby to wait.

XXX

A few strides later, Peter asked, "What do you want to know?"

XXX

"What?" Sylar's more-pleasant-than-usual mental processes screeched to a halt as he scrambled to dredge up what Peter was referring to. Somewhere earlier he'd left something open ended and promptly forgot about it because it was less important than what was going on now, than what he was feeling right now. It was an embarrassing lapse.

XXX

 _Was I wrong? I thought he wanted to know what I thought? Or maybe it's like Nathan said, 'No one cares what you think, Pete. They only care what you're going to do.'_ And in this case, Sylar only caring if the 'doing' included doing him. Peter tried to pull himself out of the mire of negative thoughts. "It sounded like you wanted to know what I…thought about Nathan's death."

XXX

 _Oh, right. Nathan cockblocking me from beyond the grave. Wonderful. Because Peter is still 'married' to his fucking brother and that's always more important. Even Mr. Live-For-The-Moment refuses to live his life here, now, with me. Fucking lunch is more important than me!_ The frustration – the reality – of his situation came back all too quickly. Sylar frowned, watching the ground pass under his feet now after shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well, I…" he started. _I have questions…but that's not what he's asking. This is a trick question- Is it a question?_ He knew he had to ask something now or else Peter would say he wasn't really interested. "Yes." He gambled that Peter would talk about his feelings with no direction from a question.

XXX

Peter looked over Sylar's body language. _This isn't something he wants to talk about. Either that, or he does_ _n't want_ _to hear my answer._ Sarcastically, he thought, _No, it's only the most important thing that's happened recently to either of us, both of us actually, because without him killing Nathan, he wouldn't have been forced to BE Nathan. Of course we shouldn't talk about it!_ Peter looked away, to better conceal the brief roll of his eyes. _But he did ask. He said he had an interest in it, and he does. It_ is _important_. "That's a big subject…and sensitive. For both of us. Is there something specific you're looking for?"

XXX

 _I want to know…about Nathan's funeral. What happened with…the arrangements? (I bet they didn't throw him on a campfire)._ As a former regenerator with his history, the idea of cremation or dissection was…uncomfortable. _What lies did you have to tell about…his death? I want to know what he – what Pete – would have done if…I'd given up and been Nathan….or if he'd had my- hi-_ the _body to deal with if he'd managed to kill me…What did Ma say? What did she do? What about Claire? Nathan's sons?_ _None of that is asking about his thoughts._ "Anything," he tried.

XXX

 _Anything._ That put the door wide open – anything and everything. It also put the entire responsibility of choosing the right topic on Peter's shoulders. It had to be interesting. It had to be what Sylar wanted to know. It had to be something that shouldn't start a fight, or rather, Peter didn't want to start a fight at the moment and so he knew he had to tread carefully. They walked for half a block while Peter stewed over what to say and whether he should say anything at all – the possibility of simply refusing the conversation unless Sylar let him know what he was fishing for had run through Peter's mind. That seemed cowardly and petty, so Peter ultimately refused it. The idea of catering to Sylar with his words was also repellant. "Maybe you know what I want, but I don't know what you want. I can't even tell if you want to talk about this." Peter glanced over at Sylar, trying to gage him. "It's a rough subject – I know. Especially for us to talk to _each other_ about."

Sylar wasn't shutting Peter down. If he had the audience, Peter found he _did_ have a few things he wanted to say. He stomped along for few more steps, kicking the snow out of his way. "It sucks!" he said vehemently, speaking with earnest passion. "You killed my brother. You _stole_ part of my family from me and I can't put that back together. I know how I feel about it. What I think?" Peter shook his head. "There's no way you can make this right. It isn't like that storefront, where a person could at least patch it over somehow, do their best and be like 'Hey, at least it keeps the snow out'. This is a person I loved – gone. Like if losing Caitlin wasn't my fault, could I forgive someone else for that? I-" He shook his head again, teeth clenched. "It doesn't go away – the heartache." Peter thumped his chest for emphasis. "You're still the same person who killed him. The same person who would kill someone else's brother if you had reason to, and a lot less reason than most people would take. You'd kill me if I wasn't useful to you and that's the same bullshit I've had to deal with from most of my family forever!"

XXX

He sighed, but he was listening – trying to. It was difficult when he'd heard it before and Peter acknowledged that there was no 'fix.' What's more, Peter's story resonated familiar, similar inside him, too, from his own past as Gabriel and Sylar and anyone else he'd been besides Nathan. He frowned, contemplative, still shuffling along beside Peter, aware of the violence against the innocent snow was aimed at and meant for him. He couldn't talk about any of his feelings because they were far too numerous and complex to put into words, he knew talking about what he could was a dead-end with Peter, and what Peter wanted was to talk about Peter's pain. He was committed to it and backed into something of a corner. He wanted to protest so many things, about how he'd been good to Peter when he'd been a Petrelli, wanting to scream, 'You got your wish! You stole my mind from me and I can never put that back together! I have to carry your family with me for the rest of my life, isn't that torture enough?' _Why is he so intent on talking about this with me?_ Civil dialogue was the last thing any wronged person wanted from him, but Peter, he was insistent. Slowly he began, just speaking what came to mind for his own understanding, "This is about you…confronting…his killer. That's what's different. Most people don't get the opportunity." Peter was shaky on the part where he might need Sylar's help and since there was nothing he could do to right any of his wrongs, then…perhaps Peter's purpose was something else that kept him engaging. "Maybe…maybe that was your true reason for coming here."

XXX

Peter eyed Sylar for the first part. It dove-tailed perfectly with Sylar letting himself be beaten. Peter didn't have anything to say to it, feeling he'd already expressed and shown how he felt about that. But as for Sylar's last statement, Peter snorted bitterly. "My true reason for coming here? I expected to be killed, Sylar, and that would be the end of it. I wouldn't have to worry about Nathan or how to get him back, I wouldn't have to worry about me, or Ma, or Claire, or Monty and Simon, or ANYONE!" His final word, raised, echoed off the buildings a little. Peter lashed out at the snow again, wishing there was something more substantial to hit, destroy, or tear apart. They were nearly to the diner. He wasn't about to go inside in this mood, so he stopped, turning to face Sylar, his expression furious. "Go find Sylar. Get him to save the carnival. What happened to me in the process didn't fucking matter!" He leaned forward, glaring as though daring Sylar to give him a reason to make this physical. Peter pulled himself back, stepping away. "I wasn't thinking about it that way, though. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't thinking _on purpose._ I knew what was going to happen. (I thought I knew.) I knew the risks. Matt told me I wouldn't get out if I came in here. I might be fucking dead already out there and I wouldn't know it!" Peter looked away, pulling in and forcing out a shaky breath. His emotions were running hot. Much more quietly, almost a whisper, he added, "I don't know how to make things right, Sylar. I don't know how to help. I don't know what to do."

XXX

Sylar was familiar enough with Peter the little brother's bravado and moods – not to mention the man was saying nothing remotely offensive enough to start a fight – that he weathered the storm and stayed focused. He mostly succeeded except for the stray thought along the line of wishing Peter would fuck him for the sake of Peter's comfort.

"You have me here. That might be better than nothing." Sylar shrugged to dismiss his own opinion of his self-worth as it wasn't for him to decide. "You're going to be here for a long time, just…try to get used to that. You have the benefit of time." He sighed again. "Time never helped me, really. I think too much and it hasn't helped. But maybe, I don't know, maybe it will make things clearer for you. You have to be…patient here. There's no rush and no one to worry about." _(I have to be patient with you)._

XXX

Peter took several deep breaths, regaining his composure through Sylar's calm demeanor more than through anything the man said. He gave a small nod in agreement.

XXX

 _Hmm, whatever kind of crisis that was, averted. I'm getting better at this._ That warmed him, made him feel like he had some purpose. Peter hadn't asked for any of it, but he continued, "I don't think you're dead. How could I be dead? You didn't kill me; Matt didn't kill me and you don't think he did either. You're not just…having the same dream as I am. This is real, Peter. That's not necessarily a bad thing."

XXX

Peter tilted his head. "Okay. It's real. Sort of." He looked at the diner. _My hunger is definitely real…ish._ Then back to Sylar. "You're not dead. At least, I don't think you are. Matt wouldn't be going to the trouble of bricking you up if he was okay with…" Peter shrugged, not wanting to be explicit about dismemberment or whatever method would kill Sylar forever, "worse." He started towards the diner. "It's okay. However it turns out. They say life is just about perception anyway."

He went inside and set about making a lunch of fried eggs, a mound of unevenly sautéed vegetables (which were also on the oily side, but Peter didn't mind), and a couple biscuits. He left Sylar to fend for himself. Peter wasn't finding the other man's presence as bothersome as it had been earlier. Peter prepared his lunch in a companionable silence.

XXX

Sylar gave the vegetables a look but it was better than some of the crap Peter habitually ate. He didn't mind being left on his own for food, in fact, he would have offered to make Peter something but the other man jumped right in. Sylar made himself a roast beef sandwich after considering a hamburger. As he did, he kept sneaking glances at Peter, just checking, watching, enjoying that he had someone to watch. When both meals were ready at about the same time, they sat in a booth across one another. Once started, several bites later, Sylar felt his curiosity burning. "Peter, you've said a lot of things: you came here to get me to save people; then you don't need anything from me; then you felt your purpose is to 'be right' with me…Is that just a mood thing I'm supposed to follow or…which one is it?" He frowned briefly down at his plate before looking up at his companion.

XXX

Peter speared a few bits of onion, mushroom, and bell pepper on his fork, considering whether Sylar was accusing him of being inconsistent or asking a genuine question. It seemed sincere. "They're all true, depending. I came here to get you so you could save people. If you refuse, then I don't need anything from you. And if I'm going to be stuck here with you, then we have to get right somehow." He ate his forkful of food, then poked at half an egg with the empty fork. "I don't suppose I need anything from you whether you refuse or not. It's not me who's in danger, or at least in any danger I didn't willingly put myself in. The people who went to the carnival just to have a good time, or because they were summoned to it – they shouldn't have to die because of that." He took a bite of egg. "It wasn't even what Emma wanted. Her fingers were bleeding. There was someone behind her, but I couldn't see who." He made an abbreviated gesture at Sylar with his fork. "That's where you came in." He went on eating, musing over the dream and trying to remember all the details from it.

XXX

Sylar clenched his jaw briefly at the unhelpful, ever-shifting non-answer. _Convenient that it covers all your moods so you can keep using all of them,_ he thought. "That's not true, either," he injected calmly, willing to fight Petrelli with Petrelli to point out Peter's needs and his own usefulness. "You've said you need me to…'be right' with you and cooperate with you here whether I help your imaginary friends or not." Sylar glanced down at his plate for a moment, adjusting his sandwich in his hands as he said, "And there's the part about me caring for you, medically. I don't think you meant to ever void that agreement."

XXX

Peter's brows furrowed. "Well…yeah," he said slowly, not understanding what Sylar was getting at. "I think we both need to be safe with one another, no matter what else. I didn't mean to void any agreements other than the one about…engaging. No changes about medical care. I'm not leaving without you. That sort of thing." He was wary now, wondering what else Sylar had thought Peter was negating, when Peter had thought it was only the one thing.

XXX

Sylar smirked for a second, "Tell it to me again. About your dream, 'my part.'" He waited until he was finished speaking to load up with another bite. It was good meat, but lacking in much flavor beyond its natural taste.

XXX

Peter sighed, letting go of some of his wariness as he thought back. "My...mother met Emma for the first time. She – Ma – told me that Emma was going to kill thousands of people. I asked her how but she wouldn't tell me." Peter pressed his lips together in a tight line, looking away, then back at Sylar. Restlessly, he switched his grip on his fork to that of a weapon, then back to a utensil. "Secrets. It's always with the secrets," he said bitterly. "So I took her ability – Ma's. She didn't want me to, but she couldn't stop me." He rolled his lips, biting the inside of them. What he'd done was not...nice. Or how a good son should relate to a loving parent. He hated that things between he and his mother had come to that.

"When I slept, I had the dream. I had it a couple of times – a little more information each time. Everyone had been drawn to the carnival. There were big crowds. They were...panicky. Inside one of the tents, there was Emma, playing the cello. It had this...unearthly quality to it. That's what had..." He paused and looked Sylar right in the eyes. _There's no way I can explain this without telling him._ His lips closed and his expression stilled. He took two deep breaths, then said, "I don't think I've told you this, but her ability lets her draw people to her like a siren's song, even from across the city where there's no possible way you could physically hear her." He regarded Sylar with deadly seriousness. The only part of his body that moved, aside from breathing, was a twist of the finger and thumb that rotated his fork back into a position so he could stab with it, should Sylar say or do the smallest thing that showed Peter he was a threat to Emma.

XXX

Swallowing his previous bite, he was almost more focused on getting a bit of food out from between his teeth when he saw the change in Peter's demeanor. Something…hidden and important was going on and he honed in immediately. Peter was so deliciously obvious after all. He waited and Peter…obligingly confessed with no prompting or torture. He'd been staring into Peter's eyes when the man looked at him so intently and… _Oh that explains so much._ It was such a large realization that he couldn't quickly fill in all the blanks; he just continued staring at Peter. Then he saw the movement off to the side, of Peter very loudly making himself clear and threatening. Sylar shifted his face to, 'oh, really? You don't say!' "Ah. I see."

 _That's not fair, not entirely. I can't rescue her or hurt her. He doesn't even know if I want that and he doesn't care; he's making assumptions. No one ever helps me when I'm trying to quit._ The purely predatory part of him noted that he would never have to hunt again if he took Emma's ability (which, also, he didn't _have_ to kill her to obtain, but Peter didn't know that) and he wondered if he could ever truly be sated without hunting. It felt like an overload, the idea of being sated as often as he pleased, and possibly being safe(r) while doing it… _(I don't know if I want that…_ as if he would have a choice in this hypothetical and quite possibly imaginary situation of Peter's. _)_ Prior to being…abandoned or sentenced to this wasteland, he'd been reaching out for help, hoping to…change his life from the inevitable downward spiral of a nightmare that it was. If he had that ability, he had no chance of ever being human or getting away from the constant threats and death. _(Even with Peter here, it's not like I've made any kind of progress. I don't have the urges here. I almost wish he hadn't told me that)._

XXX

Peter put the fork down and leaned back in his seat, relieved that he didn't have to throw down in defense of his friend at this particular moment. He exhaled slowly, then swallowed and continued where he'd left off before. "That's what had brought so many people to the carnival – her ability. I don't know why she was doing it. She wasn't happy. I think she was crying. She looked like she was in pain. Her fingers were bleeding. Someone was behind her – and I don't mean necessarily physically behind her. Just there was a threatening, sort of looming presence in the tent that was making her do it. There were twisted reflections all around her. Fear was in the air. Oppression. Dread. It was like a weight on my chest in the bed where I was dreaming. It was suffocating." Peter licked his upper lip briefly, then took a drink of his water. "Then there was you. You were different. The light that followed you, surrounded you, was brighter and clearer. It wasn't lurid and flashing like the rest of the carnival. It was steady. You were going to stop things. I knew it as soon as I saw you in the dream. You told Emma, 'Don't worry. I'm here to save you.'" Peter toyed with the remaining bit of his biscuit. "That's everything."


	131. Infection

Day 73, February 21, noon

Sylar raised an eyebrow at the theatricality and then the description of himself. _Yeah, it would probably have to be a dream where I say something like that again. Imagine, someone relieved to see me._ His face shifted momentarily to give Peter a wary look. _Is he…keeping me here, like he thinks he is, because of her? (I don't want to go back,_ he thought just as quickly). "Why would you tell me? Why now?" he said of Emma's big secret.

XXX

"About the dream?"

XXX

"About Emma and what her ability really does."

XXX

Peter shrugged. He set his plate and fork aside, turning the fork upside down on the plate. He drew his lukewarm latte over and cupped his hands around it as though it was hot. He spun the cup slowly, looking down at the liquid. "It seemed like the right time to do it. Most people have less sympathy for someone doing something dangerous and it turning out badly. Or even doing something that shouldn't be dangerous, but as long as they made the decision. These people didn't. I wanted you to understand that they weren't there because they wanted to be, necessarily. Her ability drew them." He looked up at Sylar. "Which also means that someone wanted them there, so they could kill them for some purpose. They were controlling Emma to achieve it. I don't know enough about the carnival to guess at why they would do that." He took the napkin from his lap and set it on his plate.

"I'm also finding out if I can trust you, at least to be polite about people having abilities you might want." Peter shrugged again, this time with only one shoulder. "And maybe if I can be, too. We haven't talked much about people with abilities." He watched Sylar carefully, wondering if the man would overlook or capitalize on the opportunity to point fingers, because Peter knew he was the reason why the subject had been off the table for so long.

XXX

Sylar sat chewing on the last of his sandwich, schooling his face to not appear as interested as he really was. It might mean more to him than Peter thought. He had a quick rush of questions, most of which he wanted answers to. He swallowed and brushed crumbs off his hands, wiping them on a napkin. Sylar narrowed his eyes at the end. _Polite, huh? Well, that's rude._ His gaze sharpened into a mild glare. _I really don't think you want to hear about any of that, Petrelli._ "She's not here, Petrelli. No one is. And I don't have my abilities or the urges for that." _Now, ask me about killing your mother and I might salivate._

XXX

Peter gave a tilt of his head, like a very abbreviated shrug, and let Sylar's comment pass without a verbal response.

XXX

"To the point, how do you know Emma doesn't intend to kill people? You said you don't know her that well. How do you know anyone is going to die?" _Maybe I show up and kill her and that saves the day. I'm sure he's thought of that since he's kept secrets._ "Nothing happens in your dream and you said _your mother_ ," Sylar didn't hide his cutting emphasis, "told you about people dying. And she also told you not to come here." He didn't have any solid answers, though he had some good theories, like Emma getting to the Carnival and deciding to do something stupid; Samuel had been not-to-subtly planning something and his motives were as questionable as Angela's; and any of _her_ involvement left the remaining waters murky at best; and there was the issue of their isolation and lack of powers here which meant that Peter was stuck on a pipe-dream.

XXX

Peter's face went through a series of expressions as Sylar spoke – frowning dissent followed by a scowl, then a furrowing of brows and narrowed eyes at Sylar's emphasis on the subject of his mother. He pressed his lips together and looked away in a reluctant admission of agreement. When he got over his five second sulk about Sylar saying true but negative things about people Peter would prefer Sylar not mention at all, he looked back. "Maybe she saw people die and I didn't. Maybe when she had the dream, she wasn't going to do anything about it, so her future for it was everyone dying. But when I had the dream, I was going to do something about it, so in my future, they're in danger, but they don't die." He rolled his eyes. "It's her ability, not mine. I don't know how it works. I just know how it felt. And it _felt_ like everyone was in danger."

XXX

Sylar lofted his eyebrows and tilted his head briefly in a sort of wordless 'Touché' response even as he listened.

XXX

Peter dismissed Sylar's questions about Emma with a hand wave. "Emma's not going to kill anyone on purpose. That's not her. She was training to be a doctor and it wasn't for the money." He turned to picking at a tiny scratch in the beige Formica surface of the booth table. "Besides, in the dream she was scared. Her fingers were bleeding. It wasn't her idea."

XXX

In his mind, Sylar wasn't ruling Emma out of anything, not based on Peter's excuses. It wasn't unheard of for Peter to speak well of people who later showed their true colors, Adam being the most notable. _I thought he said he barely knew her. Lots of people become doctors, not for money, but for other unpleasant reasons._ He had first-hand experience with that kind. _Her fingers bleeding doesn't mean anything,_ _Peter._ But he kept his mouth shut, for now at least.

XXX

He slid the short ridge of his thumbnail up and down the scratch, studying it as he did so. "Ma saw you in her dream, too, saving people. She said as much. She told me that _I_ couldn't save them." Peter looked up at Sylar. "There was something about the way she said it – I listen for that stuff with her anymore – that made me ask her if there was someone else who could. She wouldn't tell, so I took her ability. After I'd seen the dream for myself, I talked to her later. She knew it was you all along. She knew I was going to find you. She told me not to, but that quit working after she tried to get me to blow up New York." It was a depressing subject. He went back to picking at the scratch. _She knows I'm here, but clearly I'm on my own._

XXX

That had Sylar frowning. It was so pointless to even ask himself 'Why?' in relation to Angela Petrelli. He could see how much more irritating that could be for her only son, especially given the history. There were a host of valid reasons why Angela Petrelli would want her baby boy as far away from Sylar as possible. _Maybe she didn't want her sweet boy to fuck me,_ said nasty voice in his head. _She doesn't want me out in the world, even as Nathan most likely._ That was…almost a bitter idea to swallow, leaving him to feel unwanted by a woman who refused to claim him in any form. _She doesn't want me to save anyone and be a hero. I'm a weapon. Maybe…maybe I cause the disaster? Maybe she thinks Peter needs a time-out; she's done that before when he was locked away with Adam. I still think she's behind it – but what does she stand to gain? Maybe Peter does die in the process._ He sobered further, feeling a hint of sadness before he moved on, reminding himself that he should feel victorious about that. _Maybe…Peter is going to die here? Not because of me, but because of…where he thinks he is?_ It was more worrying than almost anything else (any situation masterminded by Angela was always frightening), meaning he would be abandoned and alone again. Sylar wanted out of the circular string of questions that couldn't be answered, so he nudged Peter's leg with his foot, "Good news is, she isn't here, right? It's just you and me," he tried to grin as he continued to rub that same foot against Peter's ankle.

XXX

Peter gave an ambivalent head-wobble and something of a smile in return as Sylar touched his leg. Inadvertent, Peter assumed. Or maybe just getting his attention. When the touch continued as rubbing, the smile fell off his face. He was completely uninterested in having his difficult situation with his mother used as grounds for flirting. There was no way that was intended as a comforting, sympathetic touch between them. His mind flashed back to Sylar's desire to fuck Peter as revenge against Peter's family. He jerked his leg away from the contact, giving Sylar a few seconds of his most baleful glare. Peter gathered up his plate and coffee cup. He slid out of the booth with a quick glance down to make sure Sylar wasn't continuing to tangle up his legs.

Peter stalked stiffly to the sink behind the counter, depositing his dishes before heading back. He planted his balled fists on the table, leaning towards Sylar. "If she were here, instead of you, I'm sure I could get something worked out with her. Unlike some of my relatives, whom I will never have that chance with, because of _you_." With that, he scooped up Sylar's plate in an aggressive gesture. He headed back to wash up and hopefully get some distance from the asshole.

XXX

Surprisingly, Sylar didn't feel very threatened despite Peter's very meaning posture. It felt like an attempt at a guilt trip. _What's he going to do – smack my face into the table?_ Perhaps the roast beef had gone bad, but his back felt worse than Peter's glaring and his words. He met Peter's look with an unimpressed one of his own. _So that's how you want to play, is it? Fine._ He called sarcastically after the man's retreating back, "Right. All you need is _time_ with her. I thought you did kiss-and-makeup with him?" He further baited Petrelli with, "What else was left to hash out?"

XXX

Peter ignored Sylar's words – he certainly didn't respond to them. He slammed the dishes around as much as seemed safe and scrubbed off what little food residue was on them _. He's right. I probably wouldn't really be able to work anything out with her. Ever_. He thought back to the last time he'd seen her, on the surface troubled by what to put on Nathan's tombstone, but in truth worried about the son she still had. Peter had felt that worry, much as it frustrated him. He knew the depth of her feelings and he didn't doubt them, but she did wrong anyway, or at least things that looked wrong from Peter's point of view. _What Sylar's done looks wrong to me, too. But obviously he thought it was okay. Or did he? He said he knew it was wrong. Then why did he do it?_ Peter huffed with continued frustration, setting aside the cleaned dishes to dry. _I just need to get away from it all for a while._

XXX

 _That's what I thought – there was nothing left to hash out with_ him _. And no one would get anywhere with_ her _._ After the silence became deafening in a few short minutes, Sylar sighed. This was one of those times where Peter facing reality wasn't always the smoothest ride and Sylar could choose to stick to his guns (and what they both knew was the truth) or he could back down and possibly scavenge what was left of Peter's company. "Never mind. Did you enjoy your eggs?" he called after Peter as he sidled up to the bar area.

XXX

Peter toweled off his hands. "They were fine," he replied coolly. He considered making the standard inquiry in return, but his desire to discourage conversation won out. He went to the door, pausing there to slip into his jacket and put on his headband and gloves.

XXX

"Hey, whoa! Where are we going? There's no hurry." Sylar had nothing to tinker with and nothing he needed to carry with him, so he was ready when Peter rather hastily slipped out the door and didn't hold it open or wait for him to exit. "So…where are we headed?" It didn't look like Peter needed directions, which wasn't completely worrisome yet, though Peter might be attempting to get space Sylar didn't want to grant if his quick escape said anything.

XXX

Peter rolled his eyes at the pestering. Clearly he needed to give an answer whether he wanted to or not, else Sylar would simply follow him to find out. Which meant, also, that Peter needed to decide where he was going. He thought of a place basically at random. "I was thinking I'd go to that hotel we passed through a couple months ago. It's along the river, south of here. Going _alone_ ," he clarified in case that wasn't crystal clear. "They had a pool. I might explore out from there for a day or two." The destination and plan came together in his head, becoming more appealing the more he thought about it. It was convenient that he'd automatically turned back in the direction of his apartment when he'd left the diner. _I'll need to stop off and pack a bag. There won't be any clothes in a hotel._ The trip sounded empty, lonely, and a little scary, but that was probably better than hanging around here, being dogged by an unrepentant killer who thought Peter was hot at the most inappropriate moments.

XXX

"Oh," Sylar replied in a small voice. _He's moving away._ Sylar felt his body clench as anxiety fired through his nerves, making the pain in his back all the more acute. _It must have been something I said. Just now or…yesterday? (How will I sleep? It's been days already…He said he wouldn't leave…I have nothing to offer him, nothing he wants)._ He noticed they were walking north, back towards Peter's building, though it made no sense for Peter to walk him home. Perhaps it was a mistake. That was worrisome and confusing but hardly the biggest concern. "What…what should I do about my back?" he asked, still not imposing with his volume. _He hasn't checked it this time._ _(He lied – he's not going to take care of me. What if he never comes back? He'll just keep exploring 'out' and away)._

XXX

Peter shrugged. "It should get better on its own. Everything else here does." He made a wave at the empty world they were walking through. "Cuts, scrapes, black eyes, broken bones, concussions – none of which need my help." _I suppose that sounds bitter. I wonder how he'd feel if all his watches and clocks would just fix themselves?_ "The biggest contribution I can make to your health is not being here to endanger it." He looked over at Sylar, reading the increased tension the guy was radiating. _It's not his back he's upset about. It's me leaving_. But it was Sylar's back he'd mentioned, so Peter explored that line a little further. "How does your back feel?"

XXX

Sylar pursed his lips. He was desperately thinking of excuses, or better yet, reasons to keep Peter somewhere known, somewhere close. If he couldn't convince Peter using medical issues, he had no qualms about throwing down, calling Peter names in order to remind him of his so-called 'promises.' "Tight, hot, itchy, maybe burning…" That much was true and he could always exaggerate. He glanced over at his nurse to see how that was received.

XXX

Peter regarded Sylar for a steady moment, then looked away to open the door to his apartment building. _He wants me to stay. That's the best he's got: 'I've got a boo-boo'?_ _That's a weird description, though. It should only be sore_ _._ "I'll take a look at it after I go up and get some stuff. I won't be long." Leaving Sylar in the lobby, Peter took the elevator. It was faster. He tossed a couple pair of underwear and a change of clothes in the backpack, topping it off with the electric razor and his toothbrush. He added a couple carrots and pieces of fruit from the kitchen, then returned to the lobby.

XXX

"Okay," he croaked, intent on waiting impatiently by the elevator and stairs, which he did, slumped against the far wall, arms crossed, trying not to fidget. _He's even packing his things. (What about his guitar? The rec room? The piano? The diner? He might come back for those so I can see him, maybe, even if he doesn't come back for me)._ It wasn't long before Peter returned with only a backpack. _Is that good or is that all he really cares about, all he needs?_ Sylar straightened up and stuck close to Peter.

XXX

Peter went to the glass doors out, dropping his backpack next to them. It was still gloomy out, but the south-facing doors featured the best lighting he was likely to get. He gave the weather a second look. Four to six inches of fresh snow, frigid air, and a cloudy sky that threatened to dump even more white stuff weren't good conditions to go marching off alone in. He frowned. _I'm not even entirely sure where the hotel is. It can't be that hard to get to – find the river and go south, right?_ He turned to Sylar, half-hoping the man would give him a good reason not to go. "Let's see it." He waited for Sylar to strip down.

XXX

Sylar smirked despite himself at the man's frown and the convenient, Godsend weather. _I wonder how he would handle it if I had to…restrain him._ He began to unbutton his coat, which was easy enough, but the motions of getting his shirt up scraped even the basic fabric of his shirt across his back and he hissed. He shuffled to present his back to Peter, leaving some of his shirt in the way, trusting Peter to handle it even as he felt his hope slipping away. _He won't see anything because there's nothing there. He won't stay._

XXX

Peter noted the sound of pain and that Sylar didn't get the shirt clear of his back. _He's really hurting. Good? Well, it_ was _the point._ Peter carefully lifted the tail of the shirt, bunching it and raising it so he had a good view. What he saw made his brows furrow. "Step back a little here," he murmured, giving the shirt a light tug to indicate that he wanted Sylar to stand as close to the light from the windows as possible. With his free hand, Peter touched the welted skin. Every place where he'd broken the skin, it was hot and red. The tissue below was inflamed and obviously going through the standard first stage of infection. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. "Did you…What did you do to treat this?" He touched around the injuries enough to make sure this wasn't make-up or some other ruse.

XXX

Sylar huffed a sigh over the comment he wanted to make about Peter's intentional lack of care until this point. Go figure his own personal care in the meantime would be questioned. "I showered, iced, took some Tylenol, and wore clean shirts. It's not like I can reach my own back to do anything more."

XXX

Peter looked at his bare hand on Sylar's back. _Should I be wearing gloves?_ "You have an infection. This place isn't sterile after all." The implications of that were mind-boggling.

XXX

Sylar frowned and waited a few seconds in case Peter was joking. "What?" _Really?_ "Does that mean you're not leaving?" He knew he probably sounded too excited about that but he was so relieved he felt the tension release from his muscles. Then another thought invaded, _Is he going to be upset that he might have to stay with me now? I'm too needy._

XXX

Peter saw and nearly felt the tension shed from Sylar's body. Then there was the tone of voice – he sounded almost gleeful that Peter's trip might be postponed. Peter gently draped the shirt over Sylar's back again. "I wasn't going to be gone for very long, anyway," Peter said in a soft, grumpy tone. "I told you where I was going and when I'd be back. That's not 'leaving'." He handed Sylar his coat. Peter glanced down at his backpack and picked it up anyway rather than abandon it here. "We're going across the street so I can see what I have in the trauma bag. I didn't exactly load up on antibiotics. I thought it didn't matter. I suppose we're still the only two disease vectors here." _Which means those spots are where_ I _infected you. Maybe my hate had something to do with it? It certainly made_ me _sick._ Once Sylar was outfitted, they trekked across the street to the Pegasus.

XXX

Sylar was working on a slow boil. This was all Peter's fault with his stupid ideas and commitment issues. He took his coat and buttoned it up without complaint, instead waiting for that until they were on the sidewalk. "Right. You _packed a bag_ , Peter." He said that with all the importance and emphasis it warranted. "There would be nothing to stop you from continuing to explore away from me without telling me. And you were going to leave without looking at my back at all." He took the actual infection in stride seeing how it was likely minor but Peter's behavior…

XXX

"It was an overnight stay," Peter said levelly, the softness having left his tone at the various accusations.

XXX

"You know, you keep telling me it's 'your fault' about whipping me, but you're treating me like I did something wrong. I think I deserve an answer, Petrelli, before or after you kill me with neglect so you don't have to bother fixing me up like you pr- said you would." _He didn't promise. We both know that. I knew his promises weren't good, but now agreements aren't either?_

XXX

Peter stopped in front of the doors to the Pegasus, still outside. Everything Sylar said was an offense. "You _did_ do something wrong and you know it! You're a murderer! What 'answer' is this that you think you deserve?"

XXX

"Whatever it was I did wrong yesterday! Giving me the distant silent treatment isn't helpful." Sylar stopped as well, waving his hands out once before he huffed and went quiet.

XXX

Peter drew his head back, shifting his stance so his whole body leaned slightly away from Sylar. His face was stony. "You asked me to hurt you. You told me you wanted me to take out how I felt on you. You said you wanted my passion. You wanted me to engage, to make you feel sorry." Peter glared at Sylar, teeth clenching as his jaw worked tensely. "I gave it my best shot. _I_ didn't want to do any of that." His voice rose as he continued, "That's why I wasn't doing it before! It is _pointless_ to hurt people. The only thing it satisfies is yourself and it isn't worth it!"

XXX

Sylar crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. Peter's selfish satisfaction was the intended purpose and they both were well aware of it. It was stupid to throw away such an opportunity over…over what? Sylar suspected it was the 'torture' comment he'd made about that Building 26 agent, somehow comparing Peter with a killer who would (had) done worse before.

XXX

He tilted his head, his posture more normal now. He gestured with energy to punctuate his words. "I don't know what it is with you! I feel like shit around you, or like I'm a shitty person – a 'Petrelli', like I'm gum you keep trying to scrape off your shoe, or like I'm some worthless, annoying kid you enjoy talking down to. I would rather be by myself and _lonely_ than be around you. I'm not going to blame myself for that and I'm not letting you blame me for it, either. Clean up your fucking act, Sylar! Because there's no way in hell that me going off to a hotel for a couple days to get the fuck _away from you_ is on me! I wasn't leaving this world or this place without you. You've got my word on that and you know my track record. If those aren't good enough for you, then go fuck yourself, because it's all I've got!"

With that, he yanked open the door to the apartment building and stalked inside, still intent on performing the duties required for Sylar's health.

XXX

That was more than enough to shut him up. He shuffled in behind Peter after several seconds delay, feeling frustrated, inept, angry at himself and Peter, accomplished and proud, and strangely a little shamed and regretful for either insulting or hurting Peter's feelings. His _feelings_ of all things. _I asked him how to treat him... I treat him…like I feel. And how I think he'll treat me – or how he should treat me. And half the time I want him to feel just like this. He's not my friend but he doesn't want to be my enemy. And his 'word' is still questionable. (But he's offering all he's got? At least I have an answer. It's my fault. I just…don't know how to fix it)._ Peter's track record was pretty good and perhaps medical care was better late than never. As for the immediate situation, they both (or at least, Peter) had to go up to the suite for the emergency bag. _Actually, it's probably sad how much use we've gotten out of that damn bag._ Sylar didn't know if he was supposed to tag along but it would be better not to force Peter to make more trips than necessary – and, by Petrelli's logic, he was unlikely to be injured further. _If he's gum on the bottom of my shoe, what does that make me to him?_ So he slid into the elevator with Peter, focused on anything but Peter. After the first few floors dinged by, he said quietly, "You're probably right."

XXX

Peter eyed Sylar's somewhat shame-faced demeanor, wondering if he'd actually gotten through to the guy. "About what?"

XXX

"About how I treat you and cleaning up my act." He shifted his weight, still not really making eye contact and hands now firmly embedded in his jeans pockets. "And...you wanting to be alone instead."

XXX

 _Well...yeah._ But the admission defused Peter a great deal. _Does he understand how the one leads to the other?_ Peter huffed and looked up at the numbers flashing by steadily until they reached their floor. He left the matter alone though, saying nothing to Sylar and focusing on calming down. He let his thoughts roam over the previous few days, letting the memories pass by without stirring him up again. When the doors opened, Peter made a slight 'come on' wave with his hand as he walked out without other communication.

Inside the penthouse suite, he dropped his backpack inside the door and rummaged through the trauma kit. "Take off your coat." His voice was distracted and tired. As he'd expected, there wasn't much of use in the kit. "The best I've got here is some disinfecting wipes and antibiotic ointment. That might be enough. The other option is getting a systemic antibiotic. That would mean we'd have to go to the hospital." He shot a look out the expansive windows that took up nearly an entire wall of the suite. "I think we have enough time to get to there and back…but there's a lot of snow on the ground." He looked to Sylar. He doubted Sylar would let him leave without accompaniment and even if he did, Peter was uneasy about leaving a possibly ill patient unattended for what might end up being an overnight stay. "Do you think we should go?"

XXX

Sylar obeyed, wondering why he'd compulsively buttoned his coat up completely when Peter had said he'd just be taking it off again in moments. He watched the kit with lingering suspicion though he'd checked it out several times now. His head snapped up at the mention of the hospital. _'We'? He wants…? At the hospital…? Was this all his plan?!_ "Um, no," he replied like it was perfectly obvious. There was no way he was going to the hospital with Peter Petrelli, not if there was even the slightest chance of getting stuck there together, nor was he letting Peter go the hospital alone.

XXX

Peter looked at him blankly for a moment, trying to work out if Sylar's tone meant he felt his injuries were obviously too minor to require the trip, or if the trip itself was too risky regardless of his condition. _When I went before, it was through worse weather than this, when I was still beat up and I was less sure of where the place was. I can go again. It's not that dangerous._ He pursed his lips. _He said no, though. I asked and that's the answer. I have to live with it._ He walked over to Sylar. "Let me have your hand?" He reached for it a moment after the request.

XXX

 _Oh, now you care. I should not do it, just to…I don't know, be difficult and see what he'd do._ But he proffered a hand, palm down, noting that Peter was already grabbing for him anyway.

XXX

Peter cupped his hands around Sylar's, thinking about the temperature. It seemed normal, but they'd just been outside in the cold. "Another thing the kit didn't have is a thermometer. Do you feel like you have a fever?" He did not attempt to reach for Sylar's forehead, although he did at least look at it.

XXX

 _Are you trying to piss me off today?_ Sylar thought of the attention towards his cranium, narrowing his eyes warily about it. "No…I don't think so."

XXX

Peter nodded. No fever meant less reason to brave the winter weather and no reason to argue with Sylar over it. "Take your shirt off again. I'll treat you with what I've got here." Peter departed for the kitchen, where he rolled up his sleeves, soaped, lathered, and rinsed. He studied the soap dispenser as he scrubbed. It was a standard antibacterial hand soap, which was just what he wanted. He cut his cleaning efforts short when he could see over his shoulder that Sylar was struggling with his shirt. Peter walked over and tugged the garment up and off.

XXX

Sylar complied after getting stuck with getting his shirt up again and receiving help with it again. He felt the colder air attacking his exposed skin, making him break out with gooseflesh before Peter even touched him.

XXX

"Do you want me to wear gloves?" Peter asked, tossing the shirt on the end of the bed.

XXX

"Does it matter?" _I didn't think you could catch infection from skin-to-skin contact, but Peter would know, I guess._

XXX

"I don't think so. I can feel you better without them – good for telling skin temperature and that sort of thing. And despite me looking right at evidence that there are pathogens here, we're still the only two sources of contamination around. I'm healthy. You're healthy. We both think we're clean. We could be wrong. Gloves protect against that, but I think the chance is so low it's more a preference thing. Do you have a preference?"

XXX

 _You're healthy, my ass. How could you be after fucking half a city? And your job. And dying several times._ He wanted to tell Peter not to use gloves, partly as a sexual metaphor and mostly to feel Peter's skin against him. The rational part of his brain told him that infecting Peter would only end badly. "…No."

XXX

Peter shrugged and continued, sans gloves. He went back to the bag for the wipes, ointment, and most of the gauze in the kit. "Numbing spray is downstairs," he said absently to himself. The main trauma kit was here in their room, sitting on the wheelchair near the door. What he'd taken downstairs for the various floggings had been a smaller bag with fewer supplies, but as usual, something he'd taken out was now wanted here again. _Murphy's Law of EMT Supplies: regardless of what equipment you bring, you'll always need something you left behind._ He carried the supplies he had over to the kitchen table, arranging them to his needs. "Have a seat. Sit...backwards on the chair with your back towards me. I'm going to debride the infected areas. It's going to hurt." He didn't try to sugarcoat it in the least – Sylar wouldn't buy it and Peter wasn't feeling sympathetic.

XXX

 _Great,_ Sylar thought of the multiple bags he now had to keep track of. He followed the instructions, but half-turned to look back and indicate his unreadiness. "You're going to what?"

XXX

Peter holds up a piece of gauze. "I'm going to scrub out the infected tissue." He let Sylar work out how that would feel.

Peter set about his task with ruthless efficiency, scrubbing away infected tissue until each of the five open welts was clean and bleeding. He pressed fresh gauze over each, applying light pressure to the worst spot. He hooked a nearby chair with his toe and pulled it over, taking a seat while he took turns dabbing at the other spots until the blood stopped.

XXX

Sylar bit his lip to keep quiet doing nearly a near-perfect job of it, not counting holding his breath and heavy exhales. He did that in part because of Peter's statement that he was the toughest man the empath knew. Though he barely restrained his squirms of pain. It felt like Petrelli was rubbing steel wool or needles over an open, bruised wound on an already sensitive area, making it all the more raw. _Fuck! That's the idea: making me raw. This had better be worth it! Is this necessary or just salt on my wounds?_

XXX

In a quiet tone, Peter said, "Maybe you were right. I needed to know that all this 'confronting the killer' stuff is hollow. It doesn't do any good. No matter how much I hurt you, he's still dead. And it hurts _me_ to think I'm the kind of person who would keep hitting you just to make you suffer with me. Maybe you didn't misread me after all, but that's not how I want to be anymore." He stacked the bloody gauze in a heap, thinking he should have had the foresight to bring a bowl or plate or even the trashcan over for them. He sighed and looked at the side of Sylar's face, turned towards him enough to watch. Peter explained of his simply sitting there now, "It's best to let those spots air dry for a few minutes."

XXX

At the end of it (at least, the less painful part of Peter holding gauze to him instead of scratching him to death with it), he noticed Peter wasn't and hadn't touched him…like he had in the past. Any excuse to lift his shirt and touch his skin usually resulted in Peter fondling and petting him somehow. _Maybe he's still upset…_ Sylar hoped that's all it was. He almost wanted to slip off the chair or say he had a fever (if that wouldn't cause Peter to make contact his forehead) or bump into Peter in an obvious hint just to get the contact back. _What changed? Why did he change? It's something I did, he says…_ Sylar was pulled out of his slump by Peter's words, taking some things out of context _(That wasn't what I meant about confronting me…)_ and giving him credit where it probably wasn't due. He still didn't appreciate being referred to as 'the killer' and pursed his lips though Peter couldn't really see. Fortunately, Sylar saw what Peter was getting at and what best served both their interests far better than him pointing out Petrelli's logic and listening flaws, "What do you want to be, Peter?"

XXX

"I want to be better – a better person, someone who helps people instead of hurting them." Peter looked down at where his hands rested on his knees. "People aren't all the same inside. I know a lot of people, like my family, seem to think I think they are. But I know some people are different. You and me...we aren't different. We've done...way different things with our lives, but...what you have inside of you, and what I have inside of me," Peter pointed at his own head, "I think it's more alike than not."

XXX

Sylar had since pivoted and angled himself to face Peter without getting a kink in his neck. That was very interesting because Peter spent so much time contrasting them and telling Sylar everything that was and wasn't in no uncertain terms. _He wants to be friendly now, so he wants to see me as…human. A hero. (I'd like to be inside you)_. His eyes probably betrayed that thought briefly. It was still the perfect solution that Peter continued to ignore, and with Peter not touching him, well…"That's my line, Peter," he said mischievously, flirting but serious. "You're supposed to say things like why killing is wrong and how far from your 'type' I am."

XXX

"Well, it _is_ wrong," Peter said with a brief smile at the flirtiness. "I'm pretty sure my type isn't people who have killed my brother, helped kill my dad, tried with my mom, assaulted my niece, if you did anything with my nephews or sister-in-law I don't want to hear about it right now, and did me in at least once. That's," Peter wobbled his head back and forth in emphasis, "all pretty wrong stuff." He picked up the foil ointment package, checking out which end had the notch to open it, but not using it yet. "Except my dad. What I did was terrible, but I still think it was the right thing. I don't hold that one against you."

XXX

Sylar sighed. "I guess that clears up one thing: I thought it was all about _him_. And you. When you put it that way…" He leaned his head to the side in an in-between, doubtful gesture. "I didn't do anything to Heidi or her kids. Why would I?" He shook his head briefly, disgusted at the idea although he had a few about furthering his ends to torture Angela. _I fucked around with Matt's head using his son. But no one got hurt. I bet Peter wouldn't believe a word of it._ "Never mind." Of course Peter would think that, even though it would be Peter's own fault if something had befallen Heidi or the boys – since the medic had been so purposefully out of touch with everyone, even ignoring his own brother after supposedly making up with him. "Take comfort in the fact that all of Arthur's grandkids would have grown up to kill me just like Nona Angela and Uncle Pete. And we could all be glad that Heidi still wouldn't have a clue what's going on." _Unless Peter gets his way and gets his brother back_. He gave Petrelli a narrowed side-eye, fully expecting another kidney punch at the mention of The Family. "No rest for the wicked."


	132. Fire and Ice

Day 73, February 21, afternoon

Peter grimaced, not happy with a lot of what Sylar had to say or the way he was saying it. He shifted his attention to the ointment packet in his hand, tearing it open and standing up again to apply it. He gestured for Sylar to turn and moved to stand behind him. "Yeah, maybe," Peter grudgingly and vaguely agreed. "I'm going to put this stuff on the lacerations. It shouldn't hurt much." He spread a thin layer over each site. He was careful and gentle. Unlike the debriding, this didn't have to hurt, so Peter tried to make it painless.

He spoke quietly as he worked. "I didn't talk to Heidi or the kids much at the funeral." _Does he care what went on with Nathan's family? If he sometimes still thinks he's Nathan, then wouldn't he? I think he would._ "Just a 'hello' I think. I didn't know- I-," he hesitated before continuing, "I didn't want to lie to them, but I didn't want to explain, either. That's probably why their marriage fell apart – she didn't know what was really going on. Abilities have…distanced me from my own family, at least from the members that don't have them. The secrecy did a number on my work, too. All my friends from college and stuff…I haven't talked to them for years now. I don't know how anyone could keep a meaningful relationship with someone if they didn't share that about themselves." He finished tending Sylar's injuries, giving everything a final, critical review before setting aside the ointment. "I'm done. I'll help you with your shirt after I wash this stuff off." Peter moved off to the sink.

XXX

Turned away, chin on forearms on the back of the chair, Sylar twitched at the mention of his erstwhile family…and the funeral, biting his tongue because some comment that was not his own about discretion was going to come flying out any second. His tongue hurt but the application of ointment did not. Just as quickly as Peter mentioned it, he switched to speak of things more personal to Peter and less relevant to Sylar. Or was it? He felt two different but similar pangs of emotion about Nathan (and Heidi and the boys), then about Peter's…loss or somewhat necessary choice. _He's telling me_ _b_ _ecause I understand. I can't make friends and he can't keep the ones he had._ He nodded, introspective. Peter's sharing was strangely warming after the less pleasant emotions stirred up.

XXX

"I'm glad you left them out of it," Peter said as he crossed the room to where Sylar was with his shirt. "Heidi and the boys. They're better off not involved." He helped pull the garment over Sylar's head, thinking briefly that Sylar would be better off with a button-up. But if Sylar wasn't wearing the t-shirt, then Peter wouldn't have an excuse to help him. So the thought wandered off unattended.

XXX

Sylar snorted, bitter. "That doesn't make me any less a monster. I'm not a humanitarian." Perhaps that was his way of more tactfully telling Peter that if (in any universe) Angela attempted to try anything ever again, it would make Peter's head spin how fast Heidi and kids could be threatened, even if only to make a point.

XXX

Peter raised both brows and gave his head a tilt. Sylar's reasons for leaving people alive or not were murky. He moved from the table to the couch and asked, "Can you tell me about a time when you killed someone and you thought it was completely justified? No, wait," Peter considered for a moment, then continued. "Tell me about a time that you think _I_ would think you were justified." He sat on the arm of the couch, leaning forward to give Sylar his full attention.

XXX

He watched Peter as he walked in front of him to perch on the couch. Face blank, he deadpanned, "Why?" And he almost added, 'It won't change anything' because he knew, and keenly felt, exactly what Peter truly thought of him.

XXX

"You asked why you would do something to Heidi and Nathan's sons." Peter shrugged and spread his hands. "I don't know why you've done a lot of what you've done. So tell me about a time when you were in the right – self-defense, protecting someone else, something like that. You've said it's happened."

XXX

'Nathan's sons' had his back straightening as he stiffened. He felt a rush of anger and defensiveness but he wasn't sure what he would…should defend against. He _wasn't a father to them and none of them were mine. And I don't want them. I don't even know them._ It was a very odd feeling to have people who were not his people, siblings, children, an ex-wife, with real memories voyeuristically stolen from someone else, leaving him to feel attached and somehow, somewhat partially responsible with no desire for that burden. Sylar hunched over for several seconds to collect himself, gritting out, "Don't talk about them. Or Claire." Though Peter had already moved on to another question he could more readily address.

XXX

Peter raised his brows at the admonition, but a second later he fixed his face. There were so many emotionally-laden reasons Sylar might not want them mentioned. Peter made a mental note and left it alone.

XXX

Sylar then shrugged his shoulders back, assuming the body language of confidence as he walked over to seat himself in the middle of the couch, slumping back gently because his back was still tender and would be for some time. He didn't want to start the argument about self-defense and how that wasn't justifiable, so he began the story Peter was actually interested in. "I killed Dr. Livitz to save you at Pinehearst. I suppose killing D-…your father can be justified because you've justified it. I think I killed a few agents to get Luke and I out of a diner when they started shooting up the place with people still inside. I would have killed Bennet to protect everyone," Sylar rolled his eyes. "Even killing you a few times could be justified self-defense. Hmm," he hummed, not intending to bring self-defense into it, and looked away for a moment. "And now that I think about it, the list of people I've killed to protect someone else is much shorter than the list of how many times I've died to protect other people." He glanced back at Peter, feeling stupid for playing this game, or a game so obvious, like he was seeking Peter Petrelli's approval.

XXX

This was more interesting. Peter pivoted to follow Sylar. When it was clear the man was going to talk, Peter slid from the arm of the couch into the seat, still listening intently. He frowned about Sylar trying to stretch his attacks on Peter to be self-defense. They patently weren't and it made him wonder if killing Dr. Livitz had really been necessary. Peter couldn't summon up much outrage for that one, given the man was about to aid Mohinder in what looked a lot like Peter's murder. Even if it was an unnecessary use of force, Peter wasn't going to argue it. Sylar's last sentence about dying for others was much more intriguing. It brought him back on target as the frown left Peter's face and he met Sylar's eyes. "Tell me about one of those times. How did you feel? Why did you do it? What happened?" The one-sentence, throw-away mentions weren't what Peter wanted. "I want to understand why you made the choices you did."

XXX

The intensity of Peter's interest was a little off-putting. Sylar didn't like this level (or perhaps it was the subject) of attention on something Peter probably gave too much credit for. Dying to save someone had proved meaningless in the past, but to Peter it was the height of heroism because the empath lacked the brainpower to think of a better option or believed in martyrdom as he'd admitted before. "I don't know. Usually it's more efficient. I heal- or, I used to. It's not like many people would care if I didn't heal; they'd only be bent out of shape if I was supposed to be part of their big plan. I just…do it if I see that person is…someone truly special or they see me differently than everyone else, sometimes it's both."

He shrugged, glancing back at Peter. "Don't read into it. It doesn't change anything…." Here, Sylar tilted his head, amending himself, "Except that you're here now, instead of…whatever Mohinder or your dad was going to do to you." Sparing a more lingering glance as he felt through the answer more. _(Sometimes, very rarely, they meant something to me, too),_ he thought in reference to Elle, and the Petrellis when they'd so briefly been his family, and what he could barely describe as his friends, Luke and Micah. "You were my brother then. And now you're not. Fuck, I saved your _mother_ of all people. Look how that turned out."

XXX

Peter raised his brows slightly, pursed his lips, and tilted his head. Quietly, he said, "I'm glad you saved her. And anyway, the point is, for most of this, not what's efficient but what you're willing to do. That you're willing to risk, or _give_ yourself, to save someone else. That matters. I've died, some. Claire can say it's no big deal, but I- it always hurt. It was always death. Most of the time, I didn't know for sure if I'd wake up again, and sometimes I was sure I wouldn't." He considered Sylar's comment about their relation: _He saved me because he was my brother. He's not now so all bets are off. Got it_. Peter didn't blame Sylar – he accepted the change in terms easily enough because his own loyalties followed family lines up to a point. In a harder tone of voice, Peter said, "Mohinder and my father were going to experiment on me until I died. They said as much. They showed me others they were doing the same thing to. I never had any reason to doubt it. That's what you saved me from." He gazed at Sylar steadily for several seconds, trying to convey the sort of horrific death Sylar had prevented, callous to the extreme that his own father had cast him aside as trash worthy only in seeing how interestingly he might expire, and the gratitude Peter felt at having been spared that. In this, that Sylar was or wasn't his brother made no difference. Finally, Peter looked down, pensively rubbing his left thumb across his right forefinger.

XXX

Sylar met the other man's look, holding it. _I don't…think I would wish that on him. I don't think I would have wished that on anyone but things have changed. I've changed. I've become evil; adapted to be like them._ It made him warm to have that deed singled out as important and meaningful, perhaps even more so than he'd originally intended. Sylar sat up, butt closer to the edge of the cushion and angled his torso towards Peter. He reached out to brush his fingers through Peter's hair at his temple.

XXX

Peter watched Sylar reach for him and was surprised to get his hair combed through. It felt nice – familiar and not just in the sense of Sylar being more familiar than appropriate, but also in that Nathan had done that to him a lot, and his mom, some. There weren't many people who felt close enough to him to touch like this. For a moment, Peter wished that Sylar was one of those people, if only so he could enjoy this bit of touch. But Sylar wasn't. Peter pulled his head away to the side and gave Sylar a narrow-eyed, unappreciative look meant to convey that Sylar had crossed a social boundary here.

XXX

Sylar sighed. The empath had allowed more (much more) in the past. Perhaps the context was wrong or whatever emotions the man was feeling didn't combine with contact from Sylar. It didn't matter as he was determined. His hand fell to the man's shoulder, rubbing lightly. "Shh. Peter, it's okay." He didn't know what he was doing exactly; he only knew why he was doing it and what he wanted from it. Partly standing, he smoothly transitioned to straddle Peter's thighs and seat himself over his companion, both hands on shoulders now.

XXX

"Wait! What are you-" Peter leaned back, surprised and feeling a little betrayed, like Sylar had taken advantage of Peter's distraction, his introspection, like he'd somehow read Peter's thoughts about Nathan or feelings of yearning and acted on them. Peter's hands came up indecisively between them, unsure as to whether to shove Sylar off by the hips, chest, or do something about his arms. But then nothing else happened right away. Sylar had moved fairly slowly, so other than the initial squawk of protest, Peter said nothing. He swallowed and looked up at Sylar's face, studying it for the man's intentions. _'It's okay' – was he trying to soothe me?_

XXX

His brain made a wordless purr of satisfied success when Peter didn't immediately push him off. He grinned then smothered it quickly. His right hand slid around to cling to Peter's neck as his left hand gently grasped one of Peter's. He brought that hand around his side, under his shirt until he held Peter's palm resting against the very lowest part of Sylar's back, just above the waistband of his jeans. Sylar leaned in to murmur calmly, but intimate, "You know I've noticed you didn't touch me this time. What is it about this spot?" he clarified the area by circling Peter's hand to caress on his very low back. Even if he was quasi-forcing Peter to touch him there, it was still giving him gooseflesh as he'd realized he enjoyed the previous furtive contact and knowing the other man enjoyed that part of his body for some odd reason. He leaned back to see the answer.

XXX

Peter swallowed again, tense. His attention was directed to the hand Sylar was slowly moving on himself. Peter glanced down as though he could see through Sylar's midsection to the point in question, then back to Sylar. His fingers flexed a little. For a moment, the caress was Peter's and not Sylar doing it for him. His skin tingled where they touched, the sensation dancing up Peter's arm and warming him. He shook off Sylar's interference entirely, but put his hand back where it was, resting it there. Almost possessively. Almost. The tingling felt like a constant soft buzz in his nerves, an energy waiting to be unleashed. Peter drew his hand away slowly, letting it fall to where Sylar's thigh met hip. "It's a nice spot," he said defensively, his left hand mirroring the right. The sensation was still there, but much less intense. He glanced back and forth between them, fingertips pressing in slightly. He looked back up at Sylar, trying not to look resentful that Sylar was calling attention to Peter's misbehavior.

XXX

Sylar felt his breath exhale instinctively, relaxing when Peter held him on his own. It felt really good, a warm presence, intentionally splayed on a nearly intimate body part. He wanted more; he wanted it to continue for days. All too soon, Peter's hand withdrew and Sylar's breath escaped in an annoyed huff. "Hmm," he agreed. "Yes, it is. You can touch me any time you like. Especially there." He suppressed a shiver at the thought of a hand randomly slipping beneath his shirt to touch him there even though it was filthy to want it.

XXX

Peter raised a brow. "I thought you didn't like being touched." He could feel the warmth from Sylar's body seeping through his jeans. That subtle energy between them was no longer confined to just his hands. It was everywhere they were in contact. He stretched back against the hand Sylar had on his neck just slightly, testing. He was not all that sure what they were doing here – where Sylar was going with it, how far Peter was going to let him go with it, and how far was right. It certainly _looked_ wrong to have Sylar sitting on his lap like this, but damned if it didn't feel right.

XXX

He couldn't believe Petrelli was allowing this! Apparently pleasant conversation and applied interest worked wonders. "You think lots of things," Sylar said, intending to be vague but he meant the part about Peter making assumptions. Aiming to distract Peter into continuation, he massaged the heel of his right hand, previously around the back of Peter's neck, up and down, ruffling the collar of Peter's shirt. He tilted his head to view where the man had been viciously bitten several days ago. It was vivid and dark, teeth marks clearly defined with bluish bruising radiating out from the site. If Peter had 'used' the mark for his pleasure, it wasn't evident, but on the other hand it was probably still so sensitive that only a slight touch would be enough. Sylar cupped his fingers around the mark. "You said I bit you too hard last time. I can be gentle." As he said it, Sylar leaned back to see Peter's expression, and his eyes, from six inches away. He glanced back and forth between the hazel orbs. The proximity was making him high.

XXX

"Don't bite me right now!" Peter said sternly. He wasn't in the mood for pain. Plus, the whole thing of Sylar biting him was morally ambiguous even with the most liberal, nod-and-a-wink interpretation of 'helping each other out'. _I never asked for that!_ The sensuality of it all was starting to overwhelm him.

XXX

Sylar's left eyebrow twitched upward before he shrugged. "Alright." _Are we negotiating?_ His eyes narrowed in amusement because he was still sitting almost in Peter's lap as they touched and stared at one another. He did spare a look for Peter's mouth, wondering if that was preferable to being bitten right now.

XXX

Peter drew in a long, careful breath and let it out, using the moment to track how he felt and how he was responding. He caught Sylar's look to his lips and ignored it, looking down at his hands again and not coincidentally tilting his head enough that Sylar couldn't kiss him without pulling his head back up. He brought his hands back along Sylar's thighs, feeling how the tingling didn't interfere in the least with physical sensations. He could still perceive the fabric stretched taut under his fingertips. Warm. Living. Sylar's weight resting on him - not too heavy; not too light. The man was strong, lean, flexible, and oh-so-willing. _I would love to fuck him._ His mind just blurted that out, rapidly followed by thoughts that progressed from the merely sensual to the outright pornographic in seconds, layered in with all the things Sylar had said and done to indicate he was equally interested. Heat seemed to flash over Peter's body, despite his full knowledge of how impossible, inappropriate, and downright dishonorable was even the suggestion of sex between them. Peter cleared his throat, which for some reason involved clenching his ass enough to roll his hips, but at the same time he was giving Sylar's legs a push with his hands. "You gotta go," he said with a low, husky, nervous chuckle. "Come on. Off." He pushed again, firmer this time, sitting up to shift his weight as though standing up were on his mind.

XXX

Sylar noticed Peter's neck beginning to heat up right around the time Peter was urging him off. He could smell the empath and it was a scent he would love to roll around in. His own heart was racing with general excitement. The pushing was sufficient to shift him, but he wriggled back in place which placed their chests mere inches apart to make it appear like Peter had intentionally moved closer to him. "Don't you mean 'get off'?" he purred and enunciated, "I thought _you_ wanted to…get…off."

XXX

Peter made a noise that was a cross between a growl and a wordless, needy sound as Sylar squirmed on him and then leaned closer. Reluctantly, Peter's resolve came back. He brought his head up and met Sylar eye-to-eye. Peter didn't blink, blush, or look away. He was completely still for that moment. Then his jaw flexed. Teeth clenched. This time it was definitively a growl: "Get off of me. Right. Now."

XXX

Sylar heaved a dramatic sigh but complied, backing up and standing a tiny distance from Peter because all Peter would have to do was rash his back again or even slap it lightly to end even the potential of a struggle. He wasn't done touching on Peter yet, not when the man hadn't specified anything about it. Sylar laid a hand on Peter's shoulder then trailed it down his arm as the empath zipped past. "I never told you that you smell good. Even better when you're hot and bothered," he couldn't help (and didn't try to) his predatory rumble and what was probably a matching look. He could vividly imagine what it would be like to bury his nose against Peter's skin to inhale him so directly.

XXX

Peter squeezed by the tight space, feeling and not responding to the hand that trailed over him as he went. It was sexy. Fucking hot. He got away as fast as he could. Sylar's comment brought to mind clearly the scent of the man – freshly showered, lying in bed, the old pillow Peter had slept on at Sylar's apartment, or the few times he'd noticed it when in less intense doses. (Interesting how his previous impressions of danger at the scent had been replaced by something different, but no less exciting.) He shot Sylar a narrow-eyed look for being more attractive than any serial killer had a right to be. Peter didn't deny how aroused he was. Now that he wasn't sitting, his nether regions were busy trying to decide if it was time to party. A cold shower seemed inappropriate. Sylar would no doubt make comments or at least assumptions about Peter's need for concealing shower noises and ease of clean-up. A long walk in the snow was the next best thing. He snatched up his coat. "I'm going back to the hospital to get some broad-spectrum antibiotics." He glanced at the window. "There might be enough daylight to get there and back if I get going right away."

XXX

"Why? I thought you said we didn't have to go. Is it that bad?" Sylar hastily went to the table to pick up and don his coat. He didn't care for Peter forcing him to choose between letting Peter go into the hospital alone to pick up unapproved items or accompany Peter, together, in yet another hospital.

XXX

"No, it's not that bad," Peter said with a sigh at how spurious his sudden need to leave was. "But I have to get out of here and we'll need the stuff eventually anyway." He grabbed his backpack as he walked out, choosing not to comment on Sylar's decision to accompany him. It wasn't what Peter wanted and although he couldn't control where Sylar did and didn't go, he could have objected. He didn't. He was still feeling...complimented by the attention even if he had no intention of taking Sylar up on any of his offers.

XXX

It was transparent by Peter's bulge why the trip to anywhere was so important. Sylar felt so needy after days of being alone and his companion not keeping to their agreement. Right now he would have few qualms about bending over or dropping to his knees for Peter – of course, he had things he'd rather do to Peter but those were even less likely. _You don't have to leave. I'm…really not doing anything wrong._ Sylar adjusted his pants over the partial erection he hadn't realized he had, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, walking behind Peter despondently.

XXX

The elevator ride down was quiet other than the rustling of Peter putting on his headband and gloves. He glanced over Sylar. "It's a long way there. Are you going to be warm enough like that?"

XXX

Glancing over Peter's form didn't yield any information or results. He slouched against the railing of the car. Sylar was left feeling less triumphant than he should have for making some progress with Peter. He had this idea that Peter was taking him to the hospital on purpose and that he'd be abandoned and lonely in the end. Peter's question brought him out of his sinking thoughts and he looked up with an unconvinced, bitter expression mostly brought on by Peter being a poor nurse and not living up to his end of the bargain. "Like you care. I won't die from the weather."

XXX

Peter furrowed his brow, then shrugged and looked away. He refused to be guilt-tripped for having turned down Sylar's latest attempt to get in his pants. "We can always go inside stores to warm up a little if we need to." He didn't have anything else to say, so they hit the road.

XXX

With growing anger and disappointment, Sylar began a low-level glare. "You didn't answer my question. Why weren't you touching me earlier? Is it that 'I'm an injured, sick patient' thing that turns you off? Your dick wasn't turned off." Sylar caught the door after Peter went through, bringing them into the icy atmosphere of the streets.

XXX

Peter grimaced as he kicked snow out of his way. "You're not that sick." He waved at Sylar's upper body. "The thing with your back is limited, not systemic. Not a big deal." He decided not to address whether he'd been turned off or on – that answer seemed obvious. "As for the touching - I told you yesterday I was done. I meant that. Done. No more. I'll mind my own business and you'll take care of yours. But we're not keeping each other company. I'm not beating you. You're not fucking me, or, hopefully, even fucking _with_ me. We leave each other alone and that includes me…touching you…in that spot, or any other, unless it's necessary." He looked particularly surly about the last part. "Invitation notwithstanding."

XXX

 _I know I'm not sick! I know it's not a big deal! That's why you- your body wants to fuck!_ But he listened and allowed Peter to finish before butting in as Peter was making such a poor case for himself and proving Sylar right. The rest of it was worse and exactly what he'd feared. Sylar exhaled hopelessness in a disbelieving, sad sigh. It hurt and left him confused. Sometimes it seemed like Peter could…see and understand him, even treat him as an equal. Other times, Peter made unfair decisions based on his own feelings and Sylar was left feeling screwed over without the sex. Unfortunately Petrelli felt that was his right, being the morally virtuous saint he thought he was. "I thought I was your business. You _said_ you would take care of me and you _didn't_! We _agreed_! I can't reach my back to care for myself even if I wanted to. I don't get how you get to be the wounded party and punish me here because I haven't done anything wrong by your own admission. And it's my body. If we both want something to happen, just let it happen. It's not sex, it's just touching my back – it's not a sin!" He refused, with passionate stubbornness, to be shunted aside for whatever misguided, temperamental, one-sided Petrelli _feelings_ were going on.

XXX

Peter pivoted in the street so he faced Sylar. His nostrils flared as he started to get angry about ten words into Sylar's complaint. Then it dissipated – his anger – as he listened. Mentally, he quit trying to defend himself and tried to see where Sylar was coming from. His eyes narrowed with concentration as he took in the words and worked through them. He drew his lower lip in and chewed it for a second before asking, "You say I'm punishing you. Why? What's the punishment?"

XXX

Sylar frowned at Peter's body language. The empath was listening and inquiring though, and that was a huge relief. "You minding your own business, leaving each other alone, not keeping each other company," he recited verbatim, his frown now one of more previous hurt than the expectancy of being hurt or of being angry.

XXX

Peter reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with his gloved fingers. His voice was tired when he spoke. "You killed my brother, Sylar. That's a sin in my book." He didn't address how he'd taken care of Sylar's back as soon as he'd realized there was a problem, because Sylar was right that in a perfect world, Peter shouldn't have bailed on him the night before. The world was far from perfect – Nathan wasn't in it, for example – and Peter didn't feel like defending himself against something he shouldn't have had to do in the first place.

XXX

"That's great, Peter. Fine. But there's still nothing I can do about it. You-…Just never mind," Sylar began gently enough but had too much blame to lay on Petrelli. He shook his head, forceful and frustrated, turning on his heel and began down the sidewalk towards the hospital. _It's always about him. I'm not forcing him, I'm behaving, and I'm honoring our agreements. If he wants to be treated like something other than a fucking Petrelli,_ _then_ _he should quit acting like a spoiled liar half the time. I suppose this is the perfect punishment: pretending like he's not punishing me, acting like he's entitled to treat me however he wants, ignoring me because he's holier, then sometimes trying to be my friend and be my 'hero' whenever he feels like it._ To add insult to injury, it was too cold to be walking without proper outerwear.

XXX

Peter turned and followed, ending up walking a half pace behind and off to the side of Sylar. "Go on," he said eventually, eyes on the other man.

XXX

"I killed your beloved brother. I can't argue that. Just know that _I_ know what you're doing and I don't have to like it."

XXX

"What am I doing?" He remained intent, trying to pursue and settle this rather than dismiss Sylar's upset.

XXX

Sylar smiled mirthlessly. "You think your family was so horrible. You think I don't know that trick? Go right ahead and ignore me when you want and buddy up to me when you feel like it and only honor the agreements you want to. I don't have to like it."

XXX

"I think you killing my brother was pretty horrible." Peter tilted his head, refusing to fall into whatever emotionally manipulative trap he felt Sylar was attempting to lure him into. But he still wanted to get them on the same page, if that was possible. He thought it was. He hoped it was. "The thing is," Peter said carefully, "I don't get the impression you feel the same way. I get the impression that Nathan's death is inconvenient for you, and that my feelings about it are inconvenient for you. That's so..." Peter glanced around at the buildings they were passing, then up at the sky briefly, "invalidating, on one hand, and infuriating on the other. I've wanted to hurt you until you understood how it felt, but that's...pointless. Useless. You said you were my business. I'd think I'd be yours, too. How I feel about things should matter." He gave Sylar a direct look, really trying to get through to the man. "I need some indications that they do."

Peter had lived nearly all his life not putting himself, or his feelings, first. But the enormity of what Sylar had done to him, stolen from him, was finally enough to break that down and make Peter draw a line – he either got what he needed from Sylar, or else there was no relationship aside from the most impersonal that Peter could manage.

XXX

Sylar hated all of it. He hated Peter's dogged emotional neediness. It was feminine and unworthy of respect – hell yes it was inconvenient! He hated the unfairness that allowed heroes to force him into a corner, which he had to lie his way out of. At least, he had to lie if he was to keep to his plan of seducing Peter, even if that involved saying he regretted Nathan's death. He hated that his feelings never entered the equation. Sylar had many tangents and things that wanted to burst out from his mouth. But he bit his tongue. The logic (or excuse) that he'd killed Nathan to finally make room for Peter wasn't going to fly any further than it already had. It was obvious Peter wanted the active and frequent humiliation of apologies and baseless flattery every five minutes. If he wanted into Peter's pants, he would have to capitulate. _He's right. Not forcing him to fuck, or drugging him or tying him up, asking him what he wants, listening to his BS, and letting him beat_ _me_ _is just inconsiderate of me._ "Fine. I'm sorry," he said simply. This was the first time he'd ever said it to Peter. Peter hadn't stopped walking to have this oh-so-significant talk and neither did Sylar.

XXX

Peter hurried for a couple strides to put him even with Sylar so he could see his face better. He was dubious and suspicious. Sylar's admission had come too easily. It was too glib. "Do you know what you did was wrong?" _Is he fucking with me?_ It was not a subject for which Peter had any patience with being led on.

XXX

"I killed your brother," Sylar replied, getting annoyed now. _Obviously. He's the only one who counts._

XXX

 _Duh._ Peter still didn't have the answer he was looking for – if Sylar understood why Peter was angry about the murder. This was fast becoming an exercise in frustration. "Why did you do it if you knew it was wrong?" Peter asked doggedly.

XXX

He'd lost count of how many times he'd answered this exact question before. "I did it because I could," that came out with a bit more heat.

XXX

 _He's not sorry at all! Why did he say he was? Is he intentionally fucking with me? Over this?!_ "Did you know it was wrong at the time you did it?" This time, Peter's question came out faster, the words clipped. His expression had hardened.

XXX

That one…made more sense. Nathan's death- his murder – had been almost premeditated. The Brothers Petrelli had arrived, not unexpectedly, with the intention of sticking their noses rather violently into his business. Never mind that he'd sort of kidnapped Claire or impersonated Nathan on national television or planned to assassinate the president and take over the job. Sylar still suspected that the real reasons were things of the past and the fact that he was and always would be a villain with target on the back of his head. He remembered thinking something along those very lines, something like, 'Claire won't be happy with me now.' He'd given no thought to Peter, and more thought to fucking Angela and how fitting it was to rob her of a son when she wouldn't accept him as anything more than a murder weapon. "…Yes…" he said, all of his anger dissipated completely and he began to feel doubt.

XXX

Peter snorted at Sylar's lengthy pause, incensed at the possibility the man was only now considering the moral implications of what he'd done. "But you did it anyway! Why do you do things that you know are wrong?" His nose was wrinkled and he threw his arms out to the sides in frustrated exasperation.

XXX

"I…" Sylar was left to blink and his voice trailed off. This was precisely the discussion he didn't want to have. Ever. His reasons were selfish and always misunderstood. They never held up; that's why he never gave much explanation.

XXX

Peter didn't wait for Sylar to come up with more of an answer than that. He snapped, "Do you feel good about doing things that are wrong, is that it?" _All that 'bad boy', forbidden kink, like this is some kind of game to him, instead of, you know, people's lives?_

XXX

Sylar pursed his lips, feeling more than a twinge of very unpleasant, highly avoided emotions. He knew the answer was primarily affirmative but that wouldn't help his case when he was sort of attempting to apologize about killing the man's brother. He didn't know how to explain, either, not to the man who'd had his ability once upon a time but never took an ability that way and only ever killed one person (ironically, the same senator in a different time-warp). Sylar did not want to talk about the fine details of his ability and how it affected him. He looked down and away, hoping the interrogation would be over soon. "I…" he shrugged, losing all control of the conversation and he knew it.

XXX

Again, as soon as it was clear Sylar was at a loss for words, Peter jabbed at him again. "Why is that?"

XXX

 _(He wants to hear it every five minutes). It's humiliation. (I knew he'd get there eventually)._ "I'm a monster." Sylar voiced it with some question in his tone, not because he doubted what he said, rather he doubted what Peter wanted to hear.

XXX

"Puh!" Peter nearly spat in indignation. _Like recognizing it excuses it?_ "Does killing people help you somehow? How does that work?"

XXX

That, more than anything, made the most sense. Pointing out just how insignificant Nathan had been was to his plans in hindsight, that Nathan's death had backfired in horrible, unforeseen ways and if he'd just left the senator alive…At how meaningless Nathan's death had truly been…Sylar ducked his head again, feeling acute shame and hating everything and everyone, including himself as he hated feeling that way. "I'm sorry." His tone was frustrated and abrupt.

XXX

Just about everything Sylar said was drawing some disgusted exhalation from Peter. This latest apologetic noise was no different. Now he ranted at Sylar, not waiting for input. "You sound like you're sorry I'm mad about it, not about what you did! Being a monster is a result, not a cause. And besides, it's not a fucking end-state. You just stop killing people just because you can! You're not stepping on fucking ants, Sylar! These are human beings. You kill them, they're dead. I've lost a brother because of you. You. Ended. Him. He's. Gone. Fine, you've convinced me, he's not in you! You know what that means, right?" Peter took a few steps faster, getting into Sylar's path and turning to face him head-on.

XXX

Sylar quickly ceased walking, in no small part because Peter was up in his face as much as the shorter man could manage. That wasn't the worst part (and usually such an attempt might be amusing). His hands jerked from his pockets and into the freezing air. This was exactly the reason why Sylar never apologized, never opened himself up to this kind of shaming, because things couldn't improve after he did. _Is he going to hit me?_ Peter had his unwilling attention as he stood stoically for this dressing down.

XXX

"It means any hope I had of getting him back is gone, too. You can't fix what you did. You can't fix it with me. You can't fix it with him. You can't fix it with anyone else. I could go smash everything in your apartment, all those clocks, all those things, and you might be able to rebuild them. That's what you used to do, right? Repair clocks and stuff? You do that because a stopped watch," Peter held up his own wrist, still stubbornly wearing a watch that didn't function, "can become a working watch. But dead is dead. Nathan is gone - because of you, I blame you for it, and you have the _balls_ to say I'm 'punishing you' because I don't want to spend time with someone who's hurt me so much, so often, and so badly." He glared at Sylar, baring his teeth for a moment. "Just fuck off back to the penthouse, Sylar! I don't want you so much as near me!" He snorted again, turning back to face the direction they'd been going, striding away angrily.

XXX

Sylar began to cringe every so slightly and wince in extreme worry and discomfort, but he maintained eye contact because he refused to break under mere words, no matter how painful they were. 'Can't fix it' echoed hollowly in his head, upsetting him though he wasn't upset about the same thing Peter was. People weren't 'fixable'; his ability didn't apply to them. The threat (was it a threat? Certainly Peter had the idea now) to his apartment and all his belongings was horrible to contemplate, particularly when Peter had broken in before. Then the embarrassment of being stupidly needy of Peter… _(Now he'll never fuck me)._ He knew then just how badly he'd screwed himself over in this lonely world by admitting his fault, what was apparently, a mistake. It was arguably worse than murdering Nathan. Finally looking away now that Peter was very through with him, Sylar could only stare at the ground, frowning, and mumble, "I want to come with you." He shuffled after Peter.

XXX

Peter scowled back at him. "Go fuck yourself!" Just to be insulting, he added, "It's what you do best." Muttering, he continued, "Go fuck up your own life to the point no one else can stand you, even if you're the last fucking man on Earth!" Peter shook his head, kicked snow, and resolved to keep heading towards the hospital without pause or warm-up break. The wind was picking up, which he knew had to be uncomfortable and possibly even painful to the lighter-clothed Sylar. _I don't give a fuck. If he falls over from hypothermia, then I'll do something. But anything else serves him right. Like he said, 'I won't die from the weather.'_

XXX

When Peter wasn't looking, he rolled his eyes at the last comment, so ironically harmless. Sylar thought, _I_ _thought I already had fucked up my own life to the point no one can stand me even when I am the last man on Earth. Keep up with the times, Petrelli. Been there, done that._ He pursed his lips and returned his hands to his pockets now that he didn't need them out. The ground was still covered in snow, but fortunately there was not ice beneath it. Even Sylar's shoes could manage the angry pace Peter kept and it did help keep him warm, at least for a while.


	133. Cold Comfort

Day 73, February 21

Already frigid, the air had managed to get even colder. Peter was certain the flakes on the wind weren't just surface snow being blown around. No, it was snowing again. _Great_. He was frozen by the time the hospital came into view through the gloomy white. He knew Sylar had to be suffering far more. Peter's wrath had cooled enough that this mattered to him. He scanned the looming building, picking out the red lights of the emergency entrance. "Over there!" he said to Sylar in the first words he'd spoken since blowing up at the man earlier. "Come on." He said it as an order, making the assumption that Sylar was borderline or definitely hypothermic, thus probably confused. He glanced back to make sure Sylar was tagging along as he cut across the lot towards the slightly-further-away emergency entrance.

XXX

Sylar had begun the walk in growing despondency. He hated that Peter probably saw him as he truly was – a pathetic fuck-up loser with no specialness or usefulness to be had. He spent half the walk desperately thinking up a way to appease his only companion (who had blessedly fallen silent) and win back some iota of the human decency he'd just lost. _He was never a friend._ _We were never friendly, no matter what he says. (It's too confusing for me. I can't understand it.)_ As with most of his dealings with other people, he struggled to see how one minute he could be getting Peter hot and bothered, conversing literally in the man's lap, and the next be demoted to greedy, deficient pond scum. Around the halfway point, the cold got to him. He could feel the wind cutting through his jacket and into his skin. He'd long since turned up his collar but his face felt stripped clean of flesh. He shuddered with each step, paranoid about slipping, and even more afraid of what would happen if he fell and Peter kept walking…

After he'd really lost track of time, he heard a voice – Peter's – through the air rushing past his ears. He looked up to make out the small, dark form against all the white-washed weather. Without any real consideration of why he should or shouldn't, Sylar angled his trajectory to follow Peter, uncaring of their destination or what Peter might do to him there.

XXX

Once inside the sliding doors, Peter went directly behind the vacant reception desk, opened a door to the side, grimaced to find he'd opened the wrong one, then opened a second door. There was what he wanted and why he'd sought this entry over the other – a warming oven, ready stocked with toasty blankets. He grabbed three of them and shoved them at Sylar. "Wrap up." He got one for himself and put it directly over the icy skin of his own face, drawing in the scent of clean linen, faint antiseptics, and warmth. After a moment, he tossed it over his shoulder and pointed at the receptionist's chair. "Sit." He stripped off his gloves and shrugged off his backpack before helping Sylar arrange the blankets, then grabbed even more of the things to pile on top of the man. It wasn't like they needed to save them for other patients, after all.

XXX

Sylar trudged in and gasped at the temperature difference indoors. He must have aimlessly followed Peter too closely because soon after entering the building, the medic was shoving one or several large objects at him. They seemed too large to be a threat but it startled him and he tried to jerk away, failed, then his reflexes kicked in and he caught the three blankets. Within seconds, he could feel the heat breaking through his coat and he didn't move, twitching spastically from shivering. Seconds later, Sylar was falling back into the large, leather rolling chair, feeling too dumb to comprehend what was going on. He saw Peter moving and felt more heat, but it hurt to defrost! Sylar hissed and squirmed as he began to melt under the blankets. His nerves danced with tingling fire and he could hear more clearly his teeth chattering. "D-d-don't bo-ther…Mmm!" he managed before a groan ruined the sentiment.

XXX

Peter made a single chuckle of dark humor, looking over Sylar's face and registering the discomfort there. On the other hand, it was a good sign that Sylar was...responsive at least. "Hey, no dying on me," he joked. "I'd go bonkers without you here. How do you feel?" He moved close, spreading the blankets out without bothering to unfold them. He moved them as cushy blocks of warmth, putting one on Sylar's chest and another further down his thighs. The rest were in the man's lap. Peter's own hands ached with the cold and he'd had them in gloves. Sylar's were bone-white, but the man was at least still able to do gross manipulations with them.

XXX

"F-f-fuck…" he tried to curse Peter's intentions but he couldn't care enough to finish. Plus, he realized on some level that he actually needed the heat and this wasn't a mere recovery from cold walk in the tundra. "I k-k-know what you t-think of mee…" he tried to explain, still writhing stupidly as his muscles seized. But Peter had none of it and asked about his condition, like it wasn't painfully obvious even to anyone who wasn't medically trained. "I don't k-k-know…"

XXX

"You're going to be okay," Peter soothed. And he was pretty sure Sylar would be – if treated gently, dried off, warmed, and allowed to recover. This was not going to be brief. Sylar had clearly taken as hard a hit from the weather as Peter had thought possible. Seeing the man like this made Peter feel like shit for having told him off so thoroughly and not insisted on better gear. Peter had upgraded to a heavy down coat weeks ago. His heavy-duty work shoes were designed for all day outdoors on the streets of New York – mostly waterproof, high-topped, and well-cushioned with a high-traction tread. They constituted one of Peter's top five most valued physical possessions. Sylar's shoes weren't designed for what he'd just put them through, and neither was anything else he was wearing.

Peter put a hand on Sylar's forearm to emphasize what he was about to say. He spoke earnestly. "This is my fault – all of this: coming here in the middle of a snowstorm, not going back so you could get better clothes, knowing you were going to come with me no matter what. So if you know what I think of you, then you know I'm sorry for fucking you up like this. But it's going to be okay. We'll get you dry and you're going to warm up and everything will be fine."

XXX

With dark foreboding, Sylar still held onto the suspicion that his situation was intentional. He was helpless and dependent on Peter Petrelli in a hospital. Part of him longed to tell the medic to fuck off, that he'd thaw out on his own. The rest of him was needy and desperate for this change in attitude, this gentle attention. He couldn't imagine that Peter didn't know what would happen to him. _Maybe he didn't expect I would make it. He thought I'd quit and stay in some building and that would solve everything._ But the hospital…Sylar's thoughts kept returning to it with growing fear. It was all too convenient. _He wants to scare me. (That's not what he thinks of me)._ Sylar grit his teeth, shivering, having no response.

XXX

Peter moved away, grabbing a second chair and pulling it over so he could settle in. He pulled off his headband before sitting down. It was wet and icy. He tossed it at his gloves, then used the blanket on his shoulder to towel off his hair. Enough snow had blown into it and melted that his scalp was numb on top. Some of what he toweled off were melting bits of ice to match those that had been on the headband. Sylar hadn't even had that trivial degree of protection. Peter eyed the man's head, but decided to leave it alone given Sylar's issues with head-touches. Instead, Peter had put his chair in front of Sylar. Sitting, he reached towards Sylar's left foot with one hand. "I'm going to get your wet shoes off, okay?" He wasn't asking permission, but he didn't mind if it looked that way. Peter paused only long enough for Sylar to register and acknowledge his statement before continuing his motion.

XXX

He'd since zoned out to Peter and whatever he was doing, more focused on the vicious pins-and-needles throughout his body. Sylar started and oriented on Peter when the words sunk in. _I guess that's okay….It's just my shoes, right?_ "'K…" _What if I have frostbite? Is it that bad?_ Sylar sat up as much as he could, trying to see over and around the pile of blankets in his lap.

XXX

He tugged up Sylar's foot, resting the heel on his knee as he methodically stripped slush off the laces with cold-stiffened fingers. Peter kept reflecting on how his own symptoms had to be half or less of Sylar's – if he was cold, Sylar must be frozen. The shoe came off with a lot of loosening of the laces followed by as little gentle wrestling as he could manage. As Peter had suspected, the sock was damp in patches. He rolled it off as well, then pushed up the wet pant leg to expose Sylar's shin. Peter's thumb made quick indentions from the top of Sylar's foot up to as high up the leg as he could. He looked at the fill rate with a blank, professional expression. He'd seen worse, which was to say what he saw at the moment looked pretty bad but Sylar wasn't going to lose any toes because of it. He might blister, though, and if it didn't already hurt like hell, it would as it thawed. Peter stole one of the blankets in Sylar's lap to give the exposed leg a rapid rub-down to dry it as quickly as possible. "How are you doing over there?" he asked conversationally. "Is the shivering down to the point where you can stop it if you try? It's okay if it isn't. It just helps me understand how you're doing to know that." As he talked, Peter folded the blanket out and spiral-wrapped it around the leg and foot, so what heat was left in it would do some good. He set the mummy-wrapped foot next to him in the chair and paused to watch Sylar's attempt to stop shaking.

XXX

"Hmm?" Sylar said to the touch to his shin, peering over the blankets. He was quickly reduced to groaning during the rubdown as the contact abraded his nerves though the leg felt warmer after. The concern about his body hair didn't enter the equation. Hunching in on himself, wrapped around the mound of blankets, he wondered if it would be better to warm up slowly, instead of this piecemeal. With as much of a frown as he could manage, he looked at Peter. He wanted to whine and cry from the all the back-and-forth and the recent extremities to his body, but he felt too dry except for a snotty nose. _I should be able to control it. Shit, he's waiting for me to stop shivering…! I don't think I can. What does that mean? Do I need his help?_ "I…I…" he began, attempting to still himself and relax his muscles. He didn't want this kind of focus on his embarrassing, pathetic inability to control his own body. Sharply exhaling, he gave up when it seemed to only make matters worse.

XXX

Peter nodded and continued, picking up the other foot and repeating the process. After wrapping that one similarly, he held it in his lap with both hands folded over the blanket to warm them as much as anything he was doing for Sylar at that moment. "You're going to love this next part." Peter smiled wryly. "It's totally the topper for me telling you there wasn't a chance in hell of us getting together. And there's not, but I still need to take off your clothes." Peter kept smiling, more than a little flirty mischief in his eyes. The situation was about as ridiculous as it could get (or so he hoped). He tried explaining, "Your pant legs are soaked, your jacket is as wet as my headband was, and I know everything else has to be damp, too. You wouldn't have been affected so much by the cold if you hadn't worked up a sweat at some point – probably just from the walking. Quickest way to fix it is to get you out of everything that's causing the chill and get another batch of hot blankets on you. Okay?"

XXX

Sylar stared in disbelief. Being naked and dependent in a hospital, with this man, was every kind of nightmare. He knew he probably needed to strip and worse, that he needed assistance to do it. _Is he going to lock me outside? Or…inside?_ His urge to cry increased. His eyes darted around behind Peter, feeling the walls closing in, like unseen threats were hiding behind every corner. "W-we can't stay…here…" he tried to explain to Peter why that was a bad idea. It wasn't safe. They needed to take the blankets and find another well-fortified building. If they could be safe being near the hospital at all. "We can't s-stay…" this time his tone was pleading. "We can't…"

XXX

"Okay…." Peter's brows pulled together in uncertainty. "Do you mean here in the emergency room or at the hospital?" He didn't see why it mattered – one or the other – but he could see Sylar's distress and feel it starting to roll off him in palpable waves.

XXX

Another round of shivering sunk him into the backrest of the cushy chair. "It's not s-s-safe. Peter…" He needed Peter to understand and side with him on this, not only for his own safety, but possibly for Peter's as well. With growing exhaustion, he whispered, "Find…another place…"

XXX

Peter tilted his head like a curious dog. Then he shot another look around the place. He made one slow, deep nod, then lifted Sylar's feet from his lap and set them down in the chair as Peter rose. Quietly he said, "I'm going to look around," and gave Sylar a pat on the shoulder as he walked past him, leaving the half-enclosed area behind the receptionist's desk and walking into the lobby. He stopped there where Sylar could see him and he could still see Sylar. Peter's stride was slow but his body tense. 'It's not safe' was bouncing around in his head. _Maybe things are different now. He got an infection yesterday. What if it isn't safe here anymore? What would be a danger here? Monsters? Zombies? We talked about them once…_ Peter cocked his head again. He heard nothing aside from the susurrus of wind and snow against the glass, mixed with the occasional 'tink' of sleet or ice blowing with it. It was so quiet he could hear his own breathing and Sylar shivering twenty feet away. What he couldn't hear, which hit him distinctly, were the usual sounds of the emergency room: no beeping of equipment, no murmuring of voices, no footfalls, no shifting or intercom or phones. The silence made the place as creepy as going into the library with Sylar, and for a moment, just as unsettling. _No. He doesn't get to just say a few words and set me off. There's nothing to be afraid of here. He's confused. He's not oriented._ Nevertheless, Peter gave the lobby one last suspicious look before going back to Sylar's side.

Peter took off his coat, both because he wanted it off and to signal that they were staying for now. He hung it over the seat that now contained Sylar's wrapped feet. "We're safe for now. We can leave after you're dried off and warmed up." Not that he intended to leave right away. The worst thing to do for frostbite was re-exposure soon after the initial damage. With the way the storm was blowing, Peter figured they'd be staying the night, but he didn't mention that yet. "Come on," he cajoled Sylar. "What do you want me to take off first?" Peter suspected that Sylar's fingers weren't yet up to the fine manipulation that would be required for buttons and zippers.

XXX

"Mmmmhm!" Sylar finally did whine and squirm with another panicked glance around the lobby, still seeing no discernible dangers aside from Peter. He did not like his options and wished he wasn't being forced into this. "Coat…" he admitted finally. He wanted to keep his pants, or at least his underwear. With his shoes and socks off, he couldn't leave. The loss of his coat would be only another layer of protection gone. All the same, he tried to sit up and uncross his arms to be helpful to the process.

XXX

Peter leaned over Sylar, moving the blanket aside to get at the buttons. He had to stop and flex his fingers after fumbling on the third one. His fingers felt wooden, but they were getting better. He finished the rest and peeled the wet garment away. Sylar smelled, but not as much as he should have; his body heat was lacking. Even a few degrees changed a person's scent remarkably. Peter took the jacket with him to the warming oven for the blankets, putting it on the rack he'd recently emptied of blankets. "I'm going to put this in here so it will dry out faster." He grabbed his headband and gloves, slipping them inside as well. Peter pulled out a fresh, warm blanket from the bottom and returned to Sylar's side. Gently, he said, "Come here," and tugged the shivering man towards him by his far shoulder. "Come here," he repeated, tone still soft. "Let me put this behind you, on your shoulders."

XXX

Sylar groaned at the idea and actions of peeling his coat off. It was a necessary evil, like yanking off a band-aid but that didn't mean he liked it. His arms had enough coordination to slide from the sleeves and it wound up feeling like drying off from a shower – another necessary evil but once it was done, he felt he could improve and thaw out. Once the blanket was applied he sighed brokenly, as well as one could with shivering. The heated fabric around his neck was heavenly and he was glad to be sitting so he didn't have to move. Peter continued with…some kind of gesture, pulling his face closer to the man. As brief as the motion was, Sylar nearly balked several times, feeling his muscles twitch to begin to resist.

XXX

Peter wrapped the new blanket around the top of Sylar's shoulders, draping much of it around his neck with the hope that the rising heat would help with the head chill the man must be experiencing. Peter pressed the blanket against Sylar's shoulders with the steady pressure of his arm, pulling Sylar to him in a hug with Sylar's face to Peter's chest. He kept his hands at Sylar's shoulder level and carefully went no higher, also abstaining from rubbing or patting as he knew Sylar's recently flogged and abraded back couldn't take it. Peter put his other arm around Sylar to complete the embrace. He simply stood there holding him, feeling Sylar shake miserably and trying to lend him some of his own warmth. "You're going to be okay," he murmured.

XXX

Sylar waited to see where he was being led or why. The most worrisome part being that Peter might touch his head…but he could dimly feel the medic's hands on his shoulders, a dull, constant weight. Another rough breath escaped him at that – his exhale would have been hitched even if his teeth weren't chattering. It was relief and gratitude. It seemed obvious that it was for the absorption of body heat and, perhaps, of comfort. _I'm not any use to him like this, except for him to enjoy seeing me this way. But he's not…_ Peter's harsh but deserved words bewildered him in the face of this medical care. The entire situation was very confusing, every little thing was now a threat and he was woefully unprepared. It was awkward, leaning forward into Peter's chest but worth it. After a handful of seconds, he began to feel Peter's heat leaking through his shirt and into Sylar's face. It even heated his breath, using Petrelli's shirt as a filter. Shortly after, he could smell Peter, or rather, his shirt; either way, it was a welcome scent. _We can't stay. I can't stay…_ he thought even as he closed his eyes and breathed easier.

XXX

Peter kept holding as the minutes stretched out. There was no reason to rush. With the removal of Sylar's shoes and jacket, he was fairly sure the man's natural processes could make progress against the chill, however slow it might be. Also, Sylar was obviously spooked and confused. The last thing Peter wanted was to provoke Sylar such that he had to fight him, or worse yet, chase the man's now half-clothed ass out into a blizzard and fight _there_ to get him back to safety and warmth. The only danger Peter was certain of was the two of them and their often-fraught interactions. So he hugged Sylar to him and waited while the shivering slowly spaced out into intermittent spasms.

XXX

His next groan held more relief. The small warmth and proximity involved was a comfort on a level he knew he didn't deserve. He couldn't stay in this pseudo-embrace forever and they couldn't remain in the hospital for long, either. After a few moments, Sylar moved his face around on Peter's chest to warm all parts of his face. He was prepared to defend himself if Peter accused him of cuddling or taking advantage or something else, but there was no reprimand and he continued. He wished they were in a safer location where he could perhaps convince Petrelli to lie down with him for body heat. As it was, the man's warming, dry shirt banished the pins-and-needles in the nerves of his face until he began to regain feeling.

XXX

Peter thought at first Sylar was nuzzling his chest. It certainly felt that way for a moment, but the cooler skin of the new part of Sylar's face now pressed against Peter clued him in to what was going on. Sylar was just using Peter exactly as Peter had presented himself to be used. Peter smiled some and gave Sylar an encouraging squeeze. It was nice to help in so visceral and direct a manner. It gave him an entirely platonic thrill. After giving Sylar a handful of seconds to warm the other side of his face, Peter unfolded the blanket around Sylar's shoulders. He flipped part of it on Sylar's head and stepped back. "Dry your hair." He mimed a scrubbing motion at his own head before heading over to where he'd dropped his backpack.

XXX

Sylar huffed, straightening as his support backed away. He was no idiot and knew that extremities like hands, feet, and head should be attended to first, as they were the primary victims of severe cold. With a lingering glance at what Peter was doing, Sylar ducked his head to bring it more in the reach of his hands. He made a few scrubbing motions before checking Peter again. He continued this pattern until his locks lay in a drier, messy array, saying as he tried to smooth his hair down without a comb, "We can't stay here." His consonants were elongated and his motor function far from his usual precision, but he stuttered less.

XXX

Peter grabbed the backpack and brought it with him as he returned to Sylar's side, because this was an important enough concern for him to address immediately and directly. He squatted down, putting a hand on the wet denim cladding Sylar's knee. It was worrisomely cold, which was exactly how Peter expected it on someone who was borderline hypothermic. Very seriously, he said, "I hear you. I understand you want to get out of here, that you're saying it's not safe here." Peter dipped his head in a single nod, touched that Sylar seemed as concerned for Peter's safety as his own. "You're not safe out there _either_ until you get warmed up and in dry clothes." Peter gestured at his backpack. "I brought some stuff. I don't think my pants will fit you, but the shirt should and I have underwear. We still need to get your pants off and in the oven so they can get dry. They feel like they're as wet as your coat was." He patted Sylar's knee. "Pants off. Underwear, too. Let me help you with the button and zipper, then I'll get the stuff out of my pack while you finish." He leaned in, shifting aside the blankets so he could release the top button on Sylar's jeans, then awkwardly pulled down the zipper over the bunched folds of stiff, damp denim.

XXX

 _Underwear? (Is that weird if I wear his underwear?)_ Realistically, he knew Peter's undergarments were clean – else Peter wouldn't have offered – and the medic was only thinking of his health, but the social/sexual aspects were fuzzier in Sylar's mind. That mystery had been more interesting than the more present concern of getting naked to don said underwear. _Wait, help me with…?_ Sylar gave a disbelieving look, making no move to cooperate. When Peter's hands came in and under, he leaned away as if that would move him beyond reach or prevent the contact. His own hands felt too cold to grip properly, powerfully if…if he needed them to. His mind unhelpfully reminded him that Peter had stripped his pants before for medical reasons and no harm had come of it then. But today Peter had believably told him to go fuck himself after Sylar's ill-conceived and failed apology. He wasn't sure where he – they – stood. His hips unconsciously shifted into the seat further, if that were possible, to prevent Peter having to grab at the denim of his crotch to lift it away from his (doubtlessly frozen) junk. For all the drama, it was over in seconds and he breathed easier.

XXX

Peter picked up the backpack and turned away, giving Sylar a degree of privacy. He set out the change of clothes he'd brought along: shirt, underwear, and socks in one pile, jeans in another. He left the extra set of underwear in the pack. He didn't think his jeans would fit Sylar and he might as well change into dry ones himself anyway. The shirt Peter was wearing was mostly dry by virtue of having been under his coat, but his jeans were as wet as Sylar's, clinging and damp. He glanced back at how Sylar was getting along.

XXX

Sylar was left to wriggle out of wet jeans and underwear and keep himself covered and warm, all using hands that were frightfully unresponsive for a restorer of timepieces. At least Peter wasn't watching. Sylar at first tried to plan the best way to accomplish this task and simultaneously avoid it to see if the solution (or the reason) would appear/disappear without any action. More likely, Peter would jump in to help again. _What if I can't get the dry underwear up over my legs because they're damp?_ It seemed like a lot of work. Sylar arched his hips and shimmied the jeans down to start, then began to kick the pant legs to shift them down.

XXX

Peter handed him the dry clothes and collected the pants and underwear. He carried them over to the oven, arranging them on the rack while Sylar was getting dressed behind him. Peter sat on the floor to take off his shoes, then squirmed out of his pants. He turned, stretched, and reached out to snag the dry pants he'd left closer to Sylar, next to the backpack. Dragging them to him, he slid them on, then dithered over his shoes for a moment. _The tops of my socks are wet. Do I leave the shoes off and let them dry? What happens if Sylar tries to take off and I don't have my shoes on? He's not very disoriented now and he's still saying the same thing – that it's not safe_. Peter moved on to putting his shoes on, the concern great enough that he wanted to stay mobile and prepared. He got to his feet, thankful he'd brought the pack. The dry pants were much more comfortable. With his attention focused on Sylar, he hadn't realized how cold his own legs were.

He got out a final batch of blankets and plopped himself down in the seat across from Sylar. Without asking permission, he scooted close, scooped up Sylar's feet, set them in his lap, and smothered them with half the hot blankets. The other half he tossed into Sylar's lap for the man to do with as he wanted. "So, tell me why it's not safe. What do I need to be watching for?"

XXX

The waistband of Peter's underwear kept rolling and twisting inwards as Sylar tugged them up, but he had enough fine manipulation in his hands to unfurl them to lay properly; and once he wore Peter's shirt and boxer briefs whether or not they belonged to another guy, he felt better. The air of the hospital wasn't the cold of the outdoors so his legs, even bare and covered in blankets, felt like they could thaw in time. The wet was completely gone from him. The undergarment was enough to preserve his dignity and a bit of his safety. That done, Sylar watched Peter slither around in his own dressing process. Then the Italian approached him with the gift of more blankets and presumptively gathered up his feet, which Sylar allowed, after a cautionary, curious blink. Breathing out, he momentarily burrowed back under the fresh material, watching his companion. "It's a hospital," he said that like it was obvious. "We-…before- the Company…I-…Just hospitals. This is how it always starts. They infect you with something, take your clothes, lock you away, then…" Sylar took a long look around the utterly empty emergency room lobby, perhaps even stranger to him for being so abandoned. "Then they do things."

XXX

"Ah," Peter said softly. _That's what he thinks I'm doing – he's infected, I've taken away his clothes, I'm sure there's somewhere around here I could lock him up._ "I see where you're coming from." He let it alone for a moment and carefully tucked the blankets around Sylar's feet and calves, appreciating the warmth radiating from them on his still-cool hands. For the average person, Peter would have thought the fear irrational, but he knew enough of Sylar's history to know medical attention had repeatedly been used to inflict lethal and terrifying trauma on the man. Peter had injected him once and, at a different time, abandoned him to have his brains nearly dashed out by Mohinder, so Peter couldn't even make the argument that he could be trusted. Instead, he acknowledged Sylar's concerns. "That makes sense."

XXX

Sylar pursed his lips, his face grim from the memories. His attention was set on Peter and his…reaction. There was a glimmer of hope that Peter understood and might not force him to stay in the hospital. It was giving him a nearly physical itch, an unpleasant emotion made into a tangible, bodily sensation just being here.

XXX

He gazed out past Sylar at the windows that took up half the far wall. Even though Peter thought it was still daytime, late afternoon probably, it was dark as night out there. The looming, total cloud cover combined with the merciless wind and thickly blowing snow to reduce visibility to mere feet. "It's worse now out there," Peter said with a nod of his head towards the outdoors, "than it was when we came in." As he considered the weather, he did another round of compulsively checking on the tuck job on the blankets in his lap, choosing one on top to reposition under Sylar's feet, putting some padding between the man's bony heels and Peter's thighs.

XXX

Sylar glanced at Peter's compulsive, overly-kind, perhaps unconscious bundling of his feet. He hummed despite himself because the air did sneak up under the blankets to touch his legs and he couldn't keep his torso and head covered very well if he were to reach to warm his feet. It was almost a necessity for Peter to aid him that way and the gesture and literal warmth was lovely, earning a small, pleased hum that had nothing to do with Peter's comment on the weather. He did not give a damn about the weather. As soon as he got his breath back, dry clothes or not, he would dress and drag Peter through the snow to safety. More that he did not want to be parted from Peter (or have Peter unattended near the hospital and its devices), but he also felt an unforeseen responsibility not to leave a fellow special in a place like this.

XXX

Peter bit one side of his lip before saying, "Let me give you some background on where I'm coming from. The last time I came here during a storm, I thought I was going to die on the way back. It got dark. I didn't think I was going to make it." He gazed levelly at Sylar, who should know Peter had had enough death and near-death experiences that he didn't say that lightly. "The storm wasn't as bad as this one looks to be. It wasn't as cold. There was ice underneath, though, and I fell … repeatedly. Between that and the pulled muscles I already had from fighting you, I could hardly walk to get back. That's why we have that wheelchair. I'd originally thought I was getting it for you, but that thing saved my life. No way I would have made it otherwise, especially not carrying all the fluids and stuff you needed. Using it like a walker, I limped my ass back in the dark, with wet pants because even though I'd worn thermals and that heavy coat, I hadn't brought a change of clothes with me, and I didn't think I could wait until morning. I didn't think _you_ could stand for me to wait." He didn't mention how he'd thought the worsening of the storm and perhaps even his own injuries was some manifestation of Sylar's precarious condition. Those thoughts had frightened him, driven him, and made him even more determined to push through and get back even at the risk of his own life.

"But you're here now. You're safe. I'm safe. We're warming up. We don't have to go out into that." He gestured at the storm. "You, absolutely, don't need to be re-exposed to the cold. It's dangerous. You could lose fingers or toes if we tried to go back. You know how easy it is to get disoriented out there in all that snow, once you get chilled and your thinking slows down." Peter was silent a moment, chewing the inside of his lip. "But at the same time, you've got good reason not to want to be here. I get that." He paused again before continuing, "What did you have in mind? Do you know someplace close? What I was thinking is that there's beds, hot showers, and a cafeteria here. We don't have to be in a hurry like I was that other time."

XXX

Sylar listened and did his best to absorb what was said. It confounded him greatly and he didn't understand it well to begin with, the concept of someone, let alone Peter Petrelli, putting their life on the line for his and fighting to do so. _He's…confused. I'm not some savior and…he's still probably going to abandon me somewhere after what he said earlier. At least the hatred makes sense. (Am I going to die and he's being nice until I kick it? Like his 'death watch' obsession?) He shouldn't have bothered then, or now – his feelings are the same. He doesn't want to take the blame, or the credit, for my death._ Sylar slumped, feeling defeated and tired just to hear the stories and think through the explanations. "You shouldn't…take those risks," he mumbled, bringing fistfuls of the blanket up under his chin and around his mouth. _(Fingers and toes might be worth it…Better than staying here)._ Sylar felt the weight of depression as if all the snow heaps outside had suddenly avalanched onto him. The equation Peter presented had only one answer. "You'll need food." He nodded, convinced and agreeing with himself. "You need to leave before it gets worse."

XXX

Peter's left brow arched in question at Sylar's thrice-mentioned 'you', making it all about Peter. Coming as it did on the heels of Sylar looking puzzled through Peter's story and withdrawn now that it had been told, Peter was getting the message that Sylar didn't want to hear any of it. All the possible reasons for it were annoying. _You're going to hear it anyway_. "I know I just told you off an hour ago or however long – when we started this way – but there's a blizzard going on out there. When we were like two blocks from your apartment and we only had a few flurries coming down, then sure, fuck off. But now? No. Now we stick together." He gave Sylar a determined look. _He is so thick-headed sometimes!_ "If I wanted you dead, I'd have left you out there in the snow. If I wanted you dead, I'd be standing aside and letting you head back right now, wet clothes and all. Instead," Peter pressed down lightly on Sylar's ankles, "I'm holding your feet hostage to make absolutely sure you're not going back out there until you'll make it. You got me, Sylar? This is important." He leaned forward slightly, trying to emphasize that he wasn't joking around.

XXX

Sylar closed his eyes, too drained to roll them in irritation. "Yes," he sighed acknowledging Petrelli's well-worn rebuttal. "Of course you'd _say_ that. But you brought me here. It's the same thing, just slower. I can't leave. You can still go. You don't want to be here when…" Sylar shook his head, shivering once more. "Forget the clothes. Take some blankets," he plucked the topmost folded blanket and plopped it on Peter's head, thinking to warm the man's head and hair the way he'd done his own earlier. In a strange turn of events, Peter needed the blankets more than he did now. "You have to…save people and all that."

He hoped there was a chance Peter would listen to reason and depart for his own sake, though he didn't examine his motivation much beyond, well, the fact that he didn't know if he'd wish this kind of torture on his worst enemies, Peter included. The other part of him was beyond desperate to have a companion (dangerous or not) with him in this hellish place, even if it damned Peter, too. He needed another person to witness the horrors with him so at the least he wouldn't be the crazy one any more. _Maybe there's a chance they won't take him, because he's a hero…_

XXX

Peter snorted. He wasn't about to leave, for all the reasons he'd already given. He lifted the blanket immediately and somewhat warily to make sure Sylar was playing. He wasn't; or at least Peter didn't think he was, but at least the tossed blanket didn't appear to be a prelude to anything bad. Peter's face shifted to amused with a little mock outrage as he unfolded the fabric. "Might be an idea. We can use them as scarves." He looked at Sylar's disarrayed hair and teased, "You could wrap one up like a turban on your head." Peter slung the blanket around his shoulders, reaching up to scrub some of the lingering moisture out of his hair. Although his coat came equipped with a hood, he hadn't thought to pull it out of the pouch it stayed tucked into. At least, not until now. When they'd taken off, it had seemed unnecessary and he didn't like screwing up his hair any more than the headband already did. But if they had to go back out soon, it would be helpful. _Maybe I should give him my coat? …No. I need my wits. If one of us is going to get hypothermia, we'd both be better off if that's him. Swap our places and I'm not sure what would be going on. He'd probably be scalding me in a hot shower, trying to help, but doing it wrong. If I can just keep him from going back out there until this blows over, that would be better than giving him my coat._


	134. Nosocomephobia

Day 73, February 21, late afternoon

Peter flipped a layer of blanket up over his head, pulling it down to make a hood with it. With a playful smile, he intoned, "Look! I'm a Jedi!" He was simply not buying Sylar's 'doom and gloom', 'get out of here while you still can' paranoia. He'd treated it seriously before and he still respected Sylar's feelings on it, but he was thinking maybe the best thing was to just refocus Sylar's attention to something else.

XXX

Sylar's face ended in a pained, long-suffering expression. Nothing about their situation (because Peter refused to leave for some stupid, stubborn reason) was funny. Peter just didn't grasp that yet. In a way, it made him...sad that Peter would be exposed to things he couldn't imagine. It would break the little man.

XXX

"All I need are the glowing eyes," he added, perfectly aware that glowing eyes had nothing to do with Jedi. It was a deliberate baiting tactic. Peter put down the hood and elaborated in case Sylar wasn't prone to biting yet. "Why didn't I think of that back when I could explode and stuff? I'm sure I could have learned to focus that power down to just glowing eyes. That would have been super cool-looking." He smiled at Sylar, looking for a reaction and the almost-inevitable correction.

XXX

Now his expression dropped, swiftly annoyed by Peter's persistent and incorrect goofiness. "You mean glowing eyes like a _Sith_ Lord?" he intoned with deadly sarcasm, disbelieving and affronted by Peter's ignorance. "Or the Jawas?" Sylar looked away in irritation, shaking his head briefly to prevent himself from engaging and otherwise encouraging Peter further. Though glowing eyes would have been kind of cool…And frightening, if he'd had them while hunting in the dark or if he ever met Petrelli in a dark alley…or basement…or rooftop…

XXX

Peter grinned at the response. He didn't think Sith Lords had glowing eyes either, but he was a bit fuzzy on the arcane details of Star Wars lore. He'd been more into Golden Age comics heroes than space fantasy. He'd succeeded (he thought) in changing the subject, so he moved along. "You got anything you want to talk about? To ask?" Peter shrugged and gestured at the empty lobby on the other side of the reception desk area they were sitting in. "We have time."

XXX

"Yeah. Aren't you supposed to fuck me or at least get naked or something, to prevent hypothermia?"

XXX

 _Obviously, he's still angry._ That was disappointing. Peter shrugged. "If you want to get naked, I could toss you in a lukewarm shower and it would feel like your skin was boiling off. But I don't think that's what you had in mind." He patted Sylar's captive feet. "You're doing fine warming up the old-fashioned way." He clasped and kneaded Sylar's ankles a few times in a cursory fashion, the motion thoroughly muffled by the intervening layers of cloth.

XXX

"How can you stand to work in one of these places? You know what they might do to you, don't you? If you stay? It probably won't matter that you're a Petrelli. Or a hero, if they've locked you up before."

XXX

Peter kept rubbing, his motions slowing as he moved from the ankles to the feet, peeling back a layer of blanket so he could do a better job. There was just one layer between them now. His eyes stayed on Sylar. _He cares that I might get fucked up here. Or hurt._ There was that touching, heartening concern again. Peter liked it. "This is where I need to be," he said solemnly. "Making sure things like that don't happen to people – that they're treated right, that they get help." He switched to focus on one of Sylar's feet at a time, starting with the right one. "I found a place, the hospital, the medical profession, where people wanted my help, where they asked for it and they appreciated it." He shrugged with one shoulder. "Usually. Often enough. I know I'm making things better for them. That's something I didn't always get with…the way powers were with me for a while. It seemed like everything I did had some huge trap behind it – help Adam destroy the virus and accidentally release it instead. Or help Nathan with Pinehearst and somehow it snowballs into abilities getting out of control, tearing the world apart. I don't understand that…that scale of things. But I know when someone's having an asthma attack and I can help them breathe again – I helped someone. Right then, right there. If that makes me more of a target, easier for people like Danko or you to find, then so be it. I'll deal with that as best I can."

He moved on to Sylar's left foot, chafing it through the blanket before doing some simple manipulation and rubbing. "We were here before, you know." He held up his right hand to illustrate, indicating the hospital they were currently in. "Getting the brace for this? There's no one here I need to fear except you, and you're right here. No one's going to do anything to me. Or to you."

XXX

Sylar listened, using it as a distraction against the multitude of fears parading through his mind and body. The heat of the change of clothes, blankets, and shelter had not diminished his tension. It was making him snappy as a reflex, to hide other, less tolerable emotions, and to keep himself aware to avoid falling into any traps. The prolonged and intentional touch caught most of his attention. Sylar knew of the technique of friction creating heat and its application to frostbite and such. He didn't think his condition was that bad to require additional friction, not when Peter had just said he was warming up just fine in the (stupid) 'old fashioned' way. This was at least the third time Peter had taken special interest in his feet and that was tipping the odds of 'just helping' or 'just checking.' It was time to ask and see what Peter had to say for himself. "What are you _doing_?"

XXX

Sylar didn't need to elaborate. A single, pointed look at where Peter was rubbing his feet sufficed. And Peter knew he was right, totally right, to question the weird contact. No matter how liberated or friendly, men who were not in a relationship (and often even then) did not give unsolicited foot rubs to one another, through blankets or not, hypothermia or not. It was completely outside the bounds of normal social behavior. He'd been caught. Peter felt ice settle in his gut. He dipped his head; he hunched his shoulders. His hands slowed, but they didn't stop moving, because he liked what he was doing. He didn't want to give it up. He suspected Sylar liked it, too. He felt shame, but he also felt outraged that he felt shame, because there _shouldn't_ be anything shameful in what he was doing. Slowly, articulating himself carefully, he asked, "Do you want me to stop?"

XXX

Peter didn't jerk his hands away or even freeze. That nearly brought a small, worn smile to Sylar's face. There was something there alright. He felt another frisson of additional stimulus for calling Petrelli on…whatever it was he was doing. It didn't matter if the invisible hospital crew or camouflaged agents rushed him then, because the last thing he would see and feel and remember would be Peter holding and petting his feet. It would be a mystery worth solving. _Now he asks me. I wonder what that means._ "No," he replied honestly, perhaps too tired to filter himself.

XXX

It was a simple answer, not especially slow in coming, but not rushed, either. Peter glanced up and swallowed, making a tiny nod as he continued. He adjusted the blanket around Sylar's shins so he could work above the ankles, probing through the layer between them with enough strength to make himself felt. In his peripheral vision, he could see Sylar tilt his head, eyes fixed on Peter as though he were doing something incomprehensible. Which…Peter assumed was true. He swallowed again, staring at Sylar's blanket-shod feet as he struggled to explain himself. "You said…earlier…that…just let it happen." Peter's face twitched in a brief, pained smile, something like a flinch. Because he was such a ball of tension at the moment, so carefully tuned in to Sylar's every nuance, he caught the slightly deeper breath and the slight settling back Sylar made.

XXX

 _What? What did I say earlier?_ Of course. The invitation to touch him at Peter's whim and more recently the comment about getting fucked to stay warm and survive. The command wasn't strictly necessary but it was a message plain enough. The timing and the circumstances were anything but appealing to Sylar's mind. But the location and the pattern fit, even if it still seemed strange for Peter to be the one following it. Sylar surrendered to this inevitability, nervously attempting to foresee the motions, with his body stiff and his back raw it might be more painful than it otherwise would be. Something about Petrelli's face wasn't matching up, but he couldn't place it or, perhaps, understand it. He'd anticipated this moments ago and stupidly blurted it out as an off-color joke. His muscular tension and discomfort ramped up again. This wasn't how he wanted it to go, if he'd been asked his preference. "Ah," he said very quietly.

XXX

Peter nodded jerkily. "I mean," he said nervously, suddenly realizing that Sylar might think this was step one towards making love to him, "just this – there's nothing else. It's only – you know. This?" His face made that pained wincing smile again. He stopped his hands, trying to breathe. His hands seemed to have the slightest tremor in them. This was knotting him up worse than anything – the concession to his needs warred with his sense of his brother's, family's honor in his mind. It wasn't anything he was thinking through. He just knew this thing he was doing, that he was 'letting happen', was both right and wrong, couldn't be allowed and should be allowed. It scared him. At any moment, Sylar might…Peter didn't know. Sylar might make it all impossible somehow and Peter knew it would be his own fault for having started it in the first place. He stared at his hands, spreading his fingers over the white hospital blanket.

XXX

Sylar merely shrugged. He didn't know if it was possible to feel this much relief in one day. It was beyond his comprehension. Through that haze he could see Peter's nerves now, equally incomprehensible. Some parts of his ability stirred and he knew what Peter wanted, what he'd done all the other times before with the intent to care and comfort, just like now. It was easy and pleasant enough to provide. It felt like he was helping both of them to do it.

XXX

Peter started when Sylar moved his leg, shuffling the blanket off his right foot, baring it. Sylar put the foot squarely between Peter's hands. Peter looked up at him. Sylar's face was neutral, eyes a little wider than usual, but holding no expression of judgment or mockery. Peter looked back down at the foot he had been presented with. He raised his hands and put them on Sylar's foot, one thumb against the pad of Sylar's big toe, the other curling in the groove behind Sylar's pinkie toe and the one next to it. His fingers wrapped around. It was a long, narrow foot, delicate in the same way Sylar's hands were, once you looked at them in proportion to the rest of his body. It was still cool from their sojourn through the snow, but not nearly as chilled as it had been earlier. Peter looked up at Sylar again, checking.

XXX

Sylar said nothing, but let his eyes travel between Peter's face and the foot, then his expression changed to one of slight question. Peter's hands were warmer than the air certainly, and the gentle touching (not much of a massage as such) awoke the nerve endings throughout his body until they hummed with open pleasure. It felt oddly tender and very careful. Despite the fearful momentary spike, Sylar was reassured.

XXX

Peter rubbed. It was more gentle manipulation and alternating pressure than it was a deep massage. He wasn't sure how Sylar's feet felt following the near-frostbite, so he didn't want to do anything uncomfortable. Instead, he touched and flexed and stretched the joints.

XXX

He began to zone out again, staring at Peter's hands as they rubbed at his inglorious foot. Peter had very nice hands – strong, a little short in the fingers but not overly small (perhaps his own long fingers were misleading), well-trimmed nails, a little rough in the skin, and otherwise unmarked by scars or blemishes. Hands, Sylar had learned, said a lot about a person. Hands could be quite special – unique. Especially when one had the ability to transform into other people and he needed a quick way without a handy reflective surface to tell if he was in his own body or wearing someone else. Every detail was magnified then. More lazily than he intended, he blurted, "Do you have a foot fetish?"

XXX

Peter stopped instantly, tensing again. It was a scandalizing, damning question, but Sylar had asked it in the best tone possible – factual, and like he had no opinion whatsoever about the answer – just curiosity. "No," Peter answered. Sylar shook his left foot out from under the blanket and plopped it into Peter's hands as he'd previously done with the other. Peter cradled it obligingly, then looked up. "Do you?"

XXX

"No." _I don't believe you._ The cessation of motion seemed guilty. Of the two of the, he was not the one continually going for any one part of Peter's anatomy. Perhaps it was Peter being truthful about literally holding him hostage or this was just more of Peter's brand of weirdness, or both. It felt good, so he didn't want to push it too far, but he was horribly curious now. It was certainly a distraction. _(I don't like one-sided touching),_ he realized. His instincts wanted to reciprocate. His hands even twitched under the blanket to reach out and pet Peter's hair or face now looking up at him so innocent and troubled. "If you're going to keep me here, then the least you can do is distract me. Tell me some of your fetishes." Even as he asked, he gave in to his paranoia and scanned the lobby again. The kindness to his feet was stirring things inside him that he didn't understand.

XXX

Peter rolled his eyes, leaning back a little although he didn't stop his attentions to Sylar's left foot. "I'm not going to have this conversation. There's no reason you need to know that." Then he saw the way Sylar scanned the lobby watchfully, and reassessed the need to keep the other man focused on something other than fear. His refusal meant he had Sylar's attention again and the expression wasn't happy. "Fine," Peter caved with another put-upon display. He cupped his hands over the tops of Sylar's feet, resting them there. "I don't have any…any weird fetishes, like rubber suits or…" he grabbed for something else random, unusual, and personally distasteful, "watersports. It's just people for me. The only weird thing is that I can hardly do it without someone." He smirked unhappily, adding sarcastically with the intent of heading off Sylar's possible offer, "But I manage, thanks." More normally he said, "It's like trying to tickle myself. Doesn't really do it." He covered Sylar's feet again, putting his hands on top of the blanket after tucking it in more than was probably needed. "And you?"

XXX

"Nothing interesting," he stated the obvious. Peter wasn't really interested and wouldn't be even if Sylar told the truth. Not interesting per se, more likely better described as disgusting, forbidden, or horrific. "What about fucking men does it for you? Why do you like men? Or lower backs or feet?"

XXX

Peter frowned sourly, completely aware of the evasion, just as he was of the judgment implied by Sylar questioning his sexual preferences. "Men are people; people do it for me; hence, I like men." He looked down at Sylar's feet, firming his hands over the blanket-covered shape of them. "As for…those parts…you can't get to me very well while I'm rubbing your feet. Or much, when I'm touching your back. You scare me, Sylar. I never know what you're going to do. You don't signal your intentions that well and when you do, a lot of the time they don't have anything to do with what I want. I'm…" Peter faltered, looking off into the distance a few feet to the side. "I'm willing to do some things, but…not sex. Not making out. No kissing. Not as far as you seem to want things to go. As long as you keep trying to take me somewhere I don't want to go, then I'm going to stay out of the car."

XXX

 _I'm not people; I just look like people, hence why I don't do it for you._ Unintentionally, Peter had answered how Sylar's seduction was faring. Peter always seemed to come to himself and remember the moral reasons why something physical couldn't progress regardless of Sylar's effectiveness. His eyes were wide and intent as he listened. The answers provided new information, or rather, reasons for things he'd already noticed or guessed in Peter's behavior. That more than anything was what he sought to gain. He thought he should feel guilty for causing Peter fear, but he didn't feel comfortable without that protection. Sylar didn't know how he really felt about it, even though this was not the first admission of Petrelli's fear. _He likes me helpless, probably facing away, and for me to signal…what I'm going to do. Maybe he wants a plan; he wants to know what's going to happen. That would be nice,_ Sylar admitted in his own head. _And this touching is him trying – he's willing to do this. He doesn't expect (or want) it to turn into something more._ The realization was quick and obvious, but it shook and confused him. The concept of gentle kindness and contact without…something being asked in return seemed far too good to be true. Sylar knew that he'd asked what Peter wanted in return in the past, only to receive a similar reply. _He wants me to pretend to be one of his patients, who allows him to save them and probably hero-worships him._ It was not a difficult role; in fact, it would be all too easy and pleasant. _I can play that game,_ he mentally agreed, feeling a thrill at understanding Peter's needs better.

XXX

Peter pressed his lips together. This was a more honest conversation than he'd expected and he didn't know what Sylar would make of it. He leaned over and snagged his backpack, fishing through it for a change in subject. "You hungry? I brought a little food." He pulled out a red apple, purple plum, and two orange carrots before exhausting his small supply of edibles. He set the backpack aside with the food lined up in the valley the blanket made between Sylar's shins. He picked up the apple. "You like apples, right? I know I punched you in the teeth a few days ago. Think you can eat this?" He leaned forward to extend the fruit.

XXX

Quiet and grateful, he responded to both questions, "Yes." Sylar slipped a hand out from underneath its cover to take the offered food. He was amused that the rest of it was placed so casually on him and the blanket.

XXX

"Pick something else and I'll eat the other two."

XXX

"Carrot." He looked at his partner, feeling like he could see new layers to the man. With plurisignificance, he said in a deep, slow voice, "Thank you, Peter." The empath had listened to him and cared for him and now fed him. He still ached to touch Peter in return, perhaps to solidify the medic's reality in his mind.

XXX

Peter's head came up at Sylar's thanks. The tone was perfect. That and the tempo spoke of consideration and actual gratitude, not some flippant nicety or casual comment repeated by rote. No. Sylar was thanking him, genuinely, and for more than the food. Peter's eyes widened slightly as he stared, surprised that after all this time, there was recognition of that. Sylar met his gaze for a long moment before ducking his head and taking a bite from his apple. Peter caught himself, blinked, and looked down at the plum, picking it up. "Yeah," he said quietly. More firmly and with a brief look up to meet Sylar's eyes again, he answered, "You're welcome." He felt warm and pleased and settled inside, like this small gesture – just a pair of words – was something he'd been waiting for and finally received.

XXX

 _I deserve to be left in the snow or a random building to die of infection._ With a mental headshake, Sylar moved on. The present was more important than arguing about Peter's beliefs in humanities. "My offer still stands, about you...touching me whenever and however you like." He made eye contact and dipped his chin seriously. This time, he included the 'however you like', showing clearly his absorption and acceptance of what Peter wanted. He was still confident Peter would change his mind, or at least, his stance on the topic of sex in its basest form. Just as casually as he'd said it, he dropped the subject and returned to the fruit.

XXX

Peter leaned back in the chair, tilting his head slightly as he regarded Sylar. It was…quite the offer and he understood that now. He'd never really been able to believe it before. But after everything else Sylar had done, allowed, proposed, and even instigated, Peter believed him now. Sylar really was saying, 'Anything, anytime, anywhere', and he meant it. Even though Peter expected obvious caveats to apply, it didn't take away from how complete this was. Sylar was putting everything out there. That took courage. (And maybe desperation, but Peter didn't think that was the main motivator here. To that, he attributed guilt.) He acknowledged Sylar's offer with an equally serious nod and a squeeze to Sylar's right foot with his free left hand. With his right, he brought the plum to his mouth and bit into it carefully. He was right to be cautious - it was soft and juicy, also sweet. He sucked at the spot he'd bitten and then licked up a drip of juice that had escaped on the right side of his mouth. The one on the left side went unnoticed until it tracked down to his chin. Only then did he have the skin sensation to realize it. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, then used a corner of the blanket to scrub the whole of his mouth and chin in case he'd missed anything else.

Otherwise, eating the snack passed unremarkably, but Peter finished munching the noisy carrot feeling almost hungrier than when he'd started. Thoughts of the hospital cafeteria drifted through his mind, but Sylar was still sitting there in underwear beneath the blankets and would no doubt have his paranoia set off by any attempt of Peter's to part ways with him. So he waited. A few minutes into it, he shifted Sylar's feet so he could take off his shoes. With a glance to Sylar, he shifted position again, adjusted the set of the seat, and said, "Scoot over," to his companion before swinging his sock-clad feet to rest next to the man on Sylar's seat. Thus arranged with Sylar's feet on Peter's right and Peter's feet on Sylar's right, Peter fiddled with the levers controlling the chair. He leaned back, stretching somewhat, and shut his eyes with a sigh. There was nothing much to do except wait for the oven to finish drying their clothes.

XXX

Sylar hesitated for a few portions of a second before he complied. Soon enough, his questions were answered with Peter's feet being dropped next to his thigh as the other man appeared to relax. Sylar looked between the feet and Petrelli's content face (noting the empath wasn't as relaxed as he seemed at first glance). Very gently, so as not to disturb, he lifted the corner of the blanket that still covered his underwear and draped it over the other man's feet before laying his right hand over them. He knew only too well that Peter had been extremely understanding about his…issues with all things medical and even Peter himself in this context, even though they both knew Sylar deserved to be tortured because of his past. So, one kindness (rather, many kindnesses on Peter's part) for kindness. Peter hummed, so Sylar gave the feet a tired squeeze and left his hand in place, feeling as pleased as he could in a hospital. When it became apparent that Peter wasn't getting up soon, Sylar gingerly began to pet the blanket over the feet – gingerly not because Peter's feet were gross (they probably were), but because he didn't necessarily want to mimic the reasons behind Peter massaging and checking Sylar's feet more than once. It earned him more accepting sounds and he smirked without much effort. The cold was still damnably slow to leave the core of him and he wished his quickly beating heart would hurry to change that.

XXX

Finally, Peter stirred out. He'd spent the last many minutes staring through the lobby and out the windows, watching the swirling grey darken even further as night truly fell out there. He wondered about snow drifts and the lack of plows. Fortunately, the distance back to their apartments was relatively short, but even so he wasn't about to try the trip until morning. He worried about how to put this to Sylar in a winnable argument. _One step at a time. First we have to get what we came for._ He got himself out of the chair, put his shoes on, stretched, and wandered over to the oven to check progress. "These are dry." Peter tossed Sylar's dress shirt to him, and walked over with socks and underwear. Those Peter stuffed into the backpack, since Sylar was already wearing one of Peter's sets. Then he went back to the oven. "Now let's see how the pants are doing." He frowned and carried them over, feeling up the garment. "They're still a little damp around the waist and in the crotch here – where it's thickest, I guess, but the rest seems dry. I think we should leave your coat in there for now. We can go get the antibiotics. The store room is just right through there." He gestured in the right direction, then handed off the pants and turned to put his own coat into the oven, not sure why he hadn't done that earlier. _Because I was more concerned about Sylar's stuff than mine, probably._

XXX

Sylar pursed his lips at the mention of leaving his coat behind, even temporarily, even to dry it. He was getting some of his way, progress towards leaving and putting his clothes back on. He wasn't as fast as he would have liked to dress, what with most of it involving buttons. He felt shaky even after the food, like the sugar from the fruit had gone to his blood too quickly or something. It was better when he saw Peter leaving his coat as well, though it didn't really mean much of anything. Sylar found that his shoes were still wet since Petrelli hadn't put them in the oven. He was concerned that it might…endanger his health further to wear wet shoes again. But if it meant leaving sooner…Sylar sat again and asked, "May I have my socks?" as Peter was packing. Seconds later, he was shoving warm, dry socks into soggy, chilly shoes, then standing to follow Peter hopefully to the exit. But no, Peter led him deeper into this deathtrap. _How does he know where to go? Has he explored here without me?_

XXX

They walked through the various suites and rooms, all empty, most dim as the hallways were lit but the rooms weren't. The little glass-fronted rooms reminded Peter of the holding cell he'd been put into in Odessa. He suspected they reminded Sylar of even darker things. He gave his companion an aware glance, but didn't bring it up. The stock room was easy to find as Peter had visited it three times now, once with Sylar when they'd come for the brace. The two other trips, he'd once been getting supplies for Sylar and the other time just liberating a backup trauma kit to keep in his room. And besides, the whole hospital was roughly modeled off Mercy Heights. Peter would know his way around the place blindfolded.

XXX

His shoes squished nastily and squeaked in a very inopportune way if he need to hide. Sylar noticed the glance and met it warily. _What does that mean? (If he was smart, he would be worried I'd attack him again, like Mercy)._ With mixed feelings and something like a guilty feeling, he knew in his gut that he would fight or initiate if he felt he had to. And Peter leading him further into the dark, creepy fortress wasn't giving him confidence. Desperately he wanted Peter to continue to understand (or just play along, if that's all it was) long enough for them to make a break for it, even if leaving was dangerous, too. He tried not to look into the rooms but he couldn't help himself. He stuck close to Peter in the hall.

XXX

"Over here," Peter said, going to the refrigerated section towards the back. He slid the glass panel aside, pulling out several bottles, giving their labels a quick glance before handing two of them back to Sylar for the expected examination. "I'm going to get some syringes, too," he said quietly, shutting the cooler without getting anything other than the two common, well-known antibiotics whose names he believed Sylar would recognize. Peter's choices were careful, even if he was going about the job in a practical manner. He showed the small box of syringes briefly before putting it in his backpack. "Those bottles don't need to be kept refrigerated all the time," he said with a nod towards the ones Sylar was holding. "That's for long-term storage only. They'll be fine until we get back." He turned and went back to the medication shelves. "I want to get some pills though, too. That's primarily what we'll use anyway." He ran his fingers down the labels, finding what he wanted. He took down two medium-sized bottles, again presenting them to Sylar for him to check. Peter opened his backpack again. "Put everything in here when you're done." He looked around the place as he waited, flexing his right hand. He gently manipulated the knuckle that had previously been broken, trying to monitor Sylar without appearing to monitor him.

XXX

Sylar tensed, hanging back in the doorway when he saw the medicine display case. But Peter handed them back, making no attempt to hide the bottles, harmless without- yes, syringes. A swift, paranoid glance was passed between inspecting the label and watching Peter. Sylar was left holding his own medicine before Peter also gave him the opportunity to visually check the needles, then passing over the pills. Fortunately his large hands accommodated all four bottles. Everything checked out, unless Peter or someone else had insanely managed to switch anything in a way he couldn't even imagine…He could verify with the protective seals later. Sylar stood and stared, blinking a few times at having some…control, almost, of his medical care (not for the first time confounded by it). He was glad when Peter gave instructions about the backpack. He was almost grateful to discharge the bottles, even more grateful to be receiving proper medicine, for Peter's understanding, and that it meant they could finally leave. He shuffled quickly after Peter.

XXX

It was clear that now that they had the stuff they'd come for that the next order of business was going back into the blizzard and freezing their asses off in an ill-thought out effort to get somewhere else. It was dumb, even by Peter's standards, and he wanted no part of it. His stomach growled as though offering an excuse. "Listen." He tagged Sylar on the elbow to signal him to stop in his unaccountably squeaky shoes as they went down the hall. "We're here. Your coat could use some more time drying. I'm hungry. Let's get dinner in us before we do anything else."

XXX

Sylar started some and quickly stilled himself in a more appropriate reaction to being touched, like he'd offered and agreed earlier. It was just this place…He frowned, listening. "What? Food? From here-? No, we can't. It might be drugged." He did not put it past the Company or the government or just hospitals in general. He recalled Bennet bringing him food and taunting him in Primatech the first time. His argument was at least somewhat reasonable.

XXX

"It…" Peter stared for a few seconds, struggling with the depth of paranoia Sylar was showing. "Okay," he said, trying to be accepting. "Well, there's other stuff we could make. Like, hot coffee, or hot chocolate," he said with the slightest emphasis on 'hot'. "Or we could heat up some soup. I'm sure it's all prepackaged food, sealed up. You can check it."

XXX

Sylar waited, eyes narrowed for those few seconds of being stared at. Hot food sounded amazing. It also sounded like a slippery slope. Sylar didn't stop to examine if it might be Peter who was offering the temptation intentionally or if the slope existed on its own. "No," he stated, walking to the oven, opening it to retrieve their coats and Peter's pants, gloves, and headband. He shrugged into his coat. They were still damp but he didn't care. Hypothermia sounded like a peaceful, quick, preferable death than any comfort offered here.

XXX

Peter huffed, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, but he still shook his head. "We should get something before we head out. Come on, Sylar," he pleaded. "This is basic survival stuff! Food, water, shelter! A few pieces of fruit isn't enough. Your pants aren't even completely dry. Or probably even your coat. This would give them a little more time to dry out." He looked at the coat now on Sylar's body. With another shake of his head, Peter balled up his pants and stuffed them in the backpack, putting on his own coat because that was easier than carrying it. He stuffed the headband and gloves in his pocket, still not intending to go outside and actually use them.

XXX

Lips tensed, he also shook his head. It would be impossible to convince the medic how right he normally would have been and how deadly wrong he was now, so Sylar didn't bother. Peter appeared to be acquiescing with the plan. At least he was fairly certain Petrelli would follow his patient into the dark and dangerous weather. _I have to lead us out._ He could feel the cold prickling at his nerves once more and the heat and health retreating from him. It felt like more responsibility and effort than he had in him, but he knew he had to try.

XXX

Peter chewed the inside of his lip. His stomach growled again as he turned and headed, wordlessly, to the lobby entrance. All he'd intended to do was look out at the storm and use it as a final debating point against Sylar's phobias, but he moved too close to the doors. The first set swooshed open ahead of him. He stopped anyway, but Sylar walked on past him without stopping to allow another round of negotiations.

XXX

Surprisingly Peter gave up with no more than those paltry efforts at arguing and made for the doors. Sylar was ready, so he came along. Petrelli stopped and Sylar didn't. _I have to make this work,_ he thought as he led them from the light of humanity into the cold treachery of the elements. It wasn't confident, preconceived, or comforting, particularly when his actions reminded him of the negative aspects of Peter's character: leaping without looking and trusting insane visions only he could see. The snow and wind struck him like a blow but his momentum carried him forward rather than his own intent or power. He shuddered and gasped at the cold air that rushed into his mouth and throat. The cold sent him shivering immediately but the further they traveled from the lights of the hospital (lights! That's what they needed!) the less Peter could see of his misery.

XXX

"You don't have a blanket for your head!" Peter didn't know if his words even reached Sylar's ears. He hurried outside to find it was just as cold as he'd feared, or maybe worse with the whipping wind and constant onslaught of snowflakes. "My hood…" It was still tucked inside his coat. To get it out would require taking off the coat. Instead, he hastily fastened the coat shut as he stumbled after Sylar, scrambling to get his headband and gloves on while keeping his feet and forcing his way through snow that was up to their knees in places. "Fucking New York winter," he grumbled loudly, but still probably not enough to be heard over the wind. "Why can't we be in California? How are the palm trees going to survive this, huh? Fuck, it's cold!" He looked back at the hospital fading behind them, sure this was a bad idea. Then he turned and followed Sylar, unwilling to let the other man face danger alone.

XXX

Sylar spared an abbreviated eye-roll at Petrelli's whining. _Who's the crazy one now?_ he reasoned. _Palm trees and California. Oh, but the Company poisoning food or wrongfully imprisoning you is just- Damn, it's cold._ That much he agreed with. Sylar pivoted back to make sure Peter was coming and keeping up. He slowed briefly until they were closer, not wanting to lose his companion in the low visibility. He doubted he would make more than a short journey, which emphasized the importance of finding a suitable building quickly. _I'll be fine if…_ That 'if' seemed large and daunting, like he couldn't pick a random direction to search or he might get lost in a city full of buildings and not find one at all. He repeated the mantra of: _I'm warm, I'm warm_ in his head as he trudged and shuffled (no longer stepping for fear of slipping) along. His shoes felt horrible, wet in the midst of inches of ice cold and his coat kept the wind off him some, but offered no help from the chill. He chose straight and angled to the left as near as he gave it any thought. Of course, the parking lot was huge. He nearly ran into a brick structure, with his head down against the wind as it was. His arm barely obeyed him when he raised it to open the push-in glass door with the annoying bell attached, using his body and shoes as a wedge to hold it open for Peter, then quickly letting it fall closed. One look around sunk his hopes. It was a small office, certainly with limited food, no heat after hours, and definitely no sleeping areas or other amenities. He didn't want to hear it from Peter. "W-we'll…w-we'll just try again….in a min-minute," he hissed through his shivering.


	135. Nightingale

Day 73, February 21, evening

Peter gave Sylar a thoroughly disbelieving, put-out look. He walked past Sylar, stomping the snow off his shoes and looking around the place. The small office connected to a large series of bays to their left. It looked like an auto repair shop, completely useless in a world without cars. Peter rolled his eyes. _That has to be intentional. If we were meant to be out here, then wouldn't our subconscious put someplace we could stay near us?_ Though to be honest, he didn't recall there being any businesses of note near Mercy Hospital either. The neighborhood here was about the same as it was there – a lot of low-story brick buildings and a few warehouses, mostly empty, probably having created low enough property values to make the construction of the hospital worthwhile. _There was a gas station on one corner though._ His brow furrowed in concentration. _Pretty sure that was on the other side from the emergency room._

Peter frowned. If the place was laid out like Mercy, then there wasn't going to be anywhere they could bed down for a block or two. He took off his gloves to dig out the hood from his coat. He walked back over to Sylar, who looked miserable and suffering. "If you've got a fever going along with that infection in your back, then you're going to be more susceptible to the cold." Peter stripped off his headband and said gently, "Come here. Sylar. Help me get this on you." He stretched the headband to put it on Sylar's head, trying to leave as much of the physical contact to Sylar to manage.

XXX

The idea of a fever when he was dying of cold sounded ridiculous _. I thought he said I didn't have a fever earlier? (He did say it would be dangerous to go back out again…)_ Sylar broke from his hunching to straighten up and grunt at the approach. _I know I said you could touch me any time, anyhow, but now really isn't a good time, Petrelli,_ was his initial thought. He didn't like the commanding tone, but it seemed like everything about Peter was setting him off as if their continued proximity to the hospital was still in effect. He raised his arms as quick as he could to intercept Peter's hands near his head and take over the fine motor-control required task. Sylar was too tired to entertain more paranoia about Peter touching his head; he wanted that contact over and done with as soon as possible. The headband probably looked horrible on him, messing up his hair, not to mention looking silly and having the item forced on him. He made only a bare-minimum effort at adjusting it.

XXX

Peter watched his companion with increasingly clinical eyes. Sylar was already losing coordination. Standing here out of the wind should have been helping, and it probably was, but Sylar's condition was still deteriorating. _That jacket must have been even damper than I thought._ "We need to go now, Sylar," Peter prompted as he cinched down the hood and fastened the flap over his throat. "We can check one more place," _before it's too dangerous to let you stay out here._ Peter put his gloves back on. "Let's go." He followed Sylar out, letting the other man pick the direction. Peter stayed close at his side now, having tripped on enough things concealed under the snow to be careful.

XXX

He was seriously debating staying here and toughing it out. Body heat would be enough for a night, wouldn't it? _One more,_ he mocked in his head. _One or a dozen or dying outside, it's better than the hospital._ Sylar sighed and obeyed again, jerking and shouldering open the door and trying to see out to pick a better building, or a direction. Instantly his vision was attacked with flakes and wind. He decided on continuing to their left, huddled with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, but not too firmly in case he stumbled. Which he did, turning his ankle and making him flail out momentarily to his embarrassment though even that was waning fast. Peter held his elbow and helped him, just as he had in the past. He couldn't stand the cold and darted into a door no more than two blocks later. It was a mini-office/lobby leading into what appeared to be storage units. Sylar's heart sank and his throat went dry. He stamped his feet with little energy, facing from Peter to avoid the I-told-you-so's.

XXX

Peter glanced around. He didn't need more than that to see that this place wasn't going to work any more than the last one. "Two strikes," he muttered. _A third and we're out. I'm not playing that game._ The way to win was not to lose. He'd heard that plenty from Arthur and Nathan, enough to understand perfectly that when the rules weren't in your favor, you played by other rules. It wasn't fair, but sometimes it was right. Like now. Peter put a hand under Sylar's arm and jerked his head at the door they'd just come through. "We don't have much time before you go down. Let's go." He got his bearings best he could as they exited. Fortunately, Sylar seemed addled enough that he didn't put up a fuss as Peter struck off across the street, angling away from the biting wind and bringing Sylar along with him.

XXX

 _Before I what?_ Sylar was almost not relieved that Peter decided to move on so hastily and try again. He thought, maybe, perhaps, the empath might settle, especially if Sylar's health was as bad as Peter made out. This time, he was glad that Peter kept hold of his arm the whole way. He understood then what Peter meant about food because he felt like his heart was pounding too fast. He whined a little from his soaked clothes clinging and brushing against him horribly, the wind was cutting through him, whipping away any sounds of pain he might make, and he still couldn't see a damn thing except the gray form of Peter in front of and beside him. His feet felt like solid blocks that didn't respond to his commands. Perhaps Peter would have better luck choosing a building, or maybe he remembered somewhere specific.

XXX

They came to a brick wall. To the right, facing directly into the slashing north wind, Peter was pretty sure lay the emergency room entrance they'd used before. To the left, he could dimly see the main entrance. He'd never used that one, because the ER was closer. Their apartments were to the north, so the north side of the hospital was the one they'd always approached first. Given the punishment the weather was dishing out from that direction, it didn't surprise Peter that they'd drifted south in their search for a place to stay the night. His lips and nose were painfully cold; his fingers chilled even through the gloves. It was easy to turn Sylar to the left so the wind was at their backs and walk him to the hospital. Between the blowing snow, having to navigate drifts of it, and stumbling over unseen curbs, Peter hoped Sylar wouldn't notice he was being steered right back to where he didn't want to be. _Maybe the lobby won't bother him and we can just stay there._

XXX

Sylar assumed the clear double doors led into a grocery or other name-brand store, perhaps a mall with display beds and access to food. Swiping the wet from his eyes, he glanced around, then took a second look in confusion. _A lobby? Maybe it's a hotel?_ He dared to hope. But it was all wrong for a hotel. He couldn't smell but the colors and set-up screamed it was the hospital again – Peter had betrayed him. Sylar felt like he needed to take deep breaths but couldn't get them with his spastic reactions to being cold. _Did he know we wouldn't make it_ _back_ _?_ More similar thoughts spiraled in and out of his mind though it seemed obvious what had happened and what was happening so he needed a plan. First, he knew he needed to ditch Peter (whether the man would help keep him alive from hypothermia or infection or not).

XXX

Peter stomped off his shoes and peeled back his hood. He pointed Sylar to a chair. "Sit down. Let me get your shoes off." He stripped off his gloves, throwing them on the seat next to Sylar and briskly rubbing his hands together. Peter went to one knee. Rather than going directly for feet, he reached out to take Sylar's hands, pulling them from the pockets and chafing them. He watched Sylar's face. The other man was wary. Clearly, he had figured out where they were. Peter grimaced, giving Sylar's hands a light squeeze. He wished his own hands were warmer so they'd help more, but at least they weren't as chilled as they'd been when they'd first arrived in the emergency room. While Peter didn't seem to have suffered as much from their recent outing (with the hood up, throat latch fastened, warm clothes, and shorter trip), Sylar seemed to have done decidedly worse. The only bright side was that Sylar didn't seem as disoriented as before. Peter moved on to stripping the man's shoes, followed by socks. "Let's get that dry pair of socks on you first thing." He put his actions to matching his words, getting the dry pair of socks from the backpack and unrolling them up Sylar's legs as the man continued to shiver uncontrollably. _Shivering's a good sign, though,_ Peter tried to reassure himself.

XXX

His heart felt like ice now. The rest of him felt shocky. He frowned in betrayed confusion when his hands were gently grabbed. Sylar couldn't process anything; least of all having his hands cared for as hope died and horror filled him again. He felt like crying, just as a pitiful expression to his partner of every fucked up emotion he experiencing. It wasn't the part about inevitable death that upset him, rather it was the torture and imprisonment that came before the dying. Numbly, jerkily, he tried to assist with the new socks by lifting his leg but finer motion control was beyond him.

XXX

"Just stay here. I'm going to go get us some lattes or something from that Starbucks booth right there, okay?" Peter eyed Sylar as he backed away a few steps. The man's reaction to finding out he was back in the hospital had Peter wanting to simply sit and hug him, but the best thing to do seemed to be to get Sylar warm, dry, and capable of taking care of himself as soon as possible. Without taking him deeper in the building to find ways to warm him from the outside, Peter had decided to try warming him from the inside. Some nice, hot, sweet, steamed milk would be perfect.

XXX

It was too much. Sylar couldn't stomach the idea of eating or drinking anything now, even as his gut contracted with hunger. As much help as Peter was likely to provide, the medic didn't understand what was really going on. _I can't stay with him._ They were sitting ducks, vulnerable, easy targets clumped together. He couldn't trust Peter here because it was the hospital's fault – the Company's fault. He couldn't take that risk. Sylar couldn't quite forget what Peter had done at Mercy, either, and all this followed every step of what was probably a clever plan to trap him or worse. To assuage his guilt of abandoning Peter, he reasoned, _If we split up, maybe they won't find him._ He waited, watching Petrelli until his attention focused on the drinks.

XXX

Peter nodded and turned to the cross the expansive lobby and investigate the coffee stop. The chest-high stand-up counter was fronted by a now-empty pastry display case. Peter went behind the counter, looking over the equipment. Unsurprisingly, the various coffee machines were powered down and empty. After checking them, he knelt to go through the cabinets below, expecting to find supplies. Although he found coffee grounds and filters, he wanted something with more bulk to it than black coffee. Turning to check the other bank of cabinets, he found flavorings and sugar, so at least whatever he made would have calories. He still had his heart set on a latte or maybe hot chocolate – something a little less caffeinated than straight coffee. He pivoted on his heels on the floor, looking back and forth at the walls around him. The perishable supplies had to be kept somewhere else; he wasn't seeing a refrigerator. He sighed heavily and stood up, calling to Sylar, "Hey – no lattes. Are you okay with-" While speaking, Peter had moved to the side where the coffee machines weren't in his way. Now he saw Sylar wasn't where he'd left him. His voice cut off and he scanned the rest of the open-plan lobby. No Sylar.

XXX

Sylar had picked up his shoes and darted away down the nearest hall. He felt worse and even more afraid because he was alone. It was dark in most of the 'rooms' but the hallways were sparsely lit and all the hidden storage rooms were blinding – it was something out of a horror movie, reminding him of Primatech when he'd trapped the Petrellis and some of the Bennets there to make several important points and…also rightfully terrorize the bastards. It seemed too ironic that those same tables were being turned on him now. He made a quick jogging walk to get out of sight in case Peter chased after him.

XXX

"Dammit," Peter muttered, leaving the booth behind. In haste, he jogged to the front doors, paying no attention to the five or six other exits from the big room. There was only one direction Sylar could go that would panic Peter and that was outside. He didn't see the man out there, but the visibility was low enough and Peter had been crouched down long enough that this wasn't conclusive. Then again, he hadn't heard the sound of the automatic doors opening, as the first set opened now to allow him into the entry. He looked at the tracks in the snow outside. Most of the evidence of their approach was gone, but not all of it. Snow that had blown in with them had melted to water. Outside, there were no fresh tracks; inside there was no fresh snow. "Okay," he said to himself with relief, "you didn't go back out."

Peter turned and walked into the lobby. Sylar's stuff was gone as well as his person. If he'd snuck off in his bare feet, then that explained why Peter had heard nothing. He sighed, feeling…depressed. His patient had abandoned him, no doubt harboring resentment and fears that Peter had brought him back here for nefarious purposes. The paranoia was exhausting to deal with. Peter scrubbed at his scalp and pulled at his hair. He didn't want to chase Sylar down and inflict care on him. _If he's well enough to run off and hide, then he doesn't actually need me._ Feeling useless and frustrated, Peter gathered his discarded gloves and the headband Sylar had left, and walked slowly down the hall heading towards the cafeteria. He passed the gift shop on the way, stopping to stock up his backpack with granola bars and candy. He ate a Hersheys with almonds as he strolled desultorily to his destination. The chocolate perked him up enough to see him through having to deal with the cafeteria being as battened down as the coffee spot. He eventually found a microwave and some broccoli-cheese soup. It tasted great, but the silence of the place was starting to wear on him already. He didn't think the hospital would have creeped him out so much (it hadn't on his previous trips, after all) if he hadn't known Sylar was out there somewhere, hiding, maybe stalking him – definitely thinking Peter wasn't fit company.

Putting his dishes aside, Peter filled a cup with hot cocoa and began to make the rounds, sipping it as he went down one corridor after another looking for the other occupant. The enormous building held far too many nooks, crannies, and back passages for one person to search it conclusively, especially if looking for anyone who might be on the move to avoid being found. Peter knew that. But he couldn't _not_ look. He definitely wouldn't be able to sleep knowing Sylar was out there, resentful and possibly possibly motivated enough to do something about it. It was going to be a long night, Peter suspected.

XXX

Knowing Peter might be on his trail, Sylar immediately tried to make his way to where he guessed the ER was. Somehow he did find it and left his coat in the oven because that was all he dared leave behind in case….in case Peter had the same idea or followed him or some Company agent or medical staff caught him. He valued his clothes, even cold as they were too much to take them off and if Peter returned when Sylar came back for them, well… Sylar stole several blankets and shuffled back into a hallway that seemed mostly comprised of storage rooms. He wanted a small room, easier to heat and keep warm. The first one he tried was strangely unlocked – it had a keypad and the mechanism appeared sound. He didn't question it too much because he didn't want to lock himself in by accident, but he did test it a few times to be sure it didn't automatically lock.

He knew the odds of being found here were low, unless someone came to his room specifically for something it held. He wrapped himself into a self-contained burrito of blankets, crouched behind metal shelving full of…masks and gloves and other protective equipment. He shuddered there in relative silence for what must have been hours. He was too uncomfortable and too afraid to sleep, always watching the small window in the door to see if anyone passed by in the hall. Eventually Sylar slowly, painfully felt the cold slipping away. His clothes were still wet, but no longer cold and clammy – now they were closer to room temperature and soggy. He felt his shoes were a lost cause because they were so difficult to dry but they were all he had for now. After that and the looming, impending discovery of being in one place for too long and being alone, he followed his urge to find food. Sylar took a blanket with him, wrapped around his shoulders like a silly cape, as he wandered the halls, trying not to cringe at shadows or be overcome by memories past.

His thinking capacity had improved with being warm, though his body still protested movement and complete stillness. _Peter's comfortable here. He knows his way around somehow_. That meant Peter had probably dried his clothes, showered, ate, and found the most comfortable bed in the joint and was likely somewhere else other than the dining/kitchen area. Sylar went there and raided several muffins from the industrial fridges in the back. They were good, banana nut and blueberry. It was important to eat while he could. The muffins made him dangerously sleepy and for a while he worried they'd been drugged. He tried to rationalize that no intelligent Company would leave drugged food out in the common area where their own agents might eat it.

Sylar knew he was out of danger from the elements at least, even if everything else was out to get him. _I wonder if I need the medicine Peter has. I remember the pills he got…I know where he got them from…But I don't know how much to take. It might say on the label._ He hadn't checked serving size when he'd checked them before. It was unlikely Peter would be in the medicine room either…unless this was a perfectly executed set up. Sylar approached quietly, shoes squishy but no longer squeaking. Quickly, he stuck his head in and gave a hurried glance around and saw only the empty room. He snagged a bottle of the same stuff from before, checking the label and serving suggestion: two pills with food. Sylar downed them with water from a nearby sink. Carefully, though sluggish, he wandered into a lounge of sorts, perhaps for nurses like Peter. It had a couch and he made sure the doors were shut before he curled up in the corner of the couch, facing the entrance of course. _Hiding in the open is okay. It's worked before. Peter's probably asleep somewhere by now. Maybe I can pretend I'm one of them._

XXX

Peter paced down the darkened hallway of the hospital, glancing in the various rooms that he passed. Sylar had to be around here somewhere. Like hell the man was sleeping, no matter that it felt like dawn should have come and gone hours ago. If it had, no sunlight had broken through the thick clouds that had continued shedding snow throughout the night. Peter had eventually circled back to the emergency room area. Having found nothing in the public spaces and patient rooms, he patrolled through the staff area. That was where he finally saw something that wasn't gurney or stool or chair, or any variety of hospital furniture. As a genuine human body part, the foot he'd glimpsed through the window in the door could only be attached to one being. Peter opened the door so he could see Sylar.

XXX

Initially Sylar didn't react when he saw the other man in the doorway. It was almost too surprising to possibly be real. He blinked, his eyes barely open but sharpening his vision. The dark figure was still there, silent and menacing as they watched one another. It was Peter, he was sure. The empath's hair made a silhouette; his frame and posture were familiar. Sylar didn't move. He swallowed and blinked once more, slower this time. Perhaps he was hallucinating. His fear spiked. He was so tired and drained that he contemplated surrender. Why was Peter here?

XXX

A glance at the label next to the door had Peter blinking. 'EMS Lounge' _Of all the places for Sylar to 'hide', he picks the room I've probably spent more time in than any other in a hospital. Was he actually hiding, or was he waiting for me?_ His heart softened. Sylar looked absolutely miserable – pale, drawn, dark circles beginning to form under his eyes, and only partly covered by a single blanket. Peter sighed loudly, dropping his backpack next to the door, hanging his coat on a hook near the door for the purpose. He walked in slow and steady, his hands at his sides, empty and loose.

XXX

Sylar exhaled roughly when Peter discarded his gear. He wanted- no, needed to believe the display. He wanted the illusion of safety. Some of his muscles released their tension, but still he didn't move like it was a test to see what Peter would do if he thought Sylar was asleep That was how he wanted things to go: no restraints or drugs. He watched with…anticipation that Peter might yet offer something desperately needed.

XXX

Peter took a seat on the couch next to Sylar, right next to him, so they were touching. Peter's eyes were gritty and his concentration spotty enough that he'd started jumping at shadows more than an hour ago. His sense of time was jacked, so he wasn't entirely sure. But what he was sure of was that he'd found the only other person here. Sylar was surely coping with the same thing, plus multiple nights of broken or little sleep, a lacerated back, a low grade infection, and all the trauma, PTSD, and triggered phobias from where they were. Peter gently cupped his hands over Sylar's shoulders and pulled him around, positioning him so that Sylar's head would be on Peter's shoulder. "Come here," he whispered. "It's gonna be alright." He fussed briefly with the blanket so it spread over Sylar's form a bit more evenly.

XXX

Sylar held his breath, barely adjusting as Peter's weight shifted the couch cushions. He went with it, accepting the offer as he inhaled again feeling like he was finally breathing for the first time in hours or days. It allowed him to satisfy his paranoia, disproving it by reaching across Peter's torso to lay his arm over Peter's abdomen, feeling for any weapon or syringe and finding none. He slumped onto the man's shoulder and made a protesting/grateful noise at being covered so thoughtfully with the blanket. _I shouldn't have left him,_ he thought muzzily, somehow certain that it would have been alright, if not better, had he stayed with the medic. The Italian's arm snuck low around his back, irritating the injuries there but those would settle in time and stillness – it was worth it. This contact would finally allow him to sleep though the position was nearly impossible to keep for someone so tall to lie on someone so lacking in torso height.

XXX

"This way," Peter said quietly, "we both know where the other is. No one can sneak up on anyone. 'Kay? We'll be safe – both of us."

XXX

Sylar scooted his hip once, adjusting his position. _I'll know if you leave,_ he thought in reply. _Safe is…_ It was too emotional a concept right now. He said nothing, having another desperate feeling that he needed Peter to understand that he understood Peter and he willed that communication through this embrace. He took it a step further in his exhausted state: that Peter might take his side and defend them in case of a threat. Sylar wanted to tell Peter to share the blanket but his last contented thought before the blissful nothingness swept him under was, _I'll warm him up, too…_

XXX

Peter sighed again and relaxed. He shut his eyes. The solution to their mutual anxiety worked as much for Peter as for Sylar. There were no shadows to fear, no footsteps to listen for, no bloodthirsty killer lurking. He knew exactly where the killer was – currently drooling on his shoulder, having dropped off to sleep with startling speed. Peter smiled, hummed softly in approval, and let his head rest against the wall behind him. Finally, he slept.

Day 74, February 22, Morning

Sylar felt the change in Peter's muscle tension. The subconscious thought of opening his eyes or moving away or letting Peter go was distressing. It seemed far too early for any of that. It felt and smelled too peaceful. He made a sound and clung on, with his right arm being mostly slung across Peter's body, that hand lying around Peter's left hip or in his lap perhaps. The other hand had a fistful of the man's shirt near his right side. Sylar had since moved his head from Peter's shoulder to the back of the couch to better suit his height and he faced Peter more than he had at the beginning. Sylar neither opened his eyes nor moved other than his initial squeezing.

XXX

A dream jarred Peter's awareness. Hesam was calling for him. There'd been a disaster; someone like Ted had blown up and taken part of the city with him. All emergency personnel were being mobilized. Peter, though, had fallen asleep on the couch in the EMS lounge, cuddling with Sylar for some reason. But Hesam was calling his name… "Huh?" Peter woke blearily, looking around the room. He felt like he was still asleep. Sylar was still with him. He was still in the break room. So that much fit, but it was quiet. No Hesam. No disaster. He looked around, blinking and trying to sort fact from fiction. Everything seemed so real. His mind kept echoing someone calling his name…maybe Matt though, not Hesam. "Huh," Peter said, placing the voice as Matt's even if it made no more sense. He shook it off as just another senseless dream. As he shifted, Sylar made an adorably needy, sleepy noise, clearly not wanting him to go. It was more important than whatever rescue fantasy Peter's subconscious was fomenting.

Peter turned, twitching his head back a few inches because Sylar's face was right there, just an inch or two from his own. He blinked again, trying to focus. He moved his right arm where it was behind Sylar's back. It was numb from where it had been wedged between Sylar's body and the couch. His other hand he brought up to Sylar's shoulder, recognizing that Sylar was in an even more uncomfortable position than Peter was. "Um…here," Peter murmured, scooting to the side and trying to turn Sylar so he'd lie on his back. "Lie down. Head in my lap. You'll sleep better." He found Sylar's fist clutching his shirt. Instinctively, Peter understood Sylar was trying to hold him, make sure he didn't get away, and keep himself safe. So he didn't try to push the hand away. Instead, he insinuated his own fingers and held Sylar's hand as he moved, giving the man something to hold onto that meant just as much.

XXX

Sylar stirred when he heard Peter's voice. He knew it was Peter and that he was, strangely, probably out of danger even with the medic around as he slept. The pain to his back woke him further and he cracked his eyes briefly to see what looked like a lounge with a suspicious hallway. Sylar rolled onto his back as gently as he could while half-awake. He just knew it was of life-or-death importance that he hold on to Peter.

XXX

Once in position, Peter let go of Sylar's hand just long enough to flip the blanket over the man again. Then he took up Sylar's hand once more, laying their joined hands on Sylar's chest. His left hand brushed briefly at Sylar's dark, messy hair before Peter sighed, shrugged his shoulders to work some of the stiffness out of them, and fell back asleep.

XXX

With his head on Peter's leg, he sleepily presumed, Sylar felt the rest of his body relaxing. He hadn't realized how uncomfortable he'd been. He'd been clutching Peter's hand before it disappeared for a moment, causing his eyes to snap open to follow its course to the blanket before returning to his hand. Hazily, he wondered what important thing was in his head that required tending, but he recognized Peter's settling body language and he stopped thinking about it. It felt really good. So good, it drew a lazy hum from him. No one was leaving, nothing was happening, and they could both sleep more.

XXX

Peter woke again, this time without the feeling of still being in a dream. This seemed real. Or as real as anything was likely to feel when he woke up with Sylar's head in his lap. Not for the first time, it struck Peter that Sylar was a singularly good-looking man. He was, at the moment, not at his best – pale, stubbly, drawn, and features slack with slumber. He was still firmly holding Peter's hand, though, which made Peter smile softly. With his other hand, Peter touched Sylar's hair, just skimming his fingertips along and through it. He knew, or expected, that it would wake Sylar eventually. That was okay – and part of the intention. Peter needed to urinate and he expected they both needed to eat. Waking Sylar was necessary. After a few minutes of gently playing with the man's hair, Peter gave his right hand a light squeeze, then moved it back and forth on Sylar's chest. "Hey," he said quietly. An awareness of the horrible things Sylar had done in his life flitted through Peter's mind, but it was like fog in the morning sun compared to the reality of the emotionally frail human being lying with him. Peter didn't want to dwell on those things, so he didn't. He just wanted to see Sylar wake and smile. He looked down and smiled himself at the sleepy man.

XXX

At first, Sylar couldn't see who was touching his hair. It didn't bother him, in fact, he liked it a lot. Was it Elle or Lydia? Perhaps his mother or…Angela? Was Angela his mother-? But no, she never really did that to Nathan…Sylar's head jerked and he inhaled quickly, squeezing back on the hand that gripped him. _What?_ When his eyes fluttered open, he saw Peter's happy, handsome face. Such a baby face still, almost feminine, even after maturation. Normally, he might have found that face, looming over him like now, to be threatening. But the smile surprised him and his eyes continued to widen until he could figure it out, until he was gazing up at Peter wonderingly. He would be content to stay and puzzle it out provided nothing changed about the situation.

XXX

Peter moved his right hand back and forth a bit more strongly, rubbing it against Sylar's chest in a very light sternum rub. He lifted his brows. "You're going to have to let me go. I need to get up."

XXX

"No, I don't," Sylar mumbled. "No, you don't." He frowned, feeling irrationally growing upset, too soon for so early in the morning. He wanted to stay and feel human with this tiny sliver of a moment of normality.

XXX

Peter raised his brows in amusement at Sylar's refutation. "I have to go pee," he said, giving Sylar something that was tougher to argue against. Peter gestured with his head towards a door on the left side of the room. "There's a locker room in there," he said with certainty, "along with a bathroom and some showers. I won't be long." He scooted to the side with enough warning that Sylar's head wouldn't flop to the couch unless Sylar let it, then disentangled his hand and let himself out of the room.

XXX

Peter slid away and Sylar caught his head before craning his neck to look where Peter had indicated. _Wait, where are we? A lounge?_ He rolled and turned partly onto his side, with many protests from his back and arms. He felt too hot under the blanket but too cold without it as he looked around the lounge, noting the fallen backpack in the doorway. He did not like the look of the hallway. _This can't be the hospital. There's no way I stayed there, slept here, with Peter Petrelli touching me._ "What happened?" he called after his companion before dragging himself upright, forgetting the blanket momentarily in his quest for answers. It was an accusation as he'd intended. "Did you drug me, Petrelli?" He'd opened the door to the men's locker room and stood in the doorway. Perhaps that explained why he'd slept so soundly with no thought of complaint about his couch-partner.

XXX

Peter moved to the urinal, intent on continuing with his business despite Sylar's ridiculous accusation. "No," he said baldly, unzipping his fly. "Why?"

XXX

"You're telling me I slept in a hospital, with you, of my own choice?" Sylar spared a glance at what Peter was obviously about to do. He could see nothing at this angle and there were more important things to think about. _(Is he really going to do that now?)_

XXX

 _Oh. That's why._ It was...disappointing. _He didn't seem that unhappy when it was happening._ Peter shot Sylar a glance over his shoulder. "There's a blizzard going on outside, or at least there was last night." He turned back, focusing on making water. It wasn't easy with the guy who had killed him multiple times and members of his family as well, standing in the doorway nearby interrogating him, and Peter being a little uncertain if this might suddenly escalate. _If it does, then it does._ "We tried to leave. Didn't work." He managed to get his bladder to cooperate, finally.

XXX

Sylar just blinked, stunned. He remembered those events, but still had questions. "Why were you touching my hair?" _Did he do something to me?_ A brief check of his hands – long, thin fingers and recognizable fingernails and hairy forearms and wrists proved his identity. An additional glance in one of the mirrors hanging above the sink showed his long, scruffy, pale face, with his own eyes and teeth. There were no scars, scabs, or marks anywhere visible on his head.

XXX

Peter waited until he was done before answering. What he wanted to say immediately was 'You told me I could touch you however I wanted' or point out how Sylar had specifically said touching his hair was okay some days ago. Both sounded defensive, which was never the right tactic to use with someone who was on the attack. He zipped his fly shut and moved to the sink to wash up. "You have very nice hair," he said appreciatively.

XXX

Another blink to process that and he shook his head. "Um…T-thank you, but we need to leave. Right now." His body language was serious and tensing up with the realities of their situation. He waited for Peter to snap-to, grab his gear, and follow.

XXX

Peter tore off a couple tan paper towels to dry his hands, turning to face Sylar as he did it. The 'right now' led him to lean against the sink behind him, refusing to be hurried. "We did it your way last night. You almost froze to death." An exaggeration, but so was Sylar's fear of being here. "Today we're doing it my way. That means we're going to get ready, make sure you're well, eat a good breakfast, and figure out how we can do this – _safely_." He threw the wad of used paper towels in the trash and straightened, taking a few steps forward and squaring off with Sylar. "My goal is to get both of us home. It's not far. I don't know how much snow we're dealing with out there or what the weather is, but I figure we can make it if we work together and plan it out. I'm shit for planning. You're going to have to help me. Let's do this _together_. Okay?" Peter's tone was a questioning challenge, both asking and demanding that Sylar work with him towards the common goal of exactly what Sylar wanted to achieve – getting back home.

XXX

Sylar rose up to his full height to stare down at Peter. Usually, the man's stubborn, righteous behavior was almost endearing, attractive in the way it stood out from the normal and the weak, even sexy in its commanding nature. Leave it to Peter Petrelli to challenge him in a damn hospital about what represented one of his greatest terrors. If the situation had been, well, elsewhere he might have been tempted…Sylar spared a glance up Peter's form, lingering at groin, chest, neck, and lips. The Italian, as a whole, had his attention and he was listening. It was an interesting argument: 'do it my way, get what you want.' He badly wanted to push the man's buttons and refuse and make him feel…what Sylar felt. _(Maybe they left me…left_ us _alone because he was with me…) I may need him._ The compliment to his planning and Peter's admitted weakness had the intended effect of luring him in on impulse. _He needs me._ "Fine," he allowed because he was being asked, not commanded. "Let's get started then," he said as he turned on his heel to exit the men's room. He saw a water fountain between the bathrooms and noticed his mouth was dry. Ignoring it for now, he was pleased to see Peter had followed him out. He went to the couch and took up the blanket in preparation to leave the lounge and the hospital. "I'm read-…" he began and trailed off when Peter went for his backpack, pulling out a harmless toothbrush. "We could die horribly and you want to stick around so you can prevent gingivitis?" he asked with blistering sarcasm hidden beneath a disbelieving tone. Sylar was proud of the medical terminology, using it to prove his health.

XXX

"If I die horribly, I don't want the last thing I taste to be morning-mouth." _More likely, it will be my own blood_. The thought made him queasy, even though and mostly because he'd tasted it often enough. With a glance at Sylar, Peter moved to the sink in the lounge instead of the one in the locker room bathroom. This way, Sylar wasn't so pointedly following him around.


	136. Blanket Concessions

Day 74, February 22, Morning

"Why would you brush your teeth before you eat anyway?" Sylar sighed, crossing his arms and shifting his weight. He was positioned to watch down the forbidding hallway they would inevitably have to travel down. "You mentioned breakfast. The muffins are- were safe last night in the cafeteria." Quieter, he added, "I think." Then louder Sylar continued, "One of us should remember where that is. Just grab something and my coat." He was saying it all aloud so poor Peter could keep up and feel included in the 'plan.' The weather conditions had yet to play a factor in his plans.

XXX

"Muffins sound okay." Peter moved on to brushing his teeth. He brushed his teeth in the morning for the same reason already stated – he didn't like the taste or feel of tongue and teeth after a long night. He supposed he could get away with rinsing and in college he'd made do with strong coffee or other drinks, but since he had his toothbrush with him and they had the time…might as well, despite Sylar trying to hurry him. Peter spat out the toothpaste and rinsed. He looked at his toiletry supplies. He set the toothbrush and tube of paste next to one another as he contemplated letting Sylar use them. Making a decision, he took a step back and waved at the sink. "Get over here and brush. Or at least rinse."

He stepped off to the side and pulled out his comb from his back pocket. "Like you say, we can eat light and grab your coat, but _first_ , you need to get ready and I need to see your back. How's it feel?"

XXX

Sylar snorted and looked at the items askance. It was out of the blue, unhygienic to share (especially after Peter brought attention to the unpleasantness), and he didn't like the man's tone. "I'm fine," Sylar shook his head, brushing off the concern he secretly appreciated. He was feeling achy and a bit queasy. _(What if the storm is still going on?)_ "I...Thank you. For...before, last night." He took a deeper breath and raked his hair back. He didn't know how to express his gratitude and similar interest in Peter's well-being.

XXX

"No problem," Peter said quietly. He frowned about Sylar declining to brush, but didn't push it. Instead, Peter busied himself with combing his hair into place. When it was as orderly as he could get without a mirror, he tossed the comb on the countertop where Sylar could reach. "I messed up your hair plenty earlier," he said in a tone that bordered on sultry. _Maybe I can get more out of him this way than giving him orders._ "Might want to whip it back into shape." He gave it a long pause as he pointedly looked over the disarray of Sylar's hair. It had probably suffered more from being toweled off the night before than from anything Peter had done to it this morning. "I still want to see your backside," Peter said with a playful, flirty tone.

XXX

 _(It could have been a big problem),_ Sylar thought, watching with half his attention as the empath fixed his hair. It didn't look out of place to begin with and he supposed that was one of the benefits of such a style. He noted again how Peter's hair seemed darker and more weighed down than it had years ago. "Huh?" he blurted, bringing his focus back to the present. _My hair would look like a mess._ He was so intent on getting out that he almost didn't care about his undoubtedly scruffy appearance. _(He doesn't like beards)._ Sylar gave his companion a lingering, searching look, almost threatening with its concentration. _You do it,_ he wanted to say. He stalked around Peter to pick up the comb and use it, at an angle so he could watch Peter from the corner of his eye, mostly to see if he was being watched in return. What he did growl was, "Still? I told you you'd want more soon." He knew what Peter meant, but the wording was…too intentional to be an accident. Since his hair wasn't tangled, merely disorderly, it took less than a minute without water (what with the expected cold outdoors) to rake his mane into place. He returned the comb and reached up for the shoulders of his shirt after presenting his back to the medic. _(I shouldn't trust him to turn my back,_ his paranoia whispered).

XXX

"Yeah," Peter said softly as Sylar began to comply. It wasn't a sexy 'yeah' so much as simply gentle. "Come here." He moved to Sylar rather than waiting for the alternative, reaching up and helping lift the shirt so it cleared the man's shoulders. What he saw took every flirty undertone out of the situation, which Peter had sort of expected. It was one or the other, after all – either Sylar was fine and Peter could scale back the flirt because he didn't have to worry about him enough to try manipulation, or Sylar was still messed up and the flirting would go nowhere. The latter was the case. He touched around the inflamed, reddened, slightly swollen areas.

"This needs to be cleaned again," Peter muttered. "If we're not careful, this is going to scar." Even more softly, he added, "After everything that's happened to you, this is the thing that's going to leave marks? Huh." More normally, he said, "It'll need to be packed and bandaged before we go anywhere." He touched Sylar's skin on a normal-looking area, then down to the small of the back that had come so much to Sylar's attention lately. Peter gave it a few steady strokes – partly because it was a nice (and entirely uninjured) part of Sylar's body, but mostly to gage temperature. "I think you have a low grade fever, too."

XXX

Peter couldn't see it, but Sylar's head canted and he blinked at that. _He…he thinks I'm not scarred?_ Again, he understood what Petrelli meant – the external flesh only, though it still caught him off guard. He inhaled before he could question it as Peter's hand made the expected (hoped for?) contact. _What do you care if I scar? (You should scar my skin to match what you and everyone else has done. I deserve that)._ He wanted to ask and nearly did. Recalling Peter's job and history, even the comments he'd made about blood and pain unbelievably not doing it for him, Sylar held his tongue. _He likes…pretty, normal things. Healthy things. Whole things. (I'm not whole, but I look like I am)._ "Oh," he replied, wondering if the fever was caused by the wounds or the cold of last night.

XXX

Peter stood there for several seconds, his hand on Sylar's skin and his eyes fixed on that. He was just touching, feeling a faint tingle, and being lost in the moment. Then he pulled back and reached up to tug Sylar's shirt down. "We need to get you some food so you can take your pills, have you take some of those antibiotics, and then a fever reducer. After that, I'll clean those spots up, pack the wounds, bandage, and we'll go. I don't think you're going to handle me trying to keep you here until you're fully recovered, so we'll go home as soon as your fever is down. That should be an hour or so from taking the pills. You might need days of rest to shake this, but you're not going to get that here, sleeping on couches and feeling…unsafe." Peter jerked his head towards the hallway, walking over to shoulder his backpack and gather up his coat. "Let's go."

XXX

He felt vulnerable whenever Peter lifted his shirt like this, or perhaps, even when the man touched him in 'that' way. It was colder than he liked, giving him goosebumps though Peter's hand was wonderfully warm against him. He made the tiniest sound of disappointment at the separation. Sylar adjusted the fall of his shirt then turned and blurted, "What?" He'd almost missed the part about staying until his fever dissipated. "No, just bring the pills or I'll take some before we leave." He was not counting on an hour spent here. Maybe an additional five to ten minutes to grab gear and food, but this…? The familiar suspicion that Peter was trying to keep him here with excuses and delays crept back. Sylar took up the blanket, just in case, and followed Peter. He was glad to be walking behind the man and not leading because it made him feel safer if that were possible. This time, he would leave Peter behind in the daylight, in the hospital if he had to.

XXX

The cafeteria was nowhere near the emergency wing, but they got there anyway soon enough. Peter left Sylar to go through the industrial-sized lockers and coolers for breakfast while he busied himself making coffee for the both of them. He had imagined this was a joint endeavor, but as he turned back, holding their cups, looking to see where they intended to sit, he saw Sylar standing with the appearance of unhappily waiting on him with no intention of sitting down.

XXX

Sylar heaved a loud sigh. "A quick breakfast, Petrelli. Walk and eat, come on." He'd since grabbed another blueberry muffin and a somewhat room temperature apple from a display stand and had positioned himself near the walkway to the hall that would lead back to the oven and his coat. Peter had his coat so Sylar had even more motivation to find his own. Walking and eating would be a distraction, but ideally they would be finished eating and would have hands-free when they exited in the snow. It wasn't so much that he'd planned it that way, as it was an unforeseen benefit. _I wonder if I can find better clothes. Peter has his gloves and…headband thing. I could add another layer with blankets and make a scarf._ He waited impatiently for Peter to join him, not allowing himself to be distracted by his thoughts and staying focused on the plan and their goal.

XXX

Peter frowned. His instinct was to dig in his heels and refuse to be hurried, just like earlier, but he had a feeling this wasn't the time for a blanket refusal to cooperate. He walked forward slowly, extending the cup towards his companion. In a serious tone, he said, "Drink your coffee, Sylar. I'll go back and grab something to eat. If you drink up, I'll make sure it's something I can eat while we walk." He waited for an acknowledgement, taking a sip of his own (fortunately heavily doctored enough with cream to be drinkable) as he waited for Sylar to take the cup.

XXX

Sylar met that look with similar stubbornness, expecting resistance and having some of his own, internally. He raised his chin, listening. He didn't care for the commands and the condition: 'if.' He took the cup as it was extended to him. The real issue, aside from speed and pure necessity, was accepting things he couldn't repay or at least reciprocate. _I didn't ask for this,_ he wanted to protest in habit and he certainly didn't _need_ it, either. The reinforced paper cup was comforting and warm; the coffee inside it was black and appeared plain as if Peter had been paying attention to how he preferred it and prepared it that way, too. This place was distracting, hiding its true nature, and it would have been easy to linger if he didn't keep remembering…Sylar took a testing sip – almost too hot, but he wasn't the type to wait or spare himself pain. He cradled the coffee and tried to apply himself to patience.

XXX

With a hand freed up now, Peter returned to the storage area and glanced through the options. He grabbed a dark brown muffin. The label identified it as 'banana-nut bran'. _One muffin plus coffee. Not a good breakfast to get out and slog through snow._ But he set down his cup long enough to tear open the packaging for the muffin, taking a bite and picking up his cup before heading back to Sylar. Peter made a head-tilt as though to say 'Happy?' as he approached.

XXX

Getting the coffee in him seemed to stabilize him from the inside out and dull some of the aching, cold flashes. It woke him up. _I'll need that. This is my plan. I have to think for…us._ He'd since eaten about a quarter of his own muffin. His face didn't change much, but he felt relieved and pleased when Peter returned, ready to go. Sylar had some sense of direction of the hospital, partly educated guessing with some recognition of familiar areas. He oriented them towards what he felt was the E.R.

XXX

"Okay," Peter said as they left the cafeteria and headed towards the emergency wing. "We need to do some talking here, because we're about to have a problem. I think you want to head back immediately, like as soon as we get where we're going." Peter gestured down the hallway. "I want you to take some medicine, wait for it to kick in, and make sure we can make it without you losing any fingers or toes." He didn't say anything for a few more steps before continuing. "I'm not going to physically stop you. And _if you leave, I will go with you_." Peter turned and gave Sylar a steady look as he emphasized his words. "Because what I said last night about us needing to be a team right now hasn't changed. This isn't smart – leaving right away, not enough food, you sick." He frowned heavily, pursing his lips. "If you're telling me it's what you _have_ to do, and that there's nothing I can say that will convince you to do it my way..." Peter shook his head unhappily, "...then I'll take that 'fuck you' you're sending my direction and I'll be there to help you anyway. So what's the deal?"

XXX

Sylar sighed heavily. The dread of Peter's stalling tugged at him hard once again. He was silent during the man's break because he was tired of arguing when he knew Peter had some concept of his motivations (and that Peter's safety was a factor in them). Sylar met the intent stare with his own wary side-eye, wanting to look away and not…be looked at that way, not with these words going on. They touched him and he didn't know what the hell to do about any of it. _I'm not saying 'fuck you'!_

The rest of it got under his skin. It was just like the gift of coffee, the stupid coffee. And warming him up with the blankets, touching his feet, finding him when he hid, sleeping with him (and presumably not doing anything perverted as he slept), and insisting on medicine. Sylar slowed to a halt, glancing everywhere but Peter, hands shoved in pockets. He knew his plan wasn't smart – hell, he wasn't even taking the time to formulate a good one! _(I can't ask him…)_ he thought of asking for fucking help from Peter Petrelli in a goddamn hospital. The amount of care and comfort he would need to stay for an hour or half a day, however long it took for 'the meds to kick in' would be similar to…to what Peter had done for him yesterday in this same place. He didn't know if Peter could or would do as much again. His face probably betrayed some of his nervousness as he looked around, continually scanning for threats.

 _He should leave me here. He should just kill me._ "That's…It's not…" he began and couldn't finish. "How do I know the antibiotics I took aren't making me worse?" he managed, trying to express his doubt and refusing to label his symptoms as 'sickness.' "How long is it going to take? Do you even know? What if it doesn't get better? Are you going to drag me back or make me stay? I told you: you should fucking leave me here. You still can. You don't owe me anything. You shouldn't stay here."

XXX

Peter tilted his head, watching Sylar fidget guiltily and listening to him nearly stammer. _He's afraid and embarrassed about it, and guilty about me trying to help. But he wants me to give him a reason not to listen to the fear_. "And I told you," Peter said steadily, "I'm not leaving you here." He gestured in the direction of the doors out, beyond which it was light grey and almost foggy in appearance, but maybe that was just the frosted glass. He still hadn't looked at the weather. "What would I do out there without you? Go play piano and mind my own business all the time? I'd go crazy." He gave Sylar an insightful look even though his statement was obvious: "So would you."

Peter walked over to the nearest nurse's station and shrugged out of his backpack as he changed the subject. "You took some antibiotics? What kind? When?" Whatever he'd taken, it wasn't the ones Peter had been carrying, which meant Sylar had snagged something from a storeroom or maybe a cart.

XXX

 _I'm already crazy,_ he thought tiredly, admitting the obvious. Sylar knew he had reasons but his strangeness remained. "The same kind you showed me last night. After I…left you."

XXX

"How many?"

XXX

"Two. I followed the directions."

XXX

Peter nodded. "That's good! Great!" He was cheered to find Sylar had been doing some self-care on his own. Peter dug out one of the bottles from the backpack and offered it to Sylar after checking the label. "This is what we got yesterday," he said, speaking with the enthusiasm of someone who thought medical miracles were really cool. What he held in his hand could save lives or at least shorten misery. "A course of antibiotics will take days to kill off the infection in your body, which is why I'm saying we might as well leave today if the weather's cleared enough and you're mobile, which you are. You won't rest well here. We'll get you back home where you're comfortable, I'm comfortable, and you can take the pills regularly like you should, twice a day. But before we go out there and slog through a mile of snow, we need to treat the main symptom, which is fever. Otherwise, you're going to be sick, feel sick, and not able to do your best. I don't want you falling out before we get home. If there's any dragging going to happen, it's going to be me dragging you to the nearest safe place, so let's make sure that's home and not right back here. The fever reducers should take effect within an hour. It's not long. You'll feel better. It's standard ibuprofen."

XXX

Fortunately, Peter hadn't tampered with the seal on the bottle – he saw that when he took hold of it; otherwise Sylar would have insisted they trek back for a replacement. He stared at the bottle in his hand, still feeling like crap mentally and physically. His bruises ached and his muscles protested sleeping on Peter and a couch. An hour – they'd already spent nearly a day here, what was one more hour ( _3,600 seconds,_ he reminded himself) when it meant he might never have to return, at least for these ailments? "Okay," he whispered and looked up, resigning and preparing himself for that much.

XXX

"Okay." Peter looked around at where they were. "The storeroom's over that way. Let's go get what you need." He grabbed his backpack and headed off in the direction he'd indicated.

XXX

Sylar wondered if this was the same storeroom as before and he noticed that Peter more than most had a sense of direction. Peter, being shorter, with his backpack and messy hair, looked a bit childish from behind. It was amusing. The Italian's physique was anything but childish or feminine and neither was his determined stride. Sylar walked after him, still holding the bottle of pills when he didn't want to be carrying them, so he walked just beside and unzipped the main compartment of the backpack as Peter walked to deposit the bottle and re-zip the bag. He paid attention to the hallways, signs, and turns they made until they arrived at, yes, the same storeroom.

XXX

Tylenol was easy to find – clearly labeled, near the door, available in just about every dispensary option known to mankind. Peter poured out the right number of pills from a normal bottle and handed them off to Sylar.

XXX

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "Tylenol is different from ibuprofen, Peter," he said with a touch of warning in his voice. Tylenol was better than ibuprofen for fever. Either way, he wasn't afraid to down over-the-counter painkillers and now he knew what the pills looked like in the event of any attempted switching. He would have preferred to be in control of dispensing his own meds, but it was Peter's backpack and he couldn't shoulder it in the intended way for any length of time.

XXX

"They have the same effect – they'll both cut your fever." His brow furrowed and he glanced around the rows and rows of Tylenol variants, puzzled at why the more standard ibuprofen wasn't there. He shrugged away the peculiarity as being far from the weirdest thing about the place. He turned back to Sylar. "You should take a dose of antibiotics while you're at it." He gestured at his backpack. "One now, one tonight." Leaving Sylar with the medication, Peter wandered around the pharmacy looking for other things, including the wayward ibuprofen. He was sure he had some back at the apartment. It was one of the things he'd stocked up on before. "We're going to have an hour. Do you want me to clean your back here, or at the apartment later?"

XXX

Sylar went still. He watched Peter carefully to see what he was doing. The cold, germy, unnatural nature of the place came rushing back and he couldn't imagine having his back cleaned here and the vulnerability involved. He felt a rush of tension before he realized he was being asked his preference. "Later," he said firmly.

XXX

Peter glanced back, taking note of Sylar's tone. Paying too much attention to the medicines was not wise, given Sylar's issues. He took down a few extra packs of gauze and ointment. He'd need them regardless of where they did it. They got stowed in his pack. "We could also go back to the cafeteria and have a real meal." He looked back at Sylar. "While we wait, you know?"

XXX

Sylar took a deeper breath. _I can do this. It's just an hour._ A few come-ons popped into his head but they were actually inappropriate in a hospital and he had no intention of any follow-through if he did say them. He nodded. The muffin had been good, but watching Peter try to cook and having conversation would be…almost normal and distracting at the least. He had the feeling that Peter understood quite a bit of his fears, accepting them, and even…giving comfort in the face of them. It did not help him feel less like scum, but it did help make it all bearable, which he desperately needed. It was a relief not to picture Peter turning on him here or be forced to relive anything from the past involved with the man. "Yeah," he agreed with more enthusiasm than he'd yet shown. "Don't tell me you like the food here, too?" This was Peter's world as much as the library was Sylar's.

XXX

Peter shrugged as they left the storeroom and headed off deeper into the complex, retracing their steps. "It's okay. Some of the food is pretty good. Stay away from the pasta dishes. Sometimes the bread is stale. And you have to spice everything. But the meat and vegetables are pretty good." He tilted his head conspiratorially at Sylar, "At least they tell me the meat's good. Desserts are okay."

"I'm told the coffee used to suck big time." Peter perked up suddenly, tapping Sylar on the forearm. "I've got a story! So there was this one time we had a gal join up, daughter of a whole family of doctors. Part of her residency or something included taking a tour with the EMT service for, like, a couple months. A semester, probably. She _hated_ the hospital coffee. _Hated_ it. With a passion. She called it dishwater and the name stuck, at least for the EMTs."

Peter kept on for a few more strides as he pulled together the rest of the story. "So a few weeks after she joined, she brought in this fancy machine that would grind the beans, make espresso, all the bells and whistles. This was before Keurigs were the big thing. This was almost as good as the Starbucks booth might make, and it was before the hospital had a Starbucks booth, too. The coffee it made was so good, that word got out fast. And it spread. At first it was just the nurses dropping by, but then the doctors, and pretty soon we had folks sneaking it out for the red blanket patients. The thing was, everyone wanted the coffee, but no one would bring the beans. So whenever she'd bring some in, she'd get a cup and then people would find out, and the stuff would be gone within a couple hours. No matter how much she brought."

"I didn't mention it exactly, but she was pretty rich. I don't think it was the cost that got to her so much as the unfairness of it all. She got the machine for the EMT break room so the EMTs – the people she was working with – could have something decent to drink while heading out on New York's slushy streets at four in the morning. But the stuff was never there. People were asking after it. The EMTs, we knew what the score was, so we just kept our eye out for when she'd bring in new and otherwise we had the usual dishwater."

"A little more than halfway through, she quit bringing beans. She took the machine away. She didn't say much to any of us. When she left and moved on in rotation to a hospital down in DC, she gave us all Starbucks gift cards, said it was what she would have been paying anyway for beans and stuff." Peter stopped, leaning a little so he could see the Starbucks booth down the hall. They were about to turn towards the cafeteria and would lose sight of it then. "Two weeks later, they opened that, and I know she had to have something to do with it, with all her connections." Peter smirked, jerking his thumb towards the booth. "It wasn't more than a couple months later that they overhauled the coffee in the cafeteria, probably because of all the money everyone was pumping into Starbucks." He shrugged as they walked into the empty food area. "The stuff's pretty good now." He spread his arms slightly and smiled, turning to face Sylar, walking backwards to do it. "So in the end, everyone won."

XXX

Sylar trailed behind Peter, head tilted thoughtfully. "Did you do her? Or even try? She sounds like your type." _Even though I know he says he doesn't have a type._ "Except smarter than you," he added under his breath, going for the refrigerator for an apple if he could find one. She was probably smarter than Peter because this mysterious doctor solved the problem for everyone with macro-level thinking, not just…treating symptoms with selfless acts. Sylar arrested, hands still on the door of the huge metallic refrigerator and pivoted to give Peter a knowing look. "It was Emma, wasn't it?"

XXX

Peter had been scowling, trying to decide what the problem was with Sylar's assumption that Peter might have tried to get with any female he mentioned, when Sylar implied Peter's options were even more limited. "No," he said with exasperation. "It wasn't Emma!" Now the assumptions were being leveled at her! He shook his head. They weren't insulting assumptions – at least not about Emma. The ones about him, though…

XXX

Sylar frowned, almost disappointed with that answer. He'd been so sure of his hypothesis: rich, selfless, smart girl in Peter's own profession. Perhaps Ma hadn't approved – of course she hadn't approved. "Huh." He dug out a Red Delicious and an orange for Peter then drew closer to him to see what he was making.

XXX

Peter started poking around, looking for precooked stuff he could just warm up. He eventually settled on a second cup of coffee, a pair of biscuits with cheese and what he hoped was scrambled egg inside of them, and a packet of oatmeal. He couldn't find any decent syrup or even any jelly, but he figured he'd live if he added enough butter and sugar. He worked on his coffee while the microwave ran, heating everything to edibility if not necessarily the most palatable. Fresh would have been better, but he wasn't sure of Sylar's patience. He took his seat at a small table nearest where they'd been preparing their food and waited to see if Sylar had anything to say.

XXX

Sylar stole some of the same biscuits, eggs, cheese, butter, and a cup of the coffee. He felt a craving for doughnuts but that would be far too unhealthy for sick people. _I think people trapped in this hellhole need doughnuts more than most._ A smirk graced his face as he heated his own biscuit when he imagined eating doughnuts in Primatech's cells, maybe gluttonously stuffing his face in front of Bennet's glaring eyes. He returned to his earlier question, "Did you try to do her?"

XXX

Peter let his shoulders and upper body slump demonstratively in his seat. "No! I did not!" In retrospect, he probably should have. "Just because I run across someone interesting doesn't mean I try to get with them." He pursed his lips, rolled his eyes, and went on to doctoring his oatmeal as well as he could with the available ingredients. _I'd like some raisins or nuts in this._ "At least, not anymore." He shook his head and took up his first bite. "I did that back in college. Once I got in nursing school, I cut a lot of that stuff out. I was finally doing what I wanted to do with my life. All of that other stuff, the partying…was a distraction. It was me trying to…self-medicate out of a bad situation, one where I felt meaningless, or worse than meaningless. And then once I got abilities..." Peter hunkered down slightly over his food, expression turning surly. "I haven't been with anyone since I became an EMT. I think I told you that."

XXX

Sylar paused in the act of buttering a biscuit. Some of that wasn't new, but some of it, the way it was phrased held more truth than Peter probably consciously intended. ' _Self-medicating' with sex. With lots of super-casual sex when he's in a bad situation, feeling meaningless and probably suicidal like now with Nathan gone…_ Peter was in very deep, the worst he'd ever been to the point where he couldn't help himself or seek comfort in familiar ways. _He's used people before._ Oh, of course Peter would have some grand excuse to justify it. Those realizations added some perspective and gave him a twinge of discomfort that someone like Peter was in this 'bad situation' and unable to get out or get some. _(I'm too cheap for him.)_ No wonder his approach wasn't, until only recently, gaining headway. Peter really wanted that relationship crap he said he did and Sylar didn't know whether to be pleased or disgusted.

He stared at Peter for a long while, otherwise unmoving. Staring at him until his gears and mysterious inner workings were inspected. For most of it, Peter kept on eating or struggling and grimacing at his food but that was unimportant.

XXX

Peter noticed the intent stare being directed his way. He ignored it for a few sulky seconds as he mentally reviewed what he'd said. While nothing in particular seemed worthy of staring, he could see there was a lot Sylar might be reacting to. Out of patience waiting for Sylar to explain, Peter looked up and demanded, "What?"

XXX

A tilt of his head was his only reaction as he kept staring for several seconds more. "You could," he said softly, replying to the last thing Peter had said about 'not getting with anyone since becoming an EMT' – a rather silly distinction. Sylar cleared his throat, breaking his stare, and went back to the act of buttering. "You could, you know. Just…medicating. Therapeutic. Cathartic, maybe." He gave half a hitch of his shoulders like a shrug to keep the pressure and denial away. He eyed the food as if that would reveal any foreign contaminants, then took a bite of the biscuit and salted his scrambled eggs. _Make him feel needed. Important. Understood._ "What does 'self-medicating' mean to you? How does that work?"

XXX

"With you?" Peter said just as quietly. There was a little challenge and doubt in the question, but he didn't ask it like it was preposterous. After all, Sylar had offered quite seriously, multiple times. As always, it struck Peter as generous and unnecessary, as well as jarringly incongruous to contemplate doing such an act with the man who'd killed his brother and Peter himself, among so many others. _What would it be like for him? Is it a conquest, or penance?_ His eyes narrowed a little. Peter finished off his oatmeal and pushed it away, turning to the egg biscuit next.

"Technically, it's just...being your own doctor," he said soberly, taking a bite and watching Sylar's face, looking at his eyes and considering how handsome Sylar was despite how ragged he was at the moment. "That's kind of like being your own lawyer. It's not really smart, especially when the problem's not physical." He took another bite. His prediction about the food seemed accurate: slightly stale biscuit, but otherwise fine. Egg and cheese were as good as one could expect of something frozen and microwaved. "Getting loaded and fucking people isn't what I need. It wasn't then, either."

XXX

The food was…subpar. Sylar swallowed and frowned at his plate for a second, setting aside his knife, too. He felt too hot and irritated. _So he admits he's 'fucked' people. Not just women, either._ "No, of course not." He didn't think Peter was answering the question, just alluding to it and ruling out distracting comfort fucking. Sylar nearly started to point out the dodge, but wanted to prove himself. "You want a life of meaning. You want a relationship. Someone who understands. Someone who knows you're special. You want to be special _to_ that person. Then," he added with amusement, "You can fuck their brains out." _This is making me sicker than my back and the food combined._ Sylar picked up his fork and tried the eggs, which were better for the salt. The coffee was a good cleanse.

XXX

Peter regarded Sylar, picking up the tension and frustration in the man's body language. He tilted his head slightly. _I think he's still upset I'm not putting out, that ten years ago I would have went to bed with him in a heartbeat and now I have standards. Though I wouldn't have fucked Nathan's killer back then either._ Peter grimaced. "Exactly. Not that I expect to get that." He finished off his biscuit and looked into his coffee cup, trying to decide if he wanted to finish it off or not. _Wait a second, he means him! A relationship, understanding, thinks I'm-_ "You think I'm special?" Peter blurted out. The coffee cup ended up back on the table, forgotten instantly. "I mean," he tried to backtrack, because that much was stupidly obvious due to the double meaning of 'special' and not knowing which one (or both) Sylar meant, "I know you…yeah, but…that's not…" He paused and made a second stab at expressing his disjointed thoughts, "You keep trying to kill me, to fuck with me, to hurt me. And you want to be with me, that way?" His face showed the confusion he felt.

XXX

Addressing the near-invitation about being with Peter more intimately, Sylar answered, "What if I say yes? It won't change your mind. It doesn't change anything. I'm still me and Nathan's still dead." That was the bitter truth. It didn't matter what he wanted, assuming he wanted Peter that way at all – he did, because this was the only arrangement available to either of them.

XXX

Peter frowned, disappointed. What Sylar said was true, but it wasn't the answer he wanted to hear. Peter wanted an explanation for the mistreatment, not a promise it was going to continue. "No, it doesn't change anything," he said slowly. "I'm not going to be with someone who keeps trying to hurt me." He finished off his coffee. "Just because you want to get laid doesn't change all the reasons I have for not doing it. If you can't even offer me basic safety, then you're right. Completely." He set the empty cup down and gathered up his utensils and dishes, walking them back into the kitchen.

XXX

Sylar straightened, head tilted in intent, curious examination once again. He shoved another large bite into his mouth when Peter got up, chewing quickly. "No, of course that doesn't change anything. _You_ wanting to get laid does." Sylar wiggled out from the table, bringing his own dishes to the kitchen only to set an example – he had no intention of ever coming back here so the issue of cleaning was moot, however, Peter had some…table manners that needed improving and he wanted to follow the empath anyway. "Pete…" Sylar laid a hand on the man's shoulder, trailing his hand down the muscular, warm arm. "Of course you'd be safe. You don't enjoy being hurt. I know that." The unfair idea was that Peter would get to hurt him and maintain Peter's own safety, a sort of 'live to abuse another day' kind of thing. Though Peter had denied any interest in that theme, he couldn't imagine how Peter wanted to pin his hopes on an actual relationship. _I don't see how I 'keep trying to hurt him.' Here, alone anyway. Doesn't he know that my attempts are usually a lot more successful?_ He filed that away to ask soon, but later.

XXX

Peter twitched at Sylar's hand coming down on him, with Peter not knowing if it was the start of something violent, sexual, both, or neither. He'd just finished setting down his dishes, turning around to find Sylar there, with Sylar's hand gripping him the moment Peter noticed his presence. With the counter against Peter's far hip, there was nowhere to run if things went bad. But Sylar's expression wasn't aggressive. The 'Pete' was unsettling, given how many times he'd told Sylar not to use that name. That it didn't seem to be an intentional jab made it all the more troubling. Still on edge, Peter watched the hand stroke down his arm, then looked up for the delivery of Sylar's words. Peter's brows rose slightly, his eyes widening with the motion.

 _He believes that,_ _but he beat me unconscious just a few weeks ago and I'm not even totally sure why. What if that 'yes' just means he's going to keep trying to kill me_ and _he wants to fuck me? That's no different than anything – everything – he's said before._ Peter's eyes narrowed and lips pursed as distrust came over his features. He pulled away with an unimpressed grunt and a roll of his eyes as he extracted himself from the close quarters. "We should get going," he said curtly.

XXX

Sylar bit his lip, allowing his hand to slide off as Peter pulled away. He was…disappointed his words hadn't garnered more of a reaction, a pleasant one. _He doesn't believe me._ _(Do I want him to? How do can I make myself believable? I thought he trusted me)._ "Yeah," he agreed with a sigh. Lingering here even for the purpose of seduction wasn't worth it.

XXX

Peter was grumpy, sullen, and irritable as they walked back, him mulling over Sylar's words to ill effect. The statements translated in Peter's mind as, 'I want to kill you and fuck your corpse' or something equally graphic, maybe 'I want to crucify you and get off to it' tended to do that to Peter. His mind kept unhelpfully providing him with images that combined a desire to kill him with a desire to fuck him. Peter's imagination was too vivid for his own good sometimes. He kept his eyes off Sylar as they walked and worked on not balling his fists too tightly. By the time they got to the emergency wing, Peter didn't mind that it was probably cold as hell outside and Sylar's fever might not have broken yet. He went through the required motions of pulling out blankets and offering them to Sylar. "You should wrap one over your head and another around your shoulders. Tuck them both into your jacket. It'll keep the wind off your head." Peter readied his own outerwear, tossing the headband on a counter next to Sylar so the other man could use it if he chose. He shouldered his backpack and waited for Sylar to finish getting ready.

XXX

Peter gave him a suggestion, not an order this time. It was a good idea, though it meant he would look ridiculous. Sylar saw the wisdom in it because success wouldn't result in yet another stay in the hospital. Taking a moment as he hefted a blanket and began to sort it out, folding it, he said, "Why aren't you wearing one?" Headband or not, it was a good precaution that also applied to Peter.

XXX

Peter slipped his coat off to tug the hood out of the pocket it was tucked into. "I have a hood. And a heavier coat that will keep my core temperature up better than yours." He fingered the material of the hood with a skeptical expression. It wasn't thick. Without the headband covering his ears, it wouldn't be as effective as it had been the day before. "I made it here in the first place with just the headband, but my face was frozen stiff. I think the hood will be enough."

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar sarcastically agreed with a lift of his eyebrows. He promptly snatched and threw another blanket into Peter's chest. _Now we can both look like idiots._ He felt some nerves about going back outside, but it was vastly preferable than staying here. Memories of the icy experiences and fear from before were hard to forget and he told himself he was more than mere weather. The thought that nature would kill him after all this time was laughable and shameful. His back was pained; feeling tight and stretched in a delicate, dry way. It took a moment to sling the blanket around himself as his flesh protested the motions and the friction against his clothes. He bundled the blanket around him like a cowl and hood, crossing the ends over and shoving them between the buttons of and into his coat.


	137. A Spoonful of Sugar

Day 74, February 22, Morning

Peter dropped the blanket to the counter next to him and shrugged back into his coat. Referring to the fabric Sylar had tossed at him, Peter asked, "What's that for?" He zipped his coat shut, pulled the hood on, tied it down, and sealed the throat latch over the tie. He pulled close the other items he would be using – the pack and gloves. He looked over at the headband that Sylar was ignoring for now. If Sylar wouldn't use it, then Peter didn't want to leave it behind.

XXX

"A backpack, gloves, and a headband? Where do you think you're going?" He asked in what might have sounded like a hunter asking pointless questions of his prey. "Put it on," Sylar commanded with a glance at the blanket. _Someone has to take care of your dumb ass._

XXX

Peter frowned at Sylar and put on his backpack instead. He knew perfectly well what Sylar was telling him to do, but he pretended to misunderstand. He shrugged his shoulders into the pack and squared off with Sylar, looking at him with half mischief and half challenge, his face making it clear he was being obstinate on purpose, just to see what Sylar would do.

XXX

An intimidating stare was leveled at Petrelli. _What the hell is he doing?_ Sylar paused in the act of situating his own blanket. "Put it on," he rather pointlessly repeated himself.

XXX

They were about to head out into the snow, possibly into the continuing blizzard. Given all the negative thoughts he'd harbored on the walk over, Peter needed to know, on a gut level, if Sylar was with him, philosophically speaking. Would he stick with him if things became difficult, or would he dump him or turn on him if dealing with Peter wasn't easy street? With the hood up, Peter couldn't toss his hair like he wanted to, so he made do with pushing a few wayward locks off of his forehead and under the hood. "Come over here and make me," he said with a light snort, his tone both dismissive and playful.

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed. The thought of why Peter would test him here, now, in his condition, when he couldn't easily escape…it made no sense. Then there was that tone, the body language that had shifted just now. If Peter wanted to fight, Sylar would oblige and be in the right because the Italian was being…being…His face shifted into determination and he took up the blanket meant for the other man and advanced on him, dropping it over his head and around down his back, maintaining a hold on it to keep it in place.

XXX

"Hey!" Peter complained, pushing Sylar lightly with one hand and grabbing a part of the blanket with another. Peter had three different directions he could have dodged to, but he stayed right where he was, for the same reason he hadn't shoved Sylar hard enough to upset the man's balance, and he wasn't jerking on the blanket enough to substantially interfere with what Sylar was doing.

XXX

Sylar quickly compensated by standing much closer to him, holding him there by way of his grip on the blanket around Peter. _I'm losing my mind in this place. (What am I doing?) I need him to get me out of here._ He switched gears and opened the man's jacket to shove the ends of the blanket into it, feeling a thrill of…something going on. Definitely something. _He's letting me help, allowing me to touch him when he usually likes to touch me._

XXX

Peter let the manhandling go on for a while before finally smiling and pushing Sylar away more firmly. "Okay, I got it," he muttered. "I got it." Peter finishing tucking everything in securely, reaching past Sylar to pick up the headband. He slipped it over the top of the blanket that was draped over his head. He was sure it left him looking like an Arab wearing a ghutrah, but it was better to be unusual-looking than frostbitten. He pulled on his gloves and looked to Sylar with an amused expression. He had the answer he wanted. "Happy now?"

XXX

He got the message after a pitifully weak and obviously fake struggle and Peter's voice became unmistakably firm. Sylar exhaled and stepped back. _If we weren't in a fucking hospital, I would ravish him right now._ Because Peter was playing with him, teasing him, testing him, drawing him in to play games and so rarely did anyone play a decent game with him. "Yes," Sylar rumbled after breaking from his trance. _Maybe it was something in the meds, the food…_

XXX

Peter moved to the doors. He could see now why the outside had looked so unremarkable earlier when he'd glanced this way. Facing north as it did, the ER entrance had accumulated an intimidating swath of snow that reached all the way up the glass. It was solid snow except for the top few inches, too high to be useful in gaging what was out there. Either that, or the blizzard had dumped so much white stuff that it would be over their heads everywhere. That didn't make sense for New York, but then again, they weren't _in_ New York. "Looks like we're going to have to dig. Let's hope that's just a drift. If it's not...well, we won't get very far from here."

XXX

He felt ragged and unprepared to face the toils of Nature again. Sylar doubted his own strength, but not his motivation to leave. "We should get something to dig with." _I don't have gloves._

XXX

Peter nodded, raising his gloves to show he was equipped fine for the moment. As for Sylar, he suggested, "There should be some plastic clipboards over at the reception desk, for admitting. Go grab one of those. I'll see what we're dealing with." He stepped forward and triggered the second set of doors, which started to open, then froze up. Peter shoved them apart and tested the snow. At waist level, it was solid to moderate pressure. At chest level, though, it indented a few inches. When he reached upward, he was able to slap the snow out of the way. It was only a few inches thick there. It still looked gloomy beyond it – no bright, post-storm sun had yet made an appearance. Peter frowned.

XXX

Sylar spared his companion with a knowing look. _It was my idea._ But he followed his own wisdom and considered that it was fortunate to have plastic clipboards instead of the fake wooden ones – they wouldn't last long if they had to do any prolonged, serious, wet digging. Although the plastic still might break under the same conditions. At the reception desk, he found one transparent purple clipboard and a search yielded another blue one from a drawer. He returned to Peter with both items.

XXX

He glanced back at Sylar. "Hang on. I think we can climb out of here." Peter shoved a shoulder into and against the massed snow, buckling it back and away. It didn't collapse as neatly as he'd hoped, but it was clear they weren't dealing with an unnatural, apocalyptic snowfall. _You never can tell around here._ He shoved at it some more. Snow had cascaded inside and started to melt in the warmer air. "Okay, maybe dig a little and then we'll climb." He backed up to let Sylar shovel some of the snow out of the way with the clipboard.

XXX

 _I'm the one with a shredded back and fever here. I'm not your slave._ Sylar arched an eyebrow at all the commanding going on. To make his displeasure more clear, he solidly thwacked Peter with his designated – purple – clipboard. With that, he began to chip downwards into the snow wall, using gravity and fewer back muscles to aid him. Fortunately, it was melty closest to them and he hoped he didn't encounter any ice. If he did hit ice, he'd resort to throwing the shorter Petrelli over the wall because a clipboard (nor a shovel) would cut it. Sylar made one foothold, reluctant to do more work than necessary because it didn't have to look pretty to be serviceable. After that, he took a half-step back, panting from even that small exertion.

XXX

Peter took the whack and moved further out of the way, registering Sylar's disapproval. Sylar dug as Peter considered what he'd done to provoke it. _He's digging and I'm standing here. That must be it. But there's not room for both of us in there._ "I can get out, then I'll pull you up. Okay?" Peter stepped past, climbed up the rough steps Sylar's clipboard digging had left, and then braced his legs on the top of the door frame to push himself out the rest of the way. He rolled to his back and wallowed, compacting the snow and leaving a smooth stretch before he pulled himself all the way out. A quick glance around confirmed that the snow sloped down fast to a more rational depth. Peter turned back and positioned himself to reach in. "It looks fine out here. It's just all drifted up against the building. We can make it. Give me your-" His voice cut off mid-sentence as the parallels of the situation caught up to him.

XXX

"But I'm taller…" Sylar protested. _And weaker. And my back hurts._ The painkillers had kicked in, but spikes of pain still shot through him when his clothing shifted against his skin. For a moment he worried that Peter might leave him, but he dismissed that is ridiculous for several reasons – the first being that he was capable of getting out on his own without Petrelli's help. He thought nothing of it when the empath extended his hands, so he reached out to grip them…

XXX

Peter was reaching down to pull Sylar up, at a hospital. The mental image of Nathan hanging off the edge of the building hit him hard – and Sylar walking away afterward with that stupid salute. Peter's expression changed, dulling out and hardening at the same time. He jerked his hands back as Sylar reached for them. "No!" His voice was firm and angry.

XXX

Peter made a sharp, angry exclamation that was a warning – a negative reaction to something. Instantly, Sylar retracted his own hands as if he'd been burned and stood there, not taking the steps back that he wanted to in order to show that he wasn't afraid. But he stared wide-eyed as the realization came over him and he could see it on Peter's face, all the feelings, all the history. He remembered taking Peter's hand when it was offered – as a brother, a comfort, and a friend. Peter had helped him to his feet after the fight when he'd said, _'I'm tired, Pete.'_ And Peter hadn't wanted to listen or let go. Sylar bit his lip, then shoved his fist between his teeth to keep it together, making some effort to appear that he was…doing something other than muzzling himself from spewing the whole dialogue that Peter was already re-living. A panicked glance behind him showed still no ambush or threat but he could hardly believe that because of how badly the original trip to Mercy had gone – how easy it was supposed to be to ambush Angela and terrorize Peter and how the medic had turned his own trap against him.

He could still taste the blood in his mouth and smell the lumber, plaster, and dust of the basement before the clearer air of the rooftop. It was bitter to have this thrown in his face over so insignificant a thing, just when he needed Peter arguably the most. _/'_ _You were standing up there on that ledge…Like an idiot.'_ _/_ _No! Fuck you! I don't need this! This is his fault!_ Sylar turned away, wanting to repeatedly slam his fist into the ice, or maybe into Peter for bringing it up again, or into the door perhaps until the emotions gave out and he would resign himself to dying, alone, likely trapped in this place. _I'll leave. There are other exits. There's no point_ _s_ _waiting for-_

XXX

Breathing harder, Peter looked down at the snow, jaw clenching. "Wait, please," he said much more calmly, almost as a question. He was very glad now that he'd teased Sylar into taking care of him earlier with the makeshift blanket/scarf. If Sylar was patient enough for that, then maybe he would be patient enough for Peter to get past this. "It's a different situation. This is different." Peter swallowed, muttering to himself even though he knew Sylar could hear him.

XXX

Sylar wasn't one step into walking away; in fact, he'd barely turned away when he heard the plea. He stopped, if only to listen to the beginning of whatever wrath Peter wanted to hurl. The stupid spark of hope fluttered a little stronger when Peter spoke, roughly but obviously putting in the effort. _(Is it? Is it different? Now do you understand how bad it is?)_ And Peter did understand it now, this time on the most personal level. He didn't pause for more than a few seconds before pivoting so his left shoulder faced Peter, a more conversational body language than before. _It's not different. I'm still me, I deserve to die and be dropped off a damn building so high that I can't regenerate. (I don't need your pity),_ he thought grimly.

XXX

"What a fucking time to have a-" Peter shook his head, not willing to label this as a panic attack. "We've got to do this together." He fumbled with the gloves, pulling them off while a part of his brain played over how he'd struggled to hold Nathan's weight, to pull him up, how he'd yelled at Nathan to pull himself up because Peter didn't have the strength to do it. And it had never been Nathan at all, only Sylar, who was, right now, waiting for him to pull himself together and help him. Peter set the gloves to the side and rubbed his hands together, looking back to Sylar in case the man had an answer, or advice. The idea of extending his hand and feeling Sylar's weight, pulling him up, was fucking Peter up – tightening his chest and making it hard to breathe. But he knew that was what he needed to do.

XXX

In a defeated tone, Sylar said, "Yeah. Okay." He turned back fully now, approaching the snow wall rapidly and slammed his clipboard down into it with fervor, making a second foothold for himself. _We should use a fucking different door!_ But he wanted this hindrance. He gasped audibly now, upset and helpless, between rapid strokes of shoveling, hacking at the barrier to relieve some of the situation. He hoped Peter wouldn't do or say anything, not that he could hear it over the sound of his activity. He didn't want to talk about it or hear himself think. He didn't need as much energy as he was exerting, though he kept on until he quickly cleared a foothold larger than the first. Sylar panted and gasped now, feeling little better, more drained and shaky inside and out, but he took only a moment to gather himself and struggle up to use the step.

XXX

Peter's eyes widened at the violence Sylar displayed, but it was (safely) directed at the snow. After several seconds of simply watching, the tension eased from Peter's frame. There were things they could do other than be upset. He pulled his gloves back on and wriggled to the side, flattening the snow in a space big enough for both of them. When Sylar came up the step, Peter extended his arm in a hook shape and braced himself. "Use my arm. Climb over me if you have to." He could have backed out and let Sylar get out by himself, but he wanted to help.

XXX

Sylar found himself making something of a snort at the offer. _Climb over you, huh? Well, he invited me to…_ But he didn't do it. He didn't want Peter's help any more, at least, not in any sort of grabbing, holding, lifting fashion. It didn't work out quite that way. There was nothing to grip except mobile snow after he jumped and lifted himself up sufficiently high. He was taller and didn't have to work so hard in that respect. He was forced to grab onto Peter's coat and arm to lever himself outward and atop of the drift, his back pulling tight. After that, he managed to turn sideways a bit so he wasn't face first down the hill, fortunately not rolling enough to slide on his back.

XXX

Peter scooted backwards and stumbled down the slope after Sylar, drawing up next to him in calf-deep snow. A beat passed with neither of them speaking. _I guess we're not talking about what just happened._ "Hold still," Peter said quietly, brushing the snow off Sylar's side. "The less of this there is to melt on you, the better off you'll be." He did a more thorough job than was necessary, wanting the contact (indirect as it was through gloves and heavy clothing) for reassurance since conversation wasn't happening. When Sylar was clean enough that there was no excuse for continuing to pat him, Peter left off and gestured down the street in unspoken invitation to get going.

XXX

Since he hadn't done anything – recently – wrong, Sylar didn't expect any violence though he thought it justified. So when he glanced at Peter as he came in to groom him, his face held little wariness, more…vulnerability and weariness. His back felt stretched and dry. It was a strange sensation of cold/friction with Peter batting away at his clothing. It didn't seem very necessary but he didn't shirk it. He stood, took it, and tried not to make any awkward eye contact. "Thanks," he mumbled shortly and fluffed at Peter's coat briefly before beginning to shuffle through what was still knee-deep snow.

The sky was the most threatening part. It was still gray and heavy, but the wind and cold were more normal, with snow being blown about. Sylar exhaled a relieved puff of warm breath into the air, hands shoved in his pockets. _I just want to get home, anywhere but here._ He cast a suspicious, parting glance at the E.R. After all this time, it didn't dull his instincts to run and hide himself in the non-existent crowd so he couldn't be found. He didn't see anyone or anything amiss and when he turned back, he found that he'd shuffled closer to Peter. A checking glance showed the man was getting over it as best he could under the circumstances, but Sylar still gave him more space. He didn't trust anything now. He continued to look behind them every so often to reassure himself that they weren't being followed but that didn't mean much when the Company was so good at bagging and tagging. Likely they were allowed to leave and would face a trap up ahead somewhere. "We should take side roads," he said quietly after a few moments of trudging. "They might have let us leave. I didn't hurt anyone – at the hospital, at Mercy," he blurted nervously. He wanted to keep Peter on his side but after the man had flashbacks…

XXX

Peter looked back, scanning the snow behind them. It was pristine except where they'd walked. "Maybe," he allowed. "But the less time we're out here, the less time we'll be in danger. Let's take the most direct route. It's not snowing enough to hide our tracks. We're going to leave a clear trail wherever we go." He chose his words carefully. Peter wasn't in agreement with whatever worrisome persecution delusion Sylar had going on, but he didn't want to create mistrust by contradicting it. So for now, he molded his statements to fit Sylar's version of reality.

XXX

Sylar pursed his lips. Peter had a point – both routes had their pros and cons. The safer route was more dangerous for weather, the shorter because of the possibility of attack, and neither would hide their tracks so… "Hmmph," Sylar grunted affirmation, not necessarily thrilled about it.

XXX

A few strides later, he added, "I know – about how everyone was okay at Mercy. I checked in with them after you left." He waited a few beats before saying, "That's part of why I let it be. I didn't follow you. I didn't try again. For one, I didn't think neutralizing your abilities would work on you a second time. For two, it really hadn't worked even then. And three…" Peter shrugged. "I was hoping if you were…Nathan…then you'd come back on your own and if you weren't…then…I-" He shook his head. "I didn't know what I was supposed to do, but starting more shit with you when I didn't understand what had happened sounded stupid." He closed the gap that had opened up between himself and Sylar, preferring to stay within arm's reach or less in case one of them stumbled.

XXX

Sylar was shaking his head before Peter was finished. "You did no such thing. I fucked you up by forcing you to drop-…me," he finished quietly, almost uncertain of himself, but more concerned with how Peter would handle that identification. It wasn't a secret. "You accepted that he was dead. You mourned. You must have went to his funeral." The last was also uncertain, considerably desperate with questioning. "I-I don't want to talk. Not now. Maybe not ever." They both needed to get home and having an argument or a fight was ill advised. The blanket around his head and throat was very beneficial, acting as a hood he could burrow into for warmth or protection.

XXX

Peter arched a brow at Sylar, though it probably went unseen given the hood and blanket. The tilt of his head was apparent, though. "You fucked me up, alright," he said. His voice was tight. He could feel the tension rising inside of him. He looked away and tried to quell it, stomping through the snow with more energy than necessary. "It's not on my top ten list of things I want to discuss with Sylar, either." Which was not true and Peter knew it. He was desperate to talk through those events with someone, anyone, and especially with Sylar. But this wasn't the time. They weren't going to have a productive conversation out here trudging through the snow, yet on the other hand, he didn't want to just fall silent and let his overactive imagination fill his mind with another recounting of the events of that night at Mercy Hospital.

"Was that revenge fucking you mentioned earlier, or was it something else?" he blurted out, a slightly aggressive tone to his voice.

XXX

Sylar allowed the other man's emotion to pass him by. This wasn't the time even if he did want to engage or if he had anything to say (which he didn't, beyond pointing out that he'd been fucked over in the process too. That still wasn't relevant). He knew Petrelli was lying about not wanting to talk about it but that wasn't important. "If you want it to be…" Sylar hedged. "Of course it can be something else."

XXX

"You described it as...cathartic." Peter mulled over what Sylar had meant, exactly, by his statements from before. Sylar had called it therapeutic, too. Was it an invitation to intimacy and perhaps the support Peter had meant when he'd spoke of self-medicating with sex, or was Sylar talking about something rougher, like the whole whipping thing? "What if I hurt you?"

XXX

A checking side-glance showed him that Peter was thinking about it. "That's an option. I would expect it, but you don't have to. Just…do whatever you did with those other people, 'get loaded' if you have to." He shrugged, less than thrilled at the prospect of being fucked by a rough drunk. It would be too easy for Peter to imagine he was fucking someone else and not connecting with Sylar. Offering up 'anything' too blatantly made him feel extremely cheap and desperate.

XXX

Peter huffed. He shook his head with exasperation. "You don't get me. I'm not going to use you like that. Or anyone. That's not what I'm about." He hunched into his coat, grousing, "Never mind. I shouldn't have even brought it up. It's stupid." It had, at least, gotten his mind off the hospital.

XXX

"What I think about it is irrelevant. It's–" Sylar began to blurt that it 'isn't about _you_ ' before he caught himself. And Peter was fooling himself because he had used people before, probably not violently, but used them all the same. It would be interesting to experience how Peter was with other, normal, acceptable bed partners. He wondered again why it was so imperative that Peter understand this or his compulsion to offer himself again and again. He knew the answer to the last question. Having any meaning in this empty world could only come through sex with Peter. "It's not about what I think of you, it's about what I'm offering. If you don't want that, then you don't have to do that; it's simple. Use me how you want. That's the point. If you weren't horny, you wouldn't have asked."

XXX

Peter shook his head, gritted his teeth, and rolled his eyes so hard his head tracked with the motion. "You're still not getting it." He sighed angrily. "It's cold. We have a long way to go. Neither of us got much sleep. Let's talk about this tomorrow or something." _Or never. Never is good, if we're talking about the when, where, and how I might have sex with Sylar._ He shook his head again, trudging through the knee-deep snow, determined to get where they were going. The faster he did that, the faster Sylar would be taken care of, and the faster Peter could bow out and get on with his life here, alone, and away from Mr. Doesn't-Get-It. Peter chafed, irritable and uncomfortable with the subject, but tried not to inflict his mood on his companion any more than necessary. He buried his gloved hands in the big pockets of the heavy down coat and continued on.

XXX

Sylar understood that much. What he didn't grasp was Peter's mood and where the other man thought a conversation was implied by Sylar's statements. _I'm not getting it and he's still not listening._ The Italian was right – it was frustrating. The snow was high enough to make travel slow and with no other dialogue he was forced to pay attention to that.

XXX

The walk from hospital to their apartments was not an epic journey of obstacles and leagues. It was only a mile or so, down flat roads, and a fairly straight route once you knew where you were going. Peter's problems with it before had been due first to retracing a course which hadn't been direct to start with, and then on coming back, doing so at night, in a snowstorm, and slipping and hurting himself so badly on the ice-covered streets that he feared he might get stranded and die of hypothermia. His later trips had been fine. Getting to the hospital the day before, even in the face of a mounting blizzard, had been survivable. By the time they'd reached the ER, Peter had been cold even through the coat, but his thinking had been fairly clear. Today was largely the same – the snow wasn't falling as fast, the air was warmer, and the wind wasn't whipping as badly, but the downside was having to slog through snow that ranged from ankle to knee deep and generally being on the high end of that range. Having good shoes was nice, but it didn't save his legs from being stiff, cold, and soaked. They were almost home. He knew he'd be fine once they got there. Sylar, though, he worried about.

XXX

Sylar's jeans quickly became soaked and a cold interference between himself and the snow. It kept the snow out of his shoes and socks (for the most part). It was miserable, but he wasn't alone in that suffering. His back made him tired and the constant heavy-lifting of knees got to him after the halfway mark. The blanket around his head, neck, and chest was a boon, but his legs and hands were practically exposed. Sylar allowed his brain to fuzz out rather than focus on the depressing problem of Peter's inhibitions. _He'll probably leave me after he cleans my back._ _If he remembers. He forgot last time. It's not important,_ he told himself. _I'll live._ He felt like whining about stopping anywhere else along the way to curl up together so he could catch his breath, but the image of his own bed at the Pegasus kept him going. The snow seemed to get more slippery the closer they got to the suite, his balance wavering several times.

XXX

At first, Peter thought Sylar was struggling with the occasional icy patches hidden under the snow. Then he realized what was happening. His next few steps brought him to Sylar's side. He said nothing as he slipped an arm under Sylar's and around his back, looping Sylar's arm over Peter's shoulders. He did it as a natural and expected thing to do for someone. Fortunately, they had less than a block to go.

The warm air of the Pegasus building's entryway and then lobby had never felt so welcome. He immediately stomped off what clinging snow he could from his feet and legs, watching to see if Sylar did the same. Peter hung onto Sylar – one hand on his wrist and the other around his lower back – even after they were inside the elevator and heading up. He'd let go of Sylar's wrist briefly to hit the buttons, then renewed his grip. Now he grimaced a few times to get his cold lips to work and asked, "Are you still with me, buddy?"

XXX

He didn't think his stumbling had been so apparent. Though it was a relief when Peter latched on to support him. He grasped onto the shoulder of Peter's coat even as Peter held that same wrist. Sylar still wanted to make some excuse but the breath of warm air in the building distracted him. He'd been panting fairly hard for half the trip. Petrelli continued to hold onto him so Sylar made a paltry effort at knocking snow from his own shoes, following Peter's example. It wasn't a big deal – any snow they tracked in would quickly melt in the lobby. "Yes," he muttered softly, but audibly. "I'm fine," he protested. He didn't let go or move away from Peter. _If I'm fine, maybe he won't scrape up my back again. Maybe he'll just sleep here like normal._

XXX

Once inside the penthouse, Peter took Sylar to the bed, dropping him down to sit. Peter stripped off the gloves, which felt next to useless for keeping his hands warm even though he knew they'd helped him enormously on the walk. Sylar had not had that advantage. Peter tossed the gloves aside on the floor, along with his hospital-blanket headdress. Then he reached for Sylar's hands, pulling them to him and up under his coat, putting them directly on what was probably the warmest reachable part of his body. "Put your hands on me." Peter's face contorted at the sting of ice-cold digits against him, but he dropped his coat over Sylar's hands and pressed them to his sides despite the discomfort. He took a deep breath and tried to figure out what his best course of action was.

XXX

Sylar followed the motion, more collapsing to sit on the bed. _This wasn't how it was supposed to be. This is my plan. I'm supposed to be the leader._ He knew Peter didn't approve of any of his methods and most of his motivations – that left Petrelli with the moral high ground and Sylar unable to suck up. _It should be me helping him home, dropping him on the bed, taking care of him._ Not paying attention to what Peter was doing, Sylar didn't know what to do with his hands. If he'd had more clothes off, he would have shoved his hands under his armpits or his thighs, but both were covered with damp, cold clothing. He didn't want to move until he was warmer even if moving to strip would make him warmer faster; it seemed like too much effort. His face had mercifully begun to thaw, but he wasn't up for big expressions. Peter took care of that by taking up his hands and shoving them beneath his shirt and against the bare skin of his sides, making Sylar gasp on instinct and a little embarrassment. It felt really good, but he knew it was painful for Peter and that sacrifice made him uncomfortable. It also felt wrong to touch Peter Petrelli like this, even in a moment of legitimate need. A few glances showed Peter wasn't concerned about any of it and that wasn't much help. He hoped his shudders didn't transfer into Peter's body because it felt like weakness and an obvious lack of control for a robot, or killer, or watchmaker.

XXX

Peter lifted his hands and flexed his fingers. He struggled with the throat latch of his coat for several moments until he finally managed to pull the Velcro free. Then there was another effort to get the ties for the hood loosened enough that Peter could shove it off his head. Unzipping his coat only took a downward swipe of his hand once he made it that far. He reached over and pulled off Sylar's blanket-covering and tossed it in the same direction as his own. Then he balled his fists into his own neck, needing to warm his fingers up before trying anything with the buttons on Sylar's clothes. "Put your face against me. Like we did yesterday."

XXX

Sylar grunted when the makeshift cowl was removed, but it wasn't much of a complaint. The seemingly hot air rushed in over his neck and face and damp hair. "No," he mumbled firmly, reaching out with his left hand to snatch one of Peter's wrists when Peter went to warm his hands against his own throat. Sylar brought the other man's hand to his own neck, uncaring of where it landed, in his hair or under the neckline of his shirt. It wasn't unbearably cold. Sylar's feet and legs were the worst. Petrelli's hands were a medium temperature that would quickly adjust to his increasing body heat and it would feel better than the empath trying to warm himself. It felt dangerous (and he couldn't decide if that was good or bad) to have Peter's hands touching him there. That done, assuming Peter would follow the instruction, he returned his palm to the flesh of Peter's side and his face pressed to Peter's cotton-covered abdomen. He sighed and relaxed a little.

XXX

Peter inhaled just as sharply as Sylar had at having his hand taken and placed on the other man. He froze for a beat, considering the impact of putting his chilled hands directly over the major veins and arteries in Sylar's body. It was not a good thing for warming Sylar up. _On the other hand, the faster my hands warm up, the faster I can help him._ Tentatively, Peter added his other hand and settled his fingers over the trapezius muscles at the top of Sylar's shoulders. As Sylar took him up on the offer of warming his face against Peter's core, Peter turned his hands and brought his fingers up the nape of Sylar's neck, under his hair. He wished his skin wasn't as numb as it was. He would have loved to have felt the fine hair that brushed against him. He curled his fingers in and drew them down the sides of Sylar's throat – the backs of his fingers against Sylar's skin so there was no hinted threat of choking the man. Peter leaned into him, basking in the experience, warming up and occasionally shivering. When his hands had enough dexterity to do what he needed with them, he reluctantly gave up the enjoyable process of touching Sylar's body. He reached down and started unbuttoning Sylar's coat. "Same as last time, buddy. Out of the wet clothes. You're going to be okay." After the coat, he went to Sylar's feet, taking off shoes, then socks, and then looking up to Sylar's face as Peter made a gesture towards Sylar's waist. "I'm going to take off your pants, then you can get under the covers. Okay?"

XXX

The warmer he became, the more tiredness tried to drag him down. He felt drained in a hungry, thirsty way (not in any kind of sexual metaphor for once, but intimate contact would be most welcome if Peter stayed). He felt battered. He looked up at Peter, who was unbuttoning his coat for him so dutifully. The mention of 'okay' made him mildly suspicious that Peter was lying, but he'd died plenty of times to know that he wasn't dying now. He probably could have managed it by himself, most of it anyway. Sylar found he wanted the attention even as he felt disgusted for his selfishness because if Peter was helping him then Peter wasn't helping himself. His throat tight, Sylar answered, "Thank you." He didn't know what else to say besides an out-of-place, unwelcome, awkward apology.

Peter unfastened and shucked his pants with far more grace and ease than Sylar could have managed. _It's the leverage and angles,_ he thought randomly. He felt much safer in the Pegasus suite, their own little fortress. The possibility that they'd been followed or tracked was still a concern. Even wearing Peter's underwear was okay right now. It was better than nothing or a meager blanket held over himself like before. Sylar plucked at the buttons of his dress shirt, wanting the clammy, sweaty thing off him before he slid beneath the covers. He made a few noises at his own clumsiness in the process. The feelings of frustrated pain was a continuous cycle between his mind and his body, each feeding the other.

XXX

Peter threw the pants on the growing pile of wet clothes. He left Sylar to deal with his shirt and then tuck himself in as Peter turned to his own shoes and socks, and then peeled off his equally wet jeans. He tossed his coat aside, too. He was clad in only a t-shirt and underwear now. Sylar wore underwear and his singlet. Peter considered trying to get something hot to drink into both of them, but Sylar was shivering too badly to manage a cup. So instead, Peter climbed in bed with him. "Roll over. We'll spoon. It's okay."

XXX

It would only be a matter of time until he was warm, beneath the sheets. There was no help for his legs, feeling like solid ice and making the rest of him worse off. He spared a tired glance over Peter's body in only the man's chosen pajamas. He felt stupid for shivering still, looking pathetic and vulnerable. _I should tell him I'm fine._ While working up the words, Peter approached him and got into the bed. That was another instant relief and even more interesting when Peter moved under the sheets to be as close as possible. There were no spoons or food in the immediate area and that was what his brain stuck on. _Spoon what?_ he thought in confusion that only lasted a few seconds when Peter didn't keep his distance. _Oh, okay._ Sylar accepted that too easily when they were both only dressed in underwear and shirts. Rolling over took several more seconds and then there was the comforting heat of Peter's body pressed all against him in ways that shouldn't feel as good as it did. This would help Peter, too.

XXX

Peter wrapped himself around the other man as best he could with someone several inches taller. He hooked his arms around Sylar's belly and laid his face sideways on the man's back. The worst of the belt strokes had been to either side, mostly on Sylar's right where the end of the lash had cut deepest. Peter tried to stay away from that part, but otherwise tucked himself up flush. Sylar's legs were as worrisomely icy as his hands. Peter didn't have any quick solutions for that – warming Sylar's core was the most important thing right now. Getting him dry, insulated, and sharing body heat was the best course, while letting Sylar's body go through the natural process of warming itself from the inside out.

XXX

Having Peter hold him so thoroughly broke what was left of the terror and knife-edge of stress and distress that had bound him up for the past two days. It was sick, he knew, to take such comfort from the person who wouldn't hesitate to destroy his mind and replace it with someone 'better.' Shortly after feeling Peter's arms around him, Sylar laid his top-most arm around Peter's – almost as if they would hold hands, and their hands were close, but…What was even more wrong was trying to connect with Peter Petrelli. There were limits; even Peter had limits and that was one of them. Holding hands wasn't something he was cut out for even when he had functioning hands and the desire to hold someone else's. It wasn't sexual. That always surprised him when he found some sensation like this, non-threatening (for now) and pleasant, that he couldn't categorize. The other man's warmth surrounded him and helped heat him from all sides it felt like, soaking into his back. Sylar closed his eyes and nearly slumped as much as he could with the rhythmic spasms of shivering.

XXX

Tiredness sunk through Peter, dragging him down with it. It wasn't just this morning's walk, but the cumulative effect of both days, little sleep, and all three marches through the cold. He felt Sylar's shudders become intermittent and finally cease altogether. Only the deep, slow motions of somnolent breathing were left. Peter retracted his arm that Sylar was lying on, that he'd previously wormed under Sylar's body to better hold them together. Now it was more comfortable to fold it between them. His other arm he left wound around Sylar's waist, tucked there by Sylar's arm. He could have risen, made coffee, maybe showered...but he was tired. Sylar was asleep and slowly warming up. The realization that he could rest, finally, swept through Peter. His eyes slid shut and he joined his partner in sleep.


	138. A Cold Day In Hell

Day 74, February 22, Afternoon

Groggy, Sylar awoke to the knowledge that Peter was spooning him tightly and making him sweat. _Is that his skin?_ For a moment, Sylar worried that he'd been drugged or that he was naked because he was feeling Peter's definitely-male legs pressed against his. Quick enough, he determined that he was at least wearing underwear and that was good enough for now. Likely nothing had happened. He squirmed for space to relieve the heat between them but Peter wouldn't allow it and followed him, resulting in a brief gasp of cooler air between them before returning to their mutual sweat. Sylar went still, thinking, relishing the proximity. Peter must be still asleep if he hadn't said anything. He was strangely grateful and greedy at this experience. The simple sensation of Peter breathing steadily, so very relaxed and trusting, was lovely. Their hands were already close but Sylar tilted his head down to observe it, gently laying his fingers over Peter's to pet them. Not for the first time he admired Peter's hand, thinking of how they were nice to look at, strong, not too masculine or feminine, and generally without blemish. The empath maintained his nails properly – not disgustingly short or long or dirty. Sylar slipped his fingers to interlock with Peter's from above, slightly turning the lightly-captured digits to see where the man's fingerprints would be. Hands had a lot to say about a person. Just as softly, he slid his fingers free and brushed his fingertips across the back of Peter's hand. _I wonder how long he'll sleep._

XXX

Hands are full of nerve endings, in the top three of most sensitive parts of the body along with mouth and feet. Peter would have felt less if Sylar had taken to stroking his dick. He woke with a rush of confused alertness and vulnerability. For a second, he was hot, sweaty, and entirely disoriented about where he was, who he was with, and what they were doing to him. He made a small, helpless sound and curled his fingers, and to a lesser extent, his body, bringing his knees up against the back of Sylar's legs and the side of his face pressing to Sylar's back.

XXX

Sylar hummed at the reaction, unsure until now what the reaction would be. Obviously not repelled was the answer. He took to petting the back of Peter's hand with fingers, now experimenting with how much Peter could take before waking and how much would be tolerated after.

XXX

Peter panted as he got his bearings. _Sylar. I'm holding him. We went to sleep like this. He was cold. We're okay? Guess so._ He relaxed deliberately, making himself calm down as much as possible. A second later, rather than withdrawing, he cuddled, his hand returning the attentions from Sylar that had woke him. He gave Sylar's hand a few quick pets and a squeeze before holding his belly so Peter could hug him, eyes shut, breathing him in. It was entirely inappropriate. Even if it were physically similar to the fetal position he'd tried to adopt a few seconds earlier, in fear, this was different because it was intentional. Peter hurried the experience in before he had to stop, while he still had the increasingly paltry excuse that he'd just woke up and didn't know what he was doing. He knew perfectly well what he was doing – the empath equivalent of copping a feel – and felt guilty and angry that he had to resort to this level of subterfuge for basic, nonsexual human comfort.

XXX

Peter had yet to pull away, if anything he seemed to welcome more attention. More…proximity. It seemed so innocent. That was confusing and difficult to accept. He didn't want it to end. Sylar laid his hand over Peter's and dragging them both across his side towards his abdomen, with Peter's palm and sensate fingers in constant contact with Sylar's body. Once there, Petrelli still didn't shy away or protest. So he continued, sliding the other man's hand upwards to caress just under his sternum, then slowly back down to just under his navel. It was lazy and inviting, but perhaps not enough to trigger the Italian's pesky morality. He just wanted it to feel good – and it did, through his shirt.

XXX

Peter shivered, and this time it had nothing to do with cold. He should have pulled away, immediately, while he had the chance, before Sylar had taken his hand again and started doing...whatever with it. But Peter stayed right where he was now, other than to turn his head so it was his forehead against Sylar's back. His eyes were shut. He let himself _feel_ as the wave of tingling spread through his entire body, lighting up strongest where they were in contact. Faintly, very faintly, this was starting to take a turn from nonsexual to sexual. There was no way it couldn't – with the way every system in Peter's body was waking up, it was unavoidable that his libido would be turned on just like everything else.

XXX

Peter was so still and quiet that Sylar wondered if he was even awake. That would have ruined the moment, the build-up. The silence grew into something uncomfortable. The curiosity of what Peter was doing or feeling was too much. Softly, in a low voice, he dared to break the quiet, "Have you ever fucked anyone like this?" _Man? Woman?_ Because he admitted to himself that this was beyond a casual morning-after hospital and frostbite trip.

XXX

"Nnng," Peter said inarticulately. He shuddered and pulled his hand back, out of Sylar's immediate grasp. But he didn't take it away entirely. He held Sylar's hip, which was really no help when considering the sexual nature of Sylar's question. "Yes," he said slowly, fingers exploring the hip under his hand. It was lean, well-defined, easy to hold onto. Good for leverage. He tried and failed to steer his thoughts elsewhere. He at least managed to back up an inch or two off of Sylar's ass.

XXX

With his other fist clenched, he was winding up to exhale a sigh when Peter pulled his hand away to reposition it. Sylar held his breath for a moment, letting it out roughly. He knew this was no more than the usual teasing from Peter, giving in to his temptation before he remembered his allegiances. The empath's fingers began to feel over his hip. His eyes closed of their own accord, because he wasn't being watched and didn't have to adjust his reactions; his head relaxed into the pillow. He felt it when Peter moved away and pretended to shift for comfort's sake to take away the space separating them. "Do you like it?" A stupid question because of course Peter liked it, but he wasn't…as focused as he should have been. No, the man's hand felt nice and Peter had yet to seriously pull away or say anything to ruin the mood. Neither of them had to move and Sylar was actively trying to lounge in bed doing…whatever – flirting – for the rest of the day.

XXX

 _I shouldn't be talking about this. Not with him. Not in bed like this. (I shouldn't be doing this at all!)_ But none of the clamoring objections of his conscience made much headway against the flesh-and-blood temptation in front of him, or the non-threatening nature of a simple, direct question. Peter's other hand turned, his fingertips pressing on Sylar's back. Then he shifted the hand down, sliding his fingers under Sylar's side as though to make a rough approximation of holding him on both sides. With a husky tone, Peter said, "It's hard to get much thrust like this. My whole body is against the bed. So's yours. It makes it tough to move." He pulled his hand free and used it to prop himself up, because what he really wanted was to see Sylar's face. This was not one of his favored positions for exactly that reason – the difficulty in seeing his partner. He wanted that line of sight now, though more to understand what was going to happen next than to see the mutual pleasure a partner during sex would be sharing.

XXX

Sylar heard and felt the shift. He twisted his neck to be able to look at Peter in turn, wondering what the other man was doing besides not moving, still with his hand on Sylar. His questioning, otherwise innocent expression quickly changed into something challenging, something interested – like 'come and get me' or perhaps 'make me.' _Whoa. I can feel him._ (Peter's erection, that is). This time Sylar's hips shifted back into Peter once again, feeling more than just Peter's pelvis. "I'm sure you can manage," he purred encouragingly.

XXX

A soft chuckle escaped Peter's lips. "Yeah," he said breathily. The challenge, the offer, the invitation, was making him high. His leaned into Sylar's body. His voice softened. "If you're trying to do something gradual, something sensual, like a slow burn," Peter kept watching Sylar's face, still leaving that hand on Sylar's hip, fingertips spacing themselves along the line of the bone, nothing but a single layer of thin cotton between his hand and Sylar's skin, "then it's really great." To punctuate his words, he gave Sylar's backside a slow grind. He had a full erection by now. The sensation of his hard dick sliding along the groove of Sylar's ass shot through him so strongly he wondered if this whole thing might be resolved by him simply coming in his shorts. Things were rapidly, seriously, getting out of control. Peter watched Sylar's face with a hungry intensity, his subconscious grasping at any excuse to make this (and going further...going all the way further) okay. He wanted it so bad he ached.

XXX

Sylar swallowed as he allowed his face to show some of the lust he was truly feeling. His lips parted and he found himself taking nearly-panting breaths. Even more heat flooded over him, as did some level of embarrassment. _(Peter Petrelli wants to fuck me that way?)_ The words echoed in his ears: _Sensual. Gradual, Slow burn._ It sounded too good to be true, too intimate and pleasurable to be allowed, but the sentiment, even in jest or teasing or a moment of forgetfulness was still fucking hot. Then Peter's solid erection was pushing up against his ass. Sylar's eyes widened for a moment. That thrust he clearly felt and recognized terrified him in different ways. It was suddenly real and overwhelming. With Peter's words hanging in the air, his own twisted emotions, and the crazy situation, he still didn't want to stop. Maybe just slowing down? He wasn't sure. He lay still, watching Peter with his equivalent of 'fuck me' eyes.

XXX

Very softly, almost panting, Peter said, "You'd really let me do this." _To you._ With _you._ He looked at Sylar with amazement. Despite all the banter and Sylar's many offers, it somehow still seemed unbelievable that it could happen, that Sylar would do that with Peter. The idea of taking the man (and not just fantasizing about it, but actually doing it) flooded through Peter's brain, overwhelming his sense for the moment. All sorts of sizzling hot scenes came to mind – taking Sylar, topping him, possessing him, owning him, fucking him hard and rough and fast for everything he'd done, penetrating him repeatedly, gripping, seizing him, and putting him in his place for a change. 'Use me how you want' came to mind. It was so real. It was seconds away from becoming real and he knew it.

XXX

He could not believe how aroused Peter looked and sounded (and felt, down below). Everything was spiraling out of control and perhaps that's how it was supposed to be. _(Isn't that his job to know how everything should be?)_ Sylar's thoughts were racing and he couldn't keep track of them because it felt so forbidden and dangerous. He couldn't sort it out because either the forbidden and the dangerous could result heaven or hell – even then he didn't know which he wanted or what was right. They were locked in eye contact, never having broken their intense duel of gazing. Sylar's neck was beginning to cramp up and his whipped sides protested the position. "Yes," he whispered. It seemed so silly, but what's more useless for Peter to ask that. _(What's the point of asking? Why would he ask me? Isn't it obvious?)_ He felt like he was blushing from growing embarrassment and emotion and hoped that wasn't the case. Sylar remained still, except to breathe heavily, waiting and watching.

XXX

 _'Yes.' He said, 'yes.' We can do this! We can do this...right?_ Peter stared at Sylar, his brain a mess of conflicting signals and opposed thoughts. He felt like a little kid trying to figure out right from wrong when presented with his favorite candy and then being told not to eat it. Advice from some college event about consent floated through his head: ' _If you can't tell for sure, then don't do it!_ ' But he was pretty sure that had to do with the person you were going to have sex with, not yourself. He fought to get his higher functions back in charge of his body. It would be so simple to pull down his underwear. He was sure Sylar would pull down his own. There was lube right there on the nightstand, for God's sake. Peter turned and stared at it dumbly, looking confused and disoriented. "No," he said unsteadily. "I...I can't. This...shouldn't..." He peeled his hand off Sylar's hip and his groin from Sylar's rear with the greatest of difficulty, like a starving man pushing away a meal. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed, back to Sylar, feeling twitchy and strange, exposed and sad. The voice of sanity in his head knew, _Things are about to get bad. Sylar...he's not going to take that well._ Peter looked at his hands. _It's my fault. Fuck. I shouldn't have done any of that._ But there was nothing he could do about it yet. He was still struggling to process his own emotions, much less respond appropriately and gracefully to any rejection or other fallout that Sylar might be feeling.

XXX

For a long moment, nothing happened. It was like Peter froze in time, but it was clear he was busy thinking and thinking wouldn't end well. As expected, Peter spooked and pulled away. This time the loss of the other man's body heat was surprisingly unwelcome and disappointing. Sylar slumped, facing away, and mentally kicking himself for his failure. _I should have distracted him! (How?) I was…looking at him. He probably wanted me to turn away. That's why he liked that position. Idiot!_ Sylar raged at himself, feeling low, troublesome, and useless. He wished to lie there until Peter got up, went about his day, and forgot about him – or at least turned and began his sorry lecture. At least that way the rejection would be complete, the message overt.

But he knew that behavior was pathetic and unacceptable. Curling up into a ball was weak and he couldn't show that to Peter. Instead, Sylar rolled over, still beneath the sheets, and extended his arm to touch Peter's side as he had before – just a brush of fingertips over the man's shirt. _How is that less pathetic?_ It was like begging for attention and forgiveness and he already knew the answers to his own question and the begging. Sylar sat up and moved to fold his legs in front of himself, his shins touching Peter as he began to caress Peter's shoulders in what he hoped was a seductive, comforting manner. He couldn't allow Peter to wallow or feel bad about…any of it, even if all of it was depressingly natural. He didn't know what to say, until he opened his mouth and something came out, "I thought it would be a cold day in hell before you fucked me."

XXX

Peter twitched at the first touches. A glance back showed him there was nothing to be concerned about. Sylar looked appealing, not vengeful. Then Sylar sat up behind him. At the feeling of legs against his back, Peter jerked and tensed, ready to get up, but aborting the motion as Sylar's hands settled on his shoulders. Carefully, slowly, Peter relaxed and hung his head as Sylar kindly caressed his shoulders. It felt like empathy. Either that, or Sylar had no understanding whatsoever of what Peter was going through and was just trying to coax him back into bed. He was pondering how (and if) he should go about discerning the difference when Sylar spoke.

Peter shrugged off Sylar's hands, turning to his side. They were still close. Sylar's legs were still touching him, now against Peter's hip and thigh instead of the small of his back. He was still in reach of Sylar's hands, easily. He shot Sylar a sustained, intent look with a hard expression as he tried to make sense of the words. _This is his reaction to the rejection. Him just saying, 'Yeah, I expected this wouldn't go anywhere.' It's okay._ Peter's expression softened and he tilted his head, reaching out deliberately to put his left hand on Sylar's knee, just above where it rested against Peter's thigh. "Do you understand why that would be – why I wouldn't?"

XXX

Sylar sighed, allowing his hands to be shrugged off. His lips pursed, but his eyes curiously took in the man's hand, re-establishing contact. _Right. He has to touch me, not the other way around._ Something vague about how intimate Peter had already permitted things to be between them passed through his mind. Every little touch was strange, most of it unnecessary. "Yes," he said shortly, looking back up into Peter's eyes because he wasn't afraid to. "But I also understand that you were a breath away from fucking me through two pairs of shorts. I don't know who you're trying to fool, but I'll play along." Disinterested in further dialogue, he glanced out the window. It was growing dark early because of the weather. He didn't even want to stick around in bed if it involved talking and attempted guilt-trips. Sylar stood, being sure to practically crawl over Peter to do it. Patting the man's cheek affectionately, then ruffling his hair, he quipped, "Tonight just skip the shorts," and prowled into the hall, then the bathroom. He knew Peter would be watching.

XXX

Peter was scowling, preparing to retort, when Sylar began his exit. Peter pushed on him and made protesting noises as Sylar squirmed past him. Peter was looking merely put-out by the time Sylar was patting his cheek like Peter's mother might do (or maybe Nathan). The hair tousling was definitely Nathan. Peter's eyes narrowed and he frowned at Sylar's back. Oh yes, he was watching. Definitely. "Asshole," he said as Sylar left his sight. His voice was annoyed rather than angry.

XXX

Sylar smirked to himself. "You would know!" he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the hall.

XXX

Peter had to repress a strong urge to force his way into the bathroom and possessively eject Sylar from it, just to show who was in charge. It was dumb and Peter knew where it was coming from - sexual aggressiveness mixed with a desire to stand up to the man who was telegraphing too many 'Nathan' signals: a sort of sibling rivalry/rebelliousness with a helping of lust. Peter shook his head and looked away, turning so both his feet were on the floor, his elbows on his knees as he touched at his forehead and face.

Although he was hungry and the kitchen was beckoning, Peter didn't want to stay _. I need to clear my head. Focus. Quit all of this. He's just distracting me, getting on my nerves. He's playing me._ Peter rose and scooped up the damp clothes they'd abandoned earlier. He stood at the end of the hall and called out, "I'm taking the clothes down to the dryer. Take a shower or something. I'll work on your back when I get back." He hesitated a moment, weighing Sylar's apparently compulsive need to accompany Peter everywhere against his own distinct desire not to see Sylar's face. "Don't follow me. I'll be back in ten minutes or less. Promise." He sounded exasperated to have to say it that way, but he did, and followed up by leaving the apartment, arms full of their clothes.

XXX

Already edgy with the incompleteness of their wakeup, Sylar tensed to hear that Peter was leaving. He didn't like being commanded what to do (or not do) and the hit-it-and-quit-it implied by Peter's shame. Assuming he wasn't hallucinating Petrelli altogether, Sylar was mostly certain the medic would return, if only to tend his back. It felt as if the cold was coming back to him even though he'd been separated from Peter physically for a few moments now – being further away was worrisome. "But-!" Too late he called out, entering the hall then the empty dining room. He didn't have a viable excuse anyway. _I thought he said showering or bathing was bad? He'll help me with the things I can't do myself._ Sylar brushed his mangy hair from his face, knowing he needed a shower to be clean if not for the heat. _I really need to shave, too._ That decided him.

XXX

His down coat went in a dryer set on 'air dry', while the rest were on high heat. Peter watched them spin. He knew how to do laundry. Despite the rich background, he had resisted the urge to schlep his stuff home or use a service. Besides, he got to meet a lot of interesting people in laundromats. And the timing of a load was usually enough to go somewhere private, do something sexual, and return. That was important back in the days when that was a much greater motivation than it was now. He considered the way they'd woke up and how he'd conducted himself. _I can't sleep with him. That's just how it is. Because he's right. Something's going to happen. (I should have better self-control than that.) But I don't and the way to make sure it doesn't happen is to not be there. (So much of that was so nice, though…) That's why I can't even let it get started. It's too tempting. I'll slip. (What if I did have sex with him? It's what he wants…) Fuck what he wants. He'll still treat me like he does. He'll probably be even more of an asshole. He'll think he has something on me and he'd be right. How could I look anyone in the eye and tell them I'd loved my brother if I was fucking the man who'd killed him?_ With an angry huff, Peter stood. _Right. I couldn't. So I won't._

He returned upstairs as he'd agreed.

XXX

The shower and shaving took longer than usual. Sylar felt cotton-headed and still tired. He was distracted with wondering if Peter would return, or be angry, or even sleep with him tonight. _I'm sure it's my fault somehow. But he wants it, though._ With a towel wrapped around his hips, all alone in the apartment, he'd went looking into the dressers and closets for some more of Peter's clothing that had been worn, washed, and returned here. He wasn't a fan of briefs and the ones he'd had were Peter's. Sweat pants, underwear, and a too-short t-shirt in hand, he heard the front door opening. Sylar straightened and stood there dumbly, much relieved and stupidly grateful until he was addressed. _Am I supposed to dress first or…? Crap. He's going to get pissy because he'll think I did this on purpose to seduce him._ For once that wasn't the case.

XXX

"Oh." Peter gawked at the lean, clean, and nearly naked man in front of him for a second or two longer than sheer surprise required. Sylar looked good, even when run down, signs of which Peter noticed a half-beat after the sexiness. He averted his eyes to the medical bag, muttering, "Um, I'll just be over here," and turning shoulder-on to Sylar to give the man some illusion of privacy, hoping like hell Sylar wouldn't dress right in front of him. He hadn't expected to have his resolve tested so quickly. It looked so intentional. He wondered how long Sylar had been lingering in that towel, waiting for Peter's return so he could tempt him. It irritated him to be played so obviously.

XXX

Sylar took the clothes to the bathroom, hanging up the towel, combing his hair back and donning the clothes – everything but the shirt. He came back feeling more human, but apprehensive about the medical process and the pain involved.

XXX

Sylar's ready departure left Peter checking himself – had the towel thing been on purpose, or just inadvertent? _Was I wrong? I guess I should ask._ Peter laid out the supplies he'd need to use to clean Sylar's back while the other man was gone. Then he washed his hands thoroughly and waited. When Sylar returned, Peter gestured at the chair. "Take a seat and I'll get to work." He gave Sylar's back a careful examination before getting started, making sure the treatment still fit. Not caring too much if it made things difficult and awkward, Peter asked, "So why don't you explain to me why I'm not going to fuck you, ever?" He swabbed down Sylar's back with antiseptic, then took up the gauze to begin the painful process of scraping out the infection down to healthy tissue. "You said you knew."

XXX

"What?!" Sylar's reply was lost in a growling hiss of pain and confusion. Fuck, his back was tender! It had stung in the shower but this was different. He clutched at the chair back and mostly succeeded in not squirming forward or arching as the gauze continued to assault him. "You really want to ask me this now?" he retorted with disbelief and some irritation. He focused on breathing, the timing, each second passing by because it was almost worse not being able to see when the pain would come.

XXX

Peter barely hesitated, hearing the pain in Sylar's voice and changing tactics. "Did the pain of others ever stop you from demanding they give you whatever you wanted?" He kept working, picking up the pace a little but still trying to be gentle. He started talking in a consistent, distracting patter, not too different from what he'd done for patients many times before, but the topic was definitely a new one. "Didn't you say you tortured an agent to death once? I wonder what that was like – for him, not you?" He was asking intentionally insulting questions, but he didn't pause much for Sylar to answer them.

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth to protest and offer up some defense of himself, but honestly he was rather shocked. The raw scraping sensations sped up just enough to be nearly constant. Sylar was horrified and despondent, yet listening. He knew the answers and didn't want to say or admit them, feeling a dark churning in his gut that may or may not have been related to his literal wounds being opened again. _I didn't show mercy. Not the way he understands mercy._ Peter's words were so rapid-fire (and seemingly not malicious) he wondered if he was supposed to actually reply. It would be important because he was being accused of a murder he didn't technically commit. That agent attempted to kill him and Luke had unexpectedly intervened. That wasn't to say he wouldn't have had to kill or imprison Agent Simmons in the end to prevent him from blabbing off to Danko. Somehow he didn't think Peter cared about that.

XXX

"I've been tortured to death," Peter continued. "But something tells me that I'll bet Ricky's gang wasn't as creative at it as you probably were. They were pretty matter-of-fact about it with me. What was your state of mind? Were you looking for revenge? Were you taking out on that agent everything you'd wanted to do to the Company after they locked you up and experimented on you?"

XXX

Sylar straightened, lips tensing from the pain and the on-going rebuke. _I know that's a lie. He says he wants to know what I was thinking, but he doesn't – not really. He can't handle it. It's not what he wants to hear._ Peter was rambling off about things he didn't – couldn't – know about, yet he was only wrong about a few things thus far. _Does he want me to correct him and give myself away?_ Not that he thought he was giving away any telling information. The accusation that he was so angry and clumsy as to torture Agent Simmons as revenge was low and classless. Sylar grit his teeth and gripped the leg of his sweatpants in his other hand. He felt low and pathetic, all this started because he wasn't obedient enough to answer a damn question.

XXX

Peter laid a careful hand on Sylar's less-damaged shoulder, light at first and then holding more firmly as needed. In a much softer tone of voice, he said, "Easy. Hold on. I'm almost done." Then he went back to speaking more roughly. "I stood by while a guy was tortured once. I probably should have felt something. But honestly, I was just annoyed it took so long. We should have been in and out, got what we wanted, and been gone. I had enough time to leave, check out some of the information, come back, and they _still_ weren't done with him. Funny thing is, he didn't seem to hold it against me later." Peter gave a jerk-tilt of his head. "He survived, obviously."

XXX

He didn't want to admit it, but he took a deeper, more relieved breath when Peter tried to comfort him in several small ways. It helped to know that it was nearly over. _How much more does he want to get off his chest?_ Sylar wondered. He was almost immediately surprised to hear that Peter had been part and party to torturing someone. _Who? Why? What did 'they' do? Is he just trying to lay the blame on the other people (if there were any others)?_ It seemed initially out of character for Peter Petrelli…unless…the mission was so huge that the means would justify the ends. _Like Mercy. And he didn't kill anyone – so he says._ It told him that Peter had some concept of the workings of reality, the whole 'drastic times, back-against-the-wall' scenario. That was extremely important.

XXX

Peter stopped and surveyed the results. All the infected areas had been rubbed raw down to healthy tissue. With the hand that was holding Sylar's shoulder, he moved his thumb back and forth lightly on the unmarked skin it rested on. In the soft tone he'd used before, he said quietly, "I'm done with the part that hurts. Hang on and I'll get ointment on everything. It won't hurt so much after." That was applied, then he took fresh gauze and cleaned Sylar up from the blood, serum, and seropurulent drainage streaking his back. Tossing the contaminated cloth on the table for later clean-up, Peter hooked his arm under Sylar's to help him stand. "Come on. You need to lie down on the bed, on your belly, and let your back air dry. Still with me, buddy?"

XXX

The ointment felt like a balm, the surcease from the verbal attacks felt like silence after too much overwhelming chaos. Sylar started when Peter grabbed under and around his arm, encouraging him to stand and move. Shaken and tired again after the widespread, throbbing pain, bed sounded amazing, with or without Peter. He cleared his throat so his voice would be clear, not croaky and whispery like he felt, "Yes." He didn't need Peter's assistance in getting to the bed, so he disengaged and crawled up to lay atop the comforter. _I should lay down a towel so I don't contaminate anything. It's not like he'll be sleeping in the same bed as me ever again._

XXX

Peter helped Sylar settle in, pulling the blankets around so the man's feet and lower legs were covered. The upper body had to remain bare for now. Once done, in the same caring tone as before (different from the aggressive one he'd used to relate cruel things and ask almost jeering questions), he asked, "Do you want me to stay right here with you, or would you rather have some space? I could go in the kitchen."

XXX

With a quick glance over his nurse, Sylar murmured, "You can stay." He wasn't certain he wanted Peter around – or how Peter could manage being around him, caring for him. He almost said, 'I don't care' just to see what Petrelli would do, but he didn't want the rejection if he was left alone. Having his feet and legs covered was a thoughtful, unnecessary comfort. Sylar felt like dirt and didn't reach out to make contact with Peter, though he was facing the available portion of the bed where Peter was most likely to sit.

XXX

Peter nodded. He circled the bed, took off his shoes and climbed on his side. He arranged the pillows so he was sitting up, reclined against the headboard. He reached out and touched a few fingers briefly to Sylar's shoulder. He murmured, "I know that had to hurt like hell. I was just trying to distract you with what I was saying. You don't have to answer any of that." He still wanted to know what Sylar did and didn't understand of Peter's motivations – and the various questions he'd fired out during the interrogation were things Peter was curious about as well. But this wasn't the time. Sylar was hurting; Peter's job was to take care of him, not to use Sylar's weakness as an opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. He settled in and made himself present, occupying his thoughts with memories of the complicated man who was Noah Bennet.

XXX

"It's fine," he answered hastily with something of a shrug. As he replied, he tried to look up to make eye contact, or at least see Peter's face to get a sense of what he was feeling. As it often did, Petrelli's face was neutral or perhaps kind. It was all in those furrowed, intent eyebrows and hopeful brown eyes. Sylar let it go, settling into the bed and allowing their interaction to fall into silence, partly because he needed to think. He took deep breaths and finally wormed a hand over to lay the side of his hand against Peter's thigh, wanting more comfort than it provided. It sucked to have to lie facedown like this, but the worst of the pain was over and the throbbing was passing.

XXX

Peter was still dressed only in t-shirt and boxers. He acknowledged Sylar's touch with his own, a short caress or a pat, then he withdrew his hand out of concern that he didn't know how much contact Sylar was comfortable with. _He's touching me like I touch him when we're in bed._ That at least made a small smile play across Peter's lips.

XXX

After ten or fifteen minutes of quiet, Sylar murmured, "I didn't kill Special Agent Simmons and I didn't torture him for revenge. He knew-…he had information I needed." He'd been about to tell the truth explicitly, that Simmons had known where his father was, but he decided to leave that out. It wasn't relevant. It turned out that Simmons didn't know and his lies made it seem like he knew. Luke had known – and Luke had been the one to accidentally kill Simmons. "Before it was all…just business. Now there are some people I would like to torture. For revenge. What I want isn't in the cards right now," he meant that about more than just torture and revenge because it applied to a lot more than just that. It was…inconvenient to torture Peter beyond what he was already doing. "Who did you torture and why?" This was easier than talking about why Peter couldn't just tune out and fuck him.

XXX

He listened carefully, both because the information was something he wanted to know ( _He didn't kill the guy? Special Agent Simmons – he remembers the name, too._ ) and because Sylar's voice was quiet. And calm. Peter wasn't happy that his answer would likely end that state. "The last time I told you something incriminating about myself, you kicked me to the curb and told me off." That would be when he'd confessed to having killed Nathan in an alternate future timeline. Peter had murdered Nathan himself, using Sylar's ability, as opposed to the other time he'd killed Nathan by releasing the virus through stupidity and gullibility. He blamed himself for that one, too, but not as much. There wasn't the same self-loathing and horror at how easily and intentionally he'd done it while tapping into the watchmaker's power. He could more easily wrap his mind around what he'd done wrong in trusting Adam. If he used Sylar's ability again, Peter had no idea what he might do. That made it frightening.

XXX

Sylar lofted an eyebrow, too lazy to shrug. "Fine. Then don't tell me." He was banking on the use of a kind of command and reverse-psychology.

XXX

He waited another few moments, watching Sylar for a reaction – any reaction. He didn't expect this time to stir as many emotions in Sylar as the confession about Nathan. It wasn't as personal to either of them, but it wasn't completely distant and removed. Finally, he said, "Noah Bennet. He had information we needed."

XXX

 _Bennet?_ His brain tripped over that once, then again, and again. That was unexpected. The Man With a Plan being tortured? Not that it was impossible to get the drop on him. And Peter torturing a friend, someone who was practically family when the empath held fast to so much human decency often to the detriment of his plans and the bigger picture? It would have been baffling except Peter did sometimes remember his end goal and have his moments of efficiency. Sylar had been quiet for a moment while his thoughts zipped through points of fact and history. "Wait. Who's 'we'?" _Let me fucking guess…_

XXX

"Mohinder, Matt, and I." Peter gave Sylar another lingering look, still wary of violence, but mostly due to things he hadn't said yet and expected to have to say in the course of explaining things. He looked away, out the window. Whatever Sylar was going to do, he'd do, and Peter hadn't said anything he thought was especially upsetting yet.

XXX

Eyes narrowed, Sylar was disbelieving that Nathan didn't play some part in it. Parkman and Mohinder. Torturing again. It made him angry even though Bennet was certainly deserving of whatever they'd done to him – and more. The rest of his consciousness growled incoherent emotion about those two and their would-be heroics disguising their petty fears.

XXX

Peter spoke dryly. "The situation: My brother…sold me out to the government. It was Noah who did the transport. One of my pillow cases was over my head, but I recognized the voice. He's not very careful with how he tosses people in the back of vans." He took a deep breath, remembering the tarp over him, the zip tie cutting into his wrists, and the persistent feeling of claustrophobia. "It was a long drive. Then they hooked me up with that…tranquilizer." His voice got quieter, losing the sardonic tone as his sentence structure disintegrated. "The plane crash. Shooting. Shooting to kill us. Noah…he passed on an opportunity to take me down. Twice. Some of us got out together. We needed information before we could figure out what to do. The easiest person to get to who knew what we needed was Noah. We took him to a hotel room. Tied him up." Peter stopped to bite the inside of his lip. He looked over to see what Sylar's face might betray about his thoughts. There was still time to shut up.

XXX

 _There he is,_ Sylar thought of the mention of the overpriced elder brother. It was an inevitable appearance. He was listening as long as Peter was still talking, somewhat mindful of Peter's crack about not handling Peter's bullshit very well. He could imagine how being kidnapped, for someone as delicate and emotional as Peter, could be frightening. But it seemed like overkill when Petrelli was a special – one of the most special (and, in theory, the most capable) people ever. _Hm. Drugs._ That…changed more of his internal reaction. "Then what?" He prompted because Peter was looking to him for something. _Does he think I care that he tortured Bennet of all people? (I thought he mentioned Bennet giving him advice about hugging it out with Ma Dearest or something…Something recent?)_

XXX

"I sedated him." That had been Peter's primary role – that, and preparing the roofie that put the man down in the first place. It was amazing what Matt's ability allowed him to solicit from people, and the man's background in the police told him exactly who to ask. "Then Matt started interrogating him. Mentally." He stopped there, his expression serious and guarded as he watched for Sylar's reaction to the idea Peter had willingly and knowingly participated in someone's prolonged mental violation. There was nothing apologetic in Peter's expression, though. Peter knew what he'd done and why he'd done it. It had been wrong, but it was the choice he'd made. He also had a very good idea that this was not going to sit well with Sylar.


	139. Greenest Shade

Day 74, February 22, Afternoon

It was difficult to watch Peter constantly as he spoke, so mostly Sylar relaxed and stared at the man's hip where it was within easy viewing. It…bothered him that Peter so casually drugged someone after he admitted how he hadn't liked it himself. But this was still Noah Bennet: Mr. Us versus Them. Nothing would change that even though it raised more questions about how Bennet and Peter got along, but that was hardly the most interesting part in any of this story. Then Peter got to the heart of it, telling the truth of it.

Sylar's eyes snapped up, raising his head a little to do it though he knew he shouldn't have been surprised. Peter's face was wary, judging him as if his natural, instinctive reaction was somehow offensive _. He did that…before? He did that to someone else? Matt did, too? And Bennet…Then they all did it to me?_ He stared at Peter, trying to make some logical sense of it and failing. His body had tensed and his hand jerked away from touching Peter. He was instantly furious with self-righteous, self-defensive rage and inexplicable, stupid hurt, torn open by the callousness and willful repetition of it all while Peter's expression was condemning.

Sylar had known this alleged 'empath's' apology about Mercy had been false but he hadn't guessed this was behind it. He hadn't needed any reminder or confirmation of what Peter (and the rest) thought of him. It was literally painfully obvious. _They did not expect me to survive. They never have._ As if that justified anything. Digging for information was easy. It looked like a practice-run before the main event…Sylar found he completely lacked the words to express how disgusted, horrified, and disappointed he was. Mercy was no accident. _(He brought drugs…He was going to torture me)._ That wasn't news, but it had much worse context now.

There wasn't a reaction strong enough or one that covered every cycling emotion. But he had to know. Sylar growled through grit teeth, completely unmoving, "Why." What world-ending answers did Bennet have that necessitated that kind of torture? He had a sick, gut feeling that he already knew and would hate Petrelli even more (if possible) when he heard it – he didn't know if it would validate or break him.

XXX

Peter gave Sylar a good, long look as he tried to decide just how sideways things were about to go and what he could do to prevent it. Assuming he wanted to prevent an outburst. He found himself not caring too much about that, aside from issues of personal safety. He gave the hand that had retracted from him a cautious glance and leaned away slightly. _Maybe one of these times he'll realize I'm not who Nathan thought I was? Or at least, I'm not that person to Sylar._ Then there was the matter of Sylar's growling non-question itself. _I've already told him why. Or does he mean, why would we use Matt's ability for something we might have been able to talk out of him?_ "We had to be sure the information was real." Peter shook his head. "None of us could trust him. We had to know who was behind this...attack on people like us. It could have been the Company again, the government, some other government, some other Company, maybe someone with an ability that let them manipulate people's loyalties – anything. These people had a cargo jet. They coordinated attacks on multiple continents in different countries; they had high-end gear and tech. We had to know what we were dealing with and we had to know for sure."

XXX

That seemed to be a fair enough reason. Sylar understood it, at least. He hadn't given much thought to what it must have been like for the 'average' special being attacked (perhaps again, but this time different from the Company). Building 26, being a government agency, was predictably militant. He didn't desist from staring Petrelli down. _Why Bennet? Why not your precious Nathan if you knew he was involved?_

XXX

He frowned and tilted his head insightfully at Sylar. "That's not what you want to know, though, is it? You want to know why we'd do that to a person? Why we'd tie them up, invade their mind, and try to pry something out they didn't want released?"

XXX

 _No, fucker. That's obvious!_ Sylar thought viciously. _Did you ever have any regard for someone's mental privacy? But I want to hear this bullshit again. I'm sure he thinks it's not the same thing at all._ "Sure," he agreed sardonically.

XXX

Peter took in a deep breath, held it for a calming moment, and let it out. "What happened to Noah was different from what happened to you. Nothing was done that changed his idea of who he was or how he saw himself. I've had people – Matt, specifically – try to draw information out of me like he did with Noah. It hurts. So does you punching me in the face. But it doesn't mess with who I am. You want to know a situation that's a lot more of a parallel for yours?" Peter paused, raising his brows with the rhetorical question. "Me getting my memories wiped. No sense of identity. No name – not even someone else's. Woke up dying time after time, then Ricky and his group did it all over." He pressed his lips together in a serious line. "Who was I? Did I deserve this? What were these abilities I had? How was I supposed to respond to everything, deal with it, cope? No answers. No idea. Just all alone trying to put myself back together. It's not an exact fit with your case because there was no one shoving me into a box that wasn't mine, but it's as close as we're going to get."

XXX

A frown appeared the most Sylar listened. Again, he was still getting stuck on the part where he was even remotely defending Noah fucking Bennet. He saw Peter's actions (and Matt's! And later Bennet's unsurprising involvement) as a premeditated precursor. Legally speaking, it was most damning. It did nothing to explain the Peter Petrelli's normal rigid adherence to all things moral and why this 'information' was suddenly different from any other immoral choice. Sylar knew he was far from the kind of person who could pass judgment over such a thing, but he wondered in the privacy of his own thoughts if that changed Peter's inherent 'goodness' forever. Peter even admitted he had some understanding, as a victim, yet he'd still made those decisions. But Peter didn't know what it was like to be told to be someone else, to have to fill that person's role in life, live with that other family, a job, the questions that couldn't be answered.

Sylar knew he'd asked before and been answered before, but it was so…out-of-character and it was still such a deep wound that he needed to understand it. "If you know what it's like, then why would you do something like that to someone else?" It was a betrayal, both to how Nathan knew him and what Sylar thought he knew, or, perhaps, what he wanted to believe.

XXX

Peter gave a bitter smirk. He knew Sylar was asking about Peter's attempt to restore 'Nathan' at Mercy Hospital. "Yeah. You know me – always the white knight, wouldn't touch Dad's blood money, protesting the war, all that stuff. Why would I do something so obviously wrong?" He leveled an intense, piercing look at Sylar. " _Because I loved my brother more than I loved doing right_. I would have gone to hell for him," his voice caught slightly, "and he knew it." He breathed out, letting the intensity fade, but there was still a quiet savagery in what he said next. "You took him away from me. I was going to get him back." Peter shrugged one shoulder very slowly, looking away briefly in feigned indifference. "Or at least, that's what I thought. I didn't know how it worked."

XXX

That strangely stung, knowing he – Nathan – in the past had taken Peter completely for granted and knew all his little brother's limits and shoved them further, past what Peter should have been able to bear, let alone accept. It felt wrong to accept that sin, but foolishly, Peter didn't seem to be laying blame, even to Nathan's dead name. Sylar couldn't grasp how truly, willfully blind Peter was. But Peter's phrasing struck a familiar chord. _(I want him to be bad for me, too. With me, for me, to me, any of it. I…I want…his loyalty. I want to own him like Nathan did and more completely)._ It was the greenest shade of envy. It was all the most twisted to have murdered Nathan and then attempt to take his place. It made him want to act like Nathan to get a reaction or just to cause pain, and simultaneously act even more like 'himself', whoever that was now, acting out and distancing himself from it all. Voice rough, he whispered, "What did he ever do to deserve you?"

XXX

"He's my _brother_ ," Peter answered immediately, because that accident of birth was all that was required. The fierceness of his answer, though, struck him as too much in the face of what was actually a compliment. He doubted Sylar had meant it as flattery. Peter sighed and dialed his intensity back a notch. "My hospice patients didn't 'deserve' to have someone listen to them. The people who call for EMTs don't 'deserve' to be helped. That they _are_ helped, that someone _does_ listen, says something about the people willing to help. It doesn't say anything about those in need." He tilted his head as he looked at Sylar. "He was my brother. What I would do for him is about me. What I was willing to put up with, what I tolerated, what I looked the other way for, what I excused," Peter pursed his lips, "those were _my_ decisions. What he did, didn't have much to do with it." He rolled his eyes briefly and looked away. "Turning me into a 'domestic terrorist' was on him, though." He looked back to Sylar. "Having the whole country hunting me was the breaking point." Peter nodded. "That was too much – brother or not. I have my limits. That's why I shot Dad." Disgusted by his family's antics, he looked away.

XXX

Sylar exhaled, having nothing more to say, but much to think about. Obviously Peter's love came from within because there was nothing that could justify the rest of his family. That was…ambivalent news at best. It meant Peter had a revolting level of tolerance and once he decided to love, based on duty (and other stupid parameters most likely) he would love most loyally. That was his belief system. _Is he that naïve?_ Sylar didn't know whether to be horrified or charmed. Peter was devoted to family because they were family and Sylar could understand that. It was familiar. The bad part was that he'd successfully killed Peter's…anchor, for-better-or-worse an otherwise permanent fixture in Peter's life and Peter did not love him for that. In a way, he was…pleased that Nathan left such a shitty legacy; he hadn't deserved Peter. But that left strange shoes to fill. And the empath hadn't felt truly loved in return or else he wouldn't have thrown himself around so desperately.

Sylar finally broke his stare, glancing between Petrelli's eyes for a moment, his own narrowing before he relaxed his face into the pillow. _How does he manage to make me trust him less but not paranoid enough to want him to stay the hell away from me forever?_ His former neediness decreased where he didn't want to cling to Peter. He felt he had to say something and not let Peter off the hook on principle for fucking around in even Bennet's head. "I guess it's a good thing my opinion about your 'decisions' doesn't matter." Loftily, he sniffed, "A real brother would have shown you how to get what you want without resorting to mental torture."

XXX

Peter snorted softly, but had nothing to say to either of Sylar's statements. He didn't want the man's opinion about his misplaced loyalties – Peter had heard it before and more or less agreed on a rational level, but it was irrelevant in the face of the emotional bond he'd had with Nathan. Who was, speaking of which, a much more 'real' brother than Sylar had been, despite the 'that's what brothers do'. Sylar hadn't chosen the role either time it had been thrust on him (the fault for which was Peter's family's, again), so he left the understandably sore subject alone. Very shortly, Sylar shifted, bringing his hand up and for a moment Peter was quietly overjoyed that things had blown over and Sylar was going to replace his hand against Peter's leg again. But instead, Sylar put it over the side of his head and face as though loosely warding off an unlikely explosion or preparing himself to fend off some unwarranted strike of Peter's. Even though the man was facing him, it seemed unnecessarily defensive.

As best Peter could tell, Sylar had shut his eyes, leaving Peter was alone in his disappointment. It left him free to peer at the hand as though that would help somehow and rake his eyes over Sylar's body language time after time. He was tempted – very tempted – to reach out and take that hand and put it where he wanted it, next to him, where it had been before. _He said I could use him how I wanted. Self-medicating. This isn't sex. It's okay. Why is he doing that? I'm not going to hurt him. (But I'm thinking about making him do something he doesn't want to do, or else he would have done it himself, so…)_ Peter huffed, pursed his lips, and squirmed, looking away briefly as he wrestled with the unexpected dilemma. He looked back yearningly at the hand, still debating what he wanted and the ethics of taking it, oblivious to the unique nature of a Petrelli having qualms about exercising their will on Sylar. _I could ask. (I'm not going to ask.) I could put my foot on him. (He's already defensive. He's hurt. It would be wrong to impose right now. He doesn't want to touch me or he would. He's the one who pulled away. He's vulnerable. Leave him alone. This is all about my insecurity.)_ Peter made a different choice than the rest of his family had. He shrugged his shoulders to try to disperse the tension, looking away and around the room. His eyes lit on the mess still on the dining room table. Peter left the bed and set off to clean up.

XXX

Sylar opened his eyes, having shut them after a few moments when Peter did and said nothing while still sitting on the bed. Shifting slightly to keep Petrelli within his vision to see Peter wasn't just moving around – he was getting up. Now Peter was moving away and he wanted to see where the other man was going. The empath didn't make for the door, electing to remain in the apartment. That relaxed him; more when he saw Peter cleaning up the table. _I think he'll stay for a while._ More tired than he'd known, that would have to be enough for now. Sighing, Sylar lay down almost entirely on his front, hand still protectively over the back of his head, and closed his eyes again.

XXX

Peter moved to the table, cleaning up the bloody and soiled gauze, washing his hands briefly, then returning to put away everything that wasn't expended. Glad to be doing something more active and productive than stupidly pining over Sylar's hand placement, he scrubbed and disinfected the table, then washed himself to his elbows. This was a comforting routine. This was something he knew how to do, himself, without worrying about help or interference. He still spared Sylar the occasional glance to see that he was still resting on the bed, but otherwise Peter stayed busy. Once he was clean, he sorted through the various soups in the cabinet, eventually settling on cream of mushroom for himself and split pea with ham for Sylar. He set the cans out and looked back at Sylar. _He's probably not asleep. But he should probably stay there for a while more. How long has it been?_ He walked over halfway to the bed, looking over Sylar's back. "I'm going to go downstairs and get the laundry. You stay here. Your back doesn't look dry enough yet." He paused for agreement. "Okay?"

XXX

He realized he was dozing when he heard Peter's voice cut through the fog of near-sleep. When he was aware enough to comprehend the words, he tensed and his heart beat faster with concern. Sylar propped up on one elbow to look at Peter where he stood _. I'm tired,_ he thought before Peter finished. _I don't want to chase you. Why can't you just stay here?_ He listened and understood more. _It's about my back?_ Sylar had since begun to frown at being commanded to heel and wait like a dog, though he wasn't up for going even though he might feel the need to. "Wh–" he started before his voice croaked drily. He cleared his throat and tried again, "When will you be back?" He didn't like the arrangement, but getting Peter to verbalize a return time might help. If Peter didn't arrive by that time, then he would know to go looking and Peter wouldn't have much head start. He wasn't sure why he bothered to ask this time instead of all the others. He wanted to know Peter would be returning because the other man hadn't specified that.

XXX

"Just a few minutes. The dryer's probably already done and even if it isn't, it's not like our clothes were soaked through." Peter shrugged, deciding Sylar was going to stay like he should and Peter was clear to leave.

XXX

Sylar desperately wanted to roll over, at least onto his side, preferably to his back – Peter said it wasn't through drying. His expression showed his resignation, but Peter's errand was legitimate even if it involved retrieving the empath's coat, which could just as easily be done as he left the building. He crooked his elbow beneath his cheek as he settled back, shoulder twisted so his face was pointed at Peter. There was nothing he could say.

XXX

Peter returned with a haphazard armload of fluffy, warm clothes, wearing his down coat because that was easier than carrying it. He dumped the clothes in the leather chair, then took off the coat and hung it over the back of it. He surveyed the clothes, then the dark outside, and decided there was no point in getting dressed if they were going to bed soon. But there was no way he was going to sleep without food. To Sylar, he asked, "You hungry? You need to eat some and take your medicine. How do you like pea soup?"

XXX

Sylar exhaled in relief when he heard Peter's steady tread in the hall. Those few moments alone were increasingly unpleasant and filled with doubt. He tensed again when he saw the glance outside. _No. Stay here._ He lay where Peter had left him. When Peter spoke, he sat up, feeling the urge to put his hands on Peter in some old, familiar way. "Yeah. Sounds great," he agreed, grateful. It seemed chillier with Peter gone and now that Sylar was up and walking into the kitchen, the air was brushing his upper body all over. Still, he didn't want to ask if he could put his shirt on. He wanted to feel Peter's body heat again. _How long will he hold out and deny himself?_ Sylar wondered. If Peter had been halfway to fucking him this morning, what would tonight bring? He was both nervous and calm about it.

Entering the kitchen behind Peter, he took up the can of soup Peter had designated for him. It had ham in it. Peter hadn't mentioned that. A glance showed the other man's meal preference. He snorted. Of course, Peter wanted the 'vegetarian' one. Several 'meat' jokes sprung to mind. He considered if he should start his seduction early and realized that might annoy Peter and make him leave before dinner was through.

He was brushing elbows with his companion, watching him move casually from the corner of his eye. The little man appeared focused. "What are you thinking?" Equally casual, Sylar took the can opener when Peter was done with it, wrapping most of his hand around Peter's to do it. The Italian's hand wasn't small – his hands fit his stature – as such, Sylar could easily hold most of Peter's hand in his own. It was just another curiosity, another risk he was allowed to take this time. The discovery made him feel dominant and accepted.

XXX

The question took Peter by surprise, as he'd mostly retreated into his own head. He gave Sylar a brief look for the odd manner of taking the can opener from him, but didn't think about it otherwise. "Uh, nothing really, I guess. I was worrying about how to not scorch this stuff." He indicated the soup and milk he was now combining in a pan on the electric stovetop. "I don't know if I should be stirring it more, or heating it up slower, or maybe this is just a thing it always does because of the milk…?" He glanced over at Sylar, wondering why he hadn't thought to ask. "Do you know?"

XXX

He gave Petrelli a questioning look colored with some disbelief. _Are you serious? That college education really paid off in terms of basic physics._ It served as an unintentional ego boost. "Of course," he replied.

XXX

Peter frowned and considered getting huffy about the deliberate lack of explanation. He didn't feel like getting huffy. Besides, he actually wanted to know. "Then how do I make it work?"

XXX

' _I know how things work…'_ Sylar briefly considered withholding his knowledge if only so Peter would be dependent on him for smooth, unburned soup. But the temptation to teach and impart (such obvious) wisdom was more enticing. Sylar walked around Peter a few steps to look where he knew he'd seen a whisk, taking it out, turning towards the other man and holding it up. _Mr. I don't know what a dish scraper is but I know what a 'cheese cutter' is._ He waved it once in Peter's direction, "Do you know what this is?" Apparently that was a question he needed to ask.

XXX

Peter's gaze darted between the implement and Sylar's face a few times. He was suspicious, but he gathered that Sylar was actually going to tell him how to improve his dinner. That expectation made a little mockery along the way endurable. "It's a whisk. You use it to make eggs, or pancake batter."

XXX

 _Just…?_ Sylar paused to think about that reply. "It can be used for more than just breakf-…" That's what memory had been bouncing around in his mind, knocking to get out. So many smells and moments, some good, some horribly tense rushed through him, bittersweet. "Ah, yes. You always did want to be just like the adults. As if making your own breakfast would make you more of a man in Dad's eyes."

XXX

Peter grimaced and snatched the whisk away from Sylar. "As a matter of fact, I made my own breakfast so Maggie didn't have to spend her time serving me." He gave Sylar a mild glare. "Maybe _Nathan_ didn't notice," (oh yes, Peter had noticed Sylar's accidental appropriation of Nathan's memories), "but Mom slept weird hours and Dad was never there. I wasn't going to have people make a full meal just for me. Not when I could learn to do it myself." He looked in the pan, remembering thankfully that the maid had taken the time to teach him and done a good job of it at that. In a milder voice, he asked, "Now what do I do with the whisk? Just stir it up?"

XXX

Sylar resumed his position on the opposite side of Peter. The rationale seemed almost needlessly selfless. /"She got paid whether she made you breakfast or not./ But yes. Stir and," he nodded at the temperature handle, "Turn down the heat."

XXX

"Okay," was all he said to the comment about the maid, or the implication that it was fine to make himself a burden to others simply because his family was rich. He adjusted the heat. "This much?" He glanced to Sylar for affirmation, then looked in the pan as he whisked the contents. He could already tell this was going to make it more consistent, something he never managed when simply using a spoon. "It'll take longer to cook this way." He wasn't disappointed – just stating the obvious. "Thank you," he said a little softer. "This makes sense."

XXX

Sylar looked again to see that Peter had turned the heat much closer to 'simmer', no longer 'boil.' The lumpiness was dissipating thanks to the whisk. He glanced at the other man's gratitude. _It's just soup. It's really not a big deal._

XXX

As he cooked, Peter looked over at Sylar, who had never put his shirt back on. It seemed inappropriate for a meal with company, not that 'I hang out in my apartment naked' Peter had much room to judge. He generally only did that while _alone_. "You could put your shirt on now if you want," he suggested, thinking the reason for Sylar's undress might only be careful following of medical directions. "Your back should be dry."

XXX

It was a little chilly to be shirtless, but he could live until after he ate. Besides, Peter was likely to sleep with him – and perhaps do more than just sleep. In the event that all they did was sleep, he thought it fitting to torture Petrelli with what he was missing. "Oh, okay," he replied compliantly, sitting down with his own microwaved bowl of soup without fetching his shirt.

XXX

Peter carried his soup over, blinking once at Sylar's dinner outfit (or lack thereof) and otherwise blowing it off. Staring was rude, so he looked to his food. After several months here of fending for himself, unscorched, relatively unglobby cream soup was almost a novelty. Peter sat at the table, spooning it up. "This is like real soup, like what I'd get at a restaurant," he said brightly. "When I made this stuff before, it always had lumps in it." He swirled his spoon around, kind of missing the lumps, kind of not. The uniformity of the dish wasn't to his liking, so he picked up some crackers to address that, mushing them up and dropping them into the bowl. He gave Sylar's upper torso a lingering look, intrigued by the swirled pattern of the hair, before turning his attention to something safer, like getting more crackers.

XXX

After a few spoonfuls and silence, Sylar thought up a question. "How did you and Bennet go back to being...friendly again after you tortured him?"

XXX

"I-" _didn't torture him. Myself. Okay, yeah, whatever. Doesn't matter. I was there_. It was a meaningless technicality. Peter didn't bother to try to convince Sylar of any dubious innocence that Sylar wouldn't believe anyway. "I'm not sure we ever quit being friendly. I mean, even while he was being forced to reveal things, he…he didn't hold it against us." Peter took another bite, this time with half a cracker included on the spoon. "I never meant to imply it was the same as your case." Peter gave a shake of his head. "Noah and I never talked about it. There wasn't anything to say. He knew what we wanted, he knew why we wanted it, and we knew why he didn't want to give it. Everything was," Peter shrugged, "out on the table. I think it probably helped that none of us were a threat to him, to Claire, or to anyone he was trying to protect." Peter ate another spoonful. "In your case, I still worry about who you'd go after if you had the opportunity." Sylar's comment earlier about his desire for revenge had not gone unnoticed. Peter hadn't asked about it, and he didn't now, because of the many times Sylar evaded, deflected, or went on the offensive when Peter inquired too closely about his intentions.

XXX

Petrelli's reply was…about what Sylar had expected. _Should that make me feel better that even the heroes don't talk amongst themselves about 'important' events? I'm sure it does help that his sense of self wasn't being violated and destroyed. That's really considerate of you, Peter…in hindsight._ Sylar gave an 'oh, really?' expression to the hint about his plans, but didn't see a reason to answer. In a way, Peter was being smart in addition to being curious (though he hadn't actually asked it as a question) because if Peter knew, he would attempt to intervene as he always did. The split pea (with ham) didn't take long to finish off. With his body on the mend, he had an appetite, though soup was not his idea of a decadent meal, it did serve as good comfort food. _(Does that mean Bennet 'forgave' Peter? Or that he understood that the whole 'kidnap/torture specials' thing was wrong?_ Sylar didn't know which was more likely). He was a little concerned about the rest of the night – if Peter would stay, sleep with him, or…perhaps do more? They gathered up the dishes, cleaned them together with minimal other conversation.

XXX

When it came time to turn in, Peter took a pillow and the extra blanket from the bed, retreating to the couch without comment. Sleeping in the same bed with Sylar seemed perilous and he was tired of fighting his desires. He brought his shoes with him, too, setting them up in case he needed them, then lying down and trying to get comfortable.

XXX

Initially, Sylar didn't notice that Peter was stealing away from the bed. Moving his pillow and blanket was a natural part of getting into the bed. Seconds later it was clear that Peter would be sleeping in the suite, just not in the bed with no explanation given. That was…disappointing (and relieving). "Wh-?" Sylar began, catching himself. "Where are you going?"

XXX

"Just over here," Peter answered, giving no other reason. Sylar could see perfectly well where he was going and if the guy hadn't figured out _why_ Peter might not want to sleep with him, then Peter wasn't going to waste his time going over it yet again.

XXX

Still standing near the bed, Sylar was tempted to approach and get in Peter's space, if only to prove the little man couldn't walk away. "I won't bite, unless you ask nicely," he said regarding sleeping together and…sleeping together. Already he felt colder and lonelier to without Peter sharing the bed. He wanted the companionship to continue even in sleep.

XXX

Peter grunted, not dignifying Sylar's comment with anything more. He arranged his blanket and pillow.

XXX

"Come on, Peter. Come back to bed. Just…to sleep," he added quietly, embarrassed but willing to appease his partner to get what they both wanted.

XXX

Sylar's tone was more appealing than it had been before. Peter looked over and momentarily contemplated changing his mind. _But he can't promise what he's offering. I'm the one who, like he said, tried to fuck him through two pairs of shorts._ "No," he said curtly.

XXX

Sylar inhaled deeply, resigning himself. He was immensely grateful that Peter hadn't left entirely and made sleep even more painful. It hurt a little, the implied rejection or implication that he wasn't good enough or he was too much trouble. (He did not want to be too much trouble). It took a several long seconds, but Sylar resolved to try to sleep, knowing someone was near, being able to pick out the other man's breathing amongst all the other silence. Slowly and miserably, he crawled into the bed that seemed far too large for one man.

XXX

As a sleeping surface, the couch remained as steadfastly disagreeable as Peter had remembered it. Smooth leather that was great to sit on stuck to his bare skin and became clammy after lying in the same spot too long. The whole cushion was stiff – again, great support for sitting, but it didn't conform like a sleeping surface should. The seams between cushions dug into his side. The very slight tilt to the seat subtly pushed him towards the back, leaving him feeling wedged in. He had plenty of opportunity to catalog the couch's issues. Sleep was elusive. When he managed to doze, it was shallow and easily broken.

XXX

To his relief, Sylar could hear Peter breathing when he wasn't shifting around. He was smugly pleased that the empath was uncomfortable due to his self-inflicted righteous choice. Realizing that Peter wouldn't be over there unless he was sorely tempted, Sylar was able to relax. Closing his eyes was…peaceful. He didn't remember when that blissful lack of awareness overtook him.

After a while, some awareness came back. Peter had him on the ground somewhere and was slowly carving off strips of the flesh of his back, scraping and scratching at him without mercy. Saying things, making demands, often without waiting for any sort of reply and tearing at his back whenever he tried; things like, _'_ _It hurts, doesn't it? He's still in you! You give him back to me body and soul. I'll just take away everything that's you. Did your victim's pain ever stop you? Were you looking for revenge? What were you thinking? I want him back! I don't need you conscious…'_ followed by cold, threatening laughter that didn't match Peter at all, but reflected the harsh reality of what he'd become. Sylar alternated between arching his back and curling inwards from the pain, twisting and thrashing otherwise silently, having given up any attempt to speak. He didn't have any answers and hated every word.

XXX

 _What?_ Something woke Peter and for once, it wasn't the damn couch. He found himself reaching around before he came fully awake, trying to touch the source of the disturbance. Then he realized no one was there. He grimaced and sat up partway, intending to roll over and seek a more comfy position, dismissing whatever had bothered him awake as his imagination. Then he heard it again - irregular breathing, bodily thrashing, along with muffled noises of misery and pain. _Sylar?_ Peter looked over at the man, his general form visible enough in the diffuse light from the hallway that they usually left on for just this sort of thing. Peter folded back the blanket and stood up. After a beat, he grabbed his pillow before walking over to get a better look at what was going on.

XXX

The longer it went on, though his resolve and convictions were strong…Sylar found himself wavering in doubt and confusion. Peter was so sure of himself, so determined, ruthless and pitiless to get what he wanted – one of them was wrong, but who? He felt things bubbling up under the surface of his skin and he rejoiced and felt a stab of terror that Nathan really was within him – or was it the other way around: that he was Nathan? Curled protectively around himself as if to hold whatever unknown chaos inside himself to maintain his own structural integrity, he panicked at the thought of displeasing Peter or prolonging this exercise indefinitely. He began to claw at the floor, but found no purchase. Escape was pointless. He knew he was helpless, alone with his tormentor. _Will I become Nathan even if I'm not just to give him what he wants? Is that all I have? That's all I am?_ His emotions swung between relief at seeing his brother, so selfless and powerful, doing evil just to save him – the love he received from Peter was staggering, then…the next seconds brought horror at being violated and forced to comply, helpless and useless until he surrendered himself utterly to be destroyed and made into someone better. The memories overlapped and joined until he couldn't feel who he was.

XXX

"Sylar?" Peter asked softly, reaching out with the pillow and pushing it against Sylar's hip and thigh. "Sylar?" This time he spoke more firmly.

XXX

Sylar gasped, some parts of the dream shattering, some continuing, but fading. He made some sort of half-cry because he could hear himself (and by his voice he was Sylar, Gabriel, his own form, but that didn't mean Nathan wasn't lurking inside, unseen). Sylar heaved himself up, half-seated, half-lying down, and clutched at his body, feeling over himself as if that would determine Nathan's existence. "Uhnn?!" he said in dismay, realizing he couldn't discern his identity for certain, then swallowing his fear when he saw the shadow of someone beside the bed. Surely this was Nathan as some shadow or ghost, his own twisted psychosis, or was it Peter who had been torturing him the whole time?

XXX

"Sylar?" Peter said slowly and carefully. Although physically relaxed, he was mentally preparing for anything from hysterical laughter to being tackled to the floor. "It's okay, buddy. It was a dream. It's over now. You're okay." He turned his head, peering in the dimness, trying to read Sylar's expression. He wanted to touch him, but wasn't sure if Sylar was ready for that yet.

XXX

That voice. Peter. Was it a comfort or was his mere presence a threat? The answer depended on his ability to ascertain who he was, which person, whose life this was. It didn't seem like a dream; this seemed all too real in a very unreal way. The threat versus comfort Peter represented, and the process of understanding who he was – if he could ever truly know that – overwhelmed him. Sylar didn't realize he was crying until his throat spasmed.

XXX

Peter took Sylar's shoulder, the pressure of his fingers signaling that he wanted to embrace. "Come here. It's okay. It's gone. The dream's gone." Sylar was only half sitting up, so after a beat, Peter climbed in bed with him. It was what Sylar had been asking him to do earlier anyway – sleep with him, be close and keep the nightmares at bay. Peter stuffed his pillow near the headboard. He wrapped his arms around Sylar and drew him in so Sylar's head was on Peter's chest.

XXX

Sylar was exhaling quick sobs with the start of many tears and had ceased to pay any minute attention to Peter's proximity. It was close, warm, and anything but painful. He felt…apologetic and couldn't explain why. Shame was present, though the fear of being tortured until he gave up one of his selves or until he chose or was forced to become one of them was worse. Distantly, Sylar could feel his head moving forward and arms around him. Instinct drove his trembling hand up, over the side of his face to cover the back of his head even as he went with the motion.

XXX

The tangle of arms confused Peter for a moment. _What's he trying to do?_ When Sylar stopped moving, Peter felt over the configuration. _He's protecting his head, just like he was earlier._ "I'm not going to hurt you," Peter said in a whisper. "It's okay." _I'm trying to help._ He thought about trying to explain that, but decided what Sylar needed more was a moment to catch his breath and get oriented, not a series of questions about what he did or didn't want in this situation. Peter dropped one hand to Sylar's hip and lower back. The other arm clasped loosely across his back at the level of Sylar's shoulder. He held him and kept his mouth shut.

XXX

After what felt like a long time, the hiccupping breaths began. His body panicking as his emotions calmed. _(He knows I can't be saved. He never tried. This is how I have to live)._ Uncertain if he trusted the answer, Sylar gasped out, "Who's body is this?" Would Peter know? Would he tell the truth if he did? There was no point in looking at himself in the dark to identify his own body. It felt like his body, but that meant precious little.

XXX

That question answered much of Peter's curiosity about the nature of the nightmare. "You're Sylar," Peter said firmly and immediately. After a beat he added, "I've known a future version of you who called himself Gabriel, in case that name means something to you." A few alien memories flitted unbidden through Peter's head to confirm it was an important name and probably the one Sylar had used before 'Sylar'. He pushed those memories aside. "You're Sylar now. This is Sylar's body." With one hand, Peter brushed lightly at Sylar's defensive head guarding. "I'm not going to change you. I didn't do anything to you. No one else did, either. It was a dream. Nightmare. It wasn't real." He went back to holding and let Sylar guard himself as he wanted.

XXX

Sylar quickly clenched his hand into his own hair at the touch. Peter would have to tear his hand (and his hair) away to get at him. He found his muscles momentarily tense though the medic's words would seem soothing. Another name added to the confusion was no help: _Gabriel_. "You already did. Y-you should have thought of that before. Other people did, too." The depression and decompression had him laughing, quiet and coarse through his plugged sinuses. "Don't fool yourself – you will again. Three times just isn't enough."


	140. Haven

Day 74, February 22, Evening

Peter frowned, but left it alone. He felt despair and rejection at the refusal of his comfort, about the presumption he was going to hurt Sylar again. He knew the why of what he'd done before, trying to force the murderer out of the body he'd known only days before as his brother. That Sylar insisted it was going to recur meant he didn't understand or accept why it had happened in the first place. That was deeply depressing. Hoping it was just some lingering effect from the emotional turmoil of the nightmare, Peter shook his head and was otherwise silent.

XXX

Sylar let out a sad, rasping sigh, at himself, at everything. He curled in further against Peter's chest, desperate for the comfort in spite of his accusations. More than anything, he wanted to maintain his own body because his mind was indecisive about who it wanted to be. Though his tears reduced his olfactory senses and with his nose pressed against Peter's shirt, Sylar could still smell him between sniffling. Peter was warm, with a steady heartbeat, and solid because he made no move to leave or pull away. "How do you know?" he asked, somewhat muffled by Peter's shirt. "You can't even see me."

XXX

Peter raised a brow, softening when Sylar huddled against him anyway despite the accusation Sylar had previously uttered. Instinctively, he held more firmly at that curling in, with Peter gathering Sylar against him, even if it meant his chin was dodging Sylar's unnecessarily defensive elbow. He smiled wryly at Sylar's question. "You're the only other one here, Sylar." Peter made a little press with his palms like a tiny hug. "I'm pretty dumb, but even with my limited mental powers, if you aren't me, then you've got to be you." Peter chuckled, then listed with a reassuring smile that could hopefully be heard in his voice, "You sound like Sylar. You feel like Sylar." He made another moment of a firmer hug. "You're saying the sort of things Sylar says, like insulting me for coming over here to help you." Peter snorted. "Only Sylar would do that."

XXX

Sadly, Peter's mathematical logic didn't help. If Sylar wasn't Peter, that didn't answer who he was. Perhaps that was enough for Peter (and a good thing, too, if that satisfied the medic), but that wasn't enough for Sylar. _Wait, how does he know what I feel like?_ The thought, and the implication, pleased him. The embrace he was in was lovely – it soothed him to his weary bones. It felt so very real. The crack about 'only Sylar would do that' shocked him and momentarily silenced him. It struck him as the sort of thing the heroes might say amongst themselves. "What do you mean, insulting?" He knew what it was he'd said that upset the other man, but he wanted to hear how it upset Peter. _I think Nathan was rude to you, questioning you sometimes, too,_ he thought defensively.

XXX

"Fine," Peter said with another, softer snort to show he wasn't angry. "'Impugning my motives' if that works better. You implied I came over to your bed to fuck up your identity again. Or that I was going to really soon. Maybe you meant it some other way?" Peter tilted his head, letting his voice soften with the last question in case that really was the case and he'd misread Sylar's stuttered words and hurried attempt to guard himself. It was his own hurt ego at the charge that motivated his words. _Maybe I'm being oversensitive. I should just ignore it and go on. (Do I_ have _to do that with him?)_

XXX

Peter made his point. Sylar knew he'd been understood yet Peter sounded…hopeful that he'd meant something else. _I said I'd never trust you. I don't see why you're offended now. (He trusts me, though_ …And that involved an uncomfortable twist in his gut though he didn't understand how Peter could trust him – particularly when the empath had paid no attention when Sylar had actually tried to be trustworthy). Insulting was implying he was the only person who would ever say something so rude.

It embarrassed him how long it took him to calm down, several long minutes that felt much longer than they were. Towards the end, with no other motions from Peter, delayed out of paranoia (and to make a point about Peter touching his arm to get him to quit protecting himself), Sylar slid his uppermost hand from his hair to wrap it around Peter. His back hurt, either as some remnant of the dream or the reality. In a quiet mumble that broke what was left of the silence around his post-crying, he said, "I'm sorry I woke you." He simultaneously wanted to talk and didn't know what to say.

XXX

"Don't worry about it. I wasn't sleeping well anyway. That couch sucks and not in a good way." With Sylar finally loosening up a little, Peter shifted to settle himself better where he was, which mainly consisted of lifting his right shoulder and folding his forearm back so his hand was under his head. His left hand made short strokes on the bare skin of the small of Sylar's back until about three strokes in when it occurred to Peter how intimate and familiar that was. _Whoa. We're not lovers. Stop that._ He stopped, cleared his throat briefly and with embarrassment, and rested his now-unmoving hand at a normal pressure on Sylar's back.

XXX

Sylar had a literal, perverted flash image of the couch doing some 'good' sucking…He chuckled shortly as Peter wriggled about. Then a warm hand slid against the skin of his lower back. Peter's favorite spot – and a spot that had been a part of (or at least, was very close to) the rest of his back being whipped and torn, both in reality and the nightmare. It was a jarring moment of unreality that made him tense and fret that maybe his 'nightmare' was no nightmare at all, or that Nightmare Peter was doing this as torture, or this was some prelude to unthinkable sex…But just as quickly, Sylar dismissed the fear because his lower back was unmarred from earlier (and in the nightmare) and what's more, the contact felt good, somehow managing to be mostly platonic. Peter had done this before and done nothing threatening or sexual afterwards. It was…what it was, a simple touch, intended to comfort. It thrilled him to have some strange secret touch between them, one that they both enjoyed (but still odd because it was devoid of sex). The touch intrigued him, both his reaction to it and Peter's desire to do it.

Almost immediately Peter stopped and Sylar worried that his tension had been felt, or he hadn't relaxed quick enough, or that he hadn't…responded as he should have. He didn't know what to say, so he reached forward to take Peter's forearm and bring that hand to him again.

XXX

It took Peter a few seconds to divine what Sylar was doing, moving his (Peter's) arm up and down in short, slow motions. It inevitably moved Peter's hand as well and that was when he figured it out – Sylar wanted him to keep stroking his back. It was the second time Sylar had done this – put Peter's hand on him and moved it as he wanted – it had been on his back last time, too. Peter did it on his own after that, albeit a little slower and longer strokes than Sylar had been managing. A crooked smile spread slowly across Peter's face. He didn't know how to categorize this – the stroking. The only thing that came to mind was as lovers, because there was no way he'd touch a friend, relative, or patient like this. Not even someone he was giving a massage to, except maybe briefly. But they weren't lovers and this wasn't a massage. Sylar's skin was so unfailingly soft, which brought to mind a category that did fit, however oddly: an innocent. Babies. You could stroke their face, rub their back, or even pat their bottom without any meaning other than sharing pleasant, innocent contact. Not that Peter had much experience with babies, but it amused him to think that was probably the closest analogy. Since he was in bed to sooth and comfort after a nightmare, seeing Sylar as an innocent seemed fitting, if amusingly ironic. He dipped his cheek to press it lightly on the top of Sylar's head. Even if a bit sweaty, he smelled good, Peter noted.

 _What if he wasn't always Sylar? What if they made him that way, like they made him be Nathan? And so before_ _his ability manifested_ _he was Gabriel, but then they...changed him?_ It was an unsettling thought and obviously within the realm of possibility. _Are his nightmares_ _about h_ _im trying to throw off that false identity? Or has he been 'Sylar' so long that that's who he is now?_ Quietly, Peter said, "I tend to take people as who they present themselves as, unless I have big reasons to believe otherwise. You've told me you're Sylar, so that's who you are until you say different. You're still the same person inside no matter what – same history, same personality." His left hand pressed against the small of Sylar's back to emphasize what he was about to say. "Your identity for the entire time I've been here has been continuous and unchanging. Even when you slip up and recite things from Nathan's past, you're doing it as you, not him, if that makes any sense."

XXX

The distressing (and unfortunately tempting) admission that Peter would view him as he presented himself took a dark turn. _If I told him I was Nathan, in my own body…what would he do? Why the fuck would I do that?_ But he knew why and refused to answer that even to himself. It terrified him. For a moment, he began to doubt Peter's assessment of his constancy. Peter had no motive to tell him this particular fact, so that lent itself to truth. "You don't know that," he blurted. "You don't know me so how could you know who I am?"

XXX

Peter shifted against him, moving forward a knee to bump against Sylar's. "I know what I've seen. That's what I'm talking about – the person you've let me see. We've eaten together, talked, fought, bled, hated each other, worked things out, slept together," he nudged Sylar's foot with his own. "You can't share that much and not show something of who you are." Peter moved his hand to Sylar's side, turning his hand to the side and stroking Sylar's flank with the edge of his pinkie and somewhat with his knuckles. It was a relaxed, easy motion.

"Do you want to talk about the dream? Or go back to sleep?" _Should I go back over to the couch?_ Peter glanced in that direction, but made no move to get up. As long as Sylar was clinging to him, he was in no hurry to move. He liked the feeling, and maybe the reality, that he was needed, and that his presence was a help.

XXX

He felt a flush of embarrassment and perhaps shame, and strangely, some pride to have shown himself and been seen, especially by Peter Petrelli. Naturally he fretted that he'd given too much away. That was the problem of sharing – some of it came so easily. Peter didn't sound repulsed, far from it; he sounded playful and knowing. Neither option appealed to Sylar. He was enjoying being petted. "Just … talk," he answered, hoping Peter would find something inoffensive to prattle on about. Sylar only had himself to blame when Peter picked something that wasn't.

XXX

' _Just talk'?_ Peter sighed slowly. He didn't want to air his theory about Gabriel having been mind-controlled into Sylar – Sylar might not be aware of such a switch even if it had happened, and in any case this was not the time to be bringing up traumatic phobias. Instead, he thought about the way Sylar had guarded his head when Peter had climbed in bed with him. It brought to mind one of the main differences between Sylar and his most recent forced identity of Nathan. "One thing about…him…my brother, was that he always trusted me. He knew I'd be there for him, no matter what. At Kirby. In the future. At Pinehearst. When I had a gun to his head after the plane crash. Even there at the end, when you were him. He- You knew I wouldn't let him go." Peter shifted, the hand petting Sylar slipping across his lower back, while the one that had been safely under Peter's head clasped around Sylar's shoulders. _How much of that was Sylar? He remembers feeling that way, right?_

XXX

Of all the topics Peter could have chosen, of course it would be something uncomfortable. Of course it would be this – about him. _Note to self: be very careful with open-ended invitations._ He sniffed and rolled his eyes, mostly to rebel and express some disappointment with the choice. It helped him avoid…the truth of Peter's statements. Of the two brothers, ironically Peter was the more realistic. At least the younger Petrelli learned from mistakes. His trust could be broken, his forgiveness suspended (at least temporarily until a genuine display of repentance and apology was made). Clearly Peter was not a complete doormat. When the embrace began to feel like a hug and Peter didn't sound like he would ever stop talking, in fact, he had lost track of how long Peter had been making things worse, Sylar grunted. _Is he confused? Is he mistaking me for someone else? You'd better let me go, Petrelli…_ he thought warningly, beginning to tense up again. It wasn't just his own tension, either. It was Nathan feeling cornered and desperate for Peter to just…join in and quit fighting him and every part of the system for once.

XXX

"He knew I wouldn't betray him," Peter went on. He could feel his eyes water and throat tighten, remembering how much he had been willing to go through for his brother. "No matter what. Not even after that suicide attempt announcement he made."

XXX

/"I had no idea what you would say to-" _that reporter at brunch/._ Sylar caught himself, snapping shut his mouth and burying his face against Peter's chest. It had played out in front of Angela (who wouldn't have been surprised about any of the truth for several reasons) and Heidi and a fucking reporter during the election. It was something out of Nathan's imagined nightmares, like going to work without pants.

XXX

Peter leaned back a little, obviously craning his head to try to see Sylar and get a better read on the guy. Peter sighed and gave it up after a few moments. He made the assumption Sylar was dealing with some comment from Nathan's...past? Personality? Memories? Peter didn't know, but Sylar had cut himself off often enough when Peter mentioned Nathan's past to recognize the pattern. He left the matter alone and went back to lying with his right hand under his head and his left exploring the small of Sylar's back more thoroughly than before. There were some longer hairs there near the waistband of Sylar's boxers that Peter found fascinating to touch. He wondered how far down they went, but that would take this clearly into 'erotic' territory. He was enjoying what he was doing as it was and didn't want to complicate it, so he just rubbed a few between his fingers and smoothed them down where he found them.

XXX

Sylar's breath left him quickly when Peter resumed. It felt even more like an unearned gift and it felt so damn good. The petting was lower than before, more eager, though no faster. It was…questionable, hopeful. Peter provided some strange sensations before the petting resumed. By then Sylar's mouth was open, somewhat aroused despite the weird contact and definitely aware of everything. He nearly quivered. _Just take it,_ he mentally urged Petrelli. Perhaps that would put things into sense. Sylar adjusted his uppermost arm until he could stroke into Peter's hair at the back of his neck in return. For him, it was possessive and a forbidden curiosity. The hair was soft and thick; even if he'd felt it before, he enjoyed doing it again.

XXX

Peter slowed down, nearly stopping in his caresses when Sylar reached for his head and casually buried his hand in Peter's hair. _Wait, what?_ Peter's hand made a gradual stroke downwards, but all his attention was on what Sylar was doing to him. It was much more pressing. He'd always been more hesitant to receive anything good, or helpful, or supportive from Sylar than he was to offer it. Offering was okay. It was generosity. It was big of him to do anything for the man who had killed his brother. Receiving such, though...that was so different. It was scary. It was wrong. It was downright immoral.

 _Is this okay? What do I do about it? Do I stop him? I've let him do it before, but I was drunk and it was a dare. This is okay. He's not hurting me. He's just...reciprocating. I'm touching him; he's touching me. If I stop him it says I won't let him do anything kind for me, right? I don't know. This feels good. It's not sex. I don't know. It's okay. I think it's okay._ Peter shifted downwards in the bed, making it easier for Sylar to reach him. Very slightly, he bowed his head.

"Anyway," Peter said after quiet minutes passed, his tone much less sentimental this time, "what I was getting at is that you're not Nathan. You don't trust me the way he did. _Sylar_ doesn't have that relationship and never has." Nathan would have never guarded his head against Peter's touch. He wouldn't have expected or even acted to prevent an attack by Peter. That the man in his arms had moved to defend himself was the strongest indicator he wasn't Nathan.

XXX

His hyper-focus on whatever Peter was doing with his hand wavered. His eyes, swollen from his brief but intense cry of earlier, burned again and his throat was tight. Sylar couldn't determine why that might make him sad. For dead Nathan? Surely not – the bastard had had everything and repeatedly threw it away. For himself? Having tasted Nathan's life and knowing exactly, intimately, Peter's loyalty? Or for Sylar – Gabriel – whoever he'd been before, for not having that or anything like it? "I could have," he whispered roughly and so quiet as if afraid to be heard. If not for that ironic word, that mocking event: Mercy, "I could have."

XXX

Peter barely caught what Sylar said, but when it was repeated he was sure of it. _When you were my brother? When he_ thought _he was my brother. But all of that was based on a lie – my parents pretending to be his so they could use him. Hell, makes me wonder if_ I'm _even their kid._ Peter bowed his head, forehead touching the crown of Sylar's head. His left hand wrapped around Sylar's lower back and held firmly. "I think you would have made someone a really great brother." Sylar would have tried, at least, and in trying maybe it would have distracted him from his villainy, given him something else to strive for, someone to protect and work with. No telling if it would have worked out or not – at various times between Peter and Nathan it hadn't and there was no guarantee Sylar would have fared any better. But maybe it would have worked. Maybe it would have been okay.

XXX

"Ha!" Sylar blurted roughly around all the phlegm. The sentiment was amusing and his reception bitter. "Don't patronize me," he concluded, tone failing to convey a proper sense of warning as it should have. He was tired and gave Petrelli a passive squeeze like a sort of apology. After a beat, he sighed and added, "Talk about something else." He intended to drift off listening to Peter's voice, hearing the vibrations in his chest cavity produce the sounds.

XXX

Peter snorted again – both at the claim he was patronizing and the order to continue talking. He wasn't stroking anymore, just holding. "I don't know what you want. Just the sound of my voice?" He tilted his head in inquiry. "News of the day?" Sylar didn't bother answering, which was answer enough. Peter settled himself in. "You want to hear me, know you're not alone. Hm." He adjusted his right arm again, finally happy with where it was. He thought about times when he'd been lonely in his life and wanted others around. "When I was a kid, I used to get out the board games and play them all by myself. I'd imagine all the people playing with me – sometimes Nathan or Ma, sometimes I'd even force Dad to play, in my mind at least, but it was usually kids from school. I'd think about which side or character or color each person would pick, and how they'd play – if they'd be doing it just to have fun or if they were really serious about it. I'd think about which ones would cheat and why, who would gloat, who'd get distracted, who'd need help, and who'd spend half the game reading the rules or fidgeting with their pieces." Peter went on, naming names and getting into the fine points of who had played each role among his various friends at school. In retrospect, it had been self-training in understanding others, but at the time he'd just been a lonely kid in a big house. He kept talking until Sylar's breathing had evened out and stayed that way for several minutes. Then he fell silent.

 _Here I am with the guy who killed Nathan, lying in bed holding him after telling him a fucking bedtime story._ Peter sighed. _There's something wrong with me. I don't even feel guilty. I'm not even sure I should._ He adjusted his pillow and went to sleep.

XXX

Day 75, February 23, Morning

Peter stretched. His left hand rode down someone's flank and over their clothed ass. His right made a fist and slowly extended to the side as he stretched. He blinked down at the dark-haired man huddled loosely against him, trying to sort out how this had come to be. The events of the previous few days and hours played out in his mind, gradually falling into place as he looked at the other man's tousled hair. Sylar's upper-most leg was between Peter's. It seemed that Peter's movement had woke the other man – his breathing had shifted slightly as Peter watched him. Satisfied that he understood how events had brought him to this point, Peter sighed, yawned, stretched again, and looked around the brightly sunlit room. His right arm settled across Sylar's shoulders because that was obviously how things were at the moment. His left hand drifted back to mind its business on his own leg, because he still had some limits, after all. _What is the appropriate etiquette for this?_ Despite having been with many, many partners in his life, Peter had never been in a situation akin to this.

XXX

Sylar woke suddenly when Peter began to move about. He made something of a hum at a sleepy, gentle touch to his ass. He himself didn't move, though his breathing sped up to wakefulness. He didn't want to move or give up the contact they had, but he felt refreshed, like some part of his sanity had been returned. With his uppermost arm lying casually over Peter's waist, Sylar tightened it to give Peter a hint, knowing it wouldn't get the results he wanted. When Peter was done, Peter was done.

XXX

Peter pulled his leg back from where it was hooked behind Sylar's and scooted back the very few inches he had on the bed. "I'm getting up. Sleep in if you want." He extricated his right arm and paused half-bent over the bed, studying Sylar's face. He was handsome, vulnerable, and sleepy – too relaxed to be threatening. Peter smirked at the bitter irony of having a man this drop-dead sexy in his bed...whom Peter wouldn't touch that way. Or at least shouldn't touch that way. Wasn't going to this morning, for sure. He straightened and headed off to the bathroom before that was put to the test any more than it already had been.

XXX

 _How did he know I was awake?_ Sylar wondered, parts intrigued and annoyed to be found out. He hadn't thought he'd been that obvious. His eyes opened when Peter withdrew and he turned his face to the side, away from the bed to look up and see Peter's smirking face still close to him. His expression went from sleepy to surprised without his permission as he stared back at Peter in question.

Sylar's hand twitched and slid forward along the mattress a few inches as he gave into the urge and changed his mind just as quickly about reaching out to touch Peter's face. He wanted to understand the source of the smirk (as if touch would answer that); if the reason behind it was bad, then he wanted it to stop; and he'd had a curiosity of feeling Peter's lip – the left side that couldn't move – to see what it felt like. _How could I sleep in without you?_ Wishing Peter would stay even to sit at the edge of the bed, he knew Peter was set on getting up and getting space, which he soon got.

 _Was he smirking because I was crying, had a nightmare…'needed' him last night?_ That explanation would serve but didn't seem to fit. That look hadn't appeared malicious. ( _I'd rather he smile at me_ , Sylar thought ruefully). While Peter was in the bathroom, Sylar lay there, feeling on Peter's warm spot…and smelling his pillow like a pervert.

XXX

Peter finished in the bathroom and traded with Sylar. While the other man was seeing to his morning needs, Peter stared out the big windows. _It must be going on noon. We slept forever._ "Hm," he grunted and shook his head, leaving the view for the kitchen where the tasks of preparing for coffee and breakfast awaited. Sylar had joined him by the time the coffee was done. Peter had laid out his own meal of yogurt, strawberry jam, and bran flakes. Sylar saw to his own food. The mood between them was certainly warmer, which Peter appreciated. He felt safe enough to broach a question he had. He had many of them, in actuality, but Sylar didn't usually want to answer them. Maybe this morning, after the previous night, Sylar would be a little more forthcoming, a little more cognizant that Peter wasn't digging for information to use against Sylar, but instead genuinely wanted to understand. Maybe they could have a real discussion.

After his third bite, he said, "Our 'justice' system is bankrupt. Even if it wasn't, there's no judge or jury who can preside over people like you, or me. You said once that you knew what you'd done was wrong. What do you think should happen to someone who's done what you've done?"

XXX

Sylar knew it was late, probably closer to lunch, without looking at a clock or his watch. He was hungry. When he entered the kitchen to begin his own search for food, he saw the easy if passable bran flakes or Cheerios and neither were what he wanted right now. That sparked the idea for cereal but there was only Cheerios and that wasn't what he wanted right now. After peanut butter toast and a glass of milk, he was just getting into it when Peter interrupted seemingly out of the blue. _This is what I get for last night, huh? Quid pro quo,_ _Clarice_ _. No segue, nothing._ It was very careless behavior in terms of Peter's will to live (or save other people) and in terms of being a good nurse. Sylar knew if he gave a short answer, it wouldn't satisfy and Peter would get testy with being dismissed. Personally, he was in no mood, when hungry, injured, recovering from several traumas either real or imagined, and finally, recently achieving some good sleep. Sylar continued with his mouthful of warm toast and melted peanut butter, "Sweetie, I'm eating," he said with some sarcasm.

XXX

Peter smiled, snorted softly at the endearment, rolled his eyes, looked away, then looked back to glance up and down Sylar appreciatively. Sylar might have intended the endearment sarcastically, but Peter took it as an acknowledgment of the night before. Even if somewhat mocking, he would take what validation he could get. Besides, it was amusing to have Sylar call him that under the circumstances. "Sure. Finish your bite. Wouldn't want you to talk with your mouth full." He waited, pointedly observing Sylar to let him know the question wasn't going anywhere.

XXX

"This really isn't the conversation I want to have, morning after," he smirked. His face showed in no uncertain terms what he'd rather be discussing.

XXX

"Right," Peter said airily, his ego stroked again by Sylar's continued, probably unintentional admission that yes, Peter had helped him the night before. "Of course. Let's talk about that nightmare then."

XXX

Sylar gave a withering look, shy of his usual glare. "Fine. Short answer. You'd let others preside over you because you insist that the collective, appointed body 'knows best.' I think that same collective body – official or not – would decide to make use of me in one or more of several ways…or find a way to kill me outright." Satisfied to put Peter down a self-righteous path that was easy to ignore and not answering the question as given, he took another large bite, intent on enjoying his breakfast despite the noise.

XXX

Peter mulled the response over, taking another spoonful of yogurt as he did. "Do you think the collective body in question would make a difference? Like who was in it? Jury of your peers or something like that?" He was trying to have a normal (or what might pass as normal) conversation, not an interrogation, but he knew it might come off like that anyway. He paused to reflect again.

"Not that the Company did a good job," Peter mused, "and they were about as much our peers as we're likely to get. Noah might not have abilities, but I think all the founders did." He ate more, still thinking. "Do you really think I get my ideas of right and wrong from other people?"

XXX

Sylar paused in the act of clearing some food from his teeth. He looked directly at Peter with something of surprise. _Did I say that?_ A brief review of his earlier answer told him he might have implied as much. Then he thought, _Do I think that?_ His eyes lost focus as he looked off to the side to consider that. He had hosts of memories of Peter being rebellious, of not following in anyone's footsteps, or following the given plan or easiest path. "No," he intoned slowly, still feeling his way through it. The answer, the truth, felt clearer the more he explored it. Peter's sense of right had earned Sylar's respect in the past and in recent weeks. He made eye contact with Peter once more. "But you did agree to be locked away by the Company – to prevent you from going nuclear or something like that. That shows your willingness to accept the authority and jurisdiction of others even if it might be based on some misguided hope in the system. You even had to escape like everyone else. If you thought they would help, I think you would agree to do…things that I wouldn't. Why do you care what I think anyway?"

XXX

"I agreed. Yeah. They still had to kill me to get me in there." Peter said that very quietly, because there was so much more to it. "It's complicated." He shook his head. "The point is that yeah, I needed help. I tried to get it." He paused, thinking about his wording. "What are the differences between what I did and what you might have done?" He didn't respond to Sylar's question, but that didn't mean he ignored it. Mostly it struck him that Sylar was surprised that someone cared about what he thought, which was why Peter didn't ask for Sylar's agreement, but instead asked something more open-ended, something like the questions he was trained to ask as a paramedic – the ones that couldn't be answered with a simple yes or no.

XXX

"Be specific."

XXX

Peter paused, mouth open, then shut it as he thought about what he was going to say before saying it. Or at least, thought about what he wanted Sylar to understand, which wasn't the same thing as the words that were about to come out of his mouth. A moment of considering changed what he said. His tone was calm, his words slow and cadenced. "I want to talk about justice – right and wrong. I know what I did in turning myself over to the Bishops might not have been _smart_ – it might not have been the best course of action – but I thought it was _right,_ given what I knew at the time. There's not just one right way to do things, though. It can be different for each person. So I'm asking what you would have done instead. What would have been right for you, if you were in that position? What course of action could you have taken there that you would have been proud of later? I'm getting the impression from you that you disapprove of what I did. I want to understand that."

XXX

His expression melted into something more thoughtful or perhaps troubled, but less confused. "I learned to control that ability. All of my abilities. I _practiced_ with it so I _wouldn't_ become the bomb. Nearly everyone I know would say that the _right_ thing to do would be to give myself up. Go quietly. I sort of tried that." Though he'd already told Peter about his suicide attempt, he wasn't going to give details. He continued, to muddy the water and, in effect, change the subject so Peter wouldn't comprehend, "I called Mohinder and he immediately dialed 9-1-1." Sylar snorted contemptuously.

"They'd say the _right_ thing to do would be to turn myself over even if – or especially if – it meant I would be tortured and repeatedly killed in the name of science. Or maybe I'd cut a deal and capture other specials or kill people who are 'dangerous' and inconvenient. Being left to rot isn't therapeutic for me, either. I know that's what they'd do because that's what they've already done and they would continue to do that so long as I was useful because I went willingly and signed my life away on their dotted line. I don't have any family name to get me out of trouble or any family who would come looking for me. I didn't think of being adopted at that time, either," he added with a wry bitterness. Then lifting his glass of juice, he murmured quickly before he drank, not wanting to speak it, but he knew it was coming anyway. "Not so much…disapproval as…" Sylar found his voice straining, "Worry? I can't see how you can trust them, but…you made it out okay, from what you've said." He grit his teeth hard and went back to his toast.

XXX

Peter listened carefully, then went back to eating when Sylar did. He let the words hang, thinking about how Sylar's speech had been composed at first, then a run-on sentence of tension, followed by even more difficulty. The emotional flow made more of an impression than the details of Sylar's part in the conversation. After his bowl was empty and Sylar's toast gone, Peter rose with his dish in hand. "Neither one of us made it out 'okay'. I don't know what effect my name had, but my family didn't come looking for me. Nathan was in the hospital. Not sure where Dad was, but everyone thought he was dead. Ma was fine, but...no one came looking for me – then, in the cargo container, or now." Peter's expression shuttered. His mother had set him up for all his major abandonments as far as he could tell. He headed to the sink to rinse his bowl.

XXX

Sylar followed suit and began to wash his plate and glass. He spared a look at Peter, who was obliviously still chatting away. _What I think? (What do I think? I just have feelings: I wish I didn't have to prove myself and kill people or be someone else to be special. Then I wouldn't have to turn myself over)._ He was lost in thought as he finished the washing.

XXX

"It _seems_ like the right answer, but the first thing I said was our justice system is messed up. You and I know that more than anyone. I _don't_ trust them. Don't you see that? Who would you even turn yourself in to?" He hesitated, realizing that sounded wrong in reference to Sylar. "Over to, I meant," he said with a chastened expression and softer tone.

XXX

In the middle of drying, he tensed and straightened as the words slipped in like a knife. It was a cruel reminder that being Nathan would solve everyone's problems, except the problem of Sylar having to, in effect, kill himself to do it. It wasn't a question of 'who' he would turn himself into, because that much was obvious – so obvious that it might not even be a 'choice.' _(Does he mean that I'll be tortured until I become someone else? It's definitely an option)._ It didn't seem fair that Peter was allowed to say that so casually. Sylar didn't answer because there was no answer. Anyone he surrendered to would not be friendly. This time it was a hurt glance he sent towards Peter as he quickly finished the drying, wanting to be done with the task and the talking (or listening).

XXX

Peter went on normally, "There's no safe place we can go. If anyone tried to put together some kind of haven, it would be so easy for it to be abused for bad purposes. There's so much power in a group of specials. Kind of like that 'off' feeling I had about the carnival. Maybe society just has to deal with people finding themselves and their place? Like...if everyone were more supportive, then these bad things wouldn't happen. Maybe specials are a catalyst to society getting their head out of their asses and finally becoming the kind of civilization everyone knows we need to be."

XXX

Fortunately for Peter, he was so wrong he needed to be corrected and he had the added bonus of bringing up something Sylar had thought to mention earlier (had he been in a more conversational mood) – the Carnival. Sylar snorted, turning to face Peter with his arms folded across his chest. "Nature versus Nurture?" That was a disturbing blend of Nathan's law experience and Sylar's psycho-social science that made him uncomfortable. "You're forgetting human nature is to be afraid of and violent towards anything it doesn't understand. I'm sure headlines of the Jews being forced from their homes and into the ghettos really brought about a positive, inclusive mindset in the Germans."

He sighed, through with shooting down Peter's misplaced optimism. "You don't understand how things work. The Carnival…can work. It's not working now. Absolute power corrupts absolutely…As you know. Someone who doesn't want power has to be in power." ( _Someone like you,_ he thought of Peter without considering Peter because of the empath's own crimes. Prior to that he'd been a good example). "You didn't stay there. Or maybe it doesn't appeal to you because of…what you're used to. You already have a family and a functioning job." _Maybe you think you're too good for a place like that, people like that. (But he's a medic…and a nurse to dying old people…)._

XXX

Peter snorted. "A functioning job – yeah. Which is probably why the first and only thing Samuel did in relation to me is file a lawsuit against me on medical grounds. That's the sort of thing that can get me fired and blacklisted from the medical profession altogether." Peter tilted his head tensely and pressed his lips together sourly, raising his brows to indicate how negative he felt about that course of action. "I think he knew that. I think that's exactly why he did it. He was threatening me – join him or he'd ruin me so I had nowhere else to go. Yeah, maybe I'm lucky I had more options than most. As it turned out, I never went to the Carnival, so I don't know what it was like. I just know the impression I got of it from him didn't feel right. Same for how they were dealing with Emma. Same for those dreams I had." Peter frowned.

He felt like he was actually getting somewhere, as at least there were not accusations and defensiveness making it impossible to communicate. "You were there. What was it like? You've talked about the sense of family, belonging. And about Lydia, but she was using you. Did you have the feeling anyone was there because they wanted to be? That they felt safe and like they belonged, rather than just being blackmailed? What do you mean about how it _can_ work, but doesn't now?"

XXX

"There were plenty of people who were there because they wanted to be," Sylar answered defensively. He fondly recalled Ms. Comey and her blueberry waffles, and Amanda, who wanted to be accepted; even Lydia (prior to her manipulations), how she'd felt safe before. "Regardless of being blackmailed in some cases." Many in the Carnival had appeared to be growing wary, but Samuel still held their trust even when some of them knew what he was doing. "They can use their powers, be as normal as they want, and live in a community without…being hunted. At least, until Bennet found out about them." Sylar shrugged. "Anyone who knows what I am and still wants _me_ to be anywhere that badly has an agenda." There were other things he could say, but he didn't want to be seen to empathize with the Carnies lest Peter turn that against him.


	141. Anchor Points

Day 75, February 23, Noon

Peter listened to what Sylar had to say, his arms lightly crossed and head tilted in attention as they stood in the transition area between living room and bedroom in the open plan suite. It was good to hear there was a sense of community, rather than the Carnival being some mobile imprisonment. He wasn't getting the details he wanted, but it gave him options to think about. "So it wasn't all bad." He tilted his head to the side briefly. "That's good to know. But you bring me back to what I asked to start with, which is what you think should be done with someone like yourself. Anyone who knows you is going to have an agenda. You've effected so many lives that they can't help but know." Peter pulled his arms across himself more tightly, even as his voice became softer. "What next? What happens next, Sylar?"

XXX

"What I think?" Sylar repeated in dismay. He didn't know what to feel about it, but he had thoughts about it. _What should happen and what I want aren't the same,_ he acknowledged bitterly with the exception that death might be welcomed by him and everyone else. It had to be a trick question to get some kind of admission. "This is what's next, Petrelli." Sylar gestured out the large windows of the penthouse and their shared lonely world. "It's not what I was expecting, but…I suppose you're going to tell me what's next. Don't leave me in suspense." He rolled his eyes at the months already past with Peter trying to figure things out by asking questions instead of taking charge. "I bet you'll tell me exactly what should be done with me. You must have so many ideas by now."

XXX

Peter frowned, not moving from where he stood. "I want to hear what you think."

XXX

Sylar glanced away, both impressed and annoyed at the persistence. He didn't want to side with either of the Petrelli brothers: one choosing a militant, prison-extinction course, the other blending into society, being open, and seeking to help. "Saying what I think about myself is biased. It's like saying what I want or how I feel. It's like begging. It's pathetic. Besides, it's only freak value you're trying to understand. Why would you ask questions of a killer as if I have anything sane and rational to say?"

XXX

Peter still didn't move or speak. He listened, thinking over Sylar words. He saw Sylar's point of course – exonerating himself would be self-serving, whereas condemning himself would be stupid. But Peter's mind caught on Sylar implying he wouldn't say what he wanted or how he felt, because that was wrong somehow – impolite, or weak. _Doesn't that make it impossible to be authentic?_ Before he could really dig into that, he was left puzzling over what 'freak value' was and how Sylar meant it in this context. _'Freak value'?_ And then there was the next – something Peter had heard from Sylar before: the implication that Peter wouldn't or shouldn't value Sylar's thoughts or insights. Peter peered at him, trying to make sense of it all.

XXX

"If you ever viewed me as a person, you would have tried to help me, wouldn't you? It's like a compulsion with you - even better if it involves sacrifice and danger. No wonder you enjoy sleeping with me. No one else is here. I think you get off on the lost, wounded puppies, don't you? That's easier for you to understand and accept." Sylar's eyes lost focus as he considered how Peter wanting to white-wash things would have any negative impact on him at all. It served his purposes perfectly, acting the bird with the broken wing to get into Peter's bed and his good graces. _I…don't want to play pretend._ Quietly, regretfully, he added, "And you wonder why I don't tell you everything."

XXX

"And now the attacks," Peter said as quietly as Sylar had spoken at the last. Peter intended to ignore the distracting accusations completely this time around. He walked over and sat on the couch, leaning back and getting comfortable. In a normal tone, he said, "I ask questions of a killer because you have sane and rational things to say. You can tell me what the weather is outside, what you ate for breakfast, and what happened five years ago as reliably as anyone else – more, probably, if I'm asking about things my family has lied to me about for years. That's not 'freak value'." _Whatever that is._ "I'm trying to understand my life. I'm trying to understand yours." He crossed one leg, ankle over knee, and adjusted the fabric on the leg of his pants in a manner usually more suited to the other members of his family. "Okay. Asking about what should happen to you is a Catch-22. It's not fair to you. I get that. How about me? What should society do with someone whose powers are unpredictable as to what I might have at any point, and I don't have the best history of using them well? What do you think should happen there?" _Maybe the world's better off with me stuck in here with him._ Peter looked up at Sylar with a steady, serious expression.

XXX

Sylar barely pursed his lips. _(Am I attacking him?)_ Was it such a pattern that Peter could anticipate it? That was a bit worrisome. He trailed behind Peter, but remained standing, arms still crossed. He was watching the empath carefully. Head tilted, he considered Peter in a different light. "That depends if you've fucked anything up recently," Sylar asked that as a question. "You can hold down a job. For the most part you don't hurt or kill your family. You can justify the people you hurt or kill. No one would think to question your actions. You lack control and efficiency. Fortunately for you, those can be learned, but I doubt your personality could maintain it."

XXX

Peter shrugged about his recent activities, since Sylar's tone indicated he wanted a response. When Sylar went on and then finished, Peter snorted. "'My personality'?"

XXX

"The emotion, the impulses, getting one idea, jumping into it and not thinking it through. You're going after small game."

XXX

Peter frowned and said nothing for the moment. _That's completely different from what Claude said my problem was, but at least this time it sounds right._ The 'small game' comment puzzled him, though. _I've saved the whole planet. From myself, but still – that's not small game._

XXX

After glancing away and shifting his weight, Sylar thought back to what had been asked. "I don't think justice will ever be served on you. Partly because the only person who could do it is me; and that's inconvenient for me right now. I suppose it's even – Nathan and what you did to me, but you'd never be satisfied to accept that. I don't know if that's admirable or stupid."

XXX

Peter pulled his head back with an offended expression. His tone hardened when he spoke. "You think it's even? Taking my brother away from me forever and me wiping out your memories for, what, fifteen minutes? Twenty? I seem to remember you saluting as you walked away from that. Is that all you think his life was worth to me? Why would I accept that?"

XXX

Sylar narrowed his eyes. That was his only reaction when he felt like beating Peter to a pulp again for dismissing the damage that was still present today. Part of him longed to prove it if Peter was so disbelieving. _It's always about him. (Okay, I'm sure that's how he feels_ _about me_ _, too.)_ That reined in his violent instinct. After a few breaths, he answered the only question he could answer, "So you can move on." That was a nicer turn of phrase than 'get over it.' He decided that as he told himself he didn't feel like fighting today and still wanted to sleep with and fuck Peter. "Stay sane. Heal. Deal with it. Whatever normal people do with that kind of thing."

Sylar felt out of his depth. He had no experience with losing someone he loved as much as Peter loved his brother. His losses had been, more or less, self-inflicted and he was to blame – always to blame. Sylar shuffled to one of the large windows beside the couch, opposite of Peter's spot. "I know it doesn't mean anything, but I didn't…kill him to hurt you." It made sense at the time, just another task to be checked off a list on his way to becoming president, like finally ascending to his rightful place. _Peter of all people would understand making a decision without…thinking it through as much as he should have. Nathan wasn't small game._ Now the consequences – Peter's wrath – seemed obvious. He sent a cautious glance over to his companion, not ready to voice that yet. His gaze hardened, defensive, explaining. "I have to live with him now, too. That was never something I wanted."

XXX

"You want to know what I want, Sylar? I don't want to fucking 'move on'!" Peter put both feet on the floor, scowling at the other man, but he stayed seated because he didn't want to make this physical. He bared his teeth in a snarl and looked away, uneasily balling his hands into fists. He spoke to keep himself from acting, to keep his mind on something other than his rage. "We had class sections on this in college, nursing school. How to deal with patients and their families. How to fend them off, distract them, deflect them when they couldn't handle the diagnosis. When to send them to a specialist because they wouldn't 'move on'. You'd think they'd teach that in hospice but they don't. Not really. It's in the general curriculum instead. Because everyone has to deal with it. Not just hospice. By the time hospice is involved, most everyone knows what's happening. They might not accept it, but they … are dealing with it." He knew what he sounded like – just like one of those people who couldn't handle it. Peter glared up at Sylar. "I don't want to deal with Nathan being dead! I don't want him to be dead! I want him to come out from around a corner like he did at Primatech and all of a sudden he's okay. Maybe it was all a bad dream - I got Ma's ability and had this wicked nightmare and none of it really happened. You're still dead and Nathan's still fine, because you died at the Stanton Hotel and he lived. No memory stuff, no identity switching, just everything happened like I thought it did to start with!"

XXX

Sylar saw the bad body language. He reacted to it by turning to face Peter and staring at his face. The face would show any violent decision before the body would and he remembered being choked out for laughing about Peter's precious brother. _This is not my fault. He asked questions and kept asking, and I answered them. Nicely, too._ Granted, the crack about 'whatever normal people do' was probably no more helpful for the average, stupidly emotional homo sapien than it was for extraordinary Peter Petrelli who had for so long served as a nurse and seen those very things. In a way, Peter wanting him dead hurt, but in other ways, the part of him that felt he was Nathan was comforted and…even a small part of him understood? _If I'd died on that pyre and Nathan lived…how much simpler would things have been? I wouldn't be feeling any pain. (At least he's not trying to hide the fact that he wants me dead anymore)._ That wasn't reassuring. Neither was the untruth Peter had told before, when he'd said he hadn't wanted Sylar's body when it thought it was Nathan. _Why am I listening to this? (Because he'd attack me if I_ _did_ _anything right now)._

XXX

Peter looked away, breathing hard. "And then I didn't talk to him anymore because everything happened like I thought it did. I didn't like it. None of it." He thought about that pyre – the nauseating smell of cooking meat, the sizzling of flesh, the flickering light, and the deep feeling of uneasiness he'd had. "What happened to you wasn't justice. It was a bunch of vigilantes, even if it had all happened exactly like I thought it did – it was still wrong. There should have been a better way."

XXX

Sylar grimaced at that, his torso twisting away from the very memory of that hurt. Having woken up as Nathan, believing he was Nathan, and having strange powers pouring out of him unchecked and attempting to reach out to his brother who'd had the exact same problem years ago…only to be met with silence that made no sense. Nothing but empty voicemails. Peter had…forgiven him, said he loved him at Stanton and then the unexplained cold shoulder. It was in that familiar, unwritten brotherly code that they not talk about whatever was going on, even when he visited Peter at the hospital to ask him for help; no, just a reminder to check his damn voicemail. Or when he'd flown all the way home to Manhattan, to Peter's place, waking up in some trailer park in some stolen flannel and wondering what the hell had happened to his life in the past few weeks that he just couldn't remember…

Sylar swallowed hard, feeling confused and torn in his loyalties, his reactions. It was him Peter was talking about; he was there. How strange was it to be alive and watch your other self burn? /"It's not just that. I'm seein' things, Peter. Memories. Images- m-memories but they're not mine. Not exactly. It's freakin' me out!"/

XXX

Peter looked up, listening to the cadence of Nathan's voice coming out of Sylar's mouth – the same words he'd heard before, like Sylar was a bad record, sometimes skipping back a few rotations to repeat the lyrics. It looked unintentional, like a glitchy machine, losing control. Sylar did not want to be that way – of that Peter was fairly sure. Peter suspected Sylar's grip on his identity was fraying at the edges. He stood up carefully and clearly telegraphed his intention to put his hands on Sylar's shoulders.

"Sylar? You woke up last night not sure who you were – from that nightmare you had. You're not Nathan. Okay?" Peter's voice was gentle, but insistent. "You're not." He pulled him in for a hug. "Nathan's gone," Peter said, voice muffled against Sylar's shirt. He turned his head to the side and outward, needing the feeling of another body against his, because he needed comfort in the face of this horrible topic just as Sylar did – but for different reasons. One hand went to the back of Sylar's head while the other stroked slowly up and down Sylar's back. At this point, his thoughts weren't on Sylar's injuries, but just on providing the solace of not being alone in his pain.

XXX

This wasn't Peter's apartment, or even the staff room of Mercy Hospital, but Sylar still didn't understand how he'd come to be here. Peter's words made him sad and he couldn't place why; it seemed like someone else's emotion – perhaps it was Peter's. The physical contact helped. He felt grounded and accepted, like Peter was understanding him somehow (even if Sylar didn't understand it himself).

 _Is he gone? (Why would I be keeping him alive?)_ That question terrified him. What if Peter wasn't the one who wanted him to be Nathan, but the other way around? Sylar stiffened at a combination of his thoughts and Peter's touch. The hand on the back of his head was momentarily threatening until Sylar moved the hand down to his neck – strangely a safer area even with the man who'd choked him and broken his neck before. The rubbing on his enflamed back hurt, too, but it was more welcome. _Who is he hugging? Why? (Do I care?)_ Sylar slowly moved to return the hug, not sure about doing that either. It felt familiar though height ratio was different. He clutched Peter to him, regretting that he'd hurt Peter, needing to feel the acceptance that was offered.

XXX

 _What's he…?_ Peter wondered about Sylar moving his hand. Then he realized. _I was touching his head. The back of his head is off-limits? I thought it was just his forehead and when I was holding him down, and maybe not when I was punching him or whatever. Too many conditions. I don't know. But he seems fine, so it's okay._ He readjusted his arm across Sylar's shoulders, realizing a moment later that perhaps he shouldn't be stroking the back of a guy who specifically had open wounds there. _Crap._ Peter dropped that hand to the lower back, which brought on other thoughts – impressions really – of a less-than-platonic type. He gave a couple more short strokes before separating, stepping back to arm's length. The embrace was creating a safe place to feel his way through losing Nathan. He didn't want to give it up, but he needed to make sure Sylar was okay. And if he were honest, his thoughts had strayed quite far from Nathan.

"You doing alright?"

XXX

He nodded, feeling somewhat embarrassed. The continued, random loss of control was a weakness he didn't want and definitely didn't want to display. Sylar didn't know which was worse: Peter punching and strangling him or responding with hugging every time. The violence was a clear signal, while the hugging… _Is he trying to make me feel guilty?_ He'd shoved his hands into his front pockets and was looking out the window again. Sylar wasn't sure what the correct social protocol was (there probably wasn't one, and even then, it probably wouldn't apply because Peter followed his own protocol).

XXX

Peter nodded, although he was fully aware that Sylar's answer didn't mean he was fine – just that he was able to answer questions appropriately. That was all Peter needed from him at the moment. He wanted to hug him again, but that was selfish and he wasn't sure if Sylar was tolerating him or benefitting. "Just being around me might be triggering Nathan's memories, right? I guess maybe that was a tough line of questions, too. And complicated. We can talk about it more some other time. How's your back doing?" He petted Sylar's left shoulder a couple times. It didn't feature any injuries and so was safe.

XXX

Peter's voice brought his attention back to the man, expression nearly pleading and resigned. _I don't want to talk about it._ The additional touching – and change of topic – was welcome. "I don't know. I didn't look at it. It's still sore." _Should I tell him what my nightmare really was?_ Peter knew half of the story, didn't know his own involvement in the nightmare.

XXX

"Did you take your antibiotic this morning?" He moved over to the medical bag, getting out the standard ointment and gauze. "Let me take a look at it. If we're lucky, it will have finally dried up and the infection will be fading." He gestured at the dining room chair. "Let me see."

XXX

Sylar's lips thinned at the prospect of being scraped raw again in the name of health. With a glance at the items, which appeared familiar and normal, Sylar approached the chair, standing less than a foot from Peter before he began to strip off his shirt. All the while he was staring down at Petrelli with an angry kind of lust, proudly displaying himself. _Look what you've done. Might as well take pride in your art._ Pivoting, Sylar sat, facing the back of the chair, straddling it to present his back to Peter. He twisted a little, laying one hand atop the other and resting his chin on them to look back at his nurse.

XXX

Peter's brains fell out of his head. It was the only explanation for the complete absence of thought that went on for too many seconds as Sylar pulled off his shirt only inches away, so close the man had to be mindful of his elbows lest he knock Peter down with one of them. And Sylar's expression, which was everything Peter had ever fantasized about. And being so overt about wanting Peter's attention (which he definitely had). Followed by the coquettish pose looking over his shoulder, long hair scattering over his forehead in artless perfection. Peter stared at him. He'd been in bed with this guy, holding him in his arms for most of the night. His conscious brain (ever the moralist) understood that didn't mean anything, but his libido recognized proximity, compatibility, opportunity, and hell – _invi-fucking-tation_ – to the point that just a few moments ago even contemplating Nathan's departure hadn't kept his thoughts pure.

XXX

"Do you think it will scar?" he wanted to see the other man's reaction to that even as he knew Peter might not have much experience with slow, natural healing, without abilities.

XXX

Sylar said something. Peter blinked, then struggled to figure out what those sounds meant. _Yes, scarring. Right._ "Um…yeah, I guess…No, I mean...No." _Shit, that's embarrassing. Focus, Peter._ "I don't know. I'll look." He moved behind Sylar, where he couldn't be seen nearly as well and more to the point, Peter wasn't able to see Sylar's handsome-to-the-point-of-distraction face. He fidgeted with the gauze a bit. If he looked at Sylar's back, it was unintentional. He was trying to get himself pulled back together.

XXX

"Do you want it to?"

XXX

The words again. Peter cleared his throat and took a closer look at what the situation really was, vis-à-vis Sylar's back. It looked better – quite a bit better. A full night of sleep with somewhere around twenty-four hours of antibiotics had done wonders. While it was almost certainly still tender (Peter touched gently around the sores), the wounds weren't welted up as much. The infection was fading. With Peter's assessment done, what Sylar had actually said finally filtered through. "Do I…want it to? To scar?" He looked at Sylar's back as a whole. It seemed like a ridiculous question on the face of it – he didn't want other people hurt, or scarred, in a general sense. But Sylar wasn't just anyone and that seemed to be what Sylar was getting at.

Quietly, he said, "Do I want you to carry some mark because of what you did to me, and to my family?" He brushed his fingertips over the reddest, and thereby most sensitive, spot. It was a lingering touch, aware of the pain he could inflict with only a sharp jab of his fingers. That had, of course, been Peter's original intent with the lashing – setting something up where Sylar was easy to hurt. "Some puckers on your back doesn't even begin to get there, Sylar. And besides – we've already gone over this – hurting you doesn't bring him back." Peter leaned in, putting one hand on the top corner of the chair as he spoke in soft threat a handful of inches from Sylar's ear. "You could be shape-shifted back into his form, pretend to be him for the rest of your life, and I still wouldn't have my brother." Peter inhaled slowly and pushed away. He opened a packet of ointment, watching Sylar more than what he was doing with his hands. Peter's eyes were fixed on Sylar's profile and face now, not his body. All hint of arousal had fled, but he was no less intent on the other man.

XXX

Sylar went still. The scene was only slightly changed from the one he remembered. Before, he'd been tied down and nearly helpless with Mohinder Suresh mouthing off threats. Now it was Peter Petrelli, using proximity (almost intimacy) to cut deeper and deliver, if not a threat, then a pronouncement of despair. It hurt in ways Sylar thought it shouldn't or wouldn't. It was like being disowned and dumped by someone he shouldn't even want or care about. At the same time, Sylar felt like Peter was blowing smoke. With icy coolness, he bit out, "As if you could tell the difference. Your asshole, synthetic brother is suddenly begging you for help and randomly showing off a dozen familiar powers and you don't even question it." With that, he faced forward, away from Peter and whatever Peter decided to do in retaliation. Whatever happened couldn't hurt any worse.

XXX

Peter gave him a sullen blink as he prepared the gauze. "Hold still. There's no debriding today. I'm only putting on ointment." He went about applying a thin layer of the medicine on each of Sylar's injuries. It gave him time to think about Sylar's words. There was Peter's own obliviousness (painful, and true), how Nathan was an asshole (also painfully true), someone had begged Peter for help and he had tried to brush them off (also…yeah), and the same dense stupidity that Peter had struggled with all his life (it went without saying). He would be a fool to argue. Instead, he set the used gauze on the table and pulled a second chair around to sit facing Sylar.

Peter leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Can I ask you some questions about that time, that period in your life?" His tone was serious and straightforward.

XXX

When Peter mentioned the lack of scraping at his wounds, Sylar didn't relax even after he heard the part about ointment. _He's not going to–?_ _(It was about him, not Nathan. Is it really that different?)_ Then it was silent between them, only the noises of Peter shifting about and the wrinkle of the ointment packet as the empath applied it truthfully, dutifully. When he felt that, he relaxed, still wondering. When Peter finished, some of his tension returned and he warily watched out of the corner of his eye as Peter came around to sit facing him. That posture, the body language was so genuine it was threatening (and familiar). He felt so cornered – such a stupid feeling, all alone in the world like this – and…maybe…that he wanted to be cornered, but that couldn't be right. It wouldn't make sense.

For a moment, Sylar just stared at him. His first reaction was 'no.' After Peter had just grilled him; he was going to turn around and answer more questions with answers Petrelli didn't want to hear? Considering Peter being very touchy about the mention of Nathan, was it wise to decline? Was this one of those things he didn't actually have a choice about? What would he say? "I don't know," he asked, searching Peter's face to see if that was acceptable.

XXX

He tilted his head, then decided to ask anyway. If Sylar didn't want to answer, then he wouldn't. Peter clasped his hands loosely. "You were at Nathan's job as a senator. You seemed to be doing it fine." Peter shrugged a shoulder. "At least your secretary acted like everything was normal. What were you doing with your time outside of work? Like when you weren't at the carnival. What did you…do?" There had been weeks – dozens of evenings plus weekends off. Did Sylar spend his free time the same way Nathan did? How _did_ Nathan, stripped of his family life for the last few years, spend his free time?

XXX

Sylar glanced away at the unintended compliment. _So I'm good at impersonating your brother, doing his job because he can't?_ He wasn't certain how he should take that. Elizabeth had been nice. Professional, brunette, so not totally his type. She wasn't the 'fast woman with questionable morals' his mother had suggested, not that he'd thought to follow her suggestion to the letter. "I don't know. Nothing…bad," Sylar hastened. The last thing he needed was Peter thinking he used his brother's body or status to commit crime or other perversions. "I didn't drink as much. I worked out as usual. I'd go for walks. I went…" he spared a checking glance at Peter, "flying sometimes. O-other times I would work late."

XXX

 _No huge red flags I should have noticed that he wasn't himself – I guess that's good._ Peter's voice softened somewhat. "Did you feel okay? You seemed kind of…unsettled when I saw you. But maybe that was just the thing with the carnival and the abilities. Those were recent. What about the weeks before that? Were they…bad?" He didn't know if Sylar's free time had been racked with indecision, depression, possible blackouts and nightmares. It seemed unlikely given how he'd been acting when he finally came to Peter for help, but Peter didn't actually know. Sylar was obviously very good at pretending everything was a-okay when it patently wasn't.

XXX

"N-no." Sylar shook his head. "It wasn't bad. I felt…okay; I felt good. A lot of…change," he said that with something of a grimace. "I…he? was trying to do better. As stupid as that sounds," he shook his head. "Like the stuff with Millie. It was a little empty – no Heidi, no kids, no you. Ma was there, no more than usual. That helped and…didn't sometimes. My abilities…freaked him out. But m- his life was good. I had people even if they weren't close at the time."

XXX

"Trying to do better." Peter's voice and expression was a complex mix of grief, regret, dark humor, and confusion. He looked away with a pained grimace. "As you." _He tried to be better, or thought Nathan would try to be better. Was he right? Did Nathan, ever in his life, try to do better or be better? Would he have if he'd still been himself after that stuff at Coyote Sands and the Stanton Hotel? I'll never know._ He looked back to Sylar with dead eyes and a blank face, but his nose and the skin under his eyes was flushed like he was on the brink of crying. There were a lot of emotions roiling around under the surface. "Nathan wasn't comfortable with his own ability. Manifesting a bunch of yours? No wonder it broke his sense of who he was." He sniffed. "Do you like your abilities? I think I remember you saying you did." It was a throwaway question – Peter was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

XXX

At that moment, Sylar desperately wanted to be anywhere but here. Talking about Nathan or himself, seeing Peter's big hazel eyes well up with tears, hearing his voice, and (possibly worst of all) wondering what Peter was thinking because, for once, Peter wasn't blasting it out. He was very aware that he was the cause of this, but it still…hurt? It was a helpless situation and he had no clue how to begin to respond. _Was it me or was it him? Or some weird combination of both of us?_ He couldn't tell Peter that lest the other man attack him in some righteous quest to 'free Nathan.' Fortunately, Peter neither raged, cried, nor attacked. Instead, he gave Sylar an easy out. _I tried to tell you that, when I was…him. You didn't think it was strange at all. You said something like, 'Wow. When did that start happening?' (How…could you not know?_ Peter, who was so familiar with fighting him. He wondered if he was more upset that Peter didn't see him through Nathan or Peter's failure to notice something off about Nathan).

"Yes, of course I do." He didn't expand on that, partly because he was a little offended in turn that Peter didn't remember.

XXX

Peter nodded. "When I had my memories wiped, Adam told me I could get them back if I focused on what was most important to me. I focused on the people I loved – Nathan specifically. It sounds almost like it was the abilities that let you find out who you really were – what brought back your memories and let you, Sylar, shake off being Nathan. Do you think it worked that way for you?"

XXX

Sylar frowned with some kind of emotion. _He knows I don't have anyone important to me to…No anchor, no connections. I don't know if that's cruel or just the truth._ "Yes," he answered simply, but what he felt was anything but simple. "They can't just lay dormant. I use them as easy as breathing. They're part of me," he emphasized because he couldn't feel them or access his abilities. "People have tried to…turn them off and it doesn't work." Sylar stood up from his chair. "You know, thinking about it, there was one other person who used my name and didn't make it sound like a curse. He could tell the difference between me and…other people. You'd never believe it was Emile Danko," shaking his head, Sylar walked towards the hall to retrieve a shirt. After all, what could Peter Petrelli and Emile Danko have in common? _Besides me, of course._

XXX

"The difference between you and," Peter's perfect duplication of Sylar's intonations fell off as he lilted to make the last two words into a question, "other people?" He tilted his head and leaned back in the chair, watching the way Sylar's back moved as the man walked off. Peter wasn't ogling – at least not much. His eyes lingered on the welts (minor now) and sores (at least not as bad as they had been the day before). 'Do you want it to?' bounced around in his head as he regarded the marks he'd put on Sylar's body, and wondered how he'd feel if they turned out to be permanent. _It feels like an investment or something…commitment maybe?_

XXX

The mimicry stopped his forward motion. Sylar turned to give Petrelli a suspicious, searching look but all he saw was the picture of innocence. Then there was the secondary part – the question. "When I'm wearing someone else's skin – their face." With a glance over Peter's body (because he suspected the empath had been checking him out), Sylar returned to the bathroom to fetch his shirt and shoes.

XXX

The image brought to mind by Sylar's answer was graphic. _That's a gruesome way to phrase it. But it's an ability. I don't know how else he should talk about it_. "How could he tell it was still you?" Peter roused himself from the chair and went to put on his shoes. It looked like they might be heading out, or at least leaving the apartment. "Why didn't he go after you, anyway? He knew who you were. You had abilities." More slowly, Peter added, "I thought he and Nathan were all about controlling anyone who might interfere with their plans." The implication, of course, was that Sylar wasn't an interference. _But I was._

XXX

"It's easy when I'm in someone else's body," he phrased that suggestively on purpose. "I don't have to change my mannerisms or habits because most people aren't paying any attention beyond…literal face value. Danko always knew, even if I was just quietly standing in the room." It was a kind of attention he'd devoured like a starving man. That kind of knowledge, maybe even understanding of him, the time involved to learn those tells. It was so important and rare.

The other inquiries would probably turn Peter off the topic and so he was hesitant to divulge. "They did go after me, but a few handfuls of highly trained, specially-outfitted agents aren't going to surprise me or catch me. They didn't do any homework and thought they could approach me like any other singular-powered special. Then Building 26 thought I was dead…and I was helping Danko." He knew that would sound hypocritical to Peter, especially after he'd been bashing Nathan so thoroughly about the senator's repeated, unrepentant, misguided choices. "I wasn't interfering and he wasn't controlling me. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. I happen to like those," he mentioned pointedly, grabbing his coat from beside the door.

XXX

Peter stewed over that, not happy about any of it. As always, Sylar's responses raised more questions than they answered. "The whole subject is frustrating. It was...unnecessary, what Nathan did. And just…wrong." He shook his head and changed the topic for the moment. "Why do you think most people use your name like a curse? What I mean is, what do you think is motivating them to do that?" Peter had his own thoughts about why that was, but he was interested in whether Sylar perceived any personal responsibility in how people reacted to him.

XXX

Sylar opened the door as they were both ready. He had no idea where they were going, just…out. That was sufficient. And he had Peter talking and distracted, so there was a chance Peter would think it was his own idea to go out. What Peter wanted to know was painfully obvious, just as apparent as the fact that he wanted Sylar to voice it or admit to it. It was annoying because of how unsubtle it was. "Envy at my fame and headlines," he said flippant and dismissive. His answer was just as clearly avoiding whatever Peter wanted him to say and pointing out that Peter's bait had failed.

XXX

Peter snorted softly as they headed down the hall. He didn't pass up the opportunity to take a verbal jab at Sylar. "It probably has something to do with killing their loved ones or being a direct threat to them."

XXX

"That probably applies to the majority of people, especially those who know me or people who have heard of me. But that doesn't explain why you and Danko use my name to address me." He followed after Peter down the hallway towards the elevator and stairs.

XXX

Stumped by that, Peter frowned, then shot Sylar a narrow-eyed look, suspicious at being caught out. Then he looked away, his face turning thoughtful as he tried to work out what he might have in common with Emile Danko so that the two of them were similar in how they interacted with Sylar. _He's right – there's something there. I wonder what was really going on with Danko?_ In a softer tone with sincerer curiosity this time around, Peter asked, "Okay, then…what do you think the explanation is?" He tried to make a joke, "I don't think it's because we're both stone-cold killers."

XXX

Sylar stared up at the elegant moving clock-like arms of the elevator, indicating what floor the car was on. "Danko wasn't anywhere near as…heroic as you, so I think he understood me in some ways. Similar…life experience and he knew what he wanted and saw how to work with me. You have good breeding. Maybe it's a habit; maybe you grudgingly respect me – or at least, what I'm capable of; maybe you're afraid of me still; maybe you can see people in ways others can't or don't. For all I know, it's your ability. I've learned not to question absolutely everything in life because almost always I won't like the answer." He was grateful for the momentary distraction the ding and opening of doors into the car offered.

XXX

Peter followed Sylar's gaze. He seemed to recall a digital readout downstairs, where the style was more modern in the lobby but traditional on the outside of the building. Up here the pattern was echoed with the hallway and foyer being classic; the apartments themselves modern. "We both have this veneer of being civilized," he mused, waving upwards at the indicator as they walked into the open car, "when really, we're just a product of our desperate and traumatizing times." He didn't clarify if he meant himself and Danko, himself and Sylar, or all three of them. He let the bit about his 'breeding' pass without comment, remembering the exchange he'd had with Mohinder about them being bad copies of their fathers.

He punched the button for the lobby floor and shook off the introspection. Addressing Sylar, he said, "It's not grudging. I respect the hell out of you, and not just because of what you're capable of, but because of what you've been through." The compliment was genuine and factual. Peter didn't linger over it. "But back to something you said earlier with Danko, about a 'mutually beneficial arrangement'," he said, copying Sylar's intonations again because it was a subtle teasing he thought he could get away with (he hadn't missed the irritated way Sylar had looked at him earlier when he'd done it without any underhanded intentions), "did you have those sorts of partnerships very often, or was Danko it? I know you worked with other people – some specials, some not. How did those work out? Did them having an ability matter in how much you liked it?"

He didn't have the clearest picture of what team-ups Sylar had had, but Peter knew of some, plus Sylar had said he liked 'those', the plurality of which had caught Peter's attention. What it took to work with Sylar, in a way that Sylar appreciated and found positive enough to keep coming back to, was vital information – partly for day-to-day life here and partly for his interests with the Carnival. More important than either of those motivations was Peter's genuine curiosity in how Sylar worked and what worked for him – trying to understand other people, Sylar among them, was in Peter's nature.


	142. Cue and A

Day 75, February 23, Noon

Sylar snorted as he leaned back against the rail, hands in his pockets. He put his shoulders back as he considered the compliment. It meant Peter was listening to some of what he'd shared. That was gratifying. "No, not often," he replied. There had been a small handful of those good types of arrangements, not just the ones where he was used and useful. It was depressing to consider exactly how many of the other type there were, just beginnings that ended badly.

It choked him how often it involved someone being killed because Peter saw that only as repeated, intentional failures. _(Is that what he meant with that compliment? That I'm 'the toughest man he knows' so I can take a lot of punishment on the job? Or he means I'm the one who can't work as a team?)_ "Obviously, they didn't work out. My skillset has its uses," he finished in a clipped tone. "I…I prefer being with specials but that's difficult. For obvious reasons." God, were they at the lobby yet? Peter needed a diversion and quick.

XXX

"Obviously?" The door dinged open. Despite Sylar's tension, Peter pursued the subject (and Sylar, as he exited the elevator). "Are you telling me you killed every special who ever tried to work with you?" He wasn't accusatory, just confused. Peter racked his brain for all the people he knew of who had worked with Sylar in any capacity. _Mohinder, right? But he didn't have an ability back then. And there's Danko, but he didn't have an ability either. My dad? But wait, he killed him. Or helped. He left me alive after that, but I didn't have any abilities right then either._ "What about that Luke guy? You said he was your friend. He had an ability, didn't he?"

XXX

Sylar grit his teeth, giving Peter a narrowed-eyed look. "No, that's not what I meant. But if that's what you want to believe, go right ahead." His tone was arch, almost a warning. Of course, Peter would take that as a general pattern, or worse, a threat that wasn't intended.

XXX

"It's not about what I believe. I'm trying to find out what happened." Peter pivoted from the past to asking about the future. "How are you going to deal with life around people? Will you just stay away from specials all the time? You said that just knowing your future self found a way to overcome the hunger gave you hope."

XXX

"Yeah, having a family might have 'given me hope', too, but we know how that turned out. And that future either can't happen or won't end well. You're the only other person here to judge." He tried to say it flippantly, like he didn't care about any of Peter's judgments.

XXX

Peter looked up at Sylar with a frustrated, yearning expression. He wanted to pull the answers out of the man, but Sylar was becoming evasive. If he wouldn't answer about the possible future, then Peter would ask about the present. "Do you feel that pressure here and now, with me? And I'm serious – not just if I bother you, which I can see I do, but do you feel a compulsion to kill me?"

XXX

"I didn't say I killed everyone!" Sylar exclaimed, not appreciating being put on the defensive over…a clear misunderstanding. "I'm not going to talk about this – or anything else – if you're just going to interrogate me," he said with a frown, but still unsure of how Peter would respond to that.

XXX

Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out. "Okay." He started to cross his arms, then changed his mind and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay," he repeated. He glanced around the lobby, anywhere but at Sylar whom he very much wanted to keep questioning, and very much knew he should lay off.

XXX

A sigh escaped him before answering. "There's always a reason. Sometimes there's more reason than others. Like the ones I've spared in the past," he paused with a pointed look at Petrelli, "almost always come back to make my life a living hell. It's damage control, getting rid of a potential problem before it becomes a problem. Usually it's not personal. You do fall into that category, yes. And it's not a compulsion," he added dismissively with contempt at the idea that he lacked control. "I don't want to talk about this anymore." Sylar waited to see how that would be received. This current topic was making him tense.

XXX

"You think I'm making your life hell?" Peter snorted. _I could leave. But saying that won't go over well. Sounds like a threat and that's not what I mean._ He softened his tone a little. "What would make things safer between us, Sylar?" He gestured at the rec room. "Let's go in here unless you were wanting to head out." He walked that way, giving Sylar some literal distance and time to calm down.

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes now, getting annoyed, his tone showing it with a hint of a growl. "Not necessarily right this minute, Petrelli." It was difficult to classify being in bed together and receiving medical attention as 'hell.' This conversation, maybe… "You've definitely made it hell in the past." Sylar followed into the rec room, hoping Peter would quickly pick a less-verbal hobby to engage himself in.

XXX

Peter raised a single brow at Sylar, but he didn't have anything to say to that. He could make no claims about them having a stable past. Instead, he walked over to the speed bag, tapping it a few times before shooting a checking glance at Sylar. The device was going to be noisy once he started in on it. Fortunately, Sylar didn't look like he thought the conversation was continuing. Peter turned back to the bag and began to rap out a slow pattern that quickly sped up. _Does he mean I've made his life hell in the recent past, like here, or back before? I hardly knew him before. I stopped him at Kirby Plaza. And Odessa. And_ _I got in his way_ _when he was doing whatever with Dad. And when he was going to kill the president. But he was being an asshole all those times. I wasn't doing anything wrong – he was. If he wants a better life, then maybe he ought to work on being a better person. It's like he goes around whacking hornet's nests and then complains about getting stung._ Peter snorted and switched it up on the speed bag, trying different combinations and working on dodges and head dips as he did it. For the most part, he avoided thinking about what it meant that Sylar had started dodging hard when asked about safety between them, or between Sylar and anyone who had an ability. Peter supposed it was just one more reason to work out and stay sharp.

XXX

Sylar wasn't sure what to make of that silence, followed by the choice of activity. _He agrees, doesn't want to disagree, or he's thinking. Maybe a combination of all three?_ There was no way Peter was satisfied or finished. _Hmm. It's…admirable,_ Sylar thought to himself, admiring the smaller man's physique. _He should do this shirtless sometime._ _I bet it wouldn't be difficult to convince him – save a shirt, save on laundry or something like that._ Sylar stood there for a time, waiting, watching to see if he was being ignored (on purpose or otherwise). "I can stare at your ass all day, but is there something I should be doing here?" he said after a few minutes of observing.

XXX

Peter broke pattern on the speed bag and put a hand up to stop the oscillating racket. A flattered smile spread across his face as he looked back at Sylar. _He was looking at me?_ Peter carded his hair back with a slight head toss. "You can look all you want." Of all things, Peter's mind flashed to him crouching over Sylar, pressing the nail gun to the man's thigh and getting a twisted jolt of satisfaction from hearing him scream when the nail sunk home. _And now he's scoping me out and asking for advice on how to spend his time?_ Things had changed so much in just a few months. He rubbed at his slightly sore knuckles and chewed his upper lip, regarding Sylar somewhat…hungrily. Sylar had said he would do pretty much anything Peter told him to – sexually or otherwise – and here he was asking…again. Peter felt more tempted than usual to put that to the test. Instead, he fought off the impulse. Peter stepped away from the bag and headed towards the exercise room across the hall. "I'm going to work out. You can read, join in, whatever."

XXX

"Bring me back a book," it was almost a question. He wanted to view Peter…and have something else to occupy himself with. Sylar trailed after him into the gym room, making himself comfortable on an exercise bench.

XXX

"I think there's a couple books in the rec room about broken bones and head injuries. From when I was reading up on that stuff a couple months ago." Peter said it absently as he searched the exercise room for workout clothes, but there weren't any. "I've got to head up to get different clothes anyway. I'll take the stairs, but I'll bring back whatever's on your nightstand. Okay?"

XXX

Sylar could see Peter's distraction. _I don't want to read your books. That's your job._ What he answered was, "Yeah."

XXX

It was a lot of flights to go up, but would serve as good enough cardio that Peter didn't have to spend time on the treadmill later. He thought about the various buildings he'd had to carry people down the stairwells as a paramedic, and the truism that the higher the floor the patient was on, the more likely it was that the elevators were out. Then his thoughts returned to that fight he and Sylar had had at Mercy, the only one in the real world where they'd been on a level playing field – neither having powers – and how he'd totally beaten Sylar's ass that time. Yet the man still wanted him. Or maybe he wanted him _because_ Peter had beaten him. The fight had been equal measures frustrating (because he lost Nathan) and satisfying (because he thrashed Sylar). It was hard to sort out how he _should_ feel about it now, but how he _did_ feel about it was an unexpected dominance. It wasn't a feeling Peter was accustomed to. He'd been 'lesser' for most of his life, having to fight for what little acknowledgment he got.

Peter changed in the apartment, the sweatiest part of his workout already over after all those stairs. He looked at the nightstand on Sylar's side of the bed. It featured a book and one of the bottles of unscented lotion Sylar had picked up at the store weeks ago as a prank (or maybe wishful thinking). Familiarity had given it invisibility. He hefted the opaque bottle, trying to judge if any had been used. Far as he could tell, it was still full. _Doesn't he jerk off at least? No wonder he's so fucking frustrated if he doesn't_.

Peter tried to remember the last time he'd masturbated. _Last week maybe? Longer? Fuck. No wonder Sylar looks so good._ He fondled the bottle, considering breaking his dry spell right then and there, but he was in the middle of his workout. What if Sylar came up in the elevator to see what was taking so long? Also, perversely, he did not want to use his own bottle on the other side of the bed – he very clearly wanted to use this one and use enough for Sylar to notice. Peter shook his head at his stupid libido with its stupid ideas. _I usually can't do it alone anyway_. He determinedly ignored that doing it with Sylar's lotion and imagining getting taken to task for it later would probably be enough 'interaction' to get him off. Reluctantly, Peter returned the bottle and picked up the paperback. He took the stairs back down, handed off the book without comment, then hit the weights to try to burn off some of his pent-up energy.

XXX

Peter appeared to warm up with plenty of muscular flexion for his abs, arms, and legs. Before he moved onto weight machines, there were some squats and occasionally allowed peeks at his belly and chest when he used his shirt to wipe away sweat. Of course, Sylar was diligently reading during all this. It was such a filthy, voyeuristic pleasure to be able to watch Peter sweat and get worked up (minus the usual emotional outbursts) at something that wasn't directed at him. _No wonder he's so strong._

XXX

Peter swabbed the sweat off his face using the hem of his shirt. _Okay, maybe the stairs weren't the sweatiest part._ He looked at Sylar, who was still sitting on the bench and had been there throughout the workout, probably watching him in the mirror at times, or even directly. Peter hadn't paid him much attention, but it was soothing to have company nonetheless – at least, once he'd gotten over the initial tension of wondering if Sylar was going to confront or assault him like he had the last time they were in here together. But Sylar had kept to himself and Peter's thoughts had quickly enough turned to the mechanics of pushing his body as far as it would safely go. "I'm going to head up the stairs again and get a shower. I'll come back down after. You want anything else from up there?"

XXX

Sylar could tell when Peter's attention returned to him. It had been conspicuously absent for the workout. He guessed Petrelli enjoyed zoning out because he obviously felt comfortable enough to do so. Sylar put a finger between the pages of his book and looked up. Then Peter spoke, bringing up an interesting question. _Do I trust him to be up there alone? Do I believe he'll come back?_ He replied with a slow shake of his head. _Just want you back from up there._

XXX

Peter nodded and set off to slog up another course of stairs. It went much slower this time, the exercise having achieved the desired end of purging his anxious energy. The shower and new clothes made him feel like a new person. He snacked while standing around in the kitchen, feeling human and right with the day. Making music sounded like a lovely way to express his buoyed mood, so he went back to the rec room (elevator this time) and made some noise (more appealing this time than the banging of the speed bag).

XXX

The empath's cheer was refreshing. Peter hadn't grilled him too hard or abandoned him (the threat that he might go off exploring was still a concern), so that boded very well. Sylar lay back on the couch, reading and lounging. _He must not be too upset that he didn't get all his answers at once. Maybe, if I'm lucky, he'll forget and won't ask again._ That seemed unlikely. But the instrumental noise, after sleeping together and the one-man gym sounds, were pleasing. It was easy to rest this way.

XXX

After a half hour on the piano and a little longer on the guitar, Peter moved on to the pool table, rolling the balls around and clicking them together. "Hey, Sylar. You want to take a break from that and shoot a game or two with me?"

XXX

 _Ah. There it is,_ Sylar thought of the continuation of questions Peter surely had. "I thought you didn't like to play games with me," he teased, half-serious even as he stood to join. He took up a pool stick and the triangle before beginning to gather the balls.

XXX

Peter scoffed. "I'm just not so keen on the ones where I don't know the rules. That's when I feel like I have to play dirty to win." He rolled the cue ball back and forth on the top end of the table while Sylar arranged the triangle at the other end. "I prefer the ones where the game is the fun part – not who wins or loses."

XXX

That struck him as more than a little false and he said as much, /"Like the time you got up early every day for weeks to train to beat Howie Kaplan at the hundred meter dash?"/

XXX

Peter half-straightened from where he'd been about to take his first shot. "That's not your memory," he said, serious and quiet. He watched Sylar until he could see the other man accept that. Then Peter launched the white ball down the table, making a good break and sinking a striped ball. He circled the table to choose his next shot. "He was a bully and an arrogant prick. Someone needed to show him up, and that someone was me."

XXX

Sylar frowned. _What do you mean, it's not my memory?_ Before he could understand why, it felt like his back was up ready to defend himself. Peter wasn't backing down, staring into him to force the issue. It took longer than it should have, but Sylar eventually grasped what Peter meant and broke the contact by pretending to move around the table for a better view or future vantage point. He cleared his throat. "Which totally explains why you're so insanely competitive for a guy who isn't hung up about winning or losing." He had personal experience on the receiving end of Petrelli's drive to win and finish. _I know he's one of those, 'everyone is a winner in their heart!' types._

XXX

"That's because I don't like it when people pretend to be better than other people. That was my problem with Dad, and Howie, too." Peter took his second shot, narrowly missing. He drew away from the table for Sylar's turn. "What about you? Is getting to play enough of a reward, or are you going to be keeping score all the time?"

XXX

Sylar exhaled something of a snort, derisively aimed at himself. _Right. Because no individual person is better than another. We're all just so…equal,_ he thought sarcastically. In the meantime, Sylar took a moment to compose his shot. There were several options to choose from – he was solids; Peter was stripes. He considered the question and pulled back his stick, landing his first ball and bouncing another out of place (with some thanks to 'memories that weren't his'). "I don't think I've ever had anyone to just play with before. If I don't keep score, someone else will then I'll…regret that I didn't do it in the first place." He shrugged, not comfortable with that amount of truth or the truth itself.

XXX

"I'm not keeping score against you, Sylar," Peter said with a glance up. He took his shot, sinking it easily and ending up so well aligned for a second that it looked like he'd done it on purpose. He raised his brows and made a surprised head tilt at that before moving to take advantage of it. The second ball went in as well, but he scratched on his attempt to make it three. He backed off from the table, leaving Sylar to his turn. "The thing is, it's one of those things that's human. People are going to do it anyway – we all want to measure ourselves against something and it's less painful to measure ourselves against other people than against ourselves. I can't say I haven't done it or won't do it. But at the same time, we're all people and deserve respect for that much no matter where we fall in the advantages of life. You don't have to prove that to me, Sylar. You've had a lot of advantages, a lot of disadvantages, and you've done a lot with what you've had." Peter leaned on his cue stick and regarded the table sourly. "It's not like the score could be evened anyway."

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth to respond to the first part. Peter _was_ _too_ keeping score, when it suited him. But the words didn't make it out as Peter continued. The rest of it sounded off-topic: too social, emotional, or understanding and thus passing by his frame of reference. The last comment, though…Peter wasn't looking when Sylar immediately stiffened and pressed his lips together with a blank expression. That was all the confirmation he needed. _It wasn't like I was asking for or expecting his forgiveness. It's not like fucking him will even any score. It's not like I'm losing any face because I was careful not to make any of that known. It's not like he's talking about anything he's done or anything that's happened to me. He's just…telling me how it is._ Sylar would have had less of a reaction if Peter had physically slapped him. "No. Of course not," he agreed in a monotone, walking around the table to approach the cue ball. Peter hadn't left him with any great shots – the angles were off – so he attempted bounce it off the far wall of the table and ricochet his ball to bump it in. It bumped as intended, but with insufficient force. Sylar withdrew.

XXX

Peter sighed. The cue ball was in a bad spot for any of his shots, tucked up neatly behind a solid green one of Sylar's. He tried to work out angles and finally decided to just punt it. Balls ricocheted a little wildly and the green ball ended up in a side pocket. Peter grunted and huffed, ceding the turn to Sylar. "Back to one of the questions I was asking earlier, about the Hunger and compulsion. You said it wasn't a compulsion. I felt it, the once, you know. Maybe twice, if you count when I went after Ma. What do you call…How do you explain that? To yourself, to anyone, to me? What is that?" He tried to be careful not to have it sound like he was laying blame or starting an interrogation. He wanted to understand what had happened to him the time the Hunger had moved him to kill; as well, he wanted to understand if that was the same thing that had happened with Sylar; both factored into if Peter was 'safe' now, and if they'd be 'safe' if they got out of here.

XXX

"You know, Petrelli, ignorance is bliss a lot of the time. I don't try to explain it to myself. That's the key to successful killing. Be glad you had the ability to jump around through time and clean up after yourself."

XXX

Peter frowned back at the other man, not liking the lack of meaningful answer, or the implication that he'd acted intentionally to cover up the things he'd done wrong. _If could use time travel that way, I would have never stranded Caitlin._ But he didn't voice that, because he wasn't sure if losing Caitlin had been within his power to prevent and he had simply been too stupid or ignorant to know how to do it. He'd had so many shocking near-misses with his abilities that it was a wonder he'd had as little lasting collateral damage as he had. "I didn't wake up on that autopsy table wanting to kill Nathan. But somewhere after him letting me go, I…" Peter shook his head and hunched his shoulders. He wasn't sure if the future version of Nathan counted as a near-miss or not. He'd killed his brother. He'd lifted his hand, bared his teeth, and killed him. It didn't feel like a miss even though he'd come back to find Nathan safe and sound in the present time. Peter's chest felt tight and like his heart was beating too fast. "I can't really remember…"

XXX

Sparing a quick glance at Peter determined that Sylar wasn't being interrogated per se. This wasn't necessarily about him. At the same time, he immediately understood what Peter meant and what the other man must have felt (or must be feeling) and that was something he didn't want to have a shared experience of. It was frightening how much he understood and how much he didn't want to understand that Peter felt some of the same things. _Oh, God. Did Nathan drop him somehow?_ The mere thought of the reverse of Mercy – of Nathan dropping Peter, abandoning him, betraying him to death – was making him sick to his stomach. _He said he killed Nathan in the future, not…that time Peter jumped off the building and made_ _/me catch him and I couldn't. He couldn't remember then, either. I called it a suicide attempt./_

Because of the clarity of feelings, what he thought he was understanding even if (or perhaps, because) the specifics weren't clear, Sylar wanted no part of it. "Knock it off, Petrelli! You are _not_ getting inside my head!" With the butt of the stick still planted on the floor, he pointed the tip of his pool stick at Peter.

XXX

Peter gave him a hurt and angry scowl. "Go fuck yourself," he said in a hoarse voice. Peter retreated to the couch, leaving his stick leaned on the arm of it as he sat heavily. He put his elbows on his knees and face in his hands. "I'm not messing around with you or your head," he said from behind his hands. Feelings and events were whirling around inside his skull – Caitlin, Nathan, wanting to compete with and relate to Sylar and yet being unable to deal with the debts Sylar owed Peter and society, the confusion of Peter's own debts which would never come to pass yet had somehow already happened to him. Peter felt helpless to sort it all out.

"I thought you could help. I thought you might understand why I did something like that. I wanted to understand him, what was driving him, but that's not a reason to kill someone!" He shot Sylar a frustrated look. They'd had this discussion before and at that time Peter had taken some small measure of comfort from sorting out the surface level of his motivations, but the closer he looked at it, the less sense it made. "I don't even know if I'm supposed to be upset about this." He put his hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammering. "But I am. I came back and Nathan was still alive, so what the fuck happened?" He waved his hands in angry emphasis. "It was like a nightmare, but one that really happened - to me, but no one else! Like Ireland, like Caitlin, no one knows her, or what she meant to me, or what happened to me on the way over there or once I was there. Just you. I never told anyone else – who the fuck can I talk to about any of this, Sylar?" Peter looked at the man intently. "Who else has any frame of reference? Who else wouldn't think I was crazy?" He made a gesture at the way out, winding up his rant. "And if you can't take it, you know where the door is."

XXX

That was such a mess of everything; it was difficult to sort through. Sylar was stuck in place with several conflicting emotions. Anger was winning out. He didn't want to be responsible for this. At the same time, Peter clearly needed him and him alone. His experiences were useful and morally acceptable only when Peter had need of them. Peter was applying something like guilt, whether intentional or not. And then Peter was challenging him, like if he left, _Sylar_ would be the weakling. A large part of him didn't want to help because Peter had ignored him before – the first time they thought they were brothers. Perhaps he was upset because there was a good reason he was ignored…

"You don't ask for much, do you, Petrelli?" he sassed back, voice losing the edge of anger. After a pause and a glance to see Peter still calming himself and wondering if he was taking on the role of a substitute brother, Sylar said, softer still, "I'm never getting a normal game of pool or anything else, am I?" But he knew it was true and sad that Peter would never relent. "I don't want to talk about me so don't even think about trying to turn this around on me, or beat me up, or give me crap about anything. I've already talked enough today. I know where the door is."

XXX

Peter looked pointedly between Sylar and the way out, but the other man wasn't budging. Peter shrugged and looked away. Tension drained from him, leaving him tired and deflated. "Most people go," he said bitterly. "I stop being the fun party guy, the easy lay, or the friend who's always focused on them and what they need, and they bail. Like Nathan, like Dad. Useless second son," he said of himself with a sigh. Even those who were supposed to be there for him in his life had made their attention conditional on his conformance to their needs and standards. "It's not always about you, Sylar. Thanks for staying." He got to his feet and walked over, ignoring the possibility of the pool stick being used as a weapon against him. Peter raised his hands slowly, putting them down on Sylar's shoulders. "Just having you here listening is more than most people will do." He dipped his head in the direction of the pool table. "Let's play. Whose turn is it?"

XXX

Sylar considered that and noted the other man's need. And gratitude. It told him he'd made the right decision to stay and listen to Peter. The empath needed to trust and be tolerated and heard. Who knew it could be that easy? "Don't make it weird. You were never any of those things to me." _You're certainly anything but an easy lay. Will fuck anything that moves,_ _except_ _for me, of course,_ he thought, but said aloud, "It's my turn." Sylar smirked, waiting until Peter broke the contact.

XXX

Peter snorted softly, eyes roaming over Sylar's face for a moment. _'Don't make it weird'. Because it's feeling sentimental to you, isn't it?_ Pleased by that, he patted one of Sylar's shoulders and turned away to get his pool stick. "No, I wasn't," Peter said of what he had been to Sylar. Their past had been more complicated. Making light of it, he said, "I was the guy who kept showing up to kick your ass and get in your way." Collecting his stick from the arm of the couch, Peter waved at the table and added in a warm but challenging tone, "Take your best shot, buddy."

XXX

Some combination of the medical or psychological stress, the relief that Peter hadn't gone exploring alone and had been caring for his injuries, the affirmation that he was succeeding in seducing Peter, and now the Italian calling him 'buddy', got to him. Sylar dropped his pool stick (he did not want that coming between them), stalked over and grasped Peter's face. He leaned in and pressed a consuming kiss on Peter's unsuspecting lips. When there was no immediate reaction, he opened his mouth wider to cover Peter's. It still surprised him that Petrelli didn't reek of corruption or taste like it. The danger of the kiss was a rush – if Peter allowed it to continue, he would definitely win. If Peter didn't, he'd still win. Somehow. Sylar slid his tongue out to taste those crooked lips better…

XXX

He saw Sylar approaching, saw and heard the clatter of the stick falling to the floor. Peter tensed, heart hammering again as his adrenaline spiked for a second time in less than ten minutes. Peter was instantly ready for a fight. But the body language wasn't there. Sylar's expression was intent, but not aggressive; his hands reaching, but open and not fast enough for an attack. Peter ended up just standing there stiffly, fixed in place as he tried to work out what was about to happen and what he needed to do about it, a holding pattern broken only when Sylar's lips sealed onto his own.

At that point, he was free to act. He could have acted. He didn't. He drew in a deep breath instead. He could smell Sylar. He could feel him. He knew what had caused this – he'd virtually asked for it with his challenge. This was Sylar's 'best shot' and it wasn't a violent assault. It wasn't pain and fear from getting punched in the face by the guy, cut across the forehead, or stripped of self-control by telekinesis. It was just hands holding his face firmly, but without too much pressure; lips on his own, demanding acknowledgement but not forcing the issue. Peter wanted, more than anything else, to kiss back and provide that acknowledgement. He felt a surge of desire so strong it threatened to blot out his reasoning mind. That was why he did nothing, frozen to the spot, fighting his own internal struggle.

The shift of Sylar's mouth and wet, ticklish swipe of tongue across Peter's lips was what decided him. It was too much of a liberty. (He didn't want to think about why the kiss by itself had not been so easily classified as 'too much'.) Peter jerked backwards out of Sylar's grip and hooked his left fist over the top of Sylar's arm, tagging him solidly across the face, but without the wind-up necessary for a hard punch. Peter bared his teeth and fell back another step or two, blading himself to his opponent. His own pool stick was still in his right hand. He hung onto it, but kept it vertical without brandishing it. He didn't want this to be a fight. "I meant the game," Peter nearly hissed, "and you know what I meant."

XXX

Sylar wasn't expecting that, exactly. The last time he'd tried anything like this, Peter had throat-punched him. The pain was almost pleasant. Sylar's eyes widened as he touched his face and laughed. "Right. Of course you did." He made a show of licking his lips and glancing at Peter's mouth. Violence with sex was not the deterrent Peter thought it was. It was more of an invitation.

XXX

Peter's gaze followed Sylar's hand to his face, then lingered on his lips. Distantly, he registered that he hadn't given Sylar a split lip. There was no sign of blood on the tip of tongue Peter saw, and stared at. He'd hit him just right. He looked to Sylar's eyes when the tongue disappeared, catching that Sylar was checking him out just as much in return. Peter blinked several times and leaned back, trying to make clear with body language that no return to intimacy would be allowed despite the obvious shared interest. He raised his fists a few inches, pool stick included. Sylar seemed to get the message.

XXX

"Like I said. For me, you're not an easy lay." With that, Sylar retrieved his stick (noting several phallic jokes) and turned toward the table.

XXX

 _Hardest fucker you'll ever get in bed_. But Peter didn't say that. There were too many other interpretations of the words that clouded the meaning. Even if he meant all of them, he didn't want to blurt them out and deal with Sylar thinking Peter's impossible, impractical, unethical fantasies were something achievable. Things were problematic enough as they were. He looked away, setting the butt of his pool stick on the floor. Sylar had virtually licked him. Tongue with obligatory saliva had wet Peter's mouth more than the typical residual moisture of a reasonably chaste kiss. Peter wiped with the back of his hand, then licked his lips clear of the remainder.

He looked back at Sylar with a smolder in his eyes. The flavor of the man clung to his tongue. Peter wanted to fuck him. It wasn't just a fantasy – he actually wanted to do it. He licked his lips again and bit them, because he couldn't have what he wanted. It was ridiculous. The man was an asshole. He'd killed Nathan, but Peter had never before in his life experienced the feeling he was having at the moment. Taking Sylar anyway was somehow not at odds with what Sylar had done. The idea was there that Peter could get revenge through sexual domination, hitting Sylar 'just right' – enough to hurt but not injure, enough to get blood pumping for both of them without setting off Peter's aversion to harming his partner. He could fuck Sylar as long as he fucked him up in the process, something Sylar had obviously realized a long time before.

Peter turned away again, expelling a deep breath. It was wrong. It was so deeply wrong. (But that didn't stop his desire.) He scrubbed at his face restlessly, then finger-combed his hair back three times more than it needed. He paced around slowly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sylar pocketed a few balls.

XXX

Sylar glared for a moment. He watched Peter attempt to wipe his mouth, obviously wanting to be rid of the association. _So that's still the problem, is it?_ As soon as Peter was finished with that, Sylar caught the look directed his way. If the empath could scorch his clothes off with a look, he would have been doing it right now. _Oh. Petey wants it bad._ His own glare disappeared as he relaxed and slowly licked the corner of his lip, assuming a taller, hips-forward posture. _All that from one little kiss? Maybe he's easier than I thought. (Is that why he doesn't want me to kiss him?)_ The punch was an unmistakable wordless sentiment, but the rest of the body language and reactions Peter had given were inconsistent. Wanting to pour fuel on the flame, he purred, "Don't worry. I enjoy a challenge." Then he returned to the game (without making a single dick joke or abusing his pool stick). Sylar was sure to accentuate or reveal the parts of his body he knew Peter wanted to see: his shirt rode up his lower back and stomach and his ass stuck out in invitation as he took his other best shots.

XXX

Peter had wanted to keep the table between them, but Sylar's next play 'had' to be taken from whatever side Peter was on. Peter not so dim he didn't recognize what Sylar was doing, but knowing that didn't keep his eyes off the man's backside once it was on display. "You mentioned," Peter struggled to get his mind back on a useful track and out of a very dark gutter, "there was always a reason why you killed people, keeping a problem from getting bigger. That almost sounds like…your- the ability senses the future somewhat. Is it…guiding you in what to do? Isaac's ability let him paint the future; my mother's let her see it in dreams. If I look back at it, I can't really say there wasn't a good reason for me to…kill," Peter grimaced in distaste, "either of them – Nathan or Mom. Both of them were…they weren't on my side when I did it. They were acting against me, I guess, and that was what I wanted to get out of them – why they were doing what they were doing. It didn't make any sense for people who supposedly loved me." Peter's brow furrowed. "That future version of me said I would need your ability to understand how to essentially manipulate the time stream, tell what I needed to change and what I didn't. Is that it – you know who you need to kill to achieve whatever goal you're working towards?"

XXX

Sylar made a growling sigh. Petrelli's overcompensating for his desires was worse than the dick teasing, adding insult to blue balls. _Just fuck me already!_ he protested mentally before tuning in to whatever new smokescreen. _He sucks the fun out of abilities._ After making one close shot and missing it, he listened and latched onto something new (other than Peter's theory). "You killed Ma- your mother?" he asked, shock coloring his voice. Had Peter been lying or omitting that until now? He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

XXX

 _Huh? No! Why would he think that?_ Peter thought back over what he'd said. The words themselves did lend to that interpretation. _Oh._ Peter pointed at his own forehead vaguely and said, "No, I just tried to. You were there. In the cell on Level 5?"

XXX

"Oh," he breathed out. _I'm reading too much into it._ And, he realized, probably being obvious about it. "No. Obviously it doesn't work that way or you'd be dead and so would your mother." He didn't feel like kicking the tiger too much by adding 'and Nathan might still be alive.' Strange how Peter was more devoted to Nathan than his mother when both seemed to be equally immoral and important. "And a whole lot of other people." Pursing his lips, Sylar observed, "It would be much simpler if it worked that way, like an early warning system." He didn't mention the part about how nice it would be if his ability did work like that – trying to count his traumas and those responsible was enough to dismay. He didn't pursue that line of thought, instead watching Peter too closely as he took his turn. "But…" he began slowly, considering. "It might _feel_ that way to you because you're not known for your long-range planning." He looked at Peter expectantly, interested in the reply and pleased it wasn't something deeply personal that he himself had to answer.

XXX

Peter shot Sylar a scowl from over his shoulder as he leaned over the pool table. Then he gathered from Sylar's expression that it was an observation, not an insult. He took his shot and sunk the ball. Next up was the eight ball, but it wasn't in a good position. He circled the table, hoping to see something new. "It felt like I was making the decision. I chose what to do and then after it was done, the consequences hit me. It was like the opposite of long-range planning, because I wasn't thinking things through." He set the pool stick butt-down on the floor, leaning on it slightly. "Even if it was critical for me to know what was motivating Nathan in that future, or my mother when I saw her on Level 5, _cutting their heads open_ ," Peter said that phrase with emphasis, raised brows, and a dipped head, "is a really stupid way to find that out. Let's say that after I do that, the reason conveniently pops out of their brain like a jack-in-the-box - something that's probably not going to happen, but stay with me. So what? Now I know what they were up to, but they're still dead!" Peter cast his arms to either side at the futility of it. "What good was that? Keep in mind, I didn't need their abilities! I had every ability future…" _you,_ "Gabriel had, everything that future version of me had. I had so many abilities churning around in the back of my head I could barely think! There's no other reason to do it!"

He turned back to the pool table and took a careless jab at the cue ball, launching it across half the table and hitting nothing at all – but it put it in a worse position for Sylar and his remaining shots. In a cranky, frustrated tone, he said, "I'm trying to find a way where you killing all those people makes some kind of sense, Sylar." He waved at the table. "Your turn."


	143. Felt Surfaces

Day 75, February 23, Afternoon

Sylar raised an eyebrow, at the emotion and the following actions. His expression turned pitying. Imagining Peter Petrelli, with all focus and energy, no planning, and two dozen abilities he didn't understand not including the intuitive aptitude…well, it sounded like the ultimate recipe for disaster. It was obvious what the cause was. Not that Peter would want to hear it. He shrugged, contemplating the table and his poor position, "I don't think it was meant for…using on family. You were looking for different answers from specific people." _I guess it's a good thing it_ _didn't work that way with my family._ He didn't want to consider why he hadn't pursued that, when he still (as then) had questions.

Sylar bent over again, attempting a shot, grazing his ball and rolling it in. "I was always curious why you didn't cut into my head. I was still alive. I guess that answers it: I wasn't 'family' or important…and you probably didn't want any of my answers even then." He straightened up slowly, gazing at Peter from the side of his eye. Whatever attention Peter had neglected before, he wanted now with two types of interest.

XXX

Peter snorted and rolled his eyes dismissively, barely noticing the undulating manner Sylar had used to bring himself upright. It was almost a pose – a sexy one at that. But what Sylar had said was more engaging than the posturing. "Hey. Stop cutting yourself down and trying to guilt trip me while you do it. That's not what this is about." Peter moved on quickly to something more relevant than lingering over Sylar's low self-esteem and resentment that Peter hadn't been there for him when there was no reason Peter would have been. "What do you mean it's not meant for using on family? Family were the only ones I used it on. And if you'll remember, I thought you were my brother right then, when I popped into that cell on Level 5. Or at least I'd just been told you were by that future version of you. None of it made any sense, so whether I believed it or not is debatable." He squared off with Sylar, Peter's thoughts on his suspicions that Sylar's mother had been one of the man's first victims. More slowly, Peter said, "What do you mean that it's not meant for family?"

XXX

Sylar's eyes narrowed at Peter's attitude, only for the empath to follow up with an annoyingly obvious question. "I mean exactly what you said: 'Once you have the answers, you don't have a family anymore.' And you obviously didn't believe it or I would be dead by that logic."

XXX

Peter listened to that. He scowled at Sylar's continuing insistence that Peter had slighted him by not attempting to cut his head open way back then. In an irritated tone, Peter asked, "What about you? Your family didn't matter to you?"

XXX

Sylar took a shot with a shrug. "Guess not. They're all pretty much dead." _The ones that are alive, I'm not eager to claim._ His solid sphere rolled into the pocket, leaving them one ball each. He didn't know why he bothered; Peter was distracted.

XXX

Peter chewed his lip in frustration. "I promised I wouldn't ask about your mother. So I guess we're done with this topic. Let's talk about something else." He went to the pool table to take his shot in turn. "What's on your mind?"

XXX

The pieces slipped together in his mind and Sylar straightened up, forgetting the game completely now. "That's what this is about, isn't it?" He didn't care if his anger came across. He couldn't believe Peter would think that, yet he understood how it made sense. "You think I killed my family for answers?"

XXX

Peter hesitated, doing an instant's worth of assessment of where he and Sylar were, emotionally, with one another. Would he start a fight with what he was about to say? Did he have to handle Sylar carefully with so sensitive a topic? Or had they progressed to the point where this level of honesty was possible? He snorted and took the chance. "I think you killed your family for the same reason I went after mine! And it wasn't that I'd been going around for years thinking I needed to knock them off," he made an expansive gesture with his arms at how ridiculous that was, "but that I took your ability and unlocked it. I did that and the next conscious five minutes of my life was killing Nathan and going after my mother!" Peter pointed at Sylar with the hand still containing his pool stick. "You had it for years! You say they're dead and you don't want me asking about what happened to her. Fine, but I don't think it's any surprise that I've connected that stuff." He left it at that, extending neither sympathy nor judgment. It was enough to get his suspicions out in the open and leave it for Sylar to dictate how things went from here.

XXX

Sylar frowned and glared, squaring off to Peter, still holding his pool stick as well. "You don't know anything! You're wrong and you don't know anything!" He felt at least eight year's worth of frustration bubbling up to confuse him. He didn't know what he was going to do if Peter kept insisting he'd killed his own family because of his ability. It was a perfectly logical assumption, too. It fit him like a glove. The truth…wasn't much better. Whatever answers his family could have given might have been more terrible than the stories he'd conjured up because he knew he couldn't handle those truths. Now, he didn't want to tell anything about it even as his silence made him look all the more guilty. Lifting his chin, and growling through gritted teeth, he said, "That's bullshit when I left my father alive – my father, who had dozens of abilities and lied to me about every question I asked. But I understand that it's easier for you if I'm the original bad guy here. What you believe doesn't change anything."

XXX

Peter registered the body language – the way Sylar's hand slipped down the pool cue closer to the balance point, knuckles whitening; the change in pitch and literally baring his teeth as he talked – yet at the same time the last two statements were an attempt to give Peter an out, as if trying to say, 'I don't care, that didn't actually hurt me like it did, what you think doesn't matter anyway.' All patently false. Sylar cared a lot. Peter had hit close to the bone on this one, but not close enough for Peter's version of events to be true. "I'm wrong. I see that." In a softer voice, Peter said, "When I don't _know_ , I have to believe something." Sylar also looked guilty as hell, despite and because of his failure to address Peter's uncertainties. Once again, there was a complete absence of mention of Sylar's mother. Peter looked at the pool table. There was one white ball, one black, and a solid blue of Sylar's. Peter's last play had been sinking one of his balls. He guessed it was still his turn, but the eight was flush with the bumper. He took a light shot to dislodge it for later, not bothering to call a pocket even though it was potentially the last shot of the game. It rolled to the middle of the table and stopped. "Your turn."

XXX

He didn't realize just how tense he was until Peter appeared to drop the subject and return his focus to the game. It left him feeling…shocky. He almost wanted to tell Peter the truth, to his own surprise. But Petrelli didn't ask to 'understand' as much as he claimed. No, it was more entertainment and moral judgment, comparing himself to Sylar. Petrelli wasn't to be trusted. "Do you?" he asked, with fading venom. "You just happen to believe the worst possible thing." Sylar shook his head, relaxing further still, moving slowly to position himself around the table. Mostly to himself he muttered, "Would have thought Hiro would have run to tell you about it."

XXX

 _You're still not saying the worst possible thing isn't what really happened_. Peter tilted his head at Sylar's last comment. "What would Hiro have told me?"

XXX

Sylar froze in the act of lining up for his shot, eyes losing focus for a moment but not taking them off the ball. "Nothing." So Peter didn't know or was playing dumb. "I'm not going to tell you, Peter. It's personal. I don't have to explain." That was said with some confidence, more than he truly felt. It was a close game. Sylar having a better understanding but Peter had more experience. The cue ball was in a good, open position but his ball was near the edge of the table. Pulling back and pushing forward with his stick, he scratched…somewhat intentionally. Sylar straightened and looked at Peter. "Thanksgiving must have been extra weird for you, then; watching your mother being cut into again and feeling just as helpless to stop it."

XXX

Peter bristled. "Yeah, it was," he said stiffly. His skin flushed cold while his core flashed hot. The way Sylar said it – an offhand comment, an unimportant event other than to use as a jab at Peter – ran all through him. _That's all that was to him? I don't believe that!_ He felt unreal, like he wasn't really there, instead remembering his feelings of impotence in that moment, fixed against the wall in his apartment. All he wanted to do was tear Sylar apart with his bare hands, but he knew words would do a better job of it than any blows. "Is that how it was for _you_ – 'extra weird'?" Peter snarled. He wondered if Sylar had seen his own mother die that way, the way Peter could remember the horrified look on Angela's face in that Level 5 cell. "Is that why you stopped, because some shred of Nathan's humanity didn't want to watch his mother die that way, right in front of him _by his own hand_?" Peter took a single measured step closer to the pool table. Sylar couldn't hold him back here. He had no wealth of abilities to protect him. "Or was it that some shred of _yours_ didn't want to see your mother murdered all over _again_?" Peter's last word was a grimace of bared teeth.

XXX

Sylar noticed Peter was not returning his attention to the game. That, and the attitude, drew a frown from him. He tilted his head while Peter made it painfully clear exactly how his words sounded. He stood patiently, weathering the Storm Petrelli until the final note. It felt like he'd been stabbed with an icicle. How did he know? Had Peter guessed? Sylar quickly adjusted his expression to be the blankest of canvases before it could give him away (but perhaps the blood draining away from his face did that anyway). His chin went up and he crossed his arms. _That was a lucky, barely educated guess_. He wouldn't fall for the trap of explaining himself, confirming or denying. He was rattled, exposed – struck by the honesty, self-inflicted hurt, and guilt he didn't know how to acknowledge. Instead, he clarified what he'd intended to convey.

"If you're quite finished losing your marbles…?" He asked, voice betraying only the tiniest shake hidden beneath an acidic, patronizing delivery. "What I meant was: in light of the new information I didn't know then about you killing your brother in the past that you say never actually happened and feeling helpless against having my ability then…and feeling helpless…at Thanksgiving. It's like it happened twice." _Maybe because he stepped on butterflies or something._ "That's all."

XXX

Peter was unconvinced by Sylar's attempt at poise, but he noticed how tightly the emotions had been bottled up. If he kept tearing at the man, there would be an explosion neither of them wanted. But Peter wasn't going to let Sylar deny what had happened. Peter shook his head slowly. His words came out steady and still harsh with anger. "I was stuck to that wall in my apartment because of _you_ , not because of me. The one makes me hate _you_ , the other makes me hate _myself_. That wasn't _my_ hand," he swapped the pool stick to his left hand so he could lift the right in the manner Sylar had used in front of him at Thanksgiving, when Peter hadn't been able to stop him, "I was looking down, in that apartment, at someone I loved." He moved his fingers slightly to the side as though actually using Sylar's ability to cut into someone. Though in this case, the target for his pointing would have been a few feet to the side of Sylar. It made his stomach twist to do it. Peter grimaced and shook his head again. "You can't convince me you didn't see her as your mother, because you're _still_ confusing me for your brother." Peter looked off into the distance to the side, imagining the chaos that must have been going on in Sylar's head back at the apartment. "I guess Nathan would have done the same thing I did in that situation – get overwhelmed, have to do it, no matter who it was." His eyes focused on Sylar again. "What you did to her then – stopped in the middle, couldn't finish – was almost exactly what I did to _him_ in the future. Except I took it just a few seconds further, and he was dead."

XXX

Sylar was so relieved when Peter didn't look at him to drive home the worst fact – that, at best, he'd been confused then about himself and about his relationship to Angela. He anticipated Peter would demand answers about what he'd been thinking, feeling, aiming to achieve…but no inquiry came. He did not expect Peter to bring it back to himself nor did he know how to proceed. Anything he said, no matter how casual or unrelated, was likely to piss off the Italian. "So it's still my fault and always will be. Does it help you if I pretend to be surprised?" he asked sarcastically.

XXX

Peter snarled at him, angry all over again at Sylar's tone more than the actual words. "Yes, Sylar, it's still your fault! It was _always_ your fault! It will always _be_ your fault!" Peter moved a step closer, leaning forward in Sylar's direction. With an expression of disgust, he added, "You can pretend whatever the fuck you want. You know what you did!"

Peter turned his head to the side, his lips tight as he moved away again. He hadn't meant to snap like that, but the words were out. He breathed out through bared, but not clenched, teeth and turned to the table. He collected the white ball from when Sylar had scratched, gripping it in his fist as hard as he could. He tried to ignore the urge to smash it into Sylar's face. Instead, he deposited it on the felt-covered slate with a loud smack, then moved behind it to take his shot. He breathed out again, focused on what he was doing, and sunk the eight ball in one smooth, satisfying shot. As it went in, he realized he hadn't called the pocket. For a moment, it occurred to him they'd never clarified the rules they were using so maybe he was fine; then he remembered Sylar was operating with Nathan's memories. Sylar knew exactly what the Petrelli house rules were. That's why they'd started the game without so much as a mention of them. Peter threw his stick on the table with a rattle and stalked off to the far end of the room. The game was over either way.

XXX

It was a definitive tone from Peter at last. In a long-suffering, morbid way, he thought, _I wonder how 'forgiveness' factors into that?_ There was no question of what he could/should do to fix anything from the past – yet another surprise. Perhaps not so surprising since it was clear Peter didn't have a clue what to impose to fix the past. Sylar remained where he was, arms crossed and unimpressed by the huffing and puffing, but ultimately passive-aggressive pool play. That was almost disappointing, particularly when he could feel the other man's tension.

Even as Peter's ball rolled towards the pocket, Sylar noticed the oversight of the rule to call out the pocket for the final shot. He knew Peter had won, so he transferred a knowing gaze to Peter. They exchanged a look and he could tell Peter was aware of the mistake, even if a technical one. Neither said anything about it as Peter quit in a show of poor sportsmanship (he'd won after all). Sylar ignored some of his more frustrated, violent urges to put the little snot in his place and teach him that Sylar's mother was completely off-limits and beyond reproach. Instead, he acted as if nothing bothered him as he claimed the couch and the book he'd had Peter fetch for him earlier.

XXX

Peter paced restlessly. He kept himself to the opposite end of the room where he wasn't so tempted to pick a fight (physical or verbal) with Sylar. When the sharpest edge of his anger had passed, he noisily beat on the speed bag until his knuckles hurt, trying to vent the dark energy that way. It didn't help. He glared at Sylar after, then moved to the pool table. Peter racked the balls for another game, intending to shoot solo, but as soon as he was ready he lost interest. He clipped the stick into the rack on the side of the table, then leaned against the game and stared at the far wall, arms crossed.

He was still upset. He could feel the emotions coiling through him, cycling repetitively. He didn't want to play the piano, or the guitar, or pool, or put the ping pong table half-up to play it, or do a puzzle, or even go work out. He wanted to yell at Sylar and not even about anything immediate. The man was sitting over there minding his own business, but Peter still wanted to tear into him. For cutting into his mother's head at Thanksgiving. For shoving him against the wall and making him watch that, seemingly aware of how exceptionally cruel it was to make Peter witness his mother's impending mutilation and death. Sylar had been sadistically enjoying Peter's plight as a side effect of the main course of murder. Then he'd so casually brought it up, 'must have been extra weird for you', acting oblivious to the trauma he inflicted on others. Yet he'd banked on it during the act, smirking in pleasure at other's pain. This was just that one incident – one incident where no one died and Peter was jaded enough to think he and his mother had come out of it shaken, but relatively unscathed.

 _Then why do I want to pulverize him so badly?_ Peter uncrossed his arms and looked at his tightly clenched fists. _This isn't going to work. No more than it did when I had Ted's power. I've got to calm down_. He took a deep breath and deliberately stretched out his fingers. _I have to live here with him. He's not a monster. He's not a psychopath. I don't understand him, but beating the crap out of him (or trying to) isn't going to help_. Peter exhaled slowly and looked at the ceiling, letting his hands fall to his sides. _See him as a person, a patient, a human being. What would calm me down?_

Peter pursed his lips, an idea popping into his head. It seemed workable. He didn't even have to swallow too much of his pride. He walked over to Sylar. "Let me see your feet." His tone was clipped. It was almost, but not quite, a question. He resisted the urge to put his fists on his hips.

XXX

If he'd had time to examine it, Sylar would have noticed he was tense just from Peter's body language and increasing proximity. He was wary, looking up at Peter's superior height. Whatever follow-up Peter had would not be pleasant- But when Peter spoke, it erased everything he'd been anticipating. Feet? How did that connect with anything? Blankly, he blinked at his companion as if to say, 'I don't think I heard you right.'

XXX

Peter looked away uncomfortably, then back. _He probably thinks I want to break his toes or something._ He shifted his weight and fidgeted. Images of little kids being required to hug it out or wear a get-along shirt came to mind. He grasped for some explanation that didn't sound so demeaning because what he was trying to do wasn't juvenile discipline but rather tap into the basic human nature that worked on both children and adults. "Remember what we said about after fights – a massage?" His tone of voice was better, but it came out awkward and kind of strangled.

XXX

 _Oh! That was a fight? When I said that I meant…(it as a joke) physical fights. That was upsetting enough to need a massage?_ What he said aloud was, "Yes." It was two types of agreement.

XXX

Peter sat down about midway down on the couch and gestured stiffly to his lap. "Take your shoes off. Let me see your feet. It's just like at the hospital when you had frostbite." He tried to make this sound not strange, like they'd done it before, like it was okay and normal and just something they did to cope with each other. But Peter remained tense. He felt like he should be embarrassed.

XXX

It must have been the context, but the…request? command? felt like he was being told to undress in some way. Sylar moved back into the couch arm to accommodate Peter, setting his book aside to bare his feet as directed. He wasn't dreading Peter doing anything to his feet. If anything, it was just the opposite. It had to be wrong to enjoy Peter touching him at all, let alone after a mild disagreement about murdered family members. It was definitely wrong to be gleeful about the contact. It took him less than thirty seconds to strip off his shoes and place them beside Peter's thigh. To offset his own awkward uncertainty, he murmured, "You really do have a thing for feet."

XXX

Peter felt relief at getting such quick cooperation without a challenge, without having to explain himself or justify what he was doing. It was such a surprise that he chuckled at Sylar's comment, ready to accept whatever theory Sylar wanted to put forward (other than the truth: Peter was upset and wanted to know everything was okay with the only other human being around). "Yeah."

He put his hands on Sylar's feet – doing no more than that for a few seconds, just resting one hand on each. Then he tugged loose the socks from where they were stuck to Sylar's skin due to pressure and perhaps sweat. He didn't want Sylar thinking he had a foot fetish. That wasn't what this was about. But he needed to say something, so he ran with it. "I have a thing for faces, too. And eyes. Lips. The shape of people's noses." He lifted Sylar's feet into his lap, heels in the valley between his legs. Peter peeled off the socks and set them closer to Sylar. Again, he let his hands simply rest on the bared skin as he stared sightlessly at them, feeling the faint tingle under his palms. His shoulders slowly loosened.

"Hands," Peter went on after the pause. "Hands and feet are pretty important – delicate, all those nerve endings. People underestimate how much you need them. They're sensitive. You get one hangnail or ingrown toenail and you realize just how much pain your body can tell you about." He began to rub gently, talking slower. "I don't think I have much of a thing for knees or elbows. But backs are good. Butts. Thighs. Sometimes calves, if there's definition. Not so much ankles. I guess joints aren't where I'm at. Except wrists, maybe shoulders, but not armpits. Forearms are good, too." His voice had softened. The strain in his back was lifting. The boiling rage he'd been feeling had evaporated, just as he'd hoped it would.

XXX

As expected, Peter removed his socks and again, Sylar felt a twinge of discomfort and dismay – surely his feet smelled or were dirty in some capacity. Peter appeared to relax, though, Sylar's feet in his lap and touching them gently. So Sylar leaned back and exhaled as well, listening. _'The shape of people's noses'?_ he repeated to himself, amused. He'd never given it much thought. Peter mentioned hands and Sylar's eyes darted to where the medic's hands were caressing his feet from all sides. Distantly he noticed his heart was beating faster, even listening to Peter talk about hangnails and ingrown toenails…and on to butts, thighs, calves, shoulders…listing body parts and touching him. _He wants to fuck me. He's touching me and talking about what he likes._ Sylar felt himself flushing with inappropriate heat. It was a very intimate, strange storytelling that he didn't think he'd prompted or asked for. His imagination was supplying him with helpful images: Peter touching him in all those places or Sylar touching Peter, it really didn't matter. The last time Peter had done something like this…well, Sylar had misunderstood and kissed Peter. He swallowed and slid his hand off to the side, retrieving his book to place it over his lap.

XXX

Peter started giving more of a proper foot massage – it might look odd if he didn't. His grip became firmer, manipulating the foot and stretching the joints through their normal range of motion. He rubbed each toe in turn, hesitating at the one Sylar had jammed. "How's your toe? Will it hurt if I do anything with it?"

XXX

Sylar's imagination was running wild. Touching his toes, while not erotic of itself, tickled his nerves in a very pleasant way combined with previous experiences and the pep talk was shamefully arousing him. _How did he turn me into the pervert with a thing for feet?_ he wondered frantically but couldn't bring himself to care too much about it – Peter was either innocent or doing it on purpose and playing along. Sylar shook his head in response to the second question; his throat felt dry.

XXX

At the lack of verbal answer, Peter glanced over to see the head movement. Sylar was…flushed. With a book over his groin. Peter snapped his eyes back to the feet in his lap, realizing Sylar's repeated accusations of sexual interest in feet might have more to do with Sylar than Peter. _Oh._ He thought about what to do about that. _How about nothing? Nothing sounds good. Let him stew. He won't die of blue balls. It's kind of cool he likes it that much_ _._ Peter smiled slightly and devoted himself even more to his task. He could do a really good job of it when properly motivated. It wasn't hard to listen to Sylar's slightly accelerated breathing. The whole world was quiet, they were a few feet apart, and neither was speaking.

As he wound things up, he touched over the sides of Sylar's feet with one or two fingers, stroking the soft, smooth skin. Sylar had the usual patch of dark hair on the top of each foot, along with tufts for each toe. Peter's touch skirted around them, outlining them, interested in the difference. He ruffled the hair, then smoothed it, then made a slow circuit of the hairless part of the top of each foot for a second time. His hands were buzzing with pleasant energy. He glanced over, his eyes snagging only for a moment on the book before continuing to Sylar's face. Was the paperback at a different angle? How much of an effect had Peter's ministrations had? He knew it was twisted to gain satisfaction from teasing the guy, but on the list of wrongs between them, it seemed pretty insignificant. "Are you doing okay over there?" His voice was just a little bit sultry and smug. Peter was definitely feeling better.

XXX

Sylar had completely forgotten what he needed to present: was he pleased or just humoring his partner? He didn't care and didn't struggle with his answer for long. "Great," he replied huskily. He perversely hoped Peter wasn't finished even if it extended his torture. _Does he know?_ _It_ _was really stupid to fall for this_ _,_ he reminded himself. _What if he wants to play another game or go somewhere? He didn't intend for it to be anything…Unless…he's trying to win me over so I'll 'save his friends._ ' That drew a momentary frown from Sylar as he stared sightlessly at Peter's hands resting on his feet.

When it seemed like Peter was winding down (while winding him up), getting it out of his system, Sylar cleared his throat and instructed, "Your turn."

XXX

"What?" Peter had been caught up in a fantasy of Sylar pining after him and being unable to do anything about it. Somehow he'd overlooked the aspect of 'fair play', or even simply that when they'd done this at the Y; it had been reciprocated there, too.

XXX

"It's your turn." As he said it, Sylar knew he was on the right track. "We fight; we give massages." That was a bulletproof excuse especially when Peter himself had just used it.

XXX

Suddenly, getting Sylar all sorts of turned on looked like a bad idea. _Unless he does something really out there, like try to suck my toes, what can he really do? This is safe_. That decided, Peter moved to unlace his shoes.

XXX

Because he hadn't thought it through beyond how getting his hands on Peter was a good thing, he knew when he saw Peter bending for his shoes that he didn't want Peter's feet. _Just a different quid pro quo._ "No. Your back." It felt good to express that like a command or a desire he wanted fulfilled. _You said you liked that. I bet you enjoy being touched there. 'Non_ _-_ _sexually' of course,_ he mentally sniggered. The more he thought about it, the more his dick ached, pushing at his self-control.

XXX

"Uh…" _That wasn't the plan. (Not that I had a plan. Shit.)_ Peter looked at Sylar for a moment like a deer in the headlights before blinking it away and sighing. _Fine, whatever. He can't do anything to me that way either. (At least, not anything bad.)_ Reluctantly, he turned his back. His spine straightened as Sylar scooted closer and Peter couldn't stop shooting glances over his shoulder to see exactly what the other man was doing. Despite his attempt to tell himself there was nothing a sexually stimulated Sylar was likely to do to him in the current situation, Peter's subconscious was on high alert. It felt like the hairs on the back of his neck were trying to stand up.

XXX

This was exactly where he wanted Peter. They were less than a foot apart, although Sylar had his leg bent, lying flat to support himself on the couch between his pelvis and Peter. "Hmm," he purred approvingly, making it sound like he was settling in. Sylar clapped his hands on Peter's shoulders in a familiar way, squeezing once, hard before sliding his thumbs in and up towards the back of the neck that was presented to him. The skin of his neck was unprotected and soft.

XXX

Peter twitched hard at the sudden contact. He faced away and grimaced, baring his teeth with nerves.

XXX

"You need to relax more. I can help with that. I don't bite often," he chuckled, easy and calm. "I agree with you about hands. They're extremely sensitive. So are backs – tons of nerve endings. Maybe you need massages more often to help you cope with your tension." This speech was slow, matching the work of his hands gripping and rubbing at Peter's upper back and shoulders through the shirt. _(Do I dare talk about his ass?)_

XXX

Peter found himself struggling to control his breathing, to even it out, to relax. The contact itself was fine – good pressure, not so much that it hurt and not so little as to be nothing but a caress. He made a brief shudder and let his head hang forward, slowly and cautiously releasing his tension as his unruly instincts settled down. "Maybe," he said quietly. _What I need is more certainty that I'm okay with you. That I know what you're going to do next and that it's something I can deal with. More contact would probably give me that rather than less – not necessarily massages. I need trust._

XXX

"You're very proportionate – symmetrical, balanced, fit. Like a finely crafted machine. I suppose there's something to be said for muscles. Strength…Dominance…Power…" He murmured this as his fingers slipped over Peter's shoulders, brushing over his collarbones and the tops of his pectorals. It brought his face close enough to breathe on Peter and breathe him in. His chest was nearly against Peter's back. Even if this started a fight…well, they both might get off on it. It would be worth it.

XXX

 _Oh fuck._ Peter had no more lowered his defenses, forcing himself to accept Sylar's touch, than Sylar took up the slack, literally closing the distance between them so Peter could sense the heat of the man's body faintly through his shirt. He could feel Sylar's breath against his neck. And the words – it sounded so much like Sylar was admiring him. Peter certainly wanted to see it that way. He could feel himself getting turned on. A tingle danced across his skin where Sylar was touching him.

XXX

"And healthy hair…" Sylar had been working his way back up the column of Peter's neck, now sliding his fingers into Peter's hair at the scalp. It wasn't often Peter allowed him to touch in return. At the moment, it was forbidden, covert, and extremely perverted, but beneath that it was sweet and simple. Sylar was still aroused; more so than he'd been for Peter's massage of his feet, and was desperately controlling his urges to push for more.

XXX

Peter made a strangled, needy noise as Sylar's fingers splayed through his hair. A vivid fantasy shot through his mind: Sylar making a fist in his hair, arching him back, pressing the line of their bodies together so Peter could feel Sylar hot, hard, and wanting against his back, holding Peter firm around the chest, and then Sylar biting him on the side of the throat to renew that much-faded mark. It could happen. It was so close to happening. Peter wondered if he ought to just turn around, shove the man down on the couch, and climb on top of him to get it over with, to end the sexual tension with a decisive affirmation. He wanted to so badly it hurt, threatening to blot out any other rational thought or concern. At the same time, he knew none of this was going to work in reality. He'd popped the guy in the face not an hour earlier for simply kissing him. No matter how much he wanted it right now, he needed to be sure it was what he would still want in an hour, or the next day.

"No." Peter dropped a hand to Sylar's left knee, the one on the outside, foot resting on the floor while the knee nudged Peter's thigh. Peter used it to lever himself up, pulling away from all that sensual touch, feeling it fall away with a nearly physical pain. "No," he said again and mostly as direction for himself. Peter stood and took several steps away before looking back at Sylar. It was hard to sort out that this was just a back massage. They were both erect, or at least Peter assumed so. His gaze was thirstily locked on Sylar's face. He didn't need to check lower down for signs of interest or to see how visible his own reaction was. "No," he said a third time, slowly shaking his head. As steadily as he could muster it, Peter said, "I'm going to my apartment. I'll be back to the penthouse for dinner."

XXX

Sylar held his breath for a moment, wanting to continue before Peter could completely change his mind and commit to it – knowing, too, that if he continued, Peter might succumb. But even that brief pause allowed Peter to recover and pull away. Sylar let him slip out from beneath his hands, feeling helpless and rejected, confused about whether to be hurt or angry. When he looked at Peter's face he caught the full force of the empath's desire. Sylar stared back with predatory intensity to match. He wanted nothing more than to tackle this irritating man and fuck him on the carpet. Then the words…Peter needed some private alone time after this – no question what he would be doing with his…private time. Sylar smirked an evil, knowing smirk. _Back for dinner and_ _dessert_ _._ When Peter didn't retreat fast enough, he tried one last ploy, standing, dashing forward to grab hold of Peter's elbow, "No. No, no, Peter. Don't go. Stay. Relax. Live a little." He was so hot and knowing that Peter was hot for it was giving him thrills. He sidled up next to Peter, looming over him.

XXX

 _There's really no harm in it._ Peter knew that – it was 'only' sex and the lines were already thoroughly blurred by sleeping together, cooking for one another, sharing meals, providing medical care, and…massages that were fast turning into a flimsy excuse for mutual stimulation. He looked at Sylar with both misgivings and yearning, searching for the words to express the complicated emotions roiling inside him. _If I stay, I'm going to do things I might regret, or at the very least, I'll never be sure if I did the right thing or just what was convenient. ('Convenient' meaning what my dick wants to do.)_ He breathed out slowly. "I can't, Sylar," he said earnestly. "I just can't." Peter pulled away from the grip on his arm, picking up his coat on the way but not bothering to zip it shut or get his headband in place.

XXX

Peter paused, clearly thinking it through. It appeared to be a difficult thought process. But the fact that Peter took the time and used it to think already told him the answer. It was always that last little push he couldn't get yet. Yet. He'd tried everything, some things getting a better response than others and some of the more classic moves were forbidden. That left him with only the moves that showed any promise. He still held onto Peter's arm, close enough to smell the man again as he watched the rejection work its way to Peter's mouth. _Yes, you can. You want to_ , he nearly said. It seemed pointless to voice it. Sylar tried to decide if it was worse to say it or remain silent. He let Peter move away and walk out.

XXX

Peter slogged through the drifted snow to his apartment, fortunately just across the street so he didn't have to go far. His erection managed to survive until he was in the elevator. By the time he was in his apartment and actually able to do something about his arousal, it was entirely gone. He snorted, rolled his eyes at the contrariness of his body, and wrapped up in the blankets on his bed after shucking his damp jeans. He wasn't tired, but he had to think things over. The cold weather discouraged doing it from the rooftop, so here he was.

_I want him. He wants me. We're already kissing. Or at least he's kissing me and I could have stopped him before he started but I didn't. I only stopped him when he was licking me. We're rubbing each other down and making out. Even if we're not making out for very long, we're making out. I knew he was turned on. I played with him anyway. I stoked him up. I can't just…do that. It's cruel. And it's stupid. And it's completely hypocritical if I'm trying to pretend there's something morally wrong with us having sex._

Is _it wrong?_ And that was the question. Peter floundered on trying to find an answer. _'_ _Relax. Live a little.'_ Peter sighed. It was so harmless. Yes, stay. Enjoy each other. Get off. Get him off. Do something more satisfying than yelling accusations and trying not to let things escalate to where they were hitting each other over the head with pool sticks. But wasn't it morally wrong to bring pleasure to someone who had wronged you so deeply? _No, actually, it's morally right to put aside grievances. But I haven't put aside any grievances. I just want to be with him anyway. Like eating together, or playing pool. Or touching him._ Peter frowned, his fingers stroking over the blanket restlessly.

 _I'm not going to leave. I came here to get him. I'm not going to live alone, and obviously I'm not going to be a monk. I think I've been hard up more often here than I had been for those years since Ireland._ Very slowly he thought through, _Would I be able to live with myself if I went ahead and was with him? If I ever run into Nathan again, in some other timeline or whatever, could I face him after having done that? Or Claire? Or Ma? Ma probably knows already. If she does, and she didn't tell me, then that's on her. My lying family. Ma, Nathan, Dad – all of them. Lied. Betrayed. Used me. At a certain point, they don't get my loyalty. If I want to work things out with Sylar, that's my decision. Fuck them. Maybe Claire would understand – her whole thing with Noah. She knows how complicated things can be._

 _This whole thing is complicated. Sylar's still got Nathan's memories. Sometimes he still thinks he_ is _Nathan. What will he think of me if I go that far with him? I mean, sure, he says, 'Live a little', but is he going to be okay with that? I doubt he'd know until after it happens. Nathan didn't have many scruples about cheating, but I'll bet it will be different when it's him being betrayed._

 _When. Not if. 'After it happens'. Huh._ Peter noticed his language had changed. It made him feel cold inside, afraid, yet even more determined to work through this. He took a deep breath and moved on. _Then there's Sylar himself. I've been so concerned he'd be even more of an asshole if we did something. But we've already done a lot. He hasn't gloated about medical treatment or me holding him after his breakdowns or made comments about sleeping together. Or even about scoring a kiss or me getting turned on. He's even thanked me for some stuff. I think he realizes…He's not taking me for granted._

_So what do I do? Things are so easily screwed up between us. Just…let it happen, like he said? No…no. I don't think this is going to work if I let him call the shots. I have to be smart about this. I have to be safe. I have to keep us both safe. He's a serial killer who wants to fuck me as revenge against my family_ _, but that's not all he is. I'm not going to forget that_ _. I don't understand him, but I know he's not a psychopath. He's not a sociopath_ _, either_ _. Whatever happened to his mother, he feels guilt. He's human._

_So am I._

His own humanity, his own internal admission that he couldn't resist his desires forever, was painful, yet honest. Also important was how 'on his own' Peter felt he was, and had been, since the brief familial feeling he'd shared with Nathan at Coyote Sands and then the Stanton Hotel. Watching the group burn what Peter had thought was Sylar's body had turned his stomach. It was proof they'd learned nothing from Coyote Sands. They were still killing one another, but he didn't know what else he could do. Peter had walked away after that and kept as much to himself as he could manage. Now, here he was trapped in Sylar's mind and no one – not Matt, not Peter's mother, not Rene – was going to come along and help him. Or help Sylar. Peter had no one…except for Sylar.

He roused himself from the bed and pulled dry jeans from the dresser. Steeling himself, he made another short trudge through the knee-deep snow to the Pegasus. Peter stomped off the wet, clinging snow before heading up to the penthouse to find his sole companion. Once at the door, he knocked loudly with three solid raps.


	144. Touch and Be Touched

Day 75, February 23, Evening

Sylar jumped at the sound of the knock in the middle of making soup and sandwiches. He'd had plenty of time to talk himself out of everything he thought he'd seen earlier. He'd completely misread the foot massage and casual conversation; he'd made Peter uncomfortable; and just because Peter wanted to fuck, that didn't mean anything – there was a difference. _He needs space, like he says. I'm too needy._ Then Peter interrupted all of that. He cleared his throat, "…Yeah?"

XXX

The enticing scent of food cooking filled Peter's nose as he came inside. He inhaled deeply as he shrugged out of his coat, identifying it as something tomato-based. "You're already cooking?" He was pleasantly surprised by that. It had been a while, if ever, that Sylar had prepared food ahead of time for Peter. He recalled the sandwich Sylar had brought him in the rec room to end a period where Peter was refusing to talk to him. _Is giving me food his version of making up? Hm. It could be a pattern. Is he trying to make up? Like this is his version of me needing to touch him to relax and get okay with things between us?_

XXX

Sylar looked him over, walking a few steps out of the kitchen and saw that Peter was apparently going to stay – for dinner at least. It was a strange, reluctant or nervous sense of relief. He gave a nod of greeting. "Why do you bother knocking?" he asked, both confused and superior. Then he returned to the kitchen, pretending he was busier with the food than was necessary. _(Rude much?) Was I supposed to make dinner for both of us? What if he got hungry and ate? What if he wants something else? Of course he wants something else – he wants to be anywhere but here!_ "Um…dinner's-" _almost ready – I'm not his fucking housewife!_ "Soup and sandwiches," he finished over his hunched shoulders.

XXX

Peter snorted lightly at the comment about knocking. _He thinks I should just come in like I own the place? Maybe he thinks I_ do _own the place. What would I do if I did – own the place, own him?_ He followed Sylar into the kitchen, his eyes on the man's backside. _I would definitely admire the view a little more._ He'd already tried the 'take charge' approach before, the attempt having included fiascos like Sylar openly laughing at him and goading Peter into a sadistic flogging. _I need to do this differently. Somehow._ Peter leaned around Sylar, closer than was strictly necessary, to see what he was assembling in the way of sandwiches. "Looks great!" He paused, glancing up at Sylar's profile. He saw the drawn-in, insecure body language calling out to him for some manner of reassurance. Peter reached out to the small of Sylar's back – it was right there in easy reach – and stroked lightly with his fingertips, his contact ending up mostly on the fabric rather than pressing that fabric firmly against Sylar's skin. He did it until the first sign that Sylar had noticed, then broke away as though he'd done nothing unusual. Peter said innocently, "I'll get the drinks."

XXX

 _It's just grilled cheese. You've made it before,_ Sylar initially thought, relieved all the same that Peter sounded interested. He noted the unnecessary proximity and dismissed it. Then it was followed by an unnecessary look…at close range. He saw that out of the corner of his eye, still focused on his task. It was followed by the lightest touch against his lower back – Peter's favorite spot. It surprised him because if he didn't know better… _But I do know better. This is Peter Petrelli._ Sylar didn't move and barely paused in the act of buttering the bread front and back. That seemed like such an obvious signal; surely he was overthinking something innocent. After Peter moved away, the brush of Peter's hand still tingling stupidly against his back, Sylar shifted his weight and glanced after the man. It was an unvoiced question of curiosity. He went back to placing the first sandwich on the grill.

XXX

Peter put out water for both of them and set the table. He watched Sylar as the other man tended the last sandwich at the stove. He looked at the way Sylar stood, the way he moved, and the way he held himself. Peter had seen it all before, but not with the frame of mind he had now. He wanted to really _see_ Sylar and not just be aware of him. How did he feel? What kind of a person was he? What was going on for him? What was he into? Peter didn't try to answer the questions – the answer was right in front of him in the form of another human being. He just had to look for them. When Sylar brought the food over, Peter was still watching him with an absorbed expression. With an awareness that Sylar might not appreciate the attention, Peter snapped out of it somewhat to sit down to eat.

XXX

Sylar took a bite of his sandwich first with the logic that he could always reheat the soup, but a reheated grilled sandwich would be unappetizing. "Does any of that actually help you? Any of that stuff you're so desperate to ask me about?"

XXX

Peter smiled a little at how parallel Sylar's question was to what Peter was doing. "Yes, it does." He took a bite of perfectly grilled bread – crispy, salty, and hot, with warm, gooey cheese in the middle. "This is really good," he said, indicating the food before going on to Sylar's question. "It's important. _People_ are important to me and they always have been. You," Peter made an offhand gesture at Sylar with the crusty half of sandwich still in his hand, "this isn't about survival for you – this thing of who you are, your identity. If you just wanted to survive, if that was your highest priority, most important thing for you, then you'd have stayed as Nathan. Fly under the radar. Money, career, people – you said it was okay, really, living his life. Little lonely, but okay. No threats, no Company knocking, no people chasing you down for revenge." Peter shrugged and glanced to the side, thinking about the number of specials Nathan had wronged in his brief stint with Homeland Security. "Probably. But my point is, you'd have been a lot safer as Nathan than as Sylar." Peter tilted his head forward, looking up at Sylar with raised brows for emphasis. "But that's not what you wanted. That's not the life you wanted. You wanted your own. You wanted to be _you_." Peter made an equivocal shift of his head. "I want to know who that person is."

XXX

As he listened, Sylar felt himself grow angry. Peter went on long enough for him to figure out how he felt in order to come up with a reply. _Of course it's not about survival. It should be. It was for a long time. It isn't now. Obviously I should have stayed as Nathan – just let myself go and live a good life with a family. That was the easy thing to do. Why couldn't I do it? What's so great about my life that I keep hanging onto like it's so damn important? I keep shoving my importance in Peter's face but I don't know why I do it. The princip_ _le_ _? Nathan was an asshole?_ Sylar stared down at the dull red tomato soup to hide his expression and buy time. _Is this Peter's way of saying 'Good choice! Enjoy it! You could have been my brother and had it all'?_ _That is…next level Petrelli mind-fucking._ He was disturbed yet impressed by that.

He knew Peter's motivation though. Boredom and his little quest combined. "You want to know how useful I can be, what else I can do for you besides fucking you senseless. Reminding me I can still go back to being your brother is clever. And asking me if it was all worth it is just the cherry on top. But now I'm curious – what is it you really want to know?" He said it smooth and calm with his trademark undercurrent of sarcasm. With that, he took a bite of his sandwich, all attention on Peter.

XXX

Peter sighed, pursed his lips, and shook his head as he looked away. Then he looked back to Sylar to tell him, "You keep asking that question. I keep answering it. Then you ask it again like I didn't just answer it. You don't believe me. I get it. But then why do you ask me a second time, like I might say something different? Isn't that some police interrogation technique? Just keep asking someone until social pressure makes them cave and start telling you what you want to hear rather than the truth?" He was irritated that Sylar was obfuscating again, as always. In the face of 'I want to get to know you', Peter was getting accusations and what he thought were semi-deliberate misinterpretations. It was disappointing, but a pattern of defensiveness, and as much as Peter might want to complain about it, he knew that would get him nowhere. _There's no way I can prove myself here! I don't have anything…there's nothing I can do to show him._

XXX

Sylar smirked because Peter was completely correct. Except for the part about Peter telling him what he wanted to hear rather than the truth. More like the other way around. "Okay. Are you asking for information to change something for yourself or are you asking for it in order to change me?" The smirk disappeared as he chewed on another bite, but mostly he was hiding his smugness at basically rewording the same question. It was still an important distinction.

XXX

Peter narrowed his eyes at Sylar, not happy about the way Sylar dangled the bait of knowledge as though offering to grant it if Peter's answers were sufficiently pleasing to him. The words seemed innocent enough, but the expression and tone was anything but. It made Peter's skin crawl, reminding him of some of the worst behavior of Nathan and his father. "I was asking, that's all," he said. He wanted no more to do with the conversation, sensing a trap. He set to his food, which had lost a lot of its savor given the sour turn of the conversation.

XXX

That…wasn't the response he had aimed for. Apparently pushing too hard would result in Peter tuning out. "What? I want to know. It's important to understand your motives." It felt like that was a page from Peter Petrelli's very own book and it was, that was the disturbing part. _We both want to know what motivates the other. Great. We'll never get anywhere (unless I lie my ass off)._

XXX

Peter sighed and set down his spoon harder than necessary, still clutching it in his hand even so. "Exactly. What I do with the information depends on what it is. I don't want to change you – I just want to know about you. That's it! That's my grand, underhanded motivation, Sylar! Congratulations," he added sarcastically, "you've figured me out!" He stopped himself there, trying to control the stifled anger and outrage he could feel bubbling up inside of him at the constant mistrust even over the most basic of things. _I am so tired of having to prove myself to him!_ Peter snarled at his next spoonful of soup, keeping his head down as much as possible. He thought about touching Sylar's back earlier and how little Peter wanted to do with the man now. _That was nice, then. And before, in the rec room. Why is it that he distrusts me so much and yet I still end up wanting him? 'Fucking me senseless'! Fuck him. He wishes. Like this is going to get him anywhere._

XXX

Sylar gave half a smirk at that. Until Peter could openly admit why he wanted to know so badly, 'situation dependent reaction' as an answer wasn't going to work. It was sad, but also true. That part was, anyway. Perhaps for the first time, he seriously considered the idea of giving in to Peter's desire. Even in his head it failed to work. He enjoyed the well-tailored, impossible fantasy, though. _Eventually I'll have to make things up just to get him off my back._ He knew he had nothing to gain by pushing Peter. He allowed his soup and Peter to cool off before they finished the meal in quiet order.

XXX

Peter readied himself for bed as usual, though with less conversation and no eye contact. He was still ticked off, but saw no reason to make himself miserable trying to sleep on the couch, or possibly escalate things by retreating to the other bedroom. Instead, he got in the shared bed like a normal person, not bothering with a barrier, or with sleeping on top of the covers, or leaving his jeans on. It was just t-shirt and boxers, under the sheets, like he would have had the bed been otherwise empty. He turned on his side away from Sylar and didn't touch him. It wasn't until a half hour later, when he was almost entirely asleep, that he rolled over and scooted closer.

XXX

Sylar was very relieved to see Peter sticking around and getting into bed. _Is this 'our' bed or 'the' bed or what? Maybe just 'a' bed._ After brushing his teeth, it was just boxer briefs for sleepwear as he slid onto the mattress. He saw Peter facing away in continued, prolonged silence. _Maybe I should have had him check my back._ Peter wouldn't notice his shirtlessness if Peter was facing away. Briefly he considered saying something apologetic until realizing that Peter was one of many who valued silence and it was probably best to go along with that lest he rock the boat too much. That stung a little but he understood it. He lay quietly on his back until his thoughts eventually let him doze.

A short time after, Sylar woke to something or someone touching him. His reflexes kicked in enough to wake him with a jolt only to remember that this was Peter and Peter did this kind of thing in bed. He wondered if it was sweet or intentional. Either way, it was a great icebreaker even if it involved sleep disturbance. Sylar hummed, touching the back of his hand against Peter for a second, perhaps testing if he was still asleep. Peter snuffled but had no other reaction. Tired and desperate, he decided to go with a plan he'd had months ago. As gracefully as he could with the intentional motions of someone performing a normal task – none of the sneaky, guilty movements that always gave it away, Sylar slipped his thumbs into his waistband and slid his briefs down to his ankles. He didn't want to lose them just in case.

When Peter didn't stir, he continued on a whim. Sylar took the empath's hand, holding it flat and loose, and dragged it softly across his uppermost shoulder and chest. It felt terribly good as far as mere sensation went. His nerves tingled even as he knew it was completely perverted and invasive to continue.

XXX

'Almost entirely asleep' did not mean completely asleep, although Sylar's first actions – a light touch, some shifting around – were nothing to rouse Peter's attention. He was happily continuing his drift into oblivion when Sylar took his hand. That, too, wasn't enough to set off any alarms for his conscious mind. But it was enough to keep him borderline awake. "Mmrm," Peter said, readjusting his body and splaying his fingers a little as he stretched his hand an inch further over the hairy part of Sylar's chest. Something nagged at his consciousness about why he shouldn't be doing that, but he ignored it for the moment.

XXX

It felt intentional. It was far too easy to imagine Peter was awake and molesting him. Or maybe that had been his intention. He knew when Peter woke up and he froze. _Knowing Peter_ _,_ _he'll think this is a dream. He might even enjoy it if he thinks it's a dream. It's not like he wakes up completely every time._ It was a poor excuse and he knew it, but in for a (very illegal) penny. Gradually, Sylar began moving that other hand on him, giving it plenty of time to explore across his chest. If it were possible, it felt even more filthy to think that Peter might be _aware_ …and…allowing this. His breathing deepened. He really wasn't interested in this if Peter was asleep through it because he wanted the invitation to be clear; he craved the attention no matter how immoral. Plus, it was so wrong – one touching the other, in the dark, in a bed.

XXX

 _Should I be doing this?_ Peter thought muzzily about stroking his companion's chest. _Wait, am I doing it at all?_ He realized he wasn't the one moving his hand – that was someone else's doing: Sylar's. Peter's breathing changed for a moment, his eyes blinking open. In the next moment, he quashed that reaction, trying to cover for the irregularity with a deeper, slumbering breath and an all-over relaxation. His eyes shut as he tried to fake sleeping. He had plenty of expert experience in telling sleep from unconsciousness from deception. Less in actually doing it himself, but he was a good actor. _What is he doing? Is he awake?_

XXX

 _If he's awa_ _ke_ _, he's going to punch me, then kill me for this._ Sadly, that wasn't the deterrent it should have been. He led Peter's hand over his rib and side, teasing over his bare flank, listening intently like a predator to Peter's breathing, controlling his own as well. He didn't dare say anything that might break the spell. He sensed that Peter was awake to some degree. It wasn't arousing per se, rubbing Peter's questionably conscious hand over himself, essentially fondling himself with another's hand. But it was something; like supplicating himself: 'see, you can touch. It's yours,' it said. _I want you to remember what this feels like._ With that, Peter's hand was intentionally wrapped around his butt cheek, holding the man's hand against him with the sound of skin against skin and the rustle of bedcovers.

XXX

What Sylar was doing was now perfectly clear. Peter's head was as well – no fog of sleep clouded his thinking. The hardest part was staying relaxed, keeping his hand entirely loose, and continuing to breathe slowly as though resting. _Has he done this with me other times and I didn't wake up or remember it?_ That was concerning, but not a lot – no harm done; it didn't trigger any of Peter's phobias despite being unsettling. _Might explain why he wants me to sleep with him so badly, and not on the couch or just nearby. But I think I would have woke up if he did this before. Like I did this time._

Sylar's skin was so smooth over much of its surface, begging to be stroked. The hairs tickled under Peter's fingertips, joining a steadily increasing tingle of intimacy between them. He wanted to toy with those hairs – lay them one way, then another; muss them and straighten them. He wanted to do many things, but he did nothing, not even when Sylar pressed Peter's hand to the curve of his ass, a sensation Peter had fantasized about but never been so bold as to do – not even close. His control of his breathing failed him for a moment and he huffed out a breath in excitement.

 _Maybe he needs this…deniability, this distance? If it were me moving my hand, it would be another Petrelli doing things to him, manipulating him. He wouldn't be in control, and maybe he needs that? Of course, I hit him today for kissing me and walked out after the massage got to be too much. I haven't given him much of a chance. Every time he tries something I shut him down. I_ do _have something he wants – I have me._

XXX

Sylar swallowed roughly. This was a cold, calculated maneuver yet it still managed to be erotic, all the more forbidden for his choice of timing and location. _Fuck me and get it over with._ He directed and smoothed Peter's hand over and around and somewhat into the curvature of his ass. It nearly gave him gooseflesh. Peter's hand felt rough and his own skin too soft in comparison. He moved the hand down the back of his thigh, then back up to the cheek. After several repetitions, he drifted the hand around his front, over his hairy lower abdomen and just _barely_ over his penis. _Don't wake up and grab me now._ Just one ghosting caress over his dick, up and down.

XXX

 _He's got to be testing me!_ The temptation to act, to take control of the situation, to engage and participate was so strong. A curly brush of hair on Sylar's lower stomach gave way to the velvety skin of Sylar's penis under Peter's palm. Peter wanted to touch and explore so much more than the brief bit he was given. His breathing definitely changed as he pulled in a hiss between his teeth, letting it out slowly as Sylar moved on. _No. Just stay still. Let him. If he wanted me doing things, he'd say so. He's got to know I'm awake. Take it slow. Just let him…take it slow, too. If I want to prove something to him, prove that he can do this and I'll let him – no flipping out, no nothing. Just 'Yeah, he did it, and it was okay'. This is very weird. Funny in a way. So this is how we do things._ Peter accepted that. He smiled slightly, tilting his head forward so his forehead touched Sylar's shoulder.

XXX

Peter didn't grab him. The medic had needed to be shown how to take charge. So Sylar laid the previously well-used hand and forearm around his waist because Peter had placed himself so conveniently close. He relaxed his muscles as if he was back asleep, listening again for a response. After ten long, long minutes, he decided there was nothing even after Peter stirred and settled in slumber. He closed his eyes, confused about what he was or should be feeling and tried to return to sleep and await Peter's reaction to his nudity in the morning.

XXX

Day 76, February 24, Morning

Peter woke up with an urgent desire to bone his partner – the naked man, Sylar, whom he was wrapped around from behind. Maybe it was a dream, but he felt like he had to do it right now or else the opportunity would be forever gone. Although Peter didn't wake with an erection, one formed within seconds. He blinked at Sylar's back, trying to shake off the urgency of the dream and the strangeness of the reality of waking this close. He moved the hand that had been firmly holding Sylar's midsection to the man's bare hip. He stopped there as his fingers moved an inch or so across the warm skin, confirming there was no fabric there. _When did he…? Did he get in bed like this?_ The events of the previous night came back to him in a jumbled rush, mixing in with his thoughts in his apartment the afternoon before about giving a relationship between them a chance and the irrational feeling of 'now or never' he'd had on waking. _He…whoa. He felt himself up with…me. Um…?_ Peter backed up again and rose on one arm, another wave of desire crashing over him as the memories became clearer, recalling that he'd had his hand on Sylar's ass and even his dick, put there by Sylar. The invitation was as unmistakable as the tent in Peter's boxers.

"You're naked," he said, because he felt like he needed to say something. It was simply a statement of fact and not an accusation. Sylar was clearly awake and waiting for him to do something.

XXX

Sylar rolled onto his back, looking calmly into Peter's face. He didn't pay much attention to where the sheet fell around his hips – he left that up to Peter. He was expecting a lot more…drama in Peter's reaction: disgust, self-loathing and guilt, duty, blame-laying to name a few. "Yeah," he answered in a rough, low voice (due to just waking up more than any suave attempt). It put the play right back in Peter's reluctant hands.

XXX

Peter raised his brows slightly at Sylar's reply. He pulled his right arm free of the sheets, leaving the fabric to fall across Sylar's waist, giving the man a degree of modesty whether he wanted it or not. Peter drew in a breath, looking at Sylar's face as he reached out slowly towards the center of Sylar's chest to see what was allowed by the light of day.

His fingertips touched first, then the rest of his hand settled. Peter looked where he was touching and made a slow, small circular motion with his fingers while leaving his palm in place. There was a thatch of hair here, the base of the triangular pattern of hair that decorated Sylar's upper chest. Peter stirred the hairs lightly, then looked back up at Sylar to watch the man's expression. He could feel the heartbeat thudding quickly under his palm. "Last night was nice." He let his hand trail downward over barer skin until stopping just above Sylar's navel, where the darker hairs started again. It was just above the line of the sheet. His fingers flexed again, stroking and rubbing. "Really nice." With a reluctant sigh, Peter took his hand away and backed off the bed, making no special attempt to hide his body's arousal. A part of him wanted Sylar to see it even as the rest of him needed to get out before things went too far. "I'm going to the bathroom. You should put some clothes on."

XXX

That touch…Intentional. Intimate. Right to the core of him. He imagined or felt that his ice-cold dead heart was melting, the heat spreading until his bones warmed. It was the stupidest sentiment, but he couldn't help his body's reaction to something so gentle and unexpected. He hadn't asked for this. It must be a mistake or a joke, definitely an unearned tenderness; rationally he knew that. It was just a test. It soothed and terrified him, make him feel vulnerable and completely masculine because he couldn't understand it and had no frame of reference for it, except his mother's occasionally touching his face. It was and wasn't sexual arousal, mostly it was something else entirely. He inhaled once, deeper, then held his breath.

Then the hand touching him slid down and repeated the same finger-rubbing motion. He exhaled quickly in reaction, feeling a sexual thrill and even more terror because he wanted Peter to stop and go no further…and he wanted that hand to touch him down lower, too. Only after Peter removed his hand, leaving him colder, bereft, relieved, and shocked, did his words finally penetrate over the sound of his frantic heartbeat. _Shouldn't it be relaxed? Could he feel that?_ And then, _He was awake?! And he enjoyed it? He enjoyed feeling me? (Of course he did – that's why he just touched you now. And he really must enjoy touching men sexually, not just fucking them. I don't know what else I expected.)_

Only with Peter's departure and distance did Sylar pull himself together. Enough to notice the empath's familiar self-denied erection. _Just from that?_ His gaze turned predatory as he watched Pete and his stiff organ march in front of the bed on the way to the bathroom. "What if I don't want to?" he threw back, sprawling out, stretching contentedly as if they'd actually done something considerably more pleasurable. It helped with his more violent urges to jump on Peter and otherwise manhandle him.

XXX

"Then I won't look at you," Peter said in return, still walking. Quieter, to himself, he added, "And that would be a shame." He didn't look back even now, not wanting to be snared. He could feel Sylar's attention, if not his gaze, searing into his side and back. It made him stiff enough that he ceased to tent his boxers, his erection standing upright against his belly by the time Peter had the bathroom door shut (and locked) behind him. He shoved his boxers down in nearly the same motion, eyes half-shut as he leaned against the door. He moved to the shower as an afterthought, stroking fast, hard, and twisting. His mind was a mess of thoughts of Sylar listening, of Sylar moving Peter's hand over him, of Sylar making himself naked to better tempt him – Sylar, Sylar, Sylar. Oh, Peter was tempted. He didn't have any difficulty coming, a certainty in his gut that the next time, he wouldn't be alone.

Afterward, he panted as he slumped against the side of the shower, more than a little confused about how the guy who had killed his brother (and himself, more than once) could move him to such pent-up desire. _It's that he wants me. He wants me so bad. He thought I was something special from the moment he saw me._ Peter chuckled at how corny and questionable that was as he turned on the shower. _'Course, he wanted to kill me for it, but he seems to have sublimated that into wanting to fuck my brains out instead of cutting them out. That's an improvement, right?_ He snort-chuckled as the water sprayed over him, inhaling some of it accidentally and experiencing a fit of coughing as a result.

XXX

Sylar continued to lounge in bed by his lonesome. He couldn't pin down how he felt and was stuck between triumph and arousal; dread and disgust at himself (and possibly at Peter for taking the bait so soon and so easily); and just not giving a fuck. His body was equally confused – his erection only swollen, but not hard. It was no help to him. Rubbing at himself briefly to see if it solved anything garnered lack-luster results and he quickly gave up.

Sylar was tempted to lie in bed naked, or perhaps go about making breakfast for two in the nude just to call Peter's bluff…but pulling the naked stunt was his very last resort. If things continued this way, Peter would give in and he wouldn't need to use that trick. _I'm avoiding feeling anything,_ he realized, admitting it to himself. He felt a few things for Peter, but the little hero couldn't withstand the evil and darkness within him if he shared it. Peter still believed he shouldn't exist or that he should be some do-good slave at other's whims. Peter couldn't accept him or heal him. Not to mention their past and how Nathan would always stand between them. _It's just fucking. He knows that._

Sighing, he found his briefs and slid them up and on; in doing so, he sat up and landed his feet on the floor. That was about the time he heard Peter…coughing…in the shower. The combination was so incredulous that he stared in the direction of the bathroom, trying to picture what could have caused it and failing. Sometimes Peter was happy to be his own special brand of enigma.

XXX

Peter didn't really need the shower. Once he regained the ability to breathe, he turned the water off and got out to see to his more usual morning routine of teeth, facial hair, and general grooming. He was fairly sure Sylar would be attracted to him no matter what he looked like, but the idea that the guy was salivating over him prompted Peter to want to look worth it. There wasn't much he could do aside from shave closely and mess with his hair a lot. He dressed in the t-shirt and boxers again, leaving the bathroom to seek shorts so he could go work out after a short breakfast. "Bathroom's yours." He shot Sylar a cautious glance to see how much skin was on display.

XXX

Sylar was still perched at the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, hands beside his thighs, arms straight, supporting his torso when Peter emerged, glancing over him. He felt a small thrill of triumph that Peter had looked anyway (of course he did – he had to), failing the test Sylar hadn't had to provide. Mostly he felt cheap and disappointed with himself that he wasn't more proud to see his plans working to perfection. _I'm so fucked up. I'm getting what I want. Soon, he'll be getting what he thinks he wants._ Sylar acted the opposite for Peter's benefit; smiling and standing upright with unnecessary stretching, "Thanks."

Once in the shower, Sylar scrubbed himself thoroughly, telling himself he wanted to be prepared. The water helped calm him and gave him much needed focus. It felt good to be clean. Several other usual hygiene tasks completed, he returned to the kitchen in jeans and his customary black button-up. He hovered nearby for a moment to see what Peter was up to before joining in. "How did you sleep?" he asked smugly, knowingly; arms straight and hands flat on the counter.

XXX

Peter smiled a little, looking at Sylar out of the corner of his eye. Sylar was not technically in his way, but he bumped him aside anyway with shoulder and hip, taking a tone of bossing him around, flirting, and teasing all in one. "Good." He shot Sylar a smug look the equal of that of the other man and didn't bother to try to be innocent about it. 'You want me; I know it. I want you; you know it,' was heavy in Peter's body language. He felt flattered and playful – the way Sylar looked certainly didn't hurt anything. He reached across to snag the butter dish, even though he'd been planning on putting peanut butter on his toast. "Want some toast?"

XXX

Sylar smirked in reply. He felt accomplished despite his concerns. Peter was, in some ways, too easy. He had an intuition that they would be fucking hot together when they finally did it. One way or other. He realized that this courtship and flirting was unsettling because of its duration. It didn't diminish his desire for a challenge – or to dominate Peter and sate himself that way. Anything in between was still…confusing. But it was clearly working.

So, after weathering the unnecessary, gentle contact, Sylar took a move from Peter's well-played book. He laid a hand low on the other man's back, humming a pleased, sexual sound. _I want something, Peter._ He eyed the medic's throat like he wanted that for breakfast instead – indeed, he considered taking a bite again. "Sure," he said about the toast. "I'll even let you use your tongue…" He allowed that to hang in the air a moment before pretending to clarify, "On the butter knife."

XXX

Peter licked his lips in a long, slow manner, raising his brows slightly at the invitation. "Yeah?" he asked. He did nothing to dislodge Sylar's touch, noting that even though he'd shoved him aside, Sylar had understood the flirt and come right back. "Get out some drinks," Peter directed, changing the tone so things wouldn't get more heated. "I'll take care of the bread. And make sure you take your antibiotic." He continued with the toast, getting out the peanut butter and making his own slices with it. Sylar's toast ended up with the butter. Peter set the plates on the table and waited until Sylar was seated before digging in. He looked at Sylar's hair, still slicked back from the shower; the strong brows; dark, intelligent eyes; distinctive nose; generous lips framing a wide mouth. Peter blinked, pulling his attention away and putting it back on his food before the stuff got completely cold.

He tried to put his thoughts towards something more constructive than ogling Sylar's looks. _Don't overthink it, but don't be stupid. Be careful; not too careful. Treat him with respect, but don't forget what he's done. This is all contradictory. I can't do that. Back to the basics - hell for him is being all alone. What he wants most is someone to be with. And he's going to let me flog him or whatever as long as that means I'll spend time with him. I don't know if sex is real with him or just another thing he's offering to keep me from taking off. But…it does keep me from taking off. I want to be with someone, too. I saw how he looked when I touched him – held his breath, his heart went wild – it was more of a reaction than when he was feeling himself up with my hand. I want him to look at me like that. I can't trust him, but I could give him what he needs. I think I'm the one who wants to get laid – maybe not so much him._ Peter took in a deep breath as he finished his toast. _Even if that's so, it doesn't mean I can't (get laid), or that there's anything wrong with it, right?_ Peter pursed his lips and gathered up his plate and glass, glancing across the table at the serial killer he'd shared both bed and breakfast with. _He likes me on some level, doesn't he? Yeah, right, that's why he killed me a couple times, Nathan, wants revenge against my family, picks fights with me – that's what people do when they like someone. Pff._ The thoughts made him sad and frustrated, so he rose and announced, "I'm going to go work out." He carried his things to the sink for a quick rinse.

XXX

Antibiotics and boring breakfast finished, Sylar asked, "Why don't you work out before you shower? Do you like being...sweaty or something?" _I'll give you things to think about while you sweat. Or shower. Or try to distract yourself._ He was a little surprised one of them wasn't playing footsie with the other beneath the table by the end of it.

XXX

"I-" Peter shrugged, looking embarrassed, "I did things a little out of order this morning." He rolled his eyes and smiled briefly, a return of warmth to a face that had become distant with introspection. "Something must have distracted me. But normally I do that – work out and then shower. And I'll probably shower again after the exercise. I don't mind working hard for something I want." He gave Sylar a suggestive look with a single nod. "Makes it feel honest." _I hope I'm doing the right thing – giving him a chance. It_ feels _right._ Peter's expression turned hopeful and vulnerable for a moment before he turned away to hide it, drying his hands and then heading for the door. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in physical activity and find an escape from the uncertainty inside him.

XXX

Sylar smirked again at the compliment. And it was a compliment to have shaken the unshakeable focus of Peter Petrelli. _(Unless that focus isn't there anymore and he's gone soft and weak…I didn't think it would be this easy. I'm sure he's desperate)._ He set about bringing his own dishes to the sink and starting up the warm water to begin to wash. He was nodding along to the plan: exercise, then shower again after when Peter threw a curveball. 'Working hard for something I want…Makes it feel honest.' Sylar caught the looks his way and Peter's…expression that made his gut flip-flop. He barely maintained his own expression of receptivity. _What the hell does that mean? Either he is going to change me or I'm too much work? Then 'it feels honest'? Does that mean he's telling me what he wants or that I'm not being honest? Fuck! Either way, I'm in screwed. It's somehow not 'just' sex._

Sylar had planned to follow Peter and stalk his activities. Now he reconsidered even as it took him mere minutes to finish washing dishes. He was presented with even more uncertainty and puzzles. He wandered over to the couch, picking up his book. He sat and gazed unseeing at the pages, mentally turning over the problems Peter presented instead of pages. _I bet he just wants relief. He wants something normal. (Does he know that will never work long-term? I'm anything but normal). And when he looks at me, all he'll see is Nathan's killer. I guess just give him what he wants and take the fallout as it comes. (I really thought he'd hold out longer. Like…years. Decades maybe)._ Sylar shifted against the armrest of the couch when a horrible thought struck him. _Oh, God. What if he means we have to work things out for it to be honest, for us to fuck? He plans on interrogating_ me _until_ I _give in._ He wished, not for the first or last time, that he had some kind of answers to give to Peter, but that was even less probable than pretending to be normal.

XXX

Exercise gave Peter the distance he wanted, getting him recentered in the here and now, such as they were in this world. He returned to the penthouse apartment sweaty and tired. After gathering up the clothes he would change into after the shower, he headed for the bathroom.

XXX

Peter returned, looking damp and flushed, reinvigorated. Sylar's hungry gaze followed him as he walked by without a word. He had to ignore his own fantasies of pinning the medic down, stripping him, fucking him; taking him and making Peter enjoy it. He just… _wanted._ And he didn't want to try to explain it to himself or talk about it. Instead, he offered, "Want a hand?"

XXX

"With?" Peter looked confused for a moment. The expression on Sylar's face explained the offer, though, once he thought about it. Peter's features softened and warmed, thinking about having someone in the shower with him, attentive and loving. But while he might have Sylar's attention, he had no expectations of genuine affection or even a good facsimile of it. 'Loving' was right out. Showering with someone who wanted to arouse him but didn't understand the basics of being nice sounded like a disaster in the making. Peter smiled, charmed but rueful. "No. I think I've got it."

He showered, dried, and changed clothes, then moved on to the kitchen to pillage for a snack. The earlier breakfast of toast had been rather light, but it was all he'd found that could be made quickly. Another search of the fridge and pantry confirmed this. "We need to go grocery shopping. Most of the food's gone." He settled on opening a can of peaches, pouring them into a bowl and eating them plain. "The sun's out and it's only a few blocks, but you should still get a heavier coat. Getting the stuff back will be the issue. We'll have to do a lot of carrying. How's your back doing?"

XXX

Sylar hummed in acknowledgment about needing more supplies. It was amusing to think that the last time they'd gone grocery shopping (together, no less), they'd returned with two bottles of lotion, barely used now. What might they bring back this time? If Peter didn't want to fuck this instant, then a supply run was an excellent way to kill the day and possibly procure other items for fucking. Sylar snorted at the advice. "I like my coat." That was reason enough to keep it. _Maybe Peter doesn't? Or he's sick of playing nurse…Guess not._ "My back feels better. But I didn't look at it when I had my shirt off."

XXX

"Let me take a look at it now." Peter finished his fruit quickly, then washed and scrubbed his hands. He dried them and walked over to Sylar. He touched the man's shoulder with a lingering contact, giving his profile a thoughtful look until Sylar glanced up at him. _We didn't get okay with each other this fast. He used to be a lot more twitchy about me touching him. This 'accommodating thing' is an act._ At Sylar's look, Peter put on his paramedic face and moved behind Sylar to get a better view. After touching around the injury sites, Peter observed, "These look good. The infection's gone. They've scabbed over well. Keep taking the antibiotics, though." He came back around to Sylar's front. "It worries me that you could even get an infection. I thought everything was sterile here. Do you have any theories on that?" _Or was that my hate infecting you?_


	145. Dairy Intolerance

Day 76, February 24, Morning

By the time Peter was ready, Sylar had unbuttoned his shirt and lifted his singlet. He sat waiting on the couch, angled so Peter could view his back and didn't give the touch on his shoulder much thought. That is, until Peter kept staring at him. _I'm missing something here._ Before he could decipher it, Peter had moved on. He thought he'd told Peter about the infection he'd had once before, before Peter's arrival. Not to mention all the care Peter had taken to prevent infection – strange if he didn't believe it was a possibility. "Why would you think it's sterile?" _Because you think it's my mind? If he thinks that, then wouldn't he think disease would be more likely?_ He more-or-less watched Peter as he adjusted his shirts, wondering why he was believing the illusion that sexual involvement might make him safer.

XXX

"Well…" _It's your mind. Nothing's real here._ Peter grimaced briefly, rephrasing his thoughts to something more relatable to Sylar's point of view. "There's nothing else alive here other than us. Or at least that's what I thought." He shrugged, wondering if there really were other creatures, maybe dangerous ones, out there on the fringes of what passed for reality. _That might be a good reason not to go wandering off alone. Not that I'm going to while he's sick…or while it looks like things might work between us._ Peter slung on his coat as they went down the hall. "Tell me about your friend, Luke." _Another case where it looks like things worked out between you and someone else._ He pressed the button for the elevator, walking inside. "Did you make a pass at him?"

XXX

Sylar blinked at that. "No," he said slowly. "He was seventeen." That was self-explanatory.

XXX

Peter shrugged again. "Claire was a teenager when you tried to kill her." He smirked. "What, murder is fine, but otherwise consensual underage sex isn't?"

XXX

Sylar spun and grabbed Peter by the throat, squeezing and growling, "Call me a pedophile again, Petrelli. I've already answered that question. You don't know about the Walker girl. You don't know anything about it. I told you about Micah. Yes, I kissed Claire but she was in college and I was using an ability to learn the truth. I was…responsible for Luke. It…I've seen what _that_ ," he spat the word out, "does to kids. It happened to…someone I knew. So I understand that you want to know just what kind of pervert you're dealing with, but I'm warning you about this."

XXX

Peter snarled, peeling Sylar's fingers off his neck as soon as the man was done. But he'd listened very closely to the outburst. Peter stayed where Sylar had pinned him against the wall of the elevator, not giving an inch. With clenched teeth, Peter responded, " _Seventeen_ is not pedophilia. It's not even illegal in most states. Unlike _murder_!" He shouldered past Sylar as the door to the elevator opened on the lobby. Mentally, he filed away the possibility that Sylar had been abused as a child or at least taken advantage of at some young age. Peter wasn't sure what effect that might have on possible relations between them, such abuse having never been a focus of his studies or practice. He wanted to ask about the other situations Sylar had brought up, but it was clearly a hot-button topic.

XXX

Sylar glared, anything but pleased that Peter would question it further. "Doesn't matter. It's different." He followed Petrelli at a distance and kept and eye on him.

XXX

Peter waited until they were outside, cold air cooling his temper at being manhandled, before continuing. "You've called Luke a friend. You had enough respect for him for that. He wasn't just some kid." Peter looked over at Sylar. "Aside from age – warning noted, I get it," he conceded, "why would you make a pass at me and not him?"

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth but the explanation didn't fall out. "For one thing, you're my age. I've known you for a long time." He shot a meaningful glance at his companion because that held more than one meaning. For all his knowledge – his memories, rather – of Peter, it somehow left him with the ability to trust the man (to a point) and have no answers or explanations at all. It was a lovely and annoying mystery simultaneously.

He shrugged. "Simple chemistry. It's a unique situation. It's a mutually beneficial solution. You're far from unattractive. I told you I enjoy your passion. And I think you're an amazing fuck with most people, the kind of people you like. I really haven't over-thought about it. I don't think either of us can…agree to make it more than…what it will be. So I'm okay with it just being what it is." That wasn't all, but it was what Peter wanted to hear and could tolerate.

XXX

Peter listened, looking over at Sylar several times as they tried to stay to the more windswept areas with shallower snow. The answer was flattering and Sylar saying he hadn't thought about it was, to a large extent, the right answer. Attraction wasn't a rational thing. It happened or it didn't, and it sounded like in this case, it had definitely happened. _Something about me works for him. I'm…okay with that, too._ He accepted the legitimacy of Sylar's desire for him. _At least there's no mention of revenge against my family this time._

Speaking of family, Peter's mind turned to another difficult topic. "You were Nathan for a while," he said as they turned a corner. The breeze was chilly, but not strong. "You know more about him than anyone. More than anyone ever will. What would he think of me if we got together more than we already have?"

XXX

"We're not–" he began as his head came up and his jaw clenched. Sylar was overwhelmed by what he could imagine of Nathan's reaction: his little brother fucking his murderer. Anger, betrayal, disgust, jealousy and envy, a desire to protect and avenge. Before he knew it, Sylar was no longer walking, but had his eyes shut against the deluge of imaginary feelings attacking him. He didn't care if Peter hit him or even noticed; he just had to get this handled. It wasn't even his problem. It was Nathan's. It wasn't even necessarily Peter's problem, either, but Peter would choose to bear it nonetheless. Sylar raised a shaky hand to push his hair back. "What the fuck kind of question is that, Petrelli? What do you want me to say?"

XXX

Peter tilted his head and raised a brow, but he didn't give any hints. This was even more of a trick question than the one about Luke. Sylar's upset about it was natural. Peter wanted, needed, the authentic emotional response. He waited quietly for Sylar to sort himself out.

XXX

When he opened his eyes, he went back to walking, not looking at Peter. A few seconds passed before the rest of it wouldn't stay in. He turned back and pointed a finger at the other man. "No. He'd understand the part about getting laid and being desperate, if you did it right." That part was a bit accusing because he got the impression Peter wasn't going to 'do it right,' that Peter didn't know how. That was almost a shame. "It's not like we're 'together'. We never will be. It's just…relief. Temporary relief. I mean…he was a fucking alcoholic. You're not him, either. You're better than him, is that what you're trying to say?"

XXX

"It's not about me," Peter said very quietly. And it wasn't. He was trying to parse Sylar's answer into 'how will the part of you that sometimes forgets and thinks you're Nathan respond if we're intimate?' He ignored the disparagement of Nathan's character, even if it still rankled to hear Sylar speak ill of him in any capacity. "How would I do it right?"

XXX

Part of him suspected Peter was being intentionally dense, forcing him to admit to something this pitiful, making him act like he wanted it. It felt like begging or groveling. "If it doesn't mean anything. Roughing me up if you feel like it. It's just an arrangement." He turned and they began walking again. Sylar didn't know how to take the following silence and tried to tell himself Peter was using the time to be creative about his options.

XXX

' _If it doesn't mean anything,'_ he repeated to himself. _It's_ always _going to mean something._ Peter frowned and spent some time walking quietly, thinking that over. _I'm not desperate. I'm just really tempted. It_ is _relief, though. Me touching him yesterday was exactly that – a temporary way for me to manage my emotions. Maybe not temporary. But whatever. Is that wrong? I don't think that's wrong. Is he saying it's wrong? It's not what he wants – I can hear that in his voice._ _'It's_ just _an arrangement', 'You're_ better _than him' – because I wouldn't sink so low as to fuck him for relief? So that's wrong, but it's what Sylar expects of me. It's what he thinks is right. Or what he thinks Nathan would think was right, or at least okay, to treat a partner as disposable, convenient. But Sylar doesn't think that's right. Wait a second, does he think that's right or not?_ He kept frowning. _He thinks it's what I should do, but not what's right. I think. If I don't do it that way – if me being with him isn't about just using him, then Nathan wouldn't understand it, and neither will Sylar._ That was troubling, but Peter wasn't sure what to do about it. Nor was he certain that what he thought Sylar thought was accurate. He noticed once again that Sylar's ideas about right and wrong were just as nuanced and well-developed as anyone else's, which was remarkable for someone with his past.

They moved into the grocery store. The relative warmth of room temperature felt wonderful against his face. He looked over at Sylar, doing a compulsive health assessment of coloration, posture, and movement. _His toes were fine yesterday – no blistering, no frostbite. He's walking fine, standing right. Looks cold, but I think he's okay._ Peter opted for an easier question than the previous ones, this time taking more direct aim at Sylar's moral compass. "You said at Kirby Plaza that you were the hero. Did you go there with that in mind – killing me to save others? Or were you just there to kill me? Again," Peter added, "because three murder attempts within a month was not something I enjoyed dealing with." Contrary to what Claire said, dying had always been a big deal even if it wasn't enough to deter Peter from what he thought had to be done. They grabbed a cart and filled it with canvas bags. There was no point in loading the cart with more than they could carry in a single trip.

XXX

"Ahah…" Sylar let out a breathless, unamused chuckle. It wasn't a difficult or terribly personal question as it was worded. There was more background to it than he wanted to get into, but that was easy to omit. It was nice, not being dealt a loaded question for once. "Yeah, well, I had that same nuclear ability, too, if you remember. I knew _one_ of us was the bomb." He paused to reflect. "There was nothing heroic about not being the bomb or making the person who _was_ the bomb go off. Maybe it was kill or be killed; something like that." Sylar bunched his fists deeper into his pockets.

XXX

 _So…just there to kill me or die trying. Great._ It wasn't a comforting revelation. Peter asked for something more likely to result in that: "Have you tried to save people when you didn't die? Or, you know, didn't have to go through any danger, but you helped people anyway?"

XXX

He gave Peter a sideways glance. "I saved you from your dad. There might be more, but I can't think of any."

XXX

Peter nodded slowly. _He was in danger – from my dad, and he knew that. But he did it anyway. If he has that in him – a willingness to face down danger for others, then…why? Why does he hurt people?_ Peter chewed his upper lip, feeling his chest tightening just thinking about the next question that came bubbling up in response to his thoughts. "You made me watch while you were going to kill my mother. In front of me. The same day I'd learned my brother was dead. Same day I realized the guy who'd killed him had been the one I'd been helping recently. You were going to make me sit there and watch while you…kissed her." His brow rose. His face paled. Peter's expression was grave. If he hadn't still been so angry about it, then he would have been near tears. "Cut into her. Robbed her. Killed her. You were going to force me to watch that. And you _knew_ I didn't have anything to do with that whole impersonation thing. Why? Why were you…that cruel?"

XXX

Sylar grit his teeth, baring them slightly. "It was a rough couple of weeks as you know. It wasn't so much about you. I don't know, why was your mother that cruel?" Even now, he didn't know what he'd intended to do with Peter at that point. It would have been easy to answer with something like, 'I didn't intend for you to live very long after.' It bothered him that he didn't have a better plan, motive, or response.

XXX

The mental image of Sylar forcing his lips on Peter's mother brought to mind Sylar's earlier comment about kissing Claire. _Kissed Mom, kissed Claire, was certainly kissing up to Dad. He's kissed me. What the hell, does the asshole go around kissing all the Petrellis he can get to? Wait, Claire…_ Something from weeks ago popped up in Peter's head and connected. His face contracted in disgust and disbelief, then anger. His glare turned to Sylar. Peter felt white-hot rage stoke through him. But it was important to be certain before acting. Some of the facts weren't adding up, but the ones that did were awful. "Weeks ago, when I first came here, you said that you'd done something to Claire at the Stanton that made her be a lesbian." He cut off any attempt from Sylar to interrupt. "You said something like that. And just a few minutes ago, you said you used an ability to kiss her." Peter turned his head slightly. "Telekinesis comes to mind, because I've seen you do that before," he nearly hissed as he said it. " _You did things to her_ until she told you what you wanted to hear? Am I understanding this right? _You did things to her_ until you thought she'd never go back to men?"

XXX

"Oh my God," Sylar rolled his eyes at his predicament. Of course that's what Peter would think – that was, more or less, the reaction he'd wanted (and received those months ago). He'd put those ideas into Peter's head. "When I kissed her, she was already a considering being lesbian. Her roommate was a pervert and she seduced Claire and Claire thought she could trust this girl; whatever," he summed up dismissively because it really wasn't important. Claire wasn't interested in an immortal/immortal relationship.

XXX

"What?" It was all Peter could say, flummoxed by outrage and confusion. He realized Sylar was trying to explain, but it was difficult to follow when the explanation contradicted what Peter thought was the sequence of events.

XXX

"The ability I used was Lydia's – you remember, the tattoo lady from the Carnival? Basically a lie detector test – much less invasive. Stanton didn't even register on her list of traumatic run-ins with me and it shouldn't have because I didn't do anything to her then, either. I sat her down, gave her wine, and talked to her. I know, I'm such a monster," he intoned with acidic sarcasm. "I just said that then to upset you and clearly you believe quite a bit." Now he lacked the deniability he wanted and was bitter because of it. Peter jumped, as he had then, at the mere suggestion of torture and rape because it obviously wasn't difficult to imagine. "And, no. I didn't hurt her roommate," he added after a beat, the bitterness leaking out.

XXX

Peter stood there in the canned food aisle, knuckles white around the cart handle. What Sylar had said mostly made sense, but that improved things only marginally. "I want to _hit_ you," he said with clenched teeth. "You intentionally wanted me to believe something like you'd molested her with telekinesis until she caved. That's what you wanted, Sylar. Just a couple months ago, here. You wanted me to believe that. A few months before that, you wanted me to watch my mother die in front of me after you'd already taken my brother!" _And my father. Sort of._ Peter drew in a deep breath and blew it out in disgust. His voice was louder than was polite in a grocery store, his tone cutting. "What do you want now, Sylar? You want this 'arrangement', right, where I stop remembering the past? Where I stop believing what I've seen and you've said? Or maybe where I just stop caring about it, because that's the part that's inconvenient for you, isn't it?"

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth to retort a wry, flippant, 'Go ahead – no one's stopping you' in response to the other man's desire for violence. The rest was quite inexcusable and probably ill-considered even by his own standards. _I'm not asking for anything, let alone the impossible._ _(Though Peter seems pretty forgetful when he's hard…)_ He moved a step or two away from the emoting Petrelli, who was making an embarrassing display in a public place, too. _(The last time I was in a grocery store Elle was shot…)_ The whole thing threw him off balance and he struggled to put up some self-defense with a frown and tense shoulders.

XXX

Peter pushed the cart down the aisle, his steps stiff and keeping his attention warily on Sylar even when he wasn't looking directly at the man. He expected an attack to shut him up at some point. He welcomed it, but he wasn't going to throw the first blow. "It's a good thing you're not the one with the ability to wipe memories. I'll bet that's something you want as bad as you did Claire's healing. But that's got to sting – because if you take away what everyone knows about you, then you're _nothing_ , you don't exist. Not as Sylar. Not as yourself. Would you pay that price? Would you give up everything you had been to start over fresh, but as you, keeping all your memories this time but knowing no one else would ever know?" He stopped at the beginning of the dairy department, unwilling to gather food while he needed to keep an alert eye on Sylar.

XXX

Sylar couldn't fathom the horrors Peter was speaking. There was no surcease. He felt sickened, at the words, at himself, at what he hoped wasn't the truth – or was it the imagined lie that was worse? He could feel his ability stir at the very mention of such a perfect solution, so tempting, so beautifully aligned. It would _fix_ … _everything_. No longer would he be forced to choose or sacrifice, whoring himself out to be betrayed again and again. Of course, the price was truly becoming the monster everyone said he was – and his conscience would be the only one that knew it in the end. The evil, familiar sweetness rushed through him before he could check it: _I could reinvent myself, be whatever I wanted. No one would hunt me or hate me. No one would know anything. I could be special._ A darker part of him growled, _Just like Mom said: I could_ never _hurt_ anyone.

He knew he was supposed to listen to this obediently as part of his punishment. This kind of humiliation was exactly what he'd feared from Peter. Finally, the other man stood still and Sylar shoved him hard on the shoulder, "Shut up!" he yelled, hearing the creepy echo of his own voice throughout the building as it overpowered Peter's previous volume. He knew when he did it that Peter would attack him immediately, but he didn't care because he didn't want to think about any of it.

XXX

In a way, it was exactly what Peter wanted – to push Sylar over the edge, piss the guy off, make him react and feel helplessly angry because it was only a shadow of what he'd inflicted so willfully on Peter at Thanksgiving. Pushed, Peter lost his balance and stumbled into the cart handle. He had a fraction of a second when he could have done nothing – it wasn't lost on him that Sylar hadn't actually swung on him – but then Peter rushed him, taking the offered provocation. "Fuck you!" He went low and swung for Sylar's ribs.

XXX

Sylar took the hit and quickly, though not completely unexpectedly, Peter was right on him. This hadn't been his plan of how he wanted to spend his afternoon of seducing Peter, but now it was what he wanted in the heat of the moment. He took a fistful of the empath's shirt and silky dark hair partly to balance himself, growling, "If I ever wanted the Haitian's power, you're the obvious source, Petrelli!" The Italian snarled and twisted away, landing a vicious shove that had Sylar back peddling to stay upright. As he flailed, he struck something – another stand that fell and scattered its contents on the floor and underfoot.

XXX

Peter didn't wait for the man to recover his footing. He stayed close and kept swinging even if most of his blows were sloppy or blocked. Sylar managed to hit him repeatedly, but the only one that gave Peter pause was a shot to the gut that left him sucking air for a second. It was suspiciously like the guy had tried to land a liver shot. Even though Sylar had missed that vital target, Peter was still momentarily staggered. _I'm not going to win this if I stand here and trade blows!_ He clumsily grabbed both of Sylar's upper arms, initially just to tie them up and hang onto them. Regaining his strength, he pivoted and slung Sylar into the nearby end of a floor case of dairy products. He didn't know what good it would do, but it changed the terrain before Sylar could get comfortable on his feet.

XXX

The grip on his arms confused him and Peter made good use of it. The next thing he knew, Sylar was tripping and falling over and into a refrigerated storage case and landing hard on his back. His knees were caught up on the black-rimmed clear plastic of the case and useless because his feet didn't touch the ground because of it. It stunned him to land on a bunch of cardboard boxes of product, not quite leaving him breathless, but more surprised that Peter had either successfully tripped him or thrown him into the case. Peter didn't give him a break, advancing with a raised fist. Sylar had seconds to come up with a decision to defend himself when his body was in such a vulnerable and useless position. His arms couldn't reach Peter unless he sat up, his torso was angled down, and his shoulders had precious little room to maneuver as Peter had his legs nearly trapped. Nearly. He wrapped his legs around Peter, jerking him inward, closer than Peter had intended to be. It bought him enough time to curl upward and grab Peter's shirt to yank him closer still. There was no game plan, just anything to frustrated Petrelli and cause pain.

XXX

"Oof!" Jerked downward, Peter had to catch himself with his right hand on the top of the case. It was about level with Sylar's head. If he let go, he'd complete the fall forward onto Sylar. But he was braced for the moment. He tried to cram his left forearm under Sylar's chin with the intention of choking him.

XXX

He had an instinct that Peter would go for his throat and tucked his chin to block the incoming forearm (less dangerous than the man's open grip and medical knowledge of how to choke him out). Immediately he felt the pressure and weight against his jaw and the back of his neck. It was not a long-term solution even assuming Peter would sit still. It was the only threat at the moment and Peter couldn't easily escape so he grabbed onto and began to push against Peter's elbow to rotate it off his chin.

XXX

 _This isn't working._ Peter could see that Sylar's head was either against the solid back of the case or so close to it as to not matter. Either way, it made a straight-on punch dangerous to both Peter's hand (so recently healed) and Sylar's head (so recently concussed). _I need a better option_. Peter snarled and looked around for something that would give him an advantage. There was nothing handy except boxes of cheese food. Out of desperation, he grabbed one.

XXX

Peter was so distracted and asking for it. Sylar wound up and threw a punch hard up and across the other man's face. It hurt his fist in a satisfying way. With any luck, it would rattle Peter until he forgot whatever he was planning.

XXX

"Ow!" The fist caught him right across the mouth, knocking his head back with the force. Frustrated and angry about the pain, he came back with the cheese box – a squishy, two-pound brick sheathed in cardboard – and slammed it into the side of Sylar's face like it was a bludgeon. Not wanting to continue the mistake of staying in Sylar's optimal striking range, he dropped the now-ruptured box and collapsed onto the man immediately after. Peter gave up his failed attempt to choke him and instead wrapped his left arm around Sylar's head like it was a football. It was, for the moment, a perfect pose for Peter to repeatedly feed the guy a knuckle sandwich. But that wasn't what Peter wanted to do. Now that he had Sylar restrained for the moment, he had a few more things to say.

XXX

Part of him couldn't believe he was going to be hit with a large box of dairy. It seemed like such a waste of good food, but that was Peter for you. The blow was…sufficient and Sylar grunted. The next thing he knew, Peter had thrown himself atop him, pushing his air out uncomfortably. Quicker still, Peter had his head gripped and was aiming a spare fist at his face. Sylar's eyes widened as he focused on that, suddenly more concerned than he had been up until now. He struggled and reached out to grab at that fist, hoping to immobilize it or keep it away from his head at all costs. _No, no, no, no, no…!_

XXX

"You don't want to hear me?" Peter yelled, bleeding from his mouth and perhaps his nose. He wasn't particular about the source of the red stuff. Getting his point across was more important. He cranked down on Sylar's head with his left arm and kept his right poised to hit him. "I'm not some ability you can 'practice with' whenever you want! You have to focus; you have to listen!"

XXX

Peter threatening him on the heels of making light of mind-erasing just made him not give a fuck. He knew it would piss Petrelli off, dismissing him just like he hated, but he didn't care and couldn't stop himself. He felt helpless and belittled as it was. Sylar snarled, "Make me, Petrelli!" Once he had Peter's right wrist somewhat within his grip, it spared his other hand to smack at Peter's face. _Get the fuck off me!_ He didn't quit. Peter was committed to holding him in place and thus keeping himself in place. Sylar continued to hit at whatever he could reach that was Peter's. Each blow was satisfying in its own dark way.

XXX

"You fucking asshole!" Peter tried to struggle free, pushing, elbowing, and shoving while trying to block Sylar's blows. The brawl was rapidly becoming a mess. The legs hooked around Peter's back were his biggest problem. He couldn't control the distance in the fight as long as he was tied up like this. He put his knees against the case for leverage and ended up actually pulling Sylar partly out of the floor-mounted cooler in Peter's attempt to break the leg lock. After that, he was jerking and twisting to do his best in dodging Sylar's long arms. He grabbed one of them after being tagged painfully a few more times, and let gravity take them both to the ground.

XXX

He didn't know how, but Peter managed to drag and lift and pull him bodily from the case. It helped that Peter held his head in the vice of his elbow. It strained his neck without being dangerous. He still clung to Peter with his legs even as his balance wavered, partly dependent on Peter because of that. Sylar set his left foot down and then Peter was wriggling away. He continued to swing wildly at Peter, hitting him about the face and shoulders mostly. Peter simply took hold of his right arm and yanked it down and to the side – with one leg still trying to hold Peter and the other arm busy, it toppled him off the case. It was easy to roll, partly to negate the impact of falling onto the hard tile and avoiding Peter pinning him again.

XXX

Peter was expecting the twisting roll, as Sylar had had plenty of time to anticipate hitting the floor. As such, Peter just rolled right along with him, coming up on a knee to swing a vicious elbow across the side of Sylar's head. The man's head lolled. In a fury, Peter grabbed up a handful of Sylar's torn shirt and yanked him close. He tagged him twice in the face before realizing Sylar was doing nothing to defend himself – hands down, mouth agape in a sloppy grin, eyes wide and fixed on Peter's face. It was a strange expression. Peter felt an icy lurch in his gut about what that might mean.

XXX

Sylar's part in the fight had become a lot more defensive halfway through. Whatever struck him first rattled him and slammed his head sideways. When he was able to look back, he could see Peter was bleeding from his face and that was somehow familiar. He'd made enough of a point and taken enough damage in turn – damage that Peter wasn't finished dealing out. God, it felt familiar. Just like that hallway in Primatech: Peter lifting him and punching him hard across the face. Sylar just held on to Peter's biceps.

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 _How many head strikes did I give him? How many can he take? Is he concussed again? … I feel like shit. Ow._ Peter panted, staring at Sylar long enough to verify that if anything was wrong with the guy, it wasn't something Peter could do anything about right away. He let go of Sylar's shirt slowly, letting the cloth slip between his fingers as he watched to make sure Sylar was able to manage without support.

XXX

Peter released him and Sylar allowed himself to flop back to lie prone on the floor, taking care that his head didn't smack. His legs relaxed from their hold on and around Peter. _He always ends up between my legs,_ he thought tiredly. His hand struck something that wasn't the floor when he let them fall away from Peter. Without thinking, he grasped the object, bringing it up to see that it was a cheese slicer. _A fucking…?_ It strained his credulity at reality or irony or something. Because of that, he threw it at Peter and it bounced off his arm/side.

XXX

"Hey!" Peter said sternly. But he was relieved. Sylar had shown the presence of mind not to hit his head on the floor and to pick up and throw things accurately. While he might well be concussed (the definition was a bit loose anyway), it wasn't to the degree Peter had feared. He glanced around at the mess – scattered utensils, fallen cream cheese boxes and the burst box of Velveeta, the broken floor case, and everywhere, the shockingly crimson drops and smears of fresh blood. He looked over at Sylar, assessing him more thoroughly. Some of the blood had come from him, but nothing was bleeding profusely.

Peter sank to his hip and then to his back. If Sylar could lie on the floor so unconcerned, then Peter could do the same. But he felt deeply troubled by the whole thing, like the fight had been _wrong._ He'd endangered Sylar out of pique and resentment. He felt nauseated and dizzy, his emotions roiling in his gut.

XXX

Peter complained and left it alone, going off somewhere to his right to sit and rest. The various aches and pains became sharper as the distractions and action stopped. He could feel his neck stiffening, knuckles burning, face swelling up. He didn't look at his companion.

XXX

Peter stared at the ceiling. He let his emotions be as they were and focused on the physical. He could feel the hammering of his heart as it slowed down. He could hear the rasping of his breathing gradually decrease. His nose was clogged. There was blood in his mouth. He hurt in a score or more places. His knuckles ached and a couple fingers were twinging. But he'd gotten off light. He hoped Sylar was no worse off. He glanced over. Sylar was silent. _Listening,_ Peter realized.

He reached out – a long stretch – and touched Sylar's arm lightly. Only the tips of two fingers made contact, both because of the distance and a degree of tentativeness. _We're okay, right? With each other?_ It was perverse – this need to make sure even (and especially) after a fight that the relationship (such as it was) was still intact, that the other human being here still accepted him. Peter had started the fight – just as Sylar had done at other times here; there was no moral superiority for either of them in it. There was only pain. Peter exhaled softly. "We need to work on this – us."

XXX

Sylar turned his head to look at Peter, feeling the contact against his arm – gentle and non-threatening. Inside he was a wreck. He couldn't make sense of anything. He could see Peter, lying beside him, splayed out and Peter looked tough yet innocent. The empath was bleeding from his mouth, his hair was in disarray and still with those serious hazel eyes. It was another mess of things he couldn't interpret. Pain and chaos, beauty, undeserved kindness, a sick bond, helplessness and anger, vengeance, love, possession…

Sylar's sense of self wavered. /He saw his brother beside him on the roof of a hospital. He had a decision to make – about how Peter would view him ever after. Peter had had blood on his face, always the earnest eyes, and nearly-black hair hanging in his face./ He didn't know whether to strike at that and ruin it or embrace it like a savior, bringing comfort and surcease. It was something about the blood and inflicted injury. It pleased and dismayed him simultaneously and that was weird that it was two things at once. "Yeah, we do," he agreed quietly. _'We.'_ A statement, like a promise.

Sylar slid across the tile floor, lifting himself up on his elbows to hover over Peter. One forearm went up, above and around Peter's head while still in contact with the floor. That hand brushed the Italian's hair because he could. Peter was allowing it, staring at him and Sylar wanted to see him smile and laugh. His eyes broke away to focus on Peter's lips for a moment. The blood meant Peter was alive. Without any answer or clear motivation, he leaned in to press his mouth against Peter's, knowing it was wrong and unwanted.

XXX

Sylar's approach made Peter wary, but preceded as it was by Sylar's agreement, Peter wasn't too worried. He just watched, breathing through slightly parted lips. He was surprised by the touch to his hair. This felt…affectionate – a slight stirring that was too faint to be familial, but would be romantic in other circumstances. He supposed it was an answer to his touch on Sylar's arm, but he still couldn't stop the paranoid (or was it simply more rational than the rest of him?) corner of his mind that feared Sylar might grab his hair to fix his head in place so he could punch Peter in the face or jerk him around in deserved retaliation for the fight. That kind of behavior matched up more with Peter's experience of Sylar than 'romantic' did.

When Sylar leaned in, Peter had plenty of time to pull back, to put up a hand and block, or simply turn his face away. But he didn't. _He still wants to kiss me after this fight? After I've hit him so many times for kissing me or trying to kiss me before? He still wants me, even after everything?_ Peter knew it was naïve to believe Sylar's desire for him could be genuine, but it felt so much like what he'd always wanted: to be worthy and welcome as who and what he was. That this approval was offered by the man who had killed his brother made everything complicated and confusing. It twisted him up inside, but he wanted it no less. Peter lifted his head and opened his mouth, reaching for the kiss no matter what anyone – his family, his brother, himself – would think of him for it.

XXX

The kiss was small, simple. Sylar's eyes were open because whatever his motivations were, he knew this was stupid. He blinked when Peter met him. It wouldn't last; it never did even if Peter entertained it for a second or two. _Maybe Peter can't pull back. Maybe I hit him too hard. Maybe he doesn't want to hit me for trying this after we fought._ The kiss…continued for more than the usual time. There was nothing, no exhaled disappointment, no tense surprise in Peter's mouth and all that was new. It gave him pause as he waited for…some kind of reaction. When it didn't come, Sylar adjusted, opening his mouth and pressing harder, deeper, taking more of Peter and the blood between them.

XXX

It hurt. Peter's lip was split, his front teeth loose, and his jaw sore from all the blows Sylar had thrown his way. But Peter didn't flinch from the pain or the kiss. He could taste the blood between them, which seemed emblematic of their problematic relationship. It tasted _right_ , which was fucked up and Peter knew it, but he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't even know if the blood was his, Sylar's, or both. His heart was pounding all over again. This was a total betrayal of so much he believed in, defiled in the name of selfishness, lust, and a fragile hope that Sylar had enough humanity to be decent. Peter might have told himself that being with Sylar was okay, but it was one thing to think it to himself in an empty apartment and another to press his lips to the man's. He could feel his gut flip-flopping and his pulse racing. Peter let his eyes slide shut and his thoughts fuzz out. He just wanted to feel. It was better that way. It had always been better that way.

He raised one hand, slowly so Sylar wouldn't think he was going to hit him. Peter's fingers touched Sylar's cheek, brushing the faint stubble down to his jaw; then briefly on the side of his neck, the skin warm and softer; then to his shoulder where Peter's hand settled on firm muscle. His body was buzzing. He was hard. His ribs hurt and the hammering of his heart was making every injury into a throbbing pressure.

XXX

With his eyes open, he saw Peter lifting his hand to touch him. Surely this was the push/pull to end his perversions. All the same, he twitched when that hand caressed him. There was no way it was accepting. That was impossible. Wasn't it? He was beginning to lose focus and forget his concerns. The kiss felt so good (painfully good) after a fight – they were just making up, right? Sylar slid his tongue out to taste more of Peter, feeling his own breathing accelerate with excitement. _That's it. Just give in to me._


	146. A Little Relief

Day 76, February 24, Morning

The intrusion of Sylar's tongue was wet, slippery, and entirely unwanted. The sense of revulsion that swept through Peter took him by surprise. He didn't want any part of Sylar's body inside his own, something he hadn't realized until it happened. His reaction was visceral and so intense that Peter jerked his head back, smacking it against the tile hard enough that the whole world seemed to be a bell someone had rung. He was too stunned by the self-inflicted blow to focus, but he managed to roll his head to the side. He turned his face away from Sylar to prevent any continuation of the kiss. The fluttering in his stomach that had previously been almost pleasant and definitely exciting devolved back into a more virulent form of the roiling upset he'd felt immediately after the fighting had stopped. Gasping, Peter sat up as abruptly as he dared, fearing he was about to be sick. The room spun and darkened at the edges. He leaned over, bracing himself against the floor with one hand while the other pressed to his belly. His stomach heaved and he gagged, retching twice as he endeavored not to actually vomit.

XXX

One minute they were liplocked and the next, Peter was making faces and trying to escape. Sylar frowned and let him go, mostly out of confusion for the first few seconds. Then Peter sat up and…gagged. Dry heaving. It shocked him more than it should have. _Either I hit him too hard or he couldn't do it. Who are we kidding here? I was right and he can't…_ Sylar sprawled in place, feeling any and all hope spiraling away as if it had never existed.

XXX

Peter was eventually successful in keeping the contents of his stomach where they were supposed to be. Not bothering to look at Sylar (he didn't want to; it would be embarrassing; what would he say?), he crawled over to the cart and used it to pull himself to his feet. He still felt uncomfortably woozy. The store seemed too bright. _Damn it. We're probably both concussed._ Peter sighed, finally looking over at Sylar because he had to or it would be even more awkward than it already was. Peter shook his head slowly. He wanted to say things. He wanted to explain why kissing was good at this stage but French kissing was too much. He needed to say something elaborate and convincing about consent, stages of intimacy, the trauma of their past, Peter's uncertainty of where they stood with each other, his concerns about Sylar's behavior and motivations, his fear of letting Sylar take the lead, and about the very physical aftereffects of the fight they'd just had. But his head hurt and his mouth was sore and he was still dripping blood from somewhere. He shook his head again. It was as articulate as he could manage. _He'll just have to deal with it._

XXX

There was everything to say and yet none of it was sufficient. All he could say would be excuses and stupid emotion that Peter had neither asked for nor wanted. The scales were balanced, as usual. There were no more questions to be answered. Everything was clear. Peter realized now that there was no other way to do things. Sylar didn't think for two seconds that Peter's stomach was that upset over a fight or his injuries. He saw the other man shaking his head and it pained him how sufficient that was as an explanation.

_(I'm so disgusting he nearly vomited. I told him I wasn't like other people). He should have fucking listened instead of leading me on! (He tried. I don't know why, but…he tried. Just now. He tolerated it and that's…that's all he could handle. It was more than most people can manage. That's why he said no kissing, no making out, no sex.) Why the fuck would he bother?_

Then he was subjected to a second shake of Peter's head: a complete and utter rejection, not just of the act and the action, but of him. He was suddenly overwhelmingly ashamed. It was a good thing he was next to invisible because he almost needed it right now. It cut him deeper than he'd imagined to be held so cheaply that Peter couldn't kiss him and probably still wanted to fuck him. It would probably always be done rough and impersonally…and he knew Peter wasn't like that with other normal, wholesome people. Invisible wasn't his style though and he desperately wanted some kind of…acknowledgement, no matter how negative. _I don't exist anymore._

Sylar slowly pushed himself upright, sitting on the floor as he looked out down the deserted dairy aisle that ran one of the lengths of the store. He was gutted, surprised and vindicated all at once. He couldn't blame Peter at all, not for trying or for…failing to handle it. It proved some of Peter's point also, about the empath's own sustained internal damages. He felt like he was on an island again, watching mirages of ships passing by, only to wake up and find his own imagination had been telling him comforting lies all along. A slow starvation, helplessly awaited. He could see all the kindness, decency, comforts, and agreements being stripped away now. Peter knew those deals were no longer binding with a _freak_. Suddenly physically everything hurt and he deserved it.

XXX

Peter grabbed a half dozen random blocks of cheese and a mesh bag of round things, tossing them all in one of the sacks set up in the cart. Then he started slowly pushing it towards the frozen food aisle, hanging onto it for balance. Walking was easy enough, but breathing was hard. The various rib shots he'd taken were making themselves known with every breath.

XXX

Sylar watched out of the corner of his eye. He was in no hurry to follow after Peter, somewhat certain that distance was necessary right now after such a violation. He stood and trailed after the medic. The pattern would be a more brief excursion in the store to gather food and supplies before aftercare.

Just beginning to come to terms with his fate, Sylar felt the need to soothe his would-be partner and see to his health. Those were the rules. No kissing. And no talking about it. Not fucking ever. (He wondered if that was the worst part all along.) _Maybe I should tell him his reaction was normal. For all I know, it is._ Sylarspared a glance at Peter. _'I had no idea it was that bad for you.' 'I'm sorry.' 'It won't happen again.' All those count as 'talking about it.'_

Sylar looked back at the wreckage, concerned about the display case and the mess. _That's my fault, isn't it? I should clean it up. Now or…? (Which is worse, if I leave him now to do something stupid, or something I should have done already, or if I stay and ignore it like I didn't notice or take responsibility? Should I be driving the cart? Does he need to go home while I get the supplies? I'm just worrying about anything else so I don't have to think about_ this _)._ He quickly went back to watching where they were going and strangely hoped Peter hadn't noticed his distraction.

XXX

Peter pushed the cart slowly. He could see that even so, Sylar was lagging behind. That was fine. The longer they could go without talking, the better. _What the hell would I say, anyway? It looks like I nearly ralphed from him kissing me, which is…mostly true. I didn't want him doing that. How do I explain that without sounding like a prude with weird boundaries? I don't want him doing things to me! He kissed me (without asking). He had me feel him up last night (without asking). If he doesn't ask, then he can go without an explanation when things fuck up. Why did I feel like it was so gross? I've French kissed…hundreds of people. But I didn't want it this time. Not from him. Not without…I don't know what I want from him. But I don't want him sticking his tongue or anything else in me without…something. I can't explain it to him – I can't even explain it to myself!_

He frowned, stopping in front of the frozen vegetables. He could see Sylar lingering at the end of the aisle, keeping him in sight. Peter pulled out a bag of corn and held it to the back of his head. The chill felt good, suppressing some of the unpleasant throbbing. He pulled out a second and shut the door, leaning against the glass and using it to pin one of the bags between the back of his head and the door. The second bag he pressed to the lower half of his face. Whatever was bleeding seemed to have stopped, but he'd still dripped all over himself. He tongued the cut where his lip had been caught between Sylar's fist and Peter's teeth. It seemed superficial despite the swelling. _It couldn't have bled that much. Must be my nose. I don't remember getting hit in the nose._ He felt of it. It wasn't even all that tender, but he still couldn't breathe out of it and felt a renewed trickle just from his exploratory wiggling. _Whatever. I won't die from it._ He looked over at Sylar, who had come a little closer.

XXX

Sylar attempted to gently stretch his neck. That was the worst of it. He'd had the air knocked from him a couple times, been tripped, and yanked on, hit with fists and a cardboard box that had…He touched at his face. Yes, cut. It burned some and bled. The punches to his face, ribs, and his own knuckles were secondary. Sylar found that out when he tried to slide his hands into his pockets.

XXX

"We should get some Tiger Balm. Or Bengay," Peter said in response to Sylar's motion. "We're both going to be sore and I don't think the penthouse has any." He gave Sylar a quick, practical look up and down. "Do you have any broken bones, cracked ribs, anything I need to know about?" He felt like he had to ask. He ought to do an exam, but his hands hurt, Sylar probably didn't want him touching him (and Peter wasn't entirely sure he wanted to touch him), and there wasn't much Peter could do for him anyway.

XXX

In the awkward silence (different from the usual silence), Peter's voice still sounded loud. It was a little startling. His eyes darted up to look at Peter. Sylar shook his head in response. _I didn't mean to imply you should…take care of me. I was just stretching._ The frozen food was a good idea (and not abusive, as Peter sometimes was to food); he copied the process for his neck and knuckles to start, albeit at the far end of the aisle.

XXX

Peter didn't nod – he was still keeping the bag of frozen corn pinned against the back of his head. The one in front of his mouth wasn't doing his speech any favors, but he sounded understandable. "Good. I wasn't trying to hurt you." _I'm not apologizing. I didn't do anything wrong. Not on purpose. It sounds like I'm apologizing, though._ He glanced away with an uncomfortable grimace, then back. "Not badly, at least. We're getting better at fighting – we're not tearing each other up as much." _Maybe we can get better about the other stuff. Just…go slow. But I thought I was going slow on his behalf, not mine._

Frustrated with himself despite the progress they were making, Peter reached back and tugged out the bag of corn from behind his head. Then he tossed both bags into the cart. "Let's get the minimums and get out of here. Maybe a gallon of milk, some bread, the Tiger Balm, and get home." _Home. He lives at 'home' with me. And I'm starting fights with him and beating him up._ Peter felt guilty, unhappy with and resentful of his own emotions. _This is fucked up._

He turned the cart around to head back to the dairy section, taking it past Sylar. He gave him an appraising look, thinking about the way Sylar had been skulking at the end of the aisle and was still doing his best to keep his distance. _It looks like either he thinks I don't want him around, or he's stalking me. I don't like either of those, but at least he doesn't look afraid of me._ Peter tipped his head in the direction he was going, inviting Sylar along. "Stay with me," he added softly.

XXX

Sylar shuffled back as Peter began his approach with the cart leading the way. He was just giving it room. Not forcing himself on Peter in any way, except…except _not_ with his presence, apparently. It was hard to believe. "Of course," he replied as if that was a given, absolute in life: Peter getting his way. In a few ways, he didn't want to stick around – on principle that Peter didn't get to say horrible things then demand that he hang out with Peter. _Maybe he needs me to get more groceries. Maybe it's just efficient. Maybe he needs to keep an eye on me. There's plenty of reasons._ Mostly, Sylar didn't know what else to do.

XXX

Peter didn't have much of a plan for shopping at this point. Previously, he'd expected to make multiple trips. Now, he just figured two small bags each was good. A gallon of milk made one bag. The cheese he'd already picked up, with a big container of yogurt added in, made a second bag of about the same weight. As they headed to the pharmacy section, he put a box of chocolate-coated ice cream bars in the sack with the frozen corn. In the healthcare area, he gestured at the different muscle relaxant products for Sylar to choose one. "Pick out what you prefer. I remember you said you liked Tiger Balm." He looked around idly at the different pain relievers, thinking about how he fully intended to be the one applying the cream to Sylar.

_Will he object? Does he understand why I want to do it? Was that what the kiss was about – him needing the same thing, contact? Was it because I touched him on the arm? Did that prompt him to come over and kiss me? He went for it with his tongue after I touched his face while we were kissing. Am I setting him off all the time, triggering him? He twitched when I touched him. He's usually twitchy when I touch him, sometimes even when I warn him I'm going to do it. Maybe him getting turned on during the foot massage wasn't about feet, but more about me touching him at all. He's lonely, he's starved for contact – is every touch overwhelming?_

XXX

Sylar picked out bread, peanut butter, and a few cans of soup (several of them vegetable with no meat broth involved). He stayed a foot or two apart from Peter as they walked. He nearly balked at the pharmacy because he couldn't imagine what they would need that they didn't already have in Peter's medical bag of tricks. Brows furrowed, he spared a glance at his companion before entering the aisle to get a better look. _Is this a test?_ That was it; that explained what he was feeling. He felt set up or betrayed somehow. Peter had intentionally baited him and…he'd fallen for it. What a stupid, useless feeling to have. There was no point in confronting Peter about it (he kind of already had) and Peter was probably right to start a fight and say what he'd said. It felt like Peter was watching him, so he hastily grabbed the Tiger Balm as soon as he found it.

XXX

They crossed the store to the bakery, then to the fruit section. A bag of apples and another of grapes joined the assortment to make up the last two bags. Peter wasn't keen on getting fresh veggies. They were likely too crunchy for his teeth to handle, at least for a few days. He topped off the bags with a handful of softer candy bars. He parked the cart near the front door and gave Sylar a long look. _This is usually where I'd pat him on the shoulder._ He felt sore, banged up, and still confused about the mixed emotions Sylar engendered. His mind was churning on the events of the last half hour, weighing his desire to touch against the possibility that Sylar was reacting badly to it, and reacting badly because he was desperate for it. Peter picked up his bags without offering contact. "Can you get those two?"

XXX

Peter remembered the apples, though. That had been on Sylar's mental list even if apples were probably difficult to eat with a torn up mouth. Grapes were another good idea. Bite sized and soft. The candy bars almost earned a comment. _'Eat a Snickers'? How about 'just get fucking laid already'?_ When they neared the doors, he could feel Peter's eyes on him. _Let me guess: one of us is going home._ But Peter wasn't saying it yet, just a request to help carry the bags. He nodded and took the handles, taking a moment to arrange them for optimal transport.

XXX

It was a quiet slog back through the snow. Peter voiced no questions this time around. He couldn't pull together his thoughts to formulate anything useful in any case. The world was too bright – his eyes and head hurt to go along with mouth and ribs and the ache in his right hand because he'd used it to hit Sylar more than he should have. _I shouldn't have been hitting him at all. I started that – the whole thing, provoked him on purpose, then started swinging when all he did was push me._ His thoughts were hazy, unpleasant, and left him sullen. So he kept his mouth shut and stayed focused on getting to the apartment.

XXX

Sylar knew it was bad when Peter had nothing to say. It wasn't going to end well. Either Peter was too tired or hurting (Sylar's fault) or Sylar had fucked up so badly that- well, he didn't know _what_ exactly. The cold contracted muscles and made the pain more obvious with the exaggerated motions through the few inches of snow and shivering. It was concerning to wonder about what had changed between them.

XXX

Getting inside was a relief. So was the silent elevator ride as he recovered. Peter shut his eyes, even with Sylar right there. Once in the apartment, the few groceries were quickly put away. Peter went in the bathroom and cleaned his hands and face, stripping off his blood-stained shirt and dropping it in the corner. He cleared his nose carefully, enough so he could breathe out of it and not so much that he started it bleeding again. He wet a clean washcloth with the intention of using it on Sylar (whether it might be triggering or not for the man) and came out of the bathroom.

XXX

Sylar cracked open two cans of tomato soup, pouring it into bowls and beginning to heat it while Peter cleaned up. The work was comforting, distracting from whatever was coming. He found that he needed that. It was a stupid and useless feeling to be upset about being rejected so violently. Peter returned with a washcloth in hand. Sylar glanced at him, then at it, then away. _Was I supposed to be taking care of him?_ Peter was clean now so he'd missed it regardless. Just another failure to add to the ever increasing list. _Oh. It must be for me._ He turned back and extended his hand for the washcloth, "Thank you."

XXX

"No," Peter said gently, moving the washcloth an inch or two away from Sylar's hand. It wasn't a veto, he wasn't blocking Sylar from taking it from him, but he certainly wasn't volunteering to hand it over. "Let me."

XXX

With his hand paused in mid-air, having never made contact with the cloth, Sylar looked up into Peter's face. He didn't understand so maybe there was something in the medic's expression…Peter quickly clarified his intent, but it still didn't fit the script Sylar expected. He went along with it because it was easy to give.

XXX

"Come here," Peter said unnecessarily, putting a hand on Sylar's shoulder and lifting the cloth towards his face. "This helps me," he said in a serious tone, pausing so Sylar had another moment to realize Peter was about to put his hand to Sylar's face. "I need this." Peter wiped off the bleeding from the cut on Sylar's cheek – probably from the cheese block – and then the less defined smears and drops elsewhere on the man's face. Those were most likely from the ice pack, Sylar wiping at his skin, maybe even Peter's fists. "I am really, really angry at you – not right this moment, just in general." He looked into Sylar's eyes for a long second, then back at what he was doing as he moved on to the man's lips. Here, he knew where the blood had come from – from Peter, from their kiss. He was more delicate with his touch. "Letting me help you…puts you in a different role in my head than the guy who killed all those people. _Clearly_ , I need that." Peter took in an unsteady breath. He put his hand down and let the other drop from Sylar's shoulder and to Peter's side. He tipped his head forward slightly, raising his brows earnestly. "We're working on this together, right?"

XXX

For the cleaning process, Peter gave a much clearer and more familiar message with his body language and painfully obvious words. The man's need was unmistakable and part of it Sylar could understand right away. The empath wanted some form of feedback, checking in, dominance. The cloth on his face was gentle and it caused hardly any pain. It was a mixed message to see Peter staring at his mouth. Even if the answer had been different, it would have to be agreement. _He probably wants to do to me what I want to do to him. I don't know, touching, being in charge, choices, getting to say what you want to. If he has it, does that mean it's a normal urge?_ It was difficult to imagine that any of his own impulses being normal. _Did I fuck up that badly? He's incredibly angry at me, but 'not right now' – or so he says. Do I believe that?_ His face blank but serious, he agreed, "Yes, of course."

XXX

Peter frowned. He tossed the cloth on the kitchen counter, sighed in frustration, and entwined his sore hands into the fabric of Sylar's shirtfront. Peter lifted his chin, regarding Sylar with a sober expression. He shook him gently, almost comically so – once, twice, a third time, then a pause and a fourth. "I would bet a week's worth of lattes that you're just telling me what you think I want to hear." Then he let go. The bell of the microwave had long since gone off. "But fine. Let's get lunch. Is any of that for me, or should I get my own?" He picked up the cloth and took it to the sink to rinse. After that, he put a clean, new shirt on.

XXX

Sylar straightened, leaving hands at his sides and being mostly confused because Peter had to be hurting. And the medic had said once he began to clean up, any fighting was over. Peter's displeasure was clear, though Sylar didn't take any of the body language or being grabbed as threatening. Sylar had questions regarding the man's message, too. _I thought that was a good thing. I can't even agree without him disbelieving me? Because I pulled a prank or made him look foolish? Is he just angry in general?_ He remained in place for a few seconds longer. "Yes," he said carefully. Too much agreement was uncertain ground apparently. Then, realizing how it sounded, he added, "For you."

XXX

Peter wanted the food…until it was in front of him. At that point, his bile threatened to rise again. He stirred the tomato soup silently, considering the throbbing in his head and the queasiness earlier. _There's nothing I can do about the concussion, but there is for the symptoms._ He set his spoon down and went to the medical bag, digging through it until he found the Zofran and a syringe. He drew up the recommended amount, found a vein, and injected.

He returned to the table, giving Sylar a wordless shrug before picking up his spoon again. _I don't want to explain. I don't want him to think I couldn't kiss him only because I'd been hit too hard. And I wasn't hit too hard – it was slamming my own head into the floor that did it. The back of my head was hurt the last time I was concussed, too. I wonder if it didn't heal right after that glass?_

XXX

Sylar glanced up when Peter stood up and walked over to the wheelchair with the medicine bag. His gaze lingered when he saw the injection. It worried him and raised more questions. _Is he concussed or still upset?_ Of course it was possible to be so upset that it resulted in appetite loss. _Tomato soup is never a good choice._ _He was bleeding. He's said before that he doesn't eat certain foods because of the smell. What do I say if he is concussed? It was my fault…_

Then Peter sat again, giving another non-verbal gesture of communication. Sylar saw it and focused on his food again, idly stirring.

XXX

His appetite did not return immediately, nor did the upset stomach subside that soon, but he managed to eat some anyway. Peter was quietly thankful the food was nearly liquid, given the issues with his mouth. For once, he didn't complicate the meal with crackers, cheese, or anything else – not even conversation. They ate. They cleaned up. Peter retired to the bed with a couple ice packs he'd made, taking off his shoes and settling in on top of the covers. The warm food, of which he'd eaten maybe half his portion, had left him drowsy. Or perhaps that was a side effect of the medication, or concussion – he couldn't recall and didn't much care. He felt basically safe, which was oddly comforting to realize – Sylar had killed him more than once, but Peter had grown to feel 'safe' in his company. He arranged an ice pack behind his head and balanced the other on his face, watching Sylar idly.

XXX

It was weird, Sylar noticed, not to be asked question after question about a significant event here with Peter. Either this was different, or Peter was merely waiting, or this was one of the things that couldn't ever be discussed. Sylar did most of the cleaning and when he was done he noticed Peter lying down on the master bed. _No shower? He must be concussed. Should I ask? Does he even know?_

It was enough odd behaviors to tip the balance of favor and dictated his course of actions: _I need to treat him like he's concussed._ While ice might have felt good, he wasn't sure how that fit with the changing dynamic. He did allow himself to lie down on his back next to Peter with a foot or more of space between them. It wasn't uncomfortable, the silence, but it was…present.

XXX

After a minute or so, Peter rolled to his side. The motion prompted him to re-arrange his ice packs, but was worth the bother to face the other man. Once done, he extended a hand to touch Sylar's forearm, less tentatively than he had after the fight. "I like touching you," he said quietly, watching what he was doing, stroking dark hairs one way and then the other. "It makes me happy – or at least content, inside." He made a brief gesture at his own chest. "What would make you happy like that, Sylar?" His question was casual – not so much an offer as simply making conversation.

XXX

Sylar tensed inwardly to feel the shift in the mattress. He wasn't afraid of violence, but of the dialogue Peter would try to start. It wasn't what he was expecting at all. Sylar experienced a multitude of reactions to those nice, simple statements and the question. _He likes touching me? Really? I thought he was angry. How can he stand it?_ Then, because it was more pressing and almost more of a mystery, he focused on his reply.

There was the obvious, 'Being touched' response. There were plenty of defensive, sharp, disbelieving, dismissive, undeserving, submissive, needy, disgusting answers, too. Under it all, the answer was: _I don't know._ Sylar couldn't imagine a reply that would satisfy that question so he didn't really try. "That's not necessary, Peter. Touching me is okay. I don't mind at all."

XXX

"I don't mind at all," Peter said, copying Sylar's inflection. "That's where we should start – things we're both okay with." He continued petting Sylar's forearm, staring at it blankly. He was focused on other things than sight – the faint, very faint tingle the contact engendered, and the emotional, uncertain quality of what Sylar had just said. There was a wavering there that was almost palpable. "You didn't answer the question, though. It's a kind of rude question I guess. It wouldn't be if we were closer." Peter _felt_ through his hand. If he concentrated, he could feel threads of energy from his fingertips running back through his body. It seemed unwise to go too far down that road. If Sylar felt something ability-related, he might (rightfully) freak out. Despite his mention of the benefits of practicing, Peter doubted Sylar would volunteer himself as a test subject. So Peter went back to the more pleasing but merely physical sensations. He felt very tired. Lids drooping, he said, "Sometimes I wonder if we're all just energy fields, like characters out of Tron. 'Luminous beings', like Yoda said."

XXX

Sylar frowned. Peter wasn't making sense and he didn't sound like himself. He was tired, nauseous, needy, and out of it. "Do you think you might have a concussion? I think you have a concussion."

XXX

Eyes shut, Peter agreed, "Yeah, definitely. A mild one. Should be better tomorrow. I can still kick your ass, though. Don't forget that." The world seemed to swirl away for a moment before wakefulness returned. He chuckled. "I threaten you then go to sleep next you. That's either really dumb or really trusting. Or maybe a sign of," Peter's tone changed to mimic one of his professors, "poor judgement consequential to traumatic brain injury."

XXX

It was a relief when Peter agreed with him. It also made him a little concerned. He was glancing at Peter every now and then so he saw when Peter appeared to zone out. The bravado was laughable because Sylar was offering no threat. "I'll take care of you," he said anyway.

XXX

"Good," Peter responded, words slurred by a combination of swollen lip, ice pack, and drowsiness. By this point, he was basically sleep-talking – thinking he was making friendly jokes and being too out of it to consider if Sylar understood his words the same way. "I'd hate to be wrong about you. Might not wake up." He slid his hand down to Sylar's wrist, thinking something ill-defined about hanging onto him in case Sylar tried to hurt him. Then he fell asleep.

XXX

 _You probably are wrong about me,_ Sylar thought in disappointment. He assumed Peter's mental filter was shot and it was likely he was being truthful about his lack of trust. Somewhere, recently, he'd earned it and that had changed how Peter saw him. He patted the other man's hand as it rested on his arm. He remained looking at Peter's closed eyes until he detected steadier, deeper breaths.

 _The question is…why is he nauseous? And when did he hit his head?_ Sylar knew he'd been throwing hard punches, but it was hardly a life-or-death struggle and it hadn't been his best effort. Peter appeared to have smacked his head against the floor in his desperation to get away from Sylar's kiss. He was miserable and guilty and desperate for being so disgusting as to cause such an extreme reaction. He wanted to be forgiven and comforted but that wasn't going to happen. Regardless of how it had happened, it was his fault Peter was injured.

After wondering, he glanced back over to Peter's covered face and wished he could see more of it. He petted his hand because he could. Maybe ten minutes later, he picked up his book from the nightstand and tried to ignore his problems.

XXX

Peter woke when Sylar moved his head to position two new ice packs. Both were pressed too firmly against swollen, sore flesh. Peter half-remembered the painless process of Sylar removing the old ones. But the pain woke him up fully this time around. He grimaced as he blinked his eyes open.

XXX

Sylar hesitated, now able to see the pain cross Peter's face. He replaced the new packs and his hand drifted across to Peter's hair. He didn't know how else to make it better and…it was something he wanted. He petted the soft locks with a few quick motions.

XXX

 _He wouldn't be doing this if he wasn't feeling_ _guilty. It's not because of the ice packs._ Peter caught Sylar's wrist as the man went to pull it away. It wasn't thought out beyond a sudden desire to address that guilt. If anyone was at fault for the fight, Peter thought it was himself.

XXX

Sylar paused, half-sitting on the bed beside him. He was trying to imagine why Peter was holding onto his wrist.

XXX

Peter pulled in a long breath. _It's not the fight, either. He knows it was the kiss. So he's overcompensating by being guilty about touching my hair? Of course, he is! He doesn't know how I'll take anything if I freak out over a kiss._ Peter drew back the hand, slowly, and put it against his hair again. He watched Sylar. Peter raised his brows slightly in invitation or question, but he didn't speak. He still didn't know how to explain without sounding like an idiot. Instead, he stroked Sylar's hand along his hair, petting himself. _It's like last night,_ Peter thought, hoping Sylar would see the similarity. _When you used my hand to touch yourself?_

XXX

Sylar held his breath for a moment when his hand was replaced on Peter's hair. He knew he was being watched, but he was hurriedly checking between the empath's face and where his hand was being guided. Peter's expression appeared interested. _Peter wants my hand in his hair?_ Then he got it: this was quid pro quo. _He wants my hand in his hair. He's showing me what he wants._ The realization was deeply satisfying, but he had a flash of concern that this was somehow related to Nathan. Sylar dismissed that because he couldn't find a rational connection. The better connection was to last night and how…sexually he'd intended Peter's hands all over him to be. It felt too good to be true and his body agreed: flushing with heat and filthy/pleased sensations.

Sylar finally noticed he'd been staring at Peter and glanced to where his hand was being held.

XXX

Peter paused, reached along Sylar's fingers and straightened them, then inserted them carefully into his hair over his ear. Sylar's fingers flexed, following the line of Peter's scalp. It hurt a little – at least once during the fight, Sylar had grabbed Peter's hair and jerked him aside with it. It was a minor injury. Peter ignored the pain to show Sylar that this sort of touching was approved. It was okay. It was what Peter wanted if they were together.

XXX

 _Oh God, yes. (Was this what it was like last night for him?)_ He'd touched Peter's hair before, grabbed it, petted it. This wasn't new, but it was. The man's hair was thick and glossy. Peter still had loose 'hold' on his hand, which he had mixed feelings about. It was a little annoying and kind of sexy, too. He had freedom of moving his fingers and took advantage of that.

XXX

Peter continued to guide him for three more passes before redirecting Sylar's touch to his neck. He paused again, arranging fingers so it was just fingertips and not the entire press of fingers against him. It was a trivial difference of personal taste – Peter would rather Sylar not wrap his hands around his throat, at least not at this stage. He brought them down behind his ear, curving upward after a short sojourn across his neck. He led Sylar's hand over his jaw to his cheek, up under his eye and over to his nose. Peter's eyes were on Sylar the whole time, his expression intent and serious because that was how he wanted to look, and a little vulnerable and concerned because he couldn't stop that from bleeding through. Peter let go, leaving Sylar's hand unattended to see what would happen next.

XXX

It got so much better. Peter led his hand to his beautiful neck, the side of his throat, just brushing and moving on. It was a delicious tease with only one set of fingertips in play. _Oh God. Is he concussed so badly he's lost his mind?_ Then his hand was led up around the ear, next the muscular jaw and cheek, lastly up over Peter's face and nose, feeling it through the open nerves of his hand. His attention was locked onto his hand because his brain couldn't confirm this was happening unless he watched it. This was answering perverted wants and strange, unknown needs he hadn't been able to put into words. This was the start of everywhere he wanted to touch. He could feel warmth and the beginnings of arousal in his loins.

Then…Peter let go. Sylar's attention shifted to look into Peter's eyes. His own expression was wondering, focused, and…knowing at the same time. He wanted to jump him so badly and, for several reasons, couldn't do that. _He's sick and injured. That's really gross. (He knows I'm fucked up. If he can plan to be this inviting when he's concussed…No. Leave him wanting it.) He's giving me control? At least a little bit of slack._

Sylar felt his hand retracing everywhere he'd just touched, gently, skimming over the skin. It was innocent. It was seductive. He wanted to bite that throat, grasp that head, tickle the ears, grab at the hair…When his fingers returned to Peter's nose, they drifted down to rest beside Peter's mouth. His digits just touched outside of the soft, pink lip. _I bet he's just trying to prove some point. Like, I'm 'trustworthy' or I 'can be gentle' or something._ Sylar didn't care.

Peter would care if another kiss was forced on him by his caretaker. After a brief second, Sylar worried it was weird, so he moved on. His thumb briefly brushing the outer corners of Peter's eye socket. When Peter was happy and smiled, it made adorable little crow's feet that made him look his age. Passing by that, he stroked the start of Peter's hair at his temple – where it transitioned from flesh to hair, short hairs to long. He couldn't help but grin a little.

XXX

Peter smiled more clearly. He stretched slightly, letting the ice pack fall out of place, then moved his head into Sylar's hand so it was cupping his cheek. Peter let his eyes slide shut for a long moment, feeling relief and pleasure at something simple enough that he didn't feel torn up inside by allowing it.


	147. Going Down

Day 76, February 24, Evening

Sylar saw Peter's smile and felt him press his cheek into his hand. _I'm…I'm holding Peter's face. I'm not hurting him. He smiled!_ As soon as he realized that, he felt the weight of responsibility settle over him, the pressure was nearly crushing. _He wants me to take care of him. (I was going to- I mean, I am, but I was just trying to change his ice packs out so he could sleep more…)_ With Peter's eyes shut, the empath missed his wide-eyed look. Sylar cleared his throat, feeling so much less prepared than he had been three minutes ago. "How do you feel?"

XXX

"Better." Peter pulled away slowly, letting his still-serious eyes linger on Sylar's face. Once he was a foot away, he sighed, stretched, and winced. It felt like he was finding every bruise inflicted during the fight. "Ow." He winced again, starting to roll over and then hesitating. "Thanks for sticking with me. I don't think I would have actually rested without it."

XXX

"Of course," he answered quickly, feeling the more normal distance between them was another important clue that something had, once again, changed. _Fuck! Am I answering him what he wants or the truth? Is he going to care about that right now?_ It was helpful to know he might have to figuratively sit on Peter to allow him to heal. "Um…It's dinner time. Do you want to eat anything?" _Am I allowed to ask that?_

XXX

"Yeah," he said, sitting up to put his shoes back on in case they went anywhere. "I'm not queasy anymore. Which might be because it was a really mild knock to the head and all I needed was some rest, or maybe the Zofran hasn't worn off." He stood up. "Or both." He looked over Sylar, who had more swelling on his face than Peter had expected. He walked around the bed and approached. "Let me take a look at you?"

XXX

Sylar forced a light laugh at that, closer to two huffs of air. It wasn't funny. He wasn't certain why he felt the need to laugh off the comment about Peter's nausea. It hadn't been a very pointed insult. It served to kill his sex drive and he probably needed that. Otherwise his urges were demanding that he lie atop Peter, possibly strip him down, and continue touching him everywhere else with that innocent/seductive tone again. Or worse, kiss him. Sylar felt when Peter noticed him. "Um…Okay." It sounded like a question but he couldn't grasp what it was that Peter needed to see.

XXX

Peter looked at the cut – no ointment applied, then at the swelling along jaw and cheek – skin warm, no ice packs nearby except the ones he'd made for Peter. "You didn't take care of yourself," he said softly, raising his brows, "but you took care of me?" Peter chuckled. "You make a great nurse - all the right instincts, including the complete lack of self-care. I think you're due for your antibiotics again, assuming you took them this morning like you were supposed to."

XXX

Sylar allowed a tight grin at that, uncomfortable for most of what was said. He felt stupid for forgetting the antibiotics and now he hurt more because Peter had pointed out his pain. "I took them this morning. What do you want to eat?" He took up the ice packs to return them to the freezer.

XXX

Peter ran his tongue along his front teeth. All were present and accounted for. Several were less firmly fixed in his head than he wanted. "Something soft. Soup again would be great." He went to the fridge, pulling out the milk. "Times like this, I wouldn't mind a smoothie." He surveyed the possible ingredients. "Grapes, yogurt, milk, maybe peanut butter…Not sure how those flavors would go together. I think I'll just have an ice cream bar for dessert instead." He went about setting the table and pouring drinks, making himself useful while Sylar cooked.

XXX

Sylar hummed, amused about everything else, but suspicious that Peter was trying to soothe his ego about the soup earlier. This time they shared a vegan broth vegetable soup – Peter approved because Sylar had checked. _It's not like he thinks any real animals died. I guess he's consistent that way._ He kept an eye on his patient, watching for signs of nausea or general disgust. As he ladled the soup into bowls, he asked, "Why did you do that? Put my hand on you." He brought the bowls to the table Peter had prepared, waiting until now to ask partly as a distraction because he had props.

XXX

Peter heard Sylar's question as he took his seat. He licked his upper lip very slowly, eyes meeting Sylar's briefly before dropping to his spoon and bowl. He couldn't think of a good answer, so after an uncomfortable pause, he blurted out, "You did it first, last night." _That sounds so ridiculously defensive._ He looked up. "I wanted your hand there." This time, he spoke definitively with solid eye contact, like it was the final word and only explanation he needed to give. It was certainly the only explanation he wanted to give – just about anything else led down the rabbit hole of guilt and mixed emotions, especially about their kiss earlier.

Peter felt like he ought to be certain, that he should be able to give himself entirely and without reservation like he had with previous partners, or not do it at all. He was afraid it looked like he was toying with Sylar. He felt guilty that Sylar didn't need to be fucked with any further by the Petrellis, and yet here Peter was being less than crystal clear, leaving Sylar to deal with Peter's messy issues. Sylar – who had given Peter most of those messy issues. He swallowed and went back to his soup, keeping his head down and not inviting further discussion.

XXX

 _Yeah, I did._ Sylar admitted to himself how that sounded by light of day. The rest of Peter's explanation wasn't much of one. The direct look Peter gave with it told him to drop it. It was dangerously close to Talking About It. So he dropped it. _It probably makes a lot of sense to him. Maybe it felt good on his face…after I punched it._ After that, Sylar kept his mind on his own business, hastily eating his own food to get the dishes done and because he didn't want to see if Peter felt like vomiting.

 _At this point, asking questions might make him puke. That's so romantic. No wonder he can't wait to get his hands on you._ He scrubbed at the dishes harder than necessary, feeling angry at Peter, himself, stupid Nathan and Angela being part of everyone's problems, and the stupid world in general. He knew it was ridiculous to be so put out by someone having excellent reasons he himself had created for that someone not wanting to fuck him. _Sex is stupid anyway._

XXX

Peter felt both relieved and guilty that there was no further conversation. When Sylar took the lead on cleaning up, Peter spent only a few more mouthfuls on his soup, taking the still half-full bowl to set near the sink for Sylar to do next. Peter cleared the table otherwise of crackers, napkins, and his glass, pushing the salt and pepper together in the middle for next time. Then he retreated to the bathroom for a prep routine that provoked even more mixed emotions.

He was excited – yesterday, Peter had been so turned on he could hardly keep it in his pants. Sylar had felt himself up with Peter's hand that night. Today they'd kissed. Now they were about to go to bed with one another again, having managed to get through the challenges of the day without parting. Under normal circumstances, Peter would have expected to get laid tonight. But hell, under normal circumstances, he would have been laid last night, sometime after Sylar had ran Peter's hand over his bare dick. The impending culmination was obvious enough that Peter showered, carefully brushed his still-sore teeth, and cleaned thoroughly. He would have shaved, but his face hurt, so he simply made sure his t-shirt and boxers were fresh and not stained. He climbed into bed as Sylar took his turn in the bathroom. After a moment of thought, Peter rose from the bed to click on the kitchen light again. _Whatever happens, I want to see him, and for him to see me._

XXX

While Peter took longer than usual in the bathroom, Sylar sweated with nervous energy. Peter was just checking his injuries, he told himself. Peter was already jerking off in private. Did he always shower before bed? He hadn't before his nap after the fight…Maybe it was just a compulsive nurse thing, cleaning himself after a fight. Was he so nauseous that he was vomiting quietly? Sylar half expected to be banished to the couch or abandoned for the guest bedroom. The other half of him expected…well, he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Hence the nervous energy that led him to shut the curtains to the large windows overlooking the city, then locking the front door.

Just in case, Sylar showered, too. The rest of his routine was more or less normal besides making sure he didn't smell or taste like anything disgusting, not that Peter would be tasting him, of course. It took him longer because of the shower and because he stalled, avoiding facing Peter again until it became unavoidable.

XXX

Peter's excitement was tempered by a host of other uncertainties. They'd fought. He hurt. He was still angry at Sylar. Sylar remained a murderer - an unexplained murderer, who'd both admitted he'd done wrong and tried to brush off the killings as self-defense or otherwise justified. Just because Peter had decided he would give a relationship a chance didn't mean he didn't have questions. Quite to the contrary, it was the very idea of being with Sylar more intimately that had prompted Peter's intrusive questions earlier, the ones that had led to the fight.

There were a lot of answers he wanted, things he'd not insisted on before because he didn't think it was right to require answers in exchange for basic companionship. But this wasn't basic companionship anymore. Peter felt he had all sorts of rights to share or not share his body based on the other person's history or character. Could he trust them? Were they kind? Was he special to them? The answers he had for Sylar on these fronts were mixed at best. It made Peter anxious and unsure. Nevertheless, he smiled and sighed when Sylar came out. Sylar didn't look like a murderer, dressed as he was for bed. _Can I just…put that aside for tonight? Should I?_

XXX

He looked at Peter, lying on the bed, clean and probably waiting for him. Being fully dressed for bed was no deterrent to Petrelli's gaze, it never was. His lips twitched at a grin in return. When he arrived at his side of the bed _(my side of the bed?)_ he stripped off his shirt before climbing in.

XXX

Peter looked up and down the line of Sylar's body when the man took off his shirt. He had woke that morning wrapped around this man's naked body. He was handsome with a lovely lean form. Peter was still admiring it when Sylar climbed in bed, leaving the blanket and sheet at waist level so his top half was bare. The impulse to touch him was irresistible. Peter turned towards him, putting a few fingers on Sylar's forearm. He touched, looked at where he touched, then up at Sylar's face.

Peter found his breath quickening, his heart rate picking up, his dick coming to life and all just because of the anticipation. The confusion churning inside only made him more desperate for release. He wanted to fuck and get it over with, and at the same time, he wanted to put aside all his doubts, his fears, the past, and the future, and just be in the here and now. Just live and breathe and touch and be touched. Give up trying to sort everything out. Give up on making sense of how Sylar could be soft and warm under Peter's hand and yet hard and cold enough to have done the things he'd done. Just _be._

XXX

That touch was a message. Sylar exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. It was fucked up to desire Peter to touch him again, touch him more – or to desire to touch Peter again, more. Whether that message was 'this is normal' or Peter initiating something more was unclear. The fact that Peter started anything with that innocent and gentle contact said something entirely different and he felt so relieved he couldn't process it. His next breath was deeper because of that.

To show his acknowledgement, he moved his lips and his eyes slid towards Peter without moving his head. Sylar flexed that forearm as his only response.

XXX

Peter didn't know how to take the lack of response. There was a response, definitely: Sylar was looking at him now and had moved just a little, but it wasn't the sort of signal that told Peter the interest was mutual. His lustful anticipation ramped back down as quickly as it had surged to life. _If I were using Sylar's playbook from earlier today, then I'd be kissing him anyway right now. But I'm not him._ Peter's eyes lingered on Sylar's lips, wondering about the slight movement they'd made. It hadn't been a mouthed word or lip-licking or a blown kiss. Then he looked at Sylar's hair, considered mussing it, but remembered that putting his hand on Sylar's head was a big 'no'.

It struck Peter as problematic that he couldn't seem to get that hammered into his brain solidly enough not to think about doing it. Peter leaned back a few inches, which was really just a return to a normal pose from the eager, forward position he'd had before. His attention went back to Sylar's forearm, which he petted with slow, thoughtful motions, occasionally glancing up to take in Sylar's expression. _Maybe he wants to take it slow, too. Maybe I had the wrong idea for tonight. We did just beat the crap out of each other today. He's hurt. I couldn't handle kissing him earlier. He's just keeping himself safe._

XXX

Peter…wasn't advancing. But that was average Peter behavior: a gentle touch followed by overthinking nonsense. _Just take advantage already. Do I have to walk you through everything?_ He didn't want the opportunity to pass by – he couldn't afford to let it. Sylar rolled on his side to face Peter, lifting that extended hand to rest it on his lower back. He glanced at Peter for a moment, then pretended that other things caught his interest and kept his gaze calm and moving.

XXX

 _Oh!_ Peter nodded slowly, his brows raised a little at this definitive sign of interest. His fingers made small circles on the soft skin of Sylar's side and back. He dropped that hand further down to Sylar's spine as he scooted forward an inch or two. They weren't pressed together, but they were close enough that Peter could feel the tantalizing awareness of another person, up and down the front of his body. His hand traced out a more expansive motion, casually roaming up and down the elastic band of Sylar's boxers, tingling lightly as it went. He watched Sylar's face for reaction as Peter slid his hand down over smooth cotton and the modest swell of Sylar's ass.

XXX

That was better. Peter understood that message even if Sylar was reluctant to send it. It felt wrong to be this close, face-to-face to a man in bed. _(Is that the problem? I'm not supposed to start things in bed? Bed is a safe zone – that's what he wanted)._ It also felt incredibly forbidden and made his skin heat up at the soft touching. He was a little embarrassed that Peter was watching him. Sylar knew he was being tested and kept his expression under strict control even when Peter began touching his ass.

XXX

Tension was spiraling up in Peter again, not knowing Sylar's signals, not sure what he needed to be doing or how much. He wished they could kiss, but he didn't want a repeat of earlier and without having given an explanation, there was no way Sylar would know what to do or not do. Besides, Peter's mouth hurt. Very carefully, Peter brought his knee forward and lightly bumped Sylar's, then lifted and hooked it over Sylar's legs. He scooted forward again, bringing their bodies together. It was a commitment of a sort – making clear the sort of interest he had (the sort of interest that an erection pressed to you tended to imply). Peter adjusted his lower arm, folded between them with his hand settling on Sylar's chest now that they were closer. The other gripped lightly at Sylar's rear end.

XXX

Sylar exhaled and blinked in reaction. Peter's leg was over both of his; Peter's hands were on him, grabbing his butt, and Peter's erection was pressed against him now. It was all very serious. He didn't know what kind of reaction, non-reaction, or action he should be doing. _I know what I want to do,_ he thought darkly, other forbidden things flitting about his brain and he tried not to let them settle. _None of those are the point of this exercise. It's about him._ He remembered being at the library and Peter freely confessing a fantasy: Sylar giving him a blowjob with a specific angry and eager expression. In many ways, Sylar would rather be fucked than have to give a blowjob, but he wasn't being asked his preference here clearly.

Being halfway between Peter's legs solved a few things. Sylar reached out to take hold of Peter's face, right around the jaw and ear, pushing with that forearm placed against Peter's chest to roll the man onto his back and coming up with Peter's legs around him. He allowed himself to savor the position, the view for a moment.

XXX

Peter had barely started to move his face into Sylar's hand when the other man pushed him over. With a different partner, it would have meant nothing, but with Sylar, everything was layered with other meanings. Peter's mouth opened and he panted lightly, but it was with momentary apprehension rather than excitement. Sylar, over him – there was a disturbing flash of when Peter had Sylar laid out on the sheetrock at Mercy Hospital, crouched over him with, first with his fists and then with a nail gun. _Positions reversed. What would he do to me if he had me at his mercy like that? I'm not safe! What the hell am I doing? Is he thinking about any of that? Or does he just think he's going to top?_ The very thought made Peter's skin crawl. It might have been sexy in theory, but the very visceral, immediate reality of it was terrifying.

XXX

Peter looked so terribly stunned, though not as aroused as he would have liked. Peter was paying close attention and seconds ago he'd been stiff and ready. With his hand still in place on Peter's jaw, he took hold of some of the empath's hair to pull his head to the side, dipping down to rest his teeth against that muscular throat. Instinctively his hips slid up and in, a slow thrust of his hard organ against Peter's. At the same time, he was breathing out and in before taking a snappy bite out of the man's neck with a grunt. _Oh, God..._ It drove him wild.

XXX

 _Uh, no…?_ Peter found himself freezing up, stress and conflicting imperatives fogging his thinking. He put his hands on Sylar, stiff, palms out, trying to decide if he should shove him off or not. _The whole idea was to have sex with him tonight. Why am I freaking out? He's doing exactly what I intended to do._ Except he desperately wanted to not do it now. Sylar ground into him, pressing across all the right places, teeth sharp against sensitive flesh, stimulating Peter in spite of his fear. _Fuck…he's hard._ _(That's sexy.)_ _What do I do? I'm the one who started this. I can't even claim it was him like I can for the kiss. This is my fault._

XXX

Sylar could have easily stayed there, right there in the sweet spot, biting and humping Peter to climax. But it would have been Sylar's climax, not Peter's. It took him a few extra seconds to notice, pushing aside the sensations of his throbbing dick and Peter's unfamiliar geography of hard groin and balls and thighs splayed out for him. He could feel the other man's tension, pressed this close as they were. _I wish I could kiss it better,_ he thought ruefully, letting his mouthful slip from his teeth in what he hoped was a sexy manner. He released the empath's hair and slid that hand down the man's clothed chest and side as he lifted himself up the few inches he could spare. As soon as he could, Sylar was looking for Peter's eyes, wondering just how badly he'd fucked up. Again. So soon.

XXX

Peter swallowed roughly and started breathing again, so thankful for Sylar backing off before things had become worse. He still had the sensation of pins and needles over his extremities – no pleasant tingling this time, just sharp, flittering pain. At least he didn't have Sylar biting his neck anymore, frotting against him, and escalating things so much he could barely think. He rubbed his hands up and down the outside of Sylar's arm and side, a little too fast, the motion betraying his nerves, but at least he was breathing and making motions. _Fuck. I don't know if I can handle this. He backed off though. I wanted to do this. He's been okay with me so far. Maybe I still want to do it?_

He met Sylar's eyes briefly and nodded even though he wasn't sure what he was agreeing to. He was just agreeing, because he had a mass murderer grinding on him, his brother's killer, a man who'd killed him as well, and Peter felt prohibited from doing anything about any of that. Somehow he'd ended up in bed with the guy of his own volition, held an equal role in instigating all this, and now didn't know how to get out (or if getting out was what he really wanted to do – he still sort of wanted to do this. Despite everything, his body hadn't stopped being excited over it.)

XXX

It wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Peter was still erect, but he wasn't particularly active and certainly not vocalizing anything (not that he had to – it was Sylar's job to figure those things out). _I can work with that._ Shoving his own rampant desires aside, switching gears, he braced for the unsavory task ahead.

He slid down Peter's body, spreading the man's legs as he went by necessity, and dragging his hand over a stupid cotton shirt instead of hot, soft flesh. He aimed his actions to be sensual, teasing, seductive. When he was crouched between the muscular spread legs, he let his hand drift over Peter's erection, covered in boxers all the while staring up intently under his brows, daring Peter to say no. The look was important, a fine balance between asking permission and getting attention before he proceeded without asking.

XXX

 _Oh! Oh? Oh fuck._ Peter realized what Sylar was going to do as the man did it. It was a relief and the opposite at once. _He's not going to fuck me. (Try to – I'd stop him.) He's going to suck me off. (Or try to – am I going to stop him?)_ Peter was still panting, the overall tension finally making his erection flag, and the concern that his flagging erection would disappoint or upset Sylar making Peter's arousal ebb even faster. _Fuck. This isn't working. He has to be feeling that I'm not hard anymore. I can't fake this. (And I wouldn't.)_

Peter met Sylar's eyes, seeing an expression he'd fantasized about and never imagined he'd get to see in the flesh – Sylar crouched over him, ready to take him in his mouth and pleasure him. It was hot, sexy, and arousing on several levels at once, salvaging what had become a downward spiral. _He's doing this for me! He's doing this because I said I wanted it, back in the library. He's doing it because I said getting together was going to take work. This is him working on it. He might not even like giving blow jobs. This is okay. It's going to be okay. I can do this. We're both doing this._

XXX

God, he could smell Peter and that was so good. That scent made his mouth water. Sylar knew he could eat this man alive and felt his cannibalistic side awakening. But before he looked back at what he was holding, he could feel the difference – a change. Peter was going soft. Sylar's felt his heart rate skip a terrible beat. He was instantly ashamed and confused, hiding his fallen expression. What had he done wrong? Was Peter remembering everything - now of all times? _I don't do it for him: filthy, pathetic, threatening animal. He's used to better. It's just business._ He swallowed, trying to mind his own business and not draw attention to anything. If he failed, it could ruin everything. Carefully, he worked at peeling the other man's boxers off.

XXX

Peter drew in a deeper breath, the realization that he wasn't the only one making an effort here giving him relief from his racing, fearful thoughts. It calmed him down and brought back focus. _Do I want him as a lover?_ Sylar was looking down now, making it difficult for Peter to see his face. _Because that's what's about to happen. I thought about this yesterday._ Peter searched his feelings, digging deeper than the instinctive fight/flight/freeze response. He was more than a mere animal. _My mind hasn't changed. Not really. I'm just scared._ He licked his lips, took a few more breaths, and lifted his hips so Sylar could slide off the boxers he was working on.

"Hey," Peter said softly, his voice shaky, "give me a minute here. I got a little too…wound up." He put one hand on Sylar's bare shoulder, the other on Peter's dick. He stroked both, petting Sylar while pulling up and down on his shaft. He was still just getting Sylar's profile, which was another mixed bag of yes and no. Sylar's discomfort told him he was doing this for Peter, for Peter's benefit, and while Peter acknowledged and appreciated that, he would have rather Sylar was enthusiastically enjoying the whole thing for his own behalf. _But we're just getting started. He's trying. I'm trying. It doesn't have to be perfect. We'll work this out. He's doing this for me. Best gratitude I can show him is to accept it. Like he said, 'Just let it happen.' It's okay. Don't ask for more than he can give._

XXX

Sylar nearly started with surprise to hear Peter's voice. It was highly unusual in the middle of…this process. He wished the communication was a relief (part of him was greatly relieved to know he'd done the right thing in continuing and stripping Peter's underwear), but there was the concern that he'd fucked up so badly that Peter had to say something about it, instead of just enjoying the ride Sylar had promised. It applied to Peter touching him…and touching himself. _That's probably really normal. I wouldn't know. Nath- HE would know. That's sick. I can't focus. I have to focus. What he's doing is a good thing, right?_ Peter's touch was gentle and practically platonic. Sylar waited, being touched and trying not to stare while being unsure of himself.

XXX

His erection returned faster than he'd expected once Peter focused on what he could do for Sylar – for both of them, maybe – to make this work. He wanted it to work. He was certain they both did. Hanging onto that thought and thinking about how Sylar had looked at him earlier made him hard. "I think I'm good." _And I don't think I'm going to last long anyway._

XXX

 _Oh, good. More talking,_ he thought without any real feeling. _I'm too stupid to make it work right the first time without help. No wonder I'm a turn-off._ Committed now, he had no choice but to carry through. Now Peter was waiting on him, hard and expectant. The dick looked like a dick. Not an enormous monstrosity in length or width, healthy with no warts or other telltale signs of disease. The flesh was a lighter tone than the rest of Peter's skin from lack of exposure to the sun and the head was a dark pink. Peter's balls weren't huge or overly hairy and Sylar didn't know anything about pubic hair to give an assessment of Petrelli's (but it didn't seem like enough in comparison to his own).

Time became fuzzy and he lost track of a few things, desperate to focus and zone out at the same time. When he noticed his own delay, he snapped to with a rush of upset. _I'm just the sex toy here. Do the fucking job already!_ He was desperate to maintain whatever respect Peter had of him up until this point. He knew one blowjob could erase so much hard work, his struggle to be viewed as something acceptable, make deals and arrangements for safety, the unasked for comforts Peter had already given. He was terrified of what would come after: abandonment, degradation, starvation, being back in this familiar, helpless position, being reduced back to nothing and having to submit to that because he'd agreed to it – to all of it. And the anger. The anger of having to put out for the hypocrite who'd took his mind and tossed it away so casually. The not-knowing was enough to make him feel weak.

He remembered that those same things would happen to him if he didn't follow through right here and now, too. This was the less risky of the two paths. That decided him and from nowhere, he heard a long-forgotten gruff voice: _Do it, boy._

He couldn't look at Peter, his motions automatic like his body no longer responded to his control. Sylar swallowed and moved in, opening his mouth until the back of his palate struck the end of Peter's dick. Slowly his tongue and lips closed around the shaft as he waited for Peter to begin thrusting. The taste was mild and meaty.

XXX

It took Peter only a second of looking down the length of his body at Sylar crouched there, dick in mouth, unmoving, for him to realize something wasn't right. The man's hesitation, then gulping him down without prelude and waiting in immobility like he didn't know what to do next cemented it. But even so, Peter wasn't sure what to do about it. They were very literally in the middle of the act. A thought he'd had months earlier in this place came to him again – the suspicion that Sylar wasn't gay, or attracted to men at all, but knew Peter was and so was playing that role to bring them together. _This is not the time to interrogate him about his motives. He wants to do this. I want him to do it (and maybe not all for the right reasons, but whatever). He's doing it. And no one's getting hurt._ _I'll figure it out later._

XXX

Peter didn't move, didn't say anything. Sylar quickly attempted to recover. Clearly Peter wanted him to work for it and that wasn't the usual script. _Okay. I wasn't ready for that._ He began bobbing his head while he hated giving the appearance that he was enjoying this.

(Sylar's dick was. This was so filthy, so erotic. This was Peter Petrelli. The strong, clever, evil, sweet, heroic, aggressive, domineering, empathic little hottie. This was, generally speaking, a sex act and a forbidden one at that. The wrongness filled his nervous system with a different and equally confusing, powerful reaction. Part of him hated this cautious, participatory nature of having his mouth fucked and felt it should be some kind of bestial possession of ownership).

The shaft rubbed against his inner cheeks as he began to attempt to suction. It was an unnatural sensation – his mouth attempting to hold onto the penis as his own head attempted to withdraw the organ from his mouth. The tip created the most friction, being pushed in and out. His tongue had nowhere else to go but press up against the shaft as it passed, giving him a taste regardless of his feelings about it (honestly, mixed). He had to time his breathing. He could feel Petrelli's fucking heart beat through his dick – firm, quick, excited, intimate.

XXX

"Oh yeah. Yeah." Peter said breathily as Sylar began to move. He stroked the top of Sylar's nearer shoulder encouragingly, feeling the man's mouth hot and wet around him. His body knew what to do, even if there was a part of his mind that was still a conflicted mess: Was Sylar lacking in enthusiasm? Should Peter do something about that? Should he just let this happen without complicating things or being demanding? Was this like the flogging Sylar had asked for and then blamed Peter for? Should Peter even be doing this at all? What if Sylar bit him? _I'm going to lose it again if I keep thinking about this. He wants me. I know he does – the way he looks at me, that he's doing this, he's trying to make this work, kissing me today, wanting me with him, all that biting and lust from him. Feel his mouth, his tongue! He's being so careful. This feels great. Might be easier for him if he wasn't doing all of me. (Why isn't he using his hands?)_

Peter reached down, insinuating his own hand into things. He grasped his shaft at the base. "Let me hold here. You do the tip?" With his other hand, he caressed Sylar's shoulder and then cupped behind his neck to feel the velvety soft hairs on the back of it. It was more intimate contact than Sylar had ever offered or allowed before, granted now without a glare or a twitch. It was like Peter's touch was welcome. _Oh, this is so good!_ "Fuck yes. Oh yeah. Yeah," Peter huffed out. The feeling of Sylar's lips on his hand was surprisingly almost as stimulating as the suction on the glans. He wished he could just touch Sylar's face, put his fingers on the man's lips, and find a way to kiss him without flinching.

XXX

There were more words. Directions. Instructions. He flushed with shame again, but complied, strangely enjoying the balm of Peter's hand on the back of his neck, tickling at his hair. In many ways, focus on the tip was easier on his mouth. It had that lollipop motion that he was more familiar with except his lips were continually bumping wetly into Peter's fist as it stroked the rest of his shaft. Peter was swearing. The tone of his breathing had changed – sexier, needier, sensual. It made him uncomfortable, and powerful.

It was much simpler to suction harder at the spongey head of Peter's dick, his tongue in play to avoid scraping it on his teeth. It brought an unpleasant salty taste to his mouth, different from the vaguely private taste of the shaft that mostly tasted like Peter smelled. Everything but that new taste was bearable. Now he wondered how long it would take for Peter to pop (and how long he could keep this up – his jaw was already protesting – and what he would do when Peter climaxed).

XXX

Every now and then, Sylar would glance up, meeting his eyes. Peter was watching intently the first time, having been admiring the way Sylar's hair fell in artless disarray across his forehead, watching the bunching of his shoulder muscles and he bobbed up and down. Peter's expression was one of disbelief and lust – that he might be this lucky was difficult to wrap his mind around.

The second time, he smiled, trying to connect with Sylar because this was intimate, he was vulnerable, and Sylar was doing this _for_ him, on his behalf, and Peter was very clear on that. The third time, Peter surrendered to it all. He met Sylar's eyes briefly, then let his head fall back and his mouth hang open as a surge of arousal swept through him. He was getting close. He moved the hand that had been touching Sylar's shoulder to his own chest, pushing up his shirt so he could stroke up over his belly, lightly rake his chest, and then pinch his nipples.

XXX

The third time Sylar looked up it was no longer begrudging (at least, on the inside). Peter had specifically requested an intense and desirous look while being sucked off. The second time had earned him a perverted smile and he wasn't sure how to take that. The third time…Peter was lost and it was a sight to see. Sylar had never been in a position to view his…partner while giving a blowjob before. A few pubic hairs, smooth skin, rippling muscle and ribcage rising and falling as Peter touched on himself, scratching at his nipples and chest. The empath's head was thrown back – maybe his eyes were closed – with that fantastic throat and jawline on display. Sylar felt…part of that process, involved, in control, and hungry for those few seconds of observation.

XXX

"Oh! Oh! I'm going to come!" It was a hoarse whisper – a sense of etiquette that he ought to let his partner know, in case Sylar didn't want to stick it out to the end. Peter's legs stiffened as he struggled to keep his hips from bucking, because it was also rude to jab someone in the mouth. For all Peter's talk about topping and his fantasies in making Sylar service him, he wanted Sylar on board with him. He put his free hand to his neck, to the spot Sylar had been biting just a few minutes earlier. Over the last few months, much of his masturbation had included touching where Sylar's teeth had marked him. He didn't have a bruise now, but he pressed it anyway, remembering the sensation. Everything built up inside of him – all the tension coiling up, flooding over and through him, finding release. Panting hard, he came.

XXX

A swift check showed Peter was no longer looking at him and Sylar's expression tightened out of concern _. Don't puke. Don't gag. Don't make a mess. Don't do anything. Let him finish. He has to finish._ _(This is the worst part)._ Sylar was tense, but he had to keep stroking Peter's penis with his mouth, hands braced against the bed, ready to shove himself away. Anxiously he watched as Peter pinched and abused his neck. There was nothing there – the angle didn't provide confirmation, but he would have noticed earlier if Peter had something there. _What a random spot to- Oh! Oh._

That needless gesture was so sweet and so stupid it shocked him for the last few motions and made him forget the inevitable. And then Peter was coming, spilling in his mouth and the angle was horrible. The semen flooded over his tongue, around the shaft, forcing him to taste it. His back arched until his abdomen left the mattress and he gripped the sheets, forcing himself to stay in place and not make a mess. _Oh God. Oh God. Oh God…(If I swallow, I might vomit. If I don't…What happens if I don't? Can I make it to the bathroom? Will he be upset? Is there something I'm supposed to do after?)_

XXX

Breathing hard, Peter let his hand drift down from his neck towards his waist, pulling down his shirt along the way. He looked at the top of Sylar's dark head, seeing no more than a mop of hair from his point of view. There was no movement whatsoever – none of the delicious, post-orgasm suckling that would have moved him to pleasant aftershocks. There was only stillness from Sylar. Peter tried to get his brain to think about that, because he knew it was important even if he couldn't get enough neurons firing to figure out what it meant.


	148. Hands On

Day 76, February 24, Evening

Peter wound down gently enough. Sylar pulled off, carefully extracting to prevent any dripping. When he glanced at a sated, lightly sweaty Peter he saw the man was lost in his own orgasm or thoughts.  _He can't say anything yet. (I can't-!)_  and Sylar made what he hoped was a dignified rush for the bathroom, spitting immediately and turning on the sink as quietly and quickly as he could. There was gagging and heaving, but the spitting helped. With shaky, disbelieving hands, he prepared his toothbrush.  _(I want to shower! He'll know!)_  After a rinse, he brushed his teeth, being thorough while wondering if he should discard his toothbrush afterwards.  _(It's contaminated!)_

He couldn't look at himself in the mirror, instead remaining hunched over the sink, clutching it and using it for balance. The cold porcelain was grounding and comforting as his emotions flew everywhere and back, cycling through reactions with frightening speed.  _(Now I'm here! What do I do? Do I go back? What if he says no? Like I can't sleep with him tonight? Or ever?)_   _You came back for your book. (Yes! My book. My book. My book. What if he wants me to stay? Do it again? Do ME?!) You can't stay here. You've already been in here too long. (I can't go back out there. What do I do? What do I say?) Nothing! You pathetic idiot! Nothing even happened, remember? Nothing happened. (…Right. Nothing happened. That's why it's okay. He can't say anything either, right? What if he wants to talk about it?) He can't._

Sylar scrubbed at his face, risking a glance at the mirror long enough to see that he looked like shit.  _How fitting. (I bet he already regrets it. He'll change his mind.)_ He replaced his toothbrush to avoid suspicion later (he could keep a dummy and use clean ones or toss the current one at a later time). He straightened his boxers over his very confused partial erection he hoped Peter wouldn't notice – a useless but calming and necessary gesture – and emerged with a stoic expression he in no way felt.

XXX

Peter pulled his boxers on and laid on the bed quietly, trying to make sense of what had happened and was happening now – with Sylar, in the bathroom, between them, with himself.  _That was not good. I got off, but that's beside the point. He's upset. Is he throwing up in there? I don't think he's into men. He's not into getting hurt either, but he wanted me to beat him because he thought_  I _was into it. So now he's giving me blow jobs because he thinks I'm into that? (Well, he's right. I said so, and I am.) But he's not into them._

 _But he kissed me! Today! And other times. And he wants me sleeping with him. Is that just because he's lonely? The kissing can't be because he's lonely. He's said he thinks I'm sexy. Maybe he just doesn't like giving head? Should I go in the bathroom with him? Offer to help? I don't think there's any help I can do here. I can help by letting him do what he needs to do and not freaking out about it. He was definitely turned on before, when we were facing and he rolled me over…and that was when I was the one freaking out._ Peter frowned. He rolled over on his back, mentally dissatisfied after what had been a very physically satisfying act.

XXX

It wasn't until he returned that Sylar realized just how rude it was to hog the bathroom merely to spit and brush his teeth when Peter might have wanted to make use of the facilities. He was grateful for the momentary privacy to piece himself back together. He glanced at the large, covered window, relieved it was shut and safer that way. The briefest glance at Peter showed he was frowning, but more or less where Sylar had left him. The next few tense breaths were filled will silence. No humiliation, no gloating, no rejection. Not yet. His knees felt watery as he climbed carefully into bed.  _And I did that on a bed. That has to be against the rules. Ruining the 'safe' space._

Sylar slipped under the sheets and lay on his back with the covers pulled around his waist.  _He's not asleep yet and that's not a good sign._

XXX

Peter studied Sylar's approach. Like Sylar, he repeated his earlier pattern – he rolled on his side facing Sylar and touched a few questioning fingertips to the man's forearm. Sylar almost flinched. Even if he didn't, quite, Peter still saw the tension, the change in breathing, and the subtle flex of body as muscles tightened. He withdrew his touch. Sylar was watching him in his peripheral vision, no doubt. The smallest dart of eyes towards Peter and then away was the only approach to making eye contact. It spoke of shame.

XXX

He saw as well as felt Peter rolling over to face him.  _Here it comes. He knows I fucked up – of course he does. It's all my fault._  Then Peter touched him and it was almost too much on top of everything else.  _What now?! I know it was wrong. I know I'm sick._

XXX

Peter breathed in steadily, then out. He considered.  _He's trying to make this work. But he's back in his shell now. Is he one of those guys who thinks once the sex is done that we should ignore each other until we're horny again? Did he flinch because he thinks I'm saying I'm horny again and asking for a second round that he doesn't want to give? Is it because he thinks I'll reciprocate and he doesn't want it? Is it something about Nathan's memories? Or something about him feeling like he just gave his brother head?_

Peter dropped his eyes to Sylar's forearm, the hairs mussed from their interactions this evening.  _Does any of that matter? I'm not hurting him. And I want this – I want to touch him. We just had sex. I don't want to_ _have_ _sex with someone who walls me off after, like they're done with me, or like they've done what they think I wanted and so I should be satisfied and roll over and leave them the hell alone and quit being high-maintenance and annoying._ God, Peter had heard so many variations of that in his tumultuous love life.  _This is like him sleeping in the same bed with me – if he wants that, then he has to handle that I'm going to touch him. And if he wants to have sex with me, then he has to deal with me wanting more than getting off. If he thinks he's doing this for me, then I'm not going to be shut out like this. Not anymore_ _._ Peter raised his hand, then his brows, and slowly put his palm down on Sylar's forearm – no hesitant fingertips this time, but his entire hand. _If he can't deal with this, then I'd rather know now_ _._  He watched Sylar intently.

XXX

Peter's insistence was a sweet relief and a conflicting scare. Unable to help himself, Sylar swallowed and exhaled, but he was more accepting of whatever happened next.  _Just get it over with. I won't break._

XXX

 _He looks afraid. How fucked up are things between us? (Well, given I just got sucked off by my brother's killer who used to be my brother and has killed me a few times, and wants to fuck me over so he can have revenge against my mom, and yet I still got off in his mouth…_ _T_ _hat's pretty fucked up.) He's human. I'm human. This all hurts._  "Come here," Peter said softly. He didn't know how to fix the problem, but he knew what he wanted. He reached across Sylar, a slow, telegraphed gesture to touch his far side and press lightly. "I want to hug you."

XXX

Sylar tensed on the inside at that quiet tone. He knew something was coming and it wasn't likely to hurt. He knew he wanted whatever it was, but hadn't earned it and knew he should reject it out of hand. Peter's hands were kind, gesturing for proximity and the best kind of intimacy. A hug. It might be some kind of mutual apology or ritual he didn't know about and Sylar didn't care. Peter wanted it so Peter would get what he wanted – it was the perfect excuse.

He rolled over as carefully as Peter had reached for him, going where Peter led, not even interested in pushing for more. He could feel the chaos welling up deep in his chest again, different from before and he hoped he wouldn't cry.

XXX

Peter wanted close. He wanted contact and touch and reassurance that things were okay. He hooked one arm over Sylar's shoulder so the man's head was on Peter's bicep, while his other arm laid over Sylar's bare side and back. One leg rested atop Sylar's. He positioned himself matter-of-factly rather than sensuously. Although he watched for Sylar's response, he scooted in and put himself where he wanted to be without asking permission or waiting for accommodation. He still half-expected rejection, and if that was coming, then he wanted to know it.

XXX

Within seconds, just thinking about the contact, hearing the command for contact, Sylar's breathing began to deepen. He couldn't explain that reaction. Rarely had he experienced anything that had so thoroughly and quickly popped the taut bubble of anxiety he always carried. The rest was familiar enough that he assumed it was a position for sleep. Once Peter was finished, with minimal wiggling, Sylar felt his tension dissipate, leaving him boneless and practically catatonic with relief. He didn't care if it was safe. There was nothing to be done about it if it wasn't. The struggle was over for the night. His last motion was to lay his topmost hand against Peter's side, just around the curve of his back.

XXX

 _He's okay with this. It's okay. We're okay._  Peter sighed at that small sign that Sylar was good with the embrace. He could feel Sylar slowly relaxing into it and that further cooperation drained the last of Peter's tension from him, the faint tingle at the edge of his senses becoming a soothing hum of white noise in his head. His thoughts turned fuzzy as it all faded to black.

XXX

Feeling Peter breathe and sigh with satisfaction was wonderful. He'd done that much right, a few accomplishments completed, whatever the fallout tomorrow. His guilt, discomfort, and selfishness at holding back his best efforts and faked enthusiasm was only a minor throb against the hug and Peter's relaxation. Nightmares were still a concern, but he hoped with Peter here so close it wouldn't be an issue. Sylar's lids were heavy and he was able to zone out until he couldn't remember anything.

XXX

Day 77, February 25, Morning

In the dream, Peter was lying in bed with Nathan. They'd just made love. The bed was in the holding cell in Odessa, the one with the transparent wall and door. There were police outside who had watched the whole thing. Peter was confused about why he and Nathan had had sex right out in the open, and also confused about why the incest angle didn't bother him. He tried to ask Nathan, but the words wouldn't come out. His eyelids were so heavy.  _I'm asleep! Wake up! I can ask him then._  With an effort, Peter got his eyes open, but it wasn't Nathan in his arms, but Sylar. He tensed all over, bared his teeth and hissed in a breath.

XXX

Sylar had been somewhat pleasantly dozing, daydreaming really, pretending his problems away. The morning after was looming even as Peter overslept, but yesterday had been a big day for the empath. He had no idea what to expect. He'd been cuddled after. Cuddled!  _He's concussed…He's so needy he doesn't care anymore. He's pretending I'm someone else. That's also normal. He can't kiss me. He is going to freak out. He cuddled me so there is no way this ends well. There is always fallout. How do I make this okay for him?_  His well-considered plan extended to: say and do whatever to get the job done.

He hadn't needed to stir during the night and so he was still wrapped in Peter's arms. It was a little sweaty, but he endured it. Peter still smelled great even if they were both filthy from the night before. It was easy to daydream of more pleasant things this way, though that was distracting from the real issues he needed to focus on. He felt when Peter woke up – it was hard to miss.

XXX

Memories of another waking reality that involved a Nathan-to-Sylar transition, in that particular holding cell, flashed through Peter's mind. "You're not him," he blurted out, then started to walk it back with, "Not-" He shut his eyes and tried to relax, feeling Sylar's skin under his fingers. He flexed them slightly to feel it better. He breathed. "It was just a dream." He opened his eyes again. "Not a bad one. Just weird. But you - you're real."  _What we did was real. We had sex last night._ He sighed softly, letting the air out as the relaxation became authentic and not forced. _Also, I kicked his ass earlier yesterday_. He ran his tongue over his teeth, noting they still hurt some. Peter lifted his hand towards Sylar's face, pausing to ask, "Can I touch your face? Your jaw?"

XXX

Sylar fought off a cringe.  _Him? Him who?_  Peter was still grasping him, confusing him as to what the man wanted – get the fuck out or stay?  _He can't mean Nathan. (He thinks of his brother right after…?) You're one to talk. Probably just thinking of some other guy he can actually kiss. A dream? Right. I'm real. I think. I'm real if you say so._  Peter was breathing, not aggressing, and definitely not scrambling to get away. Sylar nodded to the questions. What was there to say?

XXX

Peter touched very lightly along the bruises, now clearly visible. He supposed his own were as well. He could feel the sore spots on his face, but he traced out the ones on Sylar's instead. His explorations brought him near the edge of Sylar's lips.  _My dick was here. He took me in his mouth. That felt so good. That was so hot._ He wanted to touch those lips, press across them, and see if Sylar would receive his fingers as generously as he had his penis, but it seemed like too much presumption.

XXX

Peter was being so gentle. For now. It was still lovely to experience. It was soft and sweet, curious and nearly innocent. He was being explored. Sylar felt only a flutter of worry when Peter's fingers came near his mouth – otherwise, it was kind of sexy or some other reaction he couldn't name.

XXX

Instead, he looked into Sylar's eyes for a moment, then merely  _at_ his eyes, studying their shape and the way Sylar was looking at him. It was intriguing. The man was apprehensive and guarded yet still so genuine. Peter's lips turned up slightly with warm pleasure. He looked away, at Sylar's shoulder, where he moved his hand. It seemed wrong to stare too much and he suspected Sylar would be more at ease if his hand wasn't on his head.

 _I don't know how he feels about last night. Or anything, really. What would it tell me if I could feel all his emotions, radiating out from him like I used to be able to?_  Peter's fingertips skimmed across the bare, nearly hairless skin at the top of Sylar's arm. He made no attempt to move from where he was. Lying in bed and touching each other sounded fabulous, even if it was a little short on verbal communication. They were definitely saying things to each other – just not with words.

XXX

 _This part is nice._  It would be easy to relax into it because it was almost platonic.  _And I don't have to do anything. Yet. Peter gets to do what he wants and everyone wins._  It was difficult to believe this was the height of Peter's desires the morning after.

XXX

Peter turned his head to follow the course of his hand, teasing softer and softer over Sylar's deltoid and bicep, continuing in a practiced fashion until he roused the gooseflesh he was seeking. He'd made Sylar respond, even if involuntarily. It amused and pleased Peter, petty as it was. He sighed again, smoothing his hand over Sylar's upper arm more firmly, dispelling the sensation he'd just as intentionally caused. He was thinking of nothing but the sensation and the moment, so far doing a good job of ignoring all the other pressing thoughts inhabiting the back of his mind.

XXX

 _Is he trying to tickle me?_  Sylar thought as his skin shivered. There seemed to be no point behind it beyond Peter's own amusement – easily given in this case. He wanted some direction, and to see if Peter really was as satisfied as he appeared. (There was no way he was happy with that blowjob.) "How did you sleep, besides the dream? What do you have planned for the day?" he asked just above a whisper.

XXX

Peter shifted, flexing his body and stretching as much as he could without leaving the ongoing embrace. He liked it here. It felt safe. For now. Sylar's invitation to consider both the past and future felt dangerous, but he couldn't refuse to answer. "I slept great." He tried to think of what he might do today, other than completely rude solicitations for sex which were so not happening, regardless of the events of the previous night or his current morning wood – it was far more presumptuous than wanting to touch Sylar's lips. "Maybe play piano. Or puzzles – one of those puzzles." Keeping his mind off boinking Sylar on the couch was tough.

 _Just because we did one thing doesn't mean everything's cool all of a sudden. Come on, Peter. I'm not even sure he liked it. Actually, I'm pretty sure he didn't. And there are other things I need to be thinking about – Nathan, Sylar's past, all the other killings, my mother…me. Am I safe with him? And if I am, why?_  Those thoughts certainly made it easier to shut down the porn factory in his head. Peter's expression turned serious.

XXX

Sylar felt the other man's erection just as he was wishing Peter wasn't wearing a shirt so he could better appreciate that stretch.  _Oh,_  he wondered. He stopped listening to whatever Peter said. His hand slid down from Peter's side, over his hip and up over the empath's penis, caressing there lightly. "Are you sure you only want pancakes for breakfast?"  _Yesss! I want you to want it. I hope you're hungry._  Sylar wanted this much more than he wanted to give a blowjob, something about being more hands-on was appealing.

XXX

Peter looked at him wide-eyed, his body tensing abruptly as his momentary resolve tumbled into the gutter.  _I must have rubbed on him when I stretched._ It was all he could think of with Sylar teasing along the front of his boxers, no more than a thin layer of cotton between himself and Sylar's hand. His heart was pounding too fast.  _We did it yesterday. There is no reason not to take him up on something again. That feels so good. He asked! He's being gentle. He's looking at me…oh fuck._ Peter bowed forward, pressing his forehead to the join of Sylar's shoulder and neck. The arm he'd been partly lying on, the one on the bed, pulled back so he could hook his hand firmly around the back of Sylar's neck. He made a very low moan as he began to slowly move his hips, rocking forward against Sylar's hand, being so careful as he did it.  _Just let it happen._

XXX

 _Oh, yes!_  Peter was all over it – all over him. Somewhat submissive, but grabby and involved and so close. Fuck that was hot. Sylar could smell him, feel his heat, and within a second or two, he was breathing harder and exhaling his own interest. The moan spurred him on and he wanted Peter in his hand – in both hands, firm, throbbing, aching for what Sylar would provide. His own dick was quickly swelling, but he kept that part to himself because it was probably a turn off or at least forbidden. Sylar yanked the man's boxers down to get his hands on the eager flesh _. That's it. Give it to me._  He hadn't expected this to be arousing at all, let alone spiraling internally out of control. Peter was humping his hand and making delicious little noises. Sylar gripped and shifted his wrist a few times. This was a new experience, manual stimulation. The penis was warm, stiffening further in his hand, so much more intriguing in his hand instead of his mouth because this was something he wanted to explore.

XXX

Peter kissed Sylar's collarbone, keeping the pressure with his forehead and hand on the muscular portion of Sylar's neck. It kept him pinned only in a loose fashion, but it was enough to give Peter the illusion he needed of control. He pumped forward, greedy for more sensation, feeling his body light up with that extraordinary sense he'd previously classed as 'tingling'. It seemed like so much more, something profound. His free hand skimmed down Sylar's bare side, smoothing over his ass and then gripping it as Peter made a soft grunt and a more pronounced thrust, thinking about how delicious it would be to take everything Sylar had implied was available.  _Does he want mutual? I know he's doing this for me, but I'd love to get him off._  His hand slid up, eager to map out what Sylar would allow him. He stroked across the front of Sylar's underwear.

XXX

Peter couldn't see him this time. It gave him freedom of expression and he took advantage because his eyes were since rolled shut and he was biting his lip. Peter kissed him for no reason. Apparently only mouth kissing or face-to-face kissing was an issue. Whatever the reasons, Sylar enjoyed it and Peter's wandering hands, not doing much but touching and grabbing at him possessively. The aggression was sexy. If he wasn't allowed to aggress on Peter, then he could hope, sometime soon, that Peter would aggress on him and this was just the start. Peter was thrusting gently enough into his hand and Sylar set an easy pace, stroking the whole length of Peter's shaft.

Then Peter strayed from the script, inputting some kind of code that didn't compute. Sylar felt something purposefully touching against his rampant erection and it startled him into immobility for a moment. He blinked, pulled from the moment because, of course, he wanted to get some but at the same time, allowing that could have consequences or a price to be paid in addition to being distracting.

Maybe that was a signal? Sylar pushed against the mattress and began to slide down Peter's body as a precursor to another round of fellatio. He was confused and disappointed, but perhaps he had to make up for his poor performance the night before.  _(We haven't showered…)_

XXX

As soon as he realized Sylar's motion wasn't an impending kiss to the chest or some other readjustment of bodies, Peter clutched at him to stop him - one hand on Sylar's side and the other on his shoulder. "No," he said soft and rushed as he scooted down to return their alignment to what it had been. "Stay here, like this." Peter pressed himself to Sylar's hand again, settling his face once more into Sylar's neck. He inhaled deeply and rubbed the back of Sylar's neck - soothingly, encouragingly, or so Peter hoped.  _I want this, like this, just like this_ _._ He did not put his hand back on Sylar's groin, not sure if that was what had precipitated the move, but it sure looked that way. That Sylar might have issues as unspoken and deeply entrenched as Peter's seemed likely. Instead, Peter petted Sylar's side and then snaked his hand around to the small of Sylar's back as they became more involved.

XXX

Sylar nearly cringed with conflicting waves of shame and relief when Peter called a halt. Peter didn't want a blowjob. Maybe he knew, or was taking unnecessary pity on him, or maybe he didn't want to bother with another attempt. The bottom line was Peter wasn't satisfied the blowjob last night. Peter's fantasy and all his promises of rocking the man's world and Peter didn't want it again. He felt tremendous guilt and powerlessness because what did that actually mean? Was he supposed to insist and continue on down to apply his mouth? Or was he supposed to listen to these instructions and comply?

Then the relief he couldn't contain. Sylar wanted to have Peter's organ in his hands and get him off that way. It was safer, more comfortable, and so far, even erotic and intimate. He wanted this and felt more shame – different shame – for wanting it and being selfish. Peter resumed the same position as before, perhaps…ignoring the mistake? (Was it a mistake to have offered?) Peter wound up even more thoroughly wrapped around him than before, massaging his neck in a hypnotic way.

Peter's erection was in his hand again and Sylar got to work, doing his best to focus on the moment. If he thought about how badly he'd screwed up and what that meant for his future of servicing Peter, he knew he'd likely fall to pieces. It was very difficult to focus: being terrified of the future and aroused by the present.

His own penis had never wavered, now with a low pulsing throb of arousal, he could feel Peter's continued excitement. Sylar jerked at Peter's dick, measured and faster than before. Cursing the angle a little because he couldn't masturbate Peter the way he wanted, Sylar was still thrilled to feel the expansion of chest with each breathy gasp and the air breath puff against his neck – Peter's hair was nearly shoved under his nose and it smelled like product, which reminded him of the man himself. Every instinct was dying to grab Peter and dominate him, be all over him, but he kept the pace – about two full strokes for every breath.

XXX

This was fantastic – the stuff of fantasies, something he'd never expected, would never have asked for – not from Sylar, no matter what inappropriate flirting they'd done. There was just too much negative history – but he didn't have to ask. Sylar's hands were on him, firm but careful, measured and attentive. Peter mouthed loosely at Sylar's neck a few times, tentative kisses, grateful for what he was getting and so, so turned on by it. He was with someone! He'd been with Sylar the night before, but this time he was getting to hold, touch, hug, and cling. He was getting to thrust and move. He was getting to relax, because last night had gone well and Sylar had shown he was willing to do this to completion without an outburst or an attack. Likewise, Peter had (with difficulty) been able to allow it. It was so much easier the second time.

He could feel Sylar's pulse through his neck, pressed against Peter's face. Peter held him, speeding up his tempo, wishing he was inside, wishing he had lube, but not caring too much about either because he was about to come anyway. Aside from the night before, it had been years since he'd been with someone. His panting turned noisy (not that he hadn't been already making noise). This time, he didn't need to give a warning. He didn't need to do anything – not even bother with extending his performance for the benefit of his partner, because it wasn't necessary. Nothing was necessary; Peter could enjoy this purely selfishly, which was staggeringly different than sex with anyone else, always trying to please others. His fingers tightened as his body tensed, seeking release. He leaned away, tilting his head back for better leverage, thrusting faster and harder into Sylar's fist.

XXX

Sylar exhaled when Peter kissed him. Everything about this was doing it for him – and for Peter, apparently. They were both completely erect and breathing hard. Having Peter's dick in his hands, intimate, sweating, gasping, squirming for it was driving him crazy. He could feel Peter getting close and he almost didn't want it to end. Then the empath rolled his head away, focused on being stroked off. Sylar followed a few inches and leaned down to take a bite from the man's neck, his hand intentionally keeping the same pace on Peter's organ. It was a risk, but he wanted it – he wanted Peter to want it, too.  _That's it. Come for me. Give it to me. Do it again, Peter._

XXX

Sylar's teeth sent him over the edge hard. First, it was the final stimulation he needed – pain, fear, adrenaline – all combined to give him hyper-focus on what was happening with his body at that exact moment. It brought him back to himself, shut off his ever-present awareness of everyone else, and made him come. It wasn't that he couldn't come without it, but it sure hurried things along – the peak higher, the trough afterward deeper and more satisfying. Second, it showed once again that Sylar had listened to him, heard what he liked, and was doing things to deliver. It also showed impeccable timing and rare sensitivity in a lover. That sense inside made him almost feel like he used to, open and aware, back when he had his real ability.

Peter submitted entirely to it, putting himself in Sylar's hands and trusting as much as he was able. He groaned. He clung and leaned into Sylar's embrace. His breathing was choppy and gasping as he came, spurting between them. His dick finally had the lube he'd wanted – his last rapid thrusts had smeared the stuff on himself and Sylar's hand, what of it didn't end up on the sheets. Peter's hips kept shoving forward as though of their own accord. He didn't have to stop, be polite, or careful like with a blow job. He could let the spasmodic aftershocks move him as they would. Peter kissed Sylar's neck again once he was released from the man's teeth. He smoothed his hand up and down the back of Sylar's neck, then over his shoulder, and repeated the stroking as he breathed deeply between them, getting his breath back.

XXX

It worked perfectly. Peter was making noise and then Sylar felt the wet, warm, stickiness in his hand, slicking up the other man's penis as he continued thrusting and getting off with it. Sylar released his teeth at that point, working with the continued sex motions Peter wanted. ( _What about the…stuff?_  Sylar worried. On himself, perhaps on Peter, fine. But the sheets were a legitimate concern. Would Peter care? If so, how much?) Shortly after, Peter was petting him and that was lovely. Sylar's erection was still rampant, aching now from the sensual display, the audible sex in his face, being in control of the other man's orgasm, and the success.

XXX

"Mmm," Peter hummed, rolling his forehead against Sylar's shoulder and then kissing his shoulder. Normally, he would have been kissing his partner's lips, or at least their face. He wasn't ready for that, though. Not with Sylar. Not yet. Instead, he smooshed his nose experimentally into Sylar's deltoid, as much as he could, given it was still somewhat sore from the fight the day before.

He finally withdrew his hips, pulling back from Sylar's grasp and tugging up his boxers to cover himself. He was softening, something that didn't happen as soon as he orgasmed, but within a few minutes. Peter wasn't in a hurry. He kept petting Sylar, not able to get enough of touching him. He stuck to bare skin, which meant he avoided hips-and-down, but that left a lot of back, side, arms, chest, and neck to touch. He felt warm and fulfilled.

He pushed back enough to see Sylar's face, the post-orgasmic fugue lifting slowly. Peter looked him over, looking back and forth between his eyes. Completely deliberately, the hand that was on Sylar's waist retraced the path it had used earlier, down to Sylar's ass, over his hip, and across to the center of his groin. This time, his full attention was on Sylar's response.

XXX

Sylar was almost painfully erect after Peter finished. And Peter didn't hit-it-and-quit-it at all, instead he kept stroking over him. Then Peter was looking at him and he repeated the cycle that included stroking over his dick. It was a severe test of his self-control (he knew he'd have to consider at a later time just how intentional that was on Peter's part); he was a hair's breath away from ravaging the man to fulfill his own needs. But more importantly – was Peter…offering? Sylar quickly shuttered his lustful reaction after expelling a pent up lungful of air. If Peter wasn't offering or if he thought Sylar's arousal was disgusting or shameful (it probably was), then it wouldn't do to eye-fuck Petrelli.

XXX

 _Oh, yes._ Peter saw that flash of desire, even if it didn't make any sense that Sylar would try to hide it. He raised his brows disbelievingly at Sylar's assumed indifference. Peter slid his fingers up and down either side of the shaft, shifting so he could get his other hand in front of him, hooking it into the elastic band. He paused then, looking back up to Sylar.  _I'm not doing this with someone who's going to pretend he isn't interested, no matter that his body is screaming that it is._ "Do you want this?" Peter ran his fingers back and forth under the elastic, teasing.

XXX

Peter's expression and failure to run away was terrifying. The empath's hand did something that added more stimulation to his engorged member and the other hand was plucking at his waistband and wriggling underneath it. Part of him was animalistic, instinctive. He wanted to grab at Petrelli and force him to carry through what he appeared to be offering – and more. He wanted to snarl in his face that teasing him was a very bad idea. Sylar's fingers were clenching and releasing to prevent himself from acting on it. The rest of him was uncomfortable and questioning.  _Why would he ask me that? I already told him he can do what he wants. But what does he get out of this part? Nothing. Nothing except…my help with Emma._ It made sense. Whether it was true or not, it made sense and answered one of the most pertinent questions and allowed him some understanding. He wanted so many things he was unlikely to receive and certainly didn't deserve. It would be wrong to accept, but he wanted it so badly he felt like breaking apart inside.  _What do I say? Obviously, I want some. Or is he teasing me?_ He couldn't imagine what he would do or feel if Peter was just…joking around, humiliating him. Sylar swallowed and nodded.

XXX

"Mm," Peter hummed again, scooting down lower in the bed so he could stick out his elbows and get a better angle. He peeled down the underwear carefully, exposing his partner's beautiful, rock-hard member. This was, he realized, the moment when he'd usually slide right on down and get a face (and mouth) full of dick. But this was Sylar's dick. He felt a gut-wrenching aversion just from contemplating the act. It put a serious damper on his enthusiasm, sending it into an unexpected, jagged tailspin not that dissimilar from when he'd jerked his head away the day before.

What lingering erection he had shrank into nothingness. Peter paused, his hand movement slowing as he focused on breathing.  _But I'm already here. Give him the hand job anyway. Fuck, I was so excited about this a few minutes ago._  Peter spat in his hands, mostly to give himself cover for the hesitation.  _Sure, like I was working up spit. Right._  He ran his hands alternatingly up and down Sylar's shaft, having done this enough times (with other people, people who weren't Sylar) to get through it without thinking too much.

Peter pressed his face to Sylar's chest, hearing the rapid thump of heartbeat, sensing his breathing, feeling the wiry hairs scratching against his skin.  _I can do this. (But why am I doing this? Fuck.) He's human. He wants this. He's sexy. He killed Nathan._  Peter adjusted his grip, speeding up, staying in tune with Sylar's responses, giving it to him at the rate he seemed to want it. _He's not killing anyone at the moment. (Ha.)_ Bitterness and anger welled up inside of him. He tightened his grip.  _I need to get him off fast before something really fucked up happens here. Fuck. Why did I think I could do this? Why did I offer? I hate him! I knew that! Why am I doing any of this?_

XXX

Once again, Peter provided him with privacy and Sylar needed it even more. He was forced to bite his lip to keep himself from groaning. Any little thing could ruin this for Peter – especially the part where Sylar was likely going to ejaculate on him at some point.  _He'll stop, right?_  Peter Petrelli used both hands and it was so fucking good. It was nearly a new experience, being manually masturbated by someone else. Giving up any manner of control was so frightening it pumped up his adrenaline to the point where he couldn't freak out any more and had to endure the incredible sensations. Peter Petrelli was holding his dick in both hands, intentionally stroking at his masculinity with the apparent intent to pleasure him to orgasm. It was too crazy to be believed.

It wasn't a long process. Peter did everything just right, increasing the pace, gripping tighter

and Sylar had no time to plan what to do about his messy release. It built up inside him, spiking up and up until he felt his climax might break him from the compounded tension he should have found a healthy way to release years ago. He needed to touch Peter, hold him, but that was wrong. The entire thing was wrong and he was sick to be turned on by that perversity. It felt unrealistically good.

With a shudder and choked gasp, Sylar came in Peter's hands, bursting open in such a grateful, raw way he'd forgotten what it felt like. He wanted to mark more than Peter's hands – easily washed and forgotten about. He wanted his orgasm to have some kind of ownership and, of course, the promise of continued pleasures in future – but it didn't and wouldn't. His brain was frozen, dangerously, blissfully blank and caught up in the physical world. He was nearly heaving for breath and twitching and shivering, desperate to thrust into Peter's hand and hold himself still because it was over and this was the worst part.

XXX

Peter panted, keeping his head down and against Sylar's chest. His nostrils were full of the thick scent of ejaculate and sweat.  _I made him come. The guy who killed my brother. I just gave him a hand job. Are those the sounds he made when he was fighting people? Killing them? Did he ever get off on it like serial killers sometimes do? Was it exciting to him? Shit. I am_ seething _. This is stupid. I am so stupid._  Peter put as good an expression as he could on his face as he straightened, but it still ended up somewhere around 'glowering'. "I'm going to clean up," he said carefully, voice tense. He climbed out of the bed and escaped to the bathroom before he did anything worse than he already had.


	149. Rough Trade

Day 77, February 25, Morning

Sylar knew when Peter bailed. There was no more touching and cuddling, Peter's tense voice, the expression that was practically a glare, and the immediate exit. He'd fucked something up and now Peter knew it, too. Everything in him cringed in horror and he felt like he'd never be clean again. It was the farthest thing from a lovely morning-after.

This was the other shoe being dropped. From the roof of a tall building. Into the street. Everything had been going so well – too well.  _Was he really awake? He chose to do it! He didn't have to! I didn't ask him to! (He asked me, though. I think I gave the wrong answer. I wasn't supposed to accept. Or maybe he wanted another blowjob? I did ruin his fantasy. Was it because I made a mess? I violated the 'safe' zone of the bed.)_  The worst part was he felt helpless to address it.  _All I can do is give him a better blowjob ASAP._  His plan had fallen apart as predicted, all the more disappointing because he'd had the empath where he wanted him – and because his body knew just how good it could be. His body still throbbed with the after affects of long-denied pleasure.

He hadn't been able to stop himself from daydreaming what-ifs up from the day before until now: Peter touching him, being gentle, then being rough, fucking him, then fucking an enthusiastic Peter. Peter who had cruelly given him a glimpse (perhaps that was part of the man's plan) of what he wanted, knowing Sylar couldn't justify receiving it.

Once Peter was out of sight, Sylar unclenched his muscles and forced himself to get to work. Waiting to access the bathroom was another kind of torture, but if Peter was disgusted by what had happened, then it was only fitting that he clean up first and make Sylar wait. He did scrub his hands thoroughly in the sink before moving to separate the bedding from the sheets, then stripping the sheets from the bed. They were…contaminated.  _(Why use the bed for exactly that reason? Was that my fault? Does he even care? Is it just my job to clean up after?)_  Wadding up the sheets, he deposited them in the guest bedroom and closed the door.

Sylar felt his heart beating too fast and he couldn't think what else he was supposed to be doing.  _I have to be productive. Everything is normal. Everything is fine. I'll do all the work._  It was a sadly familiar experience to deal with an 'intimate partner' who hated him and was always angry with him.  _(Careful what you wish for. This is what I manipulated him into doing. Of course it's my fault.)_  He tried to remember what came next in their daily schedule and found himself in the kitchen, getting cereal and bowls out before recalling his promise of pancakes. It gave him something to do instead of freak out.

XXX

Peter left the bathroom, having succeeded in not punching anything therein, although it had been a near thing with his own reflection in the mirror. He was slightly more emotionally settled, but 'slightly' was the keyword. He held in his mind the memory of petting Sylar's face less than an hour previous, panting on him in lust as Sylar worked him, the intimate, sexual feel of Sylar's chest hairs against Peter's face. But there was also the memory of reaching for Nathan's corpse in that box they'd found in the storage unit, of helping Noah Bennet heft Nathan's body into the airplane, the rough fabric of the flag draped over his coffin. The man he'd had sex with, held in his arms last night, was the one who had done that – taken Nathan from him and caused those events to unfold. Peter's chest was unbearably tight, like he wanted to sob, or rage. It was the latter that came more naturally to him, but those first memories – gentle touches and uncertain looks – left him powerless and confused.

XXX

If Peter took a long time in the bathroom, Sylar didn't notice. He was grateful that the timing was good when Peter finished and the pancakes were done. He served Peter and departed into the bathroom, assuming it was his time to clean himself up.  _Peter likes space anyway. He already regrets everything._ In the bathroom, he scrubbed himself in the shower, muscles alternately trying to lock up and relax, let the water run over him. He wound up zoning out, wondering why he had to leave the shower or forgetting why he was there in the first place, but he was getting clean. Physically, at least. The rest of his routine was normal.

XXX

Peter's expectations – sitting together, maybe talking things out somehow – went out the window as Sylar disappeared.  _He's probably as off-center as I am. What's going through his head? He blew me, we slept together (really together, not just in the same bed), he jerked me off, and then me him. And now he won't look at me. Is it because of how I left this morning? He did the same thing last night, though – when he came back from the bathroom he was staring at the ceiling again, pretending I wasn't there. I was the one who had to get him to be with me. Why? He's willing to suck me off but can't look at me after? Does he feel trapped like he has to do this because I'm an asshole and he needs to do it to keep me from beating the crap out of him?_

There was an icy feeling in Peter's gut at how likely that last thought seemed to be. What if he was taking advantage of Sylar – having sex with someone who felt they had no other option to keep him pleased and cooperative? Just the suspicion made him feel like a rapist and a dupe. The idea of running off while he had the chance and never going anywhere near the other man ran through his head, but he knew how much that abandonment would hurt Sylar – perhaps to the point of suicidal (or homicidal) behavior, not to mention how unconscionable it was to do right after a night of sex with someone.

 _He's probably already thought all of this out. And I can't even say he's wrong, because him getting me off_ does _mean I'm more likely to stay. All this time of listening and watching and figuring me out so he could do this. I'm not going to pretend I don't – but what the hell? He's prostituting himself for my…my what? Me to sleep with him. I am such an unstable fuck-up that he has to do this to feel safe._

Peter felt trapped, manipulated, and at fault for not seeing it sooner. It was an enormous risk for Sylar to take, because a part of Peter still felt like the best thing to do would be to flee – but that would help nothing and no one. He felt compromised and low because he wanted what Sylar was offering, yet felt like scum for the desire. It was a feeling he was accustomed to - no different than how his family had made him feel over and over in the last few years.

He sighed. His tension bled away in the loneliness, replaced by depression. Peter ate his breakfast as slowly as possible, wanting Sylar here with him, maybe giving him an opportunity to work some of this stuff out. But the other side of the table was empty. Sylar's plate still waited on the counter.

XXX

Sylar convinced himself to emerge and show his face. It was a necessary part of the act – nothing had happened, business as usual. Last night, this morning, he'd had Peter somewhere familiar, if not necessarily…desirable. Peter wasn't his connection, Sylar wasn't special, and Peter wasn't able to give him what he wanted. Now, Peter was reconsidering with deserved prejudice. He allowed himself a quick glance to see that Peter was still eating at the table.  _I have to fix this. Soon._ Continually seducing Peter, keeping him busy and occupied was his only plan. Stomach queasy, he loaded his plate with pancakes and joined Peter at the table.

XXX

He felt better when Sylar joined him. Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Sylar's hunched posture and wary look reminded him of Sylar stuffing his mouth with pumpkin pie. Peter's lips snapped together. He put both elbows on the table and waited quietly, massaging his temples as he tried to get the unhelpful image out of his head. The more he tried, the more entrenched it became. Sylar had cleared his plate with surprising speed. In a moment, he'd be on the move again. With a frustrated huff, Peter looked up and went back to his original question – what he wanted to know. "Do you want me, Sylar?"

XXX

He didn't look at Peter much, instead pretending his food was interesting. It was delicious and he was hungry, very hungry, but his stomach was still unsettled. Sylar saw or sensed Peter relax for a moment, then tense up again, rubbing his face like he was tired or disappointed.  _Maybe I wasn't supposed to sit across from him. Or sit at all._  He had to minimize Peter's disgust. Quietly, he worked at finishing his breakfast but not before Peter spoke, nearly startling him again because he wasn't expecting…dialogue (or normal volume dialogue).

Sylar froze and blinked. It wasn't a fun question. The answer depended on so many factors he could hardly keep track of all of them. Surely it wasn't a real question, asked in a vacuum where Sylar's desires mattered. It was some kind of test.  _I must have failed it before. (Why is he asking again?) This is the big 'morning after'? (Is he angry?...Worse: does he know?)_  If Peter had guessed, in any way, that Sylar was playing him then of course the entire thing would fall apart and be insanely difficult to piece back together because it involved…stretching Peter's trust further than it already was.

He answered, "No…" Sylar's brows twitched at a frown as he glanced away for a second. It was suddenly so uncomfortable that he had to move, not wanting to endure the waiting or reaction. He rose to his feet and took his plate to the kitchen, intending to wash it.

XXX

Peter blinked a couple times. It wasn't the answer he'd expected and the questioning tone of it left him confused.  _Is he being sarcastic? Is that answer supposed to be obvious? (Well, why would he genuinely want someone like me? He'd just as soon kill me as look at me and he's tried that, what?, two or three times?)_ He drew in a deep breath and let it out.  _Of course he doesn't want me, he's just doing this because he thinks he has to._

But there was only one way to make sure of that – to ask. He stood up and took up a position at the end of the bar where Sylar had to pass him to leave the kitchen. Speaking clearly, he asked again "Do you want me, or are you just giving me what you think I want?"

XXX

"Oh, I want you. But the things I want to do to you…" Sylar prowled over, possessively, invading the man's space to loom over him, hands up. One hand brushed Peter's lips, then slid into his hair to grab it at the same time his other hand pushed Peter back into the counter and grasped lightly, completely, on his throat. He leaned down, feeling his front brushing against Peter's clothes, but no closer. Even that much was beginning to trip his trigger, and once started, he wouldn't stop. "…I don't think you want it. I don't always play by the 'hero's' rules." Just as quickly as he'd done that, gotten into position, delivered his desire, Sylar stepped back, releasing the hair and throat, turning both into a far gentler version of what he really wanted.

XXX

 _Whoa. Fuck._  Sylar's intensity was not to be underestimated. Nor his ability to flip from distant to sexually aggressive and back again when it suited him. Peter didn't suppress the shiver that came with being touched like that, but it didn't distract him from how contradictory the words were – he didn't want Peter, he wanted him, or maybe he only wanted him in certain ways. "What things are those?"

XXX

"Yesterday, in the dairy section," Sylar said flippantly. "It's normal." It was. It highlighted how strange this morning had been. Fucking with men wasn't like that in his experience. Sylar turned back to putting the rest of the non-refrigerated pancake ingredients away.

XXX

"Oh." Not because it made sense. It didn't, really.  _Does he mean the fighting? Or the kissing? Or fighting followed by kissing? He was just now pantomiming choking me. He's been turned on by violence before – several times. That would fit with him saying he doesn't play by 'hero's rules', I guess._

XXX

"Yes: 'oh.' It's all part of the arrangement."  _What else would it be?_

XXX

Peter lifted his eyes. Sylar was saying clearly and unequivocally that he was with Peter for Peter's benefit alone. It wounded his pride that Sylar either didn't want him, wouldn't admit it, or wanted him only conditionally. It was bullshit. It had 'manipulative trap' written all over it, especially when paired with the cold/hot/cold act of just moments before.

"What the fuck, Sylar?" Peter scoffed, refusing to pander. "An arrangement? We have a  _relationship_  whether you want it or not." He went to Sylar's own words for ammunition. "You're the one who said we were 'together', remember? You're the one who said we trusted each other because we were doing things that showed trust. And right now? This is a relationship. This isn't…enemies with benefits!" He laughed at his own joke.

"We sleep together, we spend all our time together, never see other people, ha - you do not get to tell me this is  _nothing!_ " His voice rose on the last word, emotion suffusing him unexpectedly as he turned from bitterly amused to angry.

He straightened from where he'd been leaning on the counter. "This isn't a deal! You're not paying me off to get good behavior out of me!" He shut up then, because the logical continuation was to promise he'd act bad no matter what Sylar did, which was ridiculous and stupid. Peter fumed, feeling backed into a corner and unable to shake the suspicion that this was exactly how Sylar wanted him to feel.

XXX

Sylar had nearly run out of things to do in the kitchen and Peter was still blocking the way out.  _The kitchen is where half of most of the accidents in the home happen,_ a part of his brain unhelpfully supplied. He wondered if that was intentional or threatening. Then Peter started in on him. The longer he went on, the more it made sense.  _Oh my God. He's…offended? Because sex really_  does  _solve everything in his little rose-colored world! (Enemies with benefits_  is  _catchy though.)_

At that point, Sylar gave up some of his attempts to look busy and allowed Peter some attention. "Of course it's not 'nothing,' Peter. A deal implies I'm getting something out of it, Peter. This is all about you. Call it whatever you like."

XXX

Peter could feel himself getting worked up inside. The alternating 'seduction/ignore/seduction/ignore' routine was impossible to follow. "It's not all about me!" he insisted. "A relationship is what I want. It's what we have."  _And if I'm having to beg him to admit that last night and this morning meant something, then this is fucked up. I have to get out. How the fuck do I get out of this?_

XXX

Peter was insistent with his rose-colored opinions, but it wasn't matching up with reality. Whatever Peter thought he was offering was….too good to be true. With any luck, the empath was starting to see how things were falling apart. Obviously he was already suspicious. Sylar's chin lifted up and he inhaled before matter-of-factly voicing the issue, "You think I deserve happily ever after? You're going to be my connection? Are you going to suck my dick? Make love to me? You'll give me all that when you can't kiss me and you can barely manage to sleep in the same bed together. What a relief you decided to forgive me and get over the whole Nathan thing. So, yes, Peter. It's an arrangement. Just like those one-sided deals you like so much." He didn't say it with any malice and didn't intend it with any bitterness towards Peter.

XXX

Parts of that made him flinch: 'make love to me', 'decided to forgive me', 'one-sided deals'.  _He doesn't know if I can._  I _don't know if I can. Maybe I'm just stringing him along. Of course he doesn't think there's anything here for him. Maybe there isn't. Just…keeping me happy so I won't bother him too much. So I won't get mad and beat the crap out of him. That's all he sees and it's cruel to try to promise him more._  Peter swallowed, feeling two inches tall. He made himself nod woodenly and left immediately, head ducked and tail tucked.

XXX

That was…not the reaction Sylar had expected. He'd anticipated a fiery retort, a lecture full of blame about how Sylar wasn't acting right and hadn't ever acted right or something well-worn like that. Instead, he got silence, a quick nod, and swift departure.  _I'm not telling him anything he doesn't already know. He doesn't have to pretend for my benefit. I'm not offended by what he wants – I accept it. Hell, I did it last night! I'm giving him what he wants, but he still wants more? Something different? (But I have been ruining his fantasies…) Fuck! No wonder he's disappointed._

The apartment felt terribly empty without Peter, even an angry Peter here with him. Sylar scooped up the laundry and put it to wash, lingering there to think unpleasant thoughts. Finally, he went to check on Peter to see if joining him was an option. Sylar wandered in at the start of Peter setting up a puzzle. When there was no immediate rebuke or glare, he moved into the room, circling closer.

XXX

He worked out. He showered. He thought a lot during both. He went to the rec room to pass the time until Sylar showed up, which happened right away.

"I need to talk," Peter said, situating himself at the ping pong table with a box of puzzle pieces. "You don't have to answer, but I hope you can listen." He studied Sylar for a long moment, then poured out the pieces and began to sort.

"I enjoyed last night. And this morning." He started picking through the pieces, turning them colored side up. When he found a straight-edge, he pushed them over to the side. "I enjoyed sleeping together like we did – really together. Close. Relaxed. It felt nice." It had felt  _right_ , but Peter wasn't sure how to express that. Or if he should, because it sounded like deep-end commitment and he couldn't promise that. He'd run people off in the past with that sort of disclosure.

XXX

Sylar had pulled up a chair opposite Peter and was just reaching to become involved in the puzzle process when the talking started. He was trapped. He retracted his hands and kept them to himself. The more he heard, the more uncomfortable and worried he became. It was so close to Talking About It. Didn't Peter know the rules? But Peter only mentioned 'sleeping together' which was safely ambiguous enough. Sylar still felt flushed, on the verge of sweating.

XXX

Peter looked at a corner piece, the first one he'd found. Then he looked past it at Sylar. "You don't have to have sex with me for that." His gaze stayed on Sylar. He didn't think Sylar believed him. He supposed it didn't matter – time would pass and that would reveal whether Peter could keep his word. "But if you do…I'd be honored." He breathed out unevenly a few times. "Arrangement or not. You get to call it what you want,  _too_." He set the corner piece by itself and went back to flipping the other pieces. It had been hard to come to that point in his arguments with himself – that Sylar's view on how they interacted was valid, no matter how negatively it cast Peter. Peter still had his reservations, but he couldn't promise or prove anything to Sylar.

XXX

It felt like his head was spinning. The world was unreal. He would have found it more believable if Peter had decided to discuss unicorns. To consider what Peter was saying _…(He thinks I have a choice? He's giving me one? Worse: he thinks I'm asking for things. I AM asking for things. Why? And I'm talking about the wrong things, shoving my stupid opinions on him. I guess that's good to know)._  Sylar did his best to appear receptive.

XXX

"You said earlier that I didn't like the things you wanted to do. I'm not arguing. I don't want to argue. I'm not even sure of what you want to do. But I do want to explain some of what's going on with me. I've never been good at turning off my emotions or forgetting what people mean to me. You have a lot of meaning to me. I have a lot of…complicated emotions about you." He'd finished turning all the pieces color-side up. He started through them again for straight-edges. "Even more complicated, now."

"There were times when we were together this morning and yesterday where I couldn't not think about all of that – your past, the people who have died, things that have happened to both of us. And I know you were doing a very good job of distracting me," Peter chuckled ruefully and raised his brows, "but…" He shook his head. He made his guesses about the three corner pieces he'd found and started roughing out where the straight-edges went. "I couldn't control it. Maybe I need more practice, but I think what I really need are some answers."

"Why? It's the question that runs around in my head the most. I don't know how to accept the answers you've given me. Some were self-defense. Probably not all. How did one event lead to another? Why did you keep doing it? You were killing people and torturing them, trying to assassinate the president! Are you still that same person? Can I trust you? And sure, maybe you're saying I'm already showing trust, but I'm also showing  _dis_ trust because I can't handle…" Peter shook his head and went back to the puzzle pieces, getting his breathing under control enough to finish, "I can't handle being with you the way you want me to be. I don't want to give up any control because I don't trust you."

"I want to make this work so we're not yelling at each other and hiding. I want to make it work so you're getting something out of it, something that's worth it to you. I don't want it to have to be  _work_ , for either of us." In a softer tone, he said, "I really enjoyed last night. And this morning. I want you to know that." With a sigh, Peter went on with working the puzzle, occasionally glancing at Sylar, but not speaking further. He didn't know what to say or how to find the right words. He had more than a suspicion that it didn't matter what he said – the words he needed would have to come from Sylar.

XXX

Peter at least solidly confirmed several things in a generous, if strange way. Sylar struggled through what was true and what was hidden between the lines. His gut was bouncing. The words…hurt. He hadn't anticipated that, not this kind of sensation anyway. It was difficult to hear Peter Petrelli treating him like he was someone else.  _What would I want to gain if I could get something?_  Sylar felt like that was a new question, just another one of many he was aware of and hadn't addressed.

The demand for answers was horrifying. Being a disappointment. Being needy. It was everything he didn't want and could barely manage to give. He was the farthest thing from special at that moment.

When Peter was finished speaking, Sylar was left another mystery of how to respond – if he should respond at all. He recalled one piece of information: that Peter wanted to be acknowledged when he spoke. Some response was required. "I-" he began and coughed, his throat overly dry from underuse. His voice still came out meek and whispery. "I see. I don't have any expectations. Whatever it is, whatever you want is great."  _Please stop talking!_

XXX

Peter tilted his head and looked at Sylar for a long beat, then nodded.  _He's not being patronizing. He's confused, I think. If he thinks I'm this fucked up hero-monster who has to be appeased because he killed my brother, then he wouldn't have any expectations and whatever I want is what he's willing to give. The blow job, last night, wasn't kind so much as coerced._ Peter pressed his lips together and exhaled slowly.

He felt, again, unclean for having gone through with it, for having thought the weird vibes and awkwardness was just first-time sex and that interrupting to get clarity would be wrong. He still thought interrupting would have probably been wrong and not because he was getting off on it. Maybe it was important to let Sylar give him something. Maybe Peter thought he (Peter) needed the wake up call, needed Sylar to metaphorically shake him up and make him realize Sylar was trying to make this work as well, within Sylar's limits, and Peter hadn't seen until now how sincere Sylar's efforts were.

He pushed over the lighter colored pieces – white and light blue. "You think you can work on the sky? It's harder, but there are fewer pieces. It should go better now that neither of us are concussed." He chuckled, changing the subject to something easier – low stakes teamwork where they simply shared time with one another. "We were kind of a mess a couple months ago when one or the other of us had been knocked in the head too hard."

XXX

Sylar met the look for a moment, then went back to admiring the scattered array of puzzle pieces. Peter wasn't happy with that answer – probably wasn't happy at all.  _I'm such a catch. I do so many things right. That's just one of the hundreds of reasons it can't be a relationship, Peter. How the hell could I ever make you happy?_  Sylar didn't imagine the interrogation was over and yet, Peter changed the subject and invited him to participate. Letting out the breath he'd been holding, he leapt at the opportunity. He was so relieved he almost missed the compliment and the humor.  _Thank God he's not broken – he can still make jokes!_ His chuckle grew beyond the proportion of the quip.  _Focus!_ Sylar cleared his throat and sorted the pieces by shape. _He gave me the difficult part. (And he stopped talking. It's like he was reading my mind…_  After a suspicious glance, he dismissed it.) Perhaps Peter was learning.

Sylar was so relieved he was grateful and he wanted to express it. He stood up and stooped over and across the table to mime reaching for a piece on Peter's side. Once there, he pretended to grab too hard at the flat piece on such a smooth surface and the piece snapped away, bouncing off Peter and onto the floor. "Oops," he said and sat down, "I'll get it." His foot poked about blindly, as if seeking to drag the piece back to himself. But he was really finding where Peter's ankles and legs were – once found, he gently teased up the inside of Peter's ankle, minding his own business with the contents of the table.

XXX

Sylar leaning towards him, a hand extended, kept Peter's attention more than what Sylar was reaching for. The piece had already disappeared under the table before Peter realized his hypervigilance was uncalled for – at least in this situation. _Is it really him? Or am I so fucked up by the last few years that I'd be on guard with anyone?_  He thought about the way he'd treated Emma – breaking the cello, his mother – taking her ability over her protest, with Claire – insisting she provide him with healing, and others.  _It's not Sylar. It's me._  Oddly, that realization that Sylar wasn't the problem calmed Peter down.

Peter looked down for the piece Sylar was obviously fishing for with his foot. He didn't see it, but he did see Sylar very intentionally seek out Peter's foot. He looked up to see Sylar was pretending to be engrossed in the blue and white pieces in front of him.

 _That's cute._  Peter smiled warmly at the overture, even if he wasn't sure what Sylar meant by flirting with him. It was nice – intimate without being intimate – but there still lingered in Peter's mind 'the arrangement' Sylar had spoken of, and the 'no' about being attracted to him. He didn't want this to go anywhere until he figured some things out. "How's your back?" Peter rose and came around the edge of the table towards Sylar, his manner not at all sensual as he tried to steer things in a safer direction. "Can I take a look? Have you been taking your pills?"

XXX

Sylar blinked, processing this…retaliation? Seduction? Refusal? Peter was approaching him and appeared to have on his 'nurse' expression. That was…almost disappointing. How sexy would it have been if Peter took him up on the offer that easily? Sexy and pathetic if Peter was that easy. It was just another move in the ever-shifting game.  _He thinks he can distract me. My back would be better if you fucked me._  "Of course," he purred in a deeper-than-necessary tone because he refused to let up. "But…I think I forgot the pills this morning."  _Now I'm back to looking like an idiot. Great!_ Sylar pivoted away and shucked up his shirt as far as it would go with the limitations of the fabric.  _Is he going to touch my back? He's already seen it. (He's seen more than my back, I think)._

XXX

Peter pushed the shirt up the rest of the way, not responding to Sylar's obviously come-hither tone. He looked over the spots and instead thought about the last time he'd washed his hands. It hadn't been long – he'd showered after working out, but his hands certainly weren't sterile. It didn't look as though it mattered. The wounds were closed and continuing to heal well. There were no signs of infection. Peter touched the healthy-looking skin surrounding the worst spot. It wasn't fevered. "Do they itch yet?" He resisted the urge to touch the rest of Sylar's back, or anywhere that wasn't medically necessary.

XXX

The nurse didn't feel him up _._ _He said he doesn't like sick people…Is he checking to see that I'm 'fit for duty' before he fucks me? Is he just discharging what he feels is_ his _duty?_   _That's how he claims his brain works_ _;_ _it's just…hard to believe._  Delayed, slightly distracted, Sylar replied, "A little?"  _Should I say 'yes' so he'll scratch them for me, or clean them again or something?_

XXX

"I'd tell you to try not to scratch them, but you can barely reach them as it is. They look good. When we go up for lunch, you should take another dose." He dropped Sylar's shirt, arranging it loosely before heading back to his own seat. He tucked his feet up under his chair, hoping Sylar didn't make another pass at him.

_What am I supposed to do? He acts turned on, he says he doesn't want me, maybe he only wants to do certain things, he definitely thinks he has to do stuff or else. 'Or else' – what a fucking turn off. He hates me, but he wants me here. What the hell is going to happen in bed tonight? Maybe I started it last night. Maybe this morning, too? I don't know. Didn't mean to. But I definitely didn't just now. (On the other hand, I just told him over and over how much I enjoyed it, so what the fuck is he supposed to think? Of course that sounds like a 'go for it!') I don't know what to do._

"Have you seen the other corner piece? I only found three of them earlier." He glanced at Sylar only briefly and tried to keep his expression neutral. He was so conflicted he felt sick.

XXX

They resumed their puzzle work and Sylar took that as a very subtle, graceful side-step to his mid-morning proposition.  _Too much? Maybe he doesn't want flirty. I think he likes to initiate. Fitting for a Petrelli_. "No…not yet." Sylar was taken with the process and the search, but he noticed Peter giving him what appeared to be a strange look.  _Did I miss something? Other than the puzzle piece he needs?_ No hints sprung up so he ignored it.

XXX

Peter lost track of time and the queasiness faded. He watched Sylar out of the corner of his eye, tried to see patterns among the pieces and hook them together, and listened to his companion's motions. At least two-thirds of his awareness was on Sylar instead of the puzzle, but he still had some substantial blocks assembled by the time he could no longer ignore the rumbling of his stomach. He leaned back and rolled his shoulders a couple times, rubbing at his tired eyes with balled fists. "Wow. It has to be past lunch time. Let's go up."

XXX

Something about Peter rubbing his eyes that way was very sweet. It still highlighted his failing to take proper care of Peter's other needs. They stood and walked together to the elevator, entering and traveling up to the top floor.  _I fix timepieces, I should know when he needs to eat._  His companion didn't appear angry so that was helpful. Sylar glanced at Peter as much as he could, thoughtfully.  _He hasn't been angry with me at all yet_. Perhaps that was the reason for his unseemly relief so far. _He hasn't been pushy or rough or demanding. Nothing. I wonder if he's going to end it. I'm sure he's considered it._ Sylar was bizarrely calm about that probability.

XXX

Once inside the apartment, Peter's eyes went to the bed because that was where his thoughts kept circling to – what would happen tonight, what had happened this morning and the night before, and what Sylar had said. There had been such disgust and anger in the words, like Peter was an idiot for wanting, or thinking they could have, something more than a rough trade. If he was going to through with this (which he did, and they had), then he wanted to be at least decent to his partner, if not better. The whole elevator ride he'd been quietly stewing. "You made the bed," he observed, remembering that the last he'd seen it, it had been stripped. "Did you do the sheets?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar said with a bit of a tone. That much was obvious and expected, wasn't it?  _Maybe he thinks I didn't do them – that_ would  _be an issue._

XXX

Peter nodded once.  _He's preparing for tonight. Already, this morning, he was thinking about it._  Peter exhaled and moved on to the kitchen. "That's good," he managed. "I think I'm just going to have a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It's simple. And soft. You want some?" He got out the bread, peanut butter, and a dinner knife.

XXX

Sylar winced as Peter once again had to step up and start the most basic of tasks, settling for a basic option because one hadn't been provided. "Yes, please." He tried to make up for it by getting milk in glasses, grabbing plates and the jelly from the fridge.

XXX

He applied the peanut butter rather heavily, then, because he wanted to tick Sylar off, he shamelessly licked off the excess peanut butter like it was no big deal. He waited until Sylar was looking, of course.

XXX

Sylar was hovering, waiting to see how long the preparation was going to take and if Peter would assign him anything else. He noticed the knife going up and up…He stared in growing horror, expressed by a blank face and blinking eyes. Peter's tongue came out and slathered all over the blunt dining utensil. For a moment, just a second, Sylar gave the benefit of the doubt that maybe Peter had forgotten…But no. Peter was looking right at him.

XXX

Peter held the knife upright and off to the side, drawing attention to it without brandishing it in a threatening way. "We're kissing? Then I get to lick the knife."

XXX

Sylar's head came back. That was a strange connection, but it made sense given their previous, more involved activities. He felt put upon to respond and that was strangely difficult with Peter staring at him. "We're not…actually kissing…"  _Does that sound like I disapprove? Of either – licking things or kissing?_

XXX

"Don't count me out yet." He sucked the rest of the peanut butter off to make a point of how Sylar couldn't stop him, staring at him as though daring him to do just that, and to get the last little bit of peanut butter from it. "Because you're right – if I can't kiss you, then it's just an arrangement. That's not what I want. It's not what I'm going to have." He reached for the jelly.  _I wonder if I'm going to have to eat his sandwiches, too? (I could stick them in the fridge if he won't touch them.) Just how grossed out is he going to be about this? I came in his mouth, so what's the problem? I think he threw up after that, though, so…maybe it is a problem. He's the one who stuck my dick in his mouth! Whatever. I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I said I needed answers. I need to start asking the right questions._

XXX

So focused was he on the knife and the secondary tongue bath, his own stare gaining an edge he couldn't prevent, that he almost missed Peter's…promise of sorts.  _He's testing me, daring me! He knows I can't do anything because…(Because I trapped myself into saying that I want him to kiss me and don't want him licking my food?) That's so stupid! That's not what I meant at all! The little prick!_ Sylar could feel himself heating up with the most hypocritical, irrational anger. He hated to be humiliated. It was equivalent to being slapped in the face with a glove while tied on a leash.  _'Don't count him out' of what? Of course he can kiss me_ _. H_ _is ability to kiss me is in question._  A brief check confirmed that Sylar knew he hadn't given any mixed signals there. Kissing (or not kissing) was perfectly fine, either way.

 _But I'm 'right.' So I'm challenging him to kiss me? (Why does it feel like he's promising me something…something I might enjoy?)_  At the same short time it took him to process his reaction with anger, he felt flushed for a different reason. Peter moving sticky, phallic objects in his mouth while being impudent and domineering was…really sexy. Peter finally looked away, going back to stick the damn knife in the jelly now! Sylar cleared his throat and fortuitously thought of something else to do – napkins.

XXX

Peter gave an amused smile as Sylar turned away, looking hot and bothered in more ways than one.  _I wanted more of a fight than that. Like for him to say something, at least, maybe do something. He's not real emotive, though. There's a lot going on inside of him. And what the fuck can he do, anyway? If I'm right about how he's thinking about all this, then he's feeling trapped and I'm the one setting the conditions anyway. Maybe he doesn't think he gets to argue. I have to find a way out of this. I'm not taking advantage of him by licking the fucking peanut butter knife! (Or am I?) Let it go, Pete, and focus on getting answers._

He finished putting together two sandwiches for each of them and moved them to the table on the plates Sylar had provided. Peter took a seat and dug in. He put aside his worries for the moment as he mulled over what he most wanted to know from Sylar.


	150. Allocution

Day 77, February 25, Afternoon

"I want to know how he died," Peter asked as they finished cleaning up after lunch. His tone was matter-of-fact. He'd asked the question before, but the answer hadn't been enough. "I want to know the whole thing, from the time you got to the Stanton Hotel, to the time you passed out in the limo."

XXX

Sylar looked at him, aghast. It never ended, did it? It was hardly sexy or comfortable talk and wouldn't work in his favor, especially for…whatever might happen later tonight. "I already answered that, Peter. And I didn't 'pass out' I was drugged!" He didn't notice he had wadded up the dish-drying towel and was squeezing it.

XXX

"Yeah," Peter nodded, ignoring the rage and the attempted diversion. He'd expected it. "I know. I was there. I want to know how it happened from your point of view."

XXX

"Oh, God!" Sylar exclaimed in an exhalation of annoyance. "Who cares? Why is it so important?

XXX

"I care!" Peter raised his voice, squaring off with Sylar and snarling, "You killed my brother! He was important to me;  _this_  is important to me! You have no right to pretend it shouldn't be!"

XXX

Sylar swayed back a little, his shoulders drooping and his head turning like a scolded child.

XXX

Peter eyed him for a moment, then spoke normally, "I'm asking for your side of the story. If you don't think it's safe to tell me, fine. Tie me up. Handcuff me to the table. Whatever. Something heavy." Peter pressed his lips together, tense at the very idea, but he was the one suggesting it. He knew his track record with being tied up or restrained. Maybe Sylar didn't, but he had to know enough to realize Peter didn't offer it lightly.

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth to automatically refute whatever Peter had said before he heard what it was. He hesitated, his response dying out. His head tilted as he observed Peter intently. There were at least three things to consider. One, Peter wanted (or said he wanted) Sylar's side of the story – for some reason, probably another variant of 'I need to understand.' Two, Peter was offering to be restrained, even handcuffed. Peter had agreed to similar before when he wanted answers on New Years during Truth or Dare.

He hadn't been happy about it, had nightmares about being locked in a shipping container for weeks, and mentioned being beaten and/or killed while presumably restrained.  _(I wonder if that's why he understands why I'm weird about medical things)_. Thirdly, there was the part where Sylar wanted to restrain Peter and sex him up, to be in control and have Peter enjoy it, too, and this played right into it.

All of this flashed through his brain within seconds before he crafted a reply.  _Do I want to tell this? Not particularly. (Maybe this is one of his requirements for sex)._  That seemed very likely.

"Sounds kinky…" he said, voice dropping a few octaves as he tried not to leer at the empath.

XXX

"If it will keep you safe, if it will get you to tell me what I want to know, then do it."

XXX

Sylar hummed. The temptation was eating at him already. He already knew he would agree if it involved tying Peter up. It showed desperation or trust on Peter's part and he suspected it was the latter. That meant he couldn't push it at all. Peter trusted him to honor the deal – rather one-sided as it was. "You can't force me to tell you," he reminded his determined companion, gauging the reaction.

XXX

Peter sighed, clamping his lips together and shaking his head.  _He doesn't trust me! That's the fucking problem!_  He turned and stalked off into the living room, pacing as he tried to think of what other reassurance he could give. "I'm not going to try, Sylar. That's why it's an offer. It's what I want to know. What do you want in return?"

XXX

Sylar nearly chuckled, giving a smirking, amused grin for a moment before quashing it. He kept his focus on the present situation. "I want to have my way with you," he blurted before he could censor it.

XXX

Peter turned back to him, tilting his head at the ludicrousness of the proposal.  _Fuck. That's a stupid ultimatum. He's grandstanding. He doesn't mean it._ "Sylar, you can't keep me tied up forever. I will kick your ass if you take advantage of me. Are you that…short-sighted?"

XXX

Another grin, this one tighter and feigning amusement.  _Who said anything about tying you up to do it? Or keeping you tied up? Or taking advantage? He has to ask me if I'm stupid?_  Peter had given his answer indirectly through his reaction, looking at Sylar like he was crazed.  _That's a 'Go fuck yourself, hell no' then. I was stupid to say anything._  He had to contain Peter's imagination and orient him onto something more feasible. He approached Peter and rested his hands on the man's shoulders, "'My way' might be no more than imagining it." It was at least partly true. The difference between reality and pleasant daydreams was all in the imagination.

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed.  _Is he saying he actually wants me? This is a distraction. Even if he does want me, how do I know he'll act right?_  "Or it might not be. I'm not trading my freedom for one answer." It was ridiculous he was even treating it like a serious counter-offer.

XXX

Peter was no fun, not on either subject. He played the puppy-dog eyes with that heroic heart-of-gold and Sylar resigned himself to imagination and platonic restraints. "Fine. I'm tying you up and I get your shoes," he said as a final offer.

XXX

"What?" Peter was baffled by the inclusion of his footwear.  _Is he including them so I'll back out?_

XXX

Sylar rolled his eyes and huffed a sigh. "I promise to untie you later."

XXX

"And you're going to give my shoes back! What do they have to do with it anyway?"

XXX

Okay, Peter had a point there. He had stolen the man's shoes before. God forbid Peter think he was the one with a foot fetish. "Yes, of course. You'll be less inclined to chase me without them."

XXX

Peter frowned at him.  _Okay, he's not keeping them. I can deal with that, I think. He took my shoes before, though. What if he runs off with them while I'm tied up? Maybe that's his point and this is all a trust experiment. I wanted to know what sort of reassurance he'd need, after all_ _._ "You'll tell me what I asked, right?"

XXX

"One question, one very boring bondage session." Sylar went off to the closet like he knew what he was looking for. He returned almost immediately with a long, skinny brown tie in hand. "On the bed."

XXX

"No."  _You do not get to fuck me_. "Tie me to a chair or something. A doorknob."

XXX

"The end of the bed." Sylar pointed, clarifying. "This post. Right here. Sit. I need your ankle."

XXX

"My ankle?"  _But not my hands?_

XXX

"And your shoes."

XXX

Peter balked and paled. He'd been killed, tortured, and abandoned while restrained. No matter how much he tried to trust, his fear was going to win out if he had no information. "You  _have_  to tell me what you're doing." _Now I'm the one needing reassurances_ _._

XXX

Sylar paused. He could hear the tension in Peter's voice and the empath had stopped in place, intending to go no further. Clearly, unhurried, and calm, he explained, "I'm going to tie your foot to the end of the bed and take your shoes."

XXX

The simplicity and straightforwardness of the answer helped. "Why the bed?"

XXX

"It's heavy. It's the most solid thing in the room. You can move a chair or even the table. Doorknobs are more easily broken than you might think. And as you've so often told me, the bed is supposed to be a safe place,"  _But that may have changed given…recent events._ "Even though I was in my bed when you choked me out before, for answering a very similar question you asked about your brother's death."

XXX

"You were laughing about it," Peter said bitterly, although yes, Sylar had a point and Peter was aware of it, which was why he'd suggested Sylar tying him down. The last time, Peter had promised, given his word, and then promptly shown exactly what that was worth – which was not as much as stopping Sylar from mocking Nathan's death. "Why aren't you tying my hands, too? I can just untie it."

XXX

He diplomatically ignored the potential argument re-hash. "That's the point, Peter." Sylar led him to the bed by the elbow, which Peter reluctantly allowed. "You're a Petrelli. You're all about control. You'll freak out less if your hands are free and I'll be just as safe, which isn't much."

XXX

Peter sat on the bed, pulling up one foot to slowly remove his shoe as he thought it over _._ _I think this will work. That's smart of him_. "Okay. So the point is I don't untie it. And you're watching me if I do, so you get a warning. I get it." He handed over one shoe and started on the other, parting with it reluctantly.

Sylar tied him proficiently enough. Peter would have chosen a different knot, but it was fine. The slick material of the tie was cool against his skin. It wasn't too tight or too loose and as far as he could tell without testing it, it was firm enough. But now he was tied and he didn't have his shoes. He glared at Sylar unintentionally – direct, unremitting eye contact because he was not about to go down without a fight. At the moment, that's what it felt like for Peter. It felt like that second or two before a throwdown – his heart hammering, adrenaline spiking, everything crystal clear. Peter's fingertips rested on the bed, the tied leg crooked at an angle with the free one dangling off the side. The posture might have looked relaxed, but a close look would reveal the lie. Peter was coiled and ready to go. The stress of trying to appear cool and collected when he was anything but, was making the tips of Peter's fingers shake against the bedspread. Peter tried to keep his breathing under control and wait.  _Please back off. Please._

XXX

Sylar made a show of studying him, eyes roaming over each part of Peter's body partly because he could sense or see what was going on inside Peter. The Italian was desperately trying to decide between fighting, losing his chance at answered questions, confirming his suspicions and extending trust, calming himself down, and holding to the agreement (tenuous as it was). As yet, Peter hadn't made a choice except to subject himself to this much so far. Something about the tension, about the lack of decision was earnest, sweet, and a little bit sexy.

He took a step back after looking his fill, testing Peter in the process. "You really want to know this, don't you?"

XXX

"Wouldn't you?" Peter swayed and blinked a few times at the wave of relief from Sylar moving away. The time Sylar had tied him up on New Year's Eve was in his mind. He'd thrown Sylar off then and Sylar had…stopped. Then unchained him. It had been okay. It was going to be okay now. He started breathing easier.

XXX

"Hm … no." He walked back into the living room. Space and warning were the keys to this mockery of safety-trust exercise. "I've relived deaths I didn't previously know about, familial and not. I was probably better off not knowing. It's hard to tell." He settled himself in a kitchen chair, dropping the shoes to the side.

XXX

Sylar sounded flippant, casual even. Peter didn't believe it was casual. He seized on the distraction from the tether on his ankle. "Not just Kelly?"

XXX

That struck an unprotected nerve. He twitched and shook his head to cover it. "One tie," he pointed at Peter's foot, "for one question. Pick your question carefully."

XXX

Peter reflected a moment, setting his mind to the implication. "So you've been made to forget deaths other than Kelly's. You or Nathan." He didn't make it a question. Peter swallowed. "Familial would mean it was someone close. Related. Maybe what Nathan knew of Dad. Or I have another…relative…I haven't been told about. Or something from your past." He weighed the importance of that against what he'd originally wanted to know. He looked up to see Sylar looking slightly pale and uneasy. "It doesn't look like something you want to answer. But props for being willing to."

XXX

Sylar grit his teeth. He wasn't sure which he dreaded more: talk of Nathan's past or his own. The only upside was Peter already knew all of Nathan's dirt. He was prepared to call on one of their original deals – the one where Peter wouldn't ask about his mother (he hadn't specified which mother after all) – but things had changed recently.  _Do_ _blowjobs and handjobs_ _nullify past deals?_  "How do you know I'd answer it?" That wasn't part of the deal.

XXX

In the wake of Peter edging up to a breakdown just over having one limb restrained, he had some empathy for Sylar's discomfort. "You wouldn't look so shaken if you weren't willing to follow through. You have more of a sense of honor than most people."

XXX

After crossing his arms, Sylar's head went back and he gave Peter something of a glare. He didn't like that Peter had seen through him (or voiced an accurate educated guess) and the compliment was confusing if not overdone. "So what's your question?" He was trying to keep focused.

XXX

"The original one. I want to know everything you did, saw, thought about, intended, felt, and experienced from the time you got to the Stanton Hotel to the point where you were drugged in the president's limo."

XXX

"That is a crazy amount of information," Sylar scoffed dismissively. "You seriously underestimate the memories I have stuck up here," he pointed to his temple, "We'd be here for days." His tone said that he wanted Peter to reconsider and be reasonable.

XXX

"Give me an answer that fills a couple hours."

XXX

" _One_  hour," Sylar said definitively.

XXX

"As long as you don't skip anything important. I don't want to hear your thoughts about the drapes."

XXX

"Hm," Sylar gave him a mocking smile and a minute chuckle, "not even the way they flared out to the sides as I drifted into the hotel room after tossing your brother through the window?" Peter should know he was showing restraint even now by not making a cruder sexual joke.

XXX

"Was it important?" Peter tried not to growl.  _If he thinks he can make me sit here tied up while he dodges the fucking question, he's going to find out how wrong he is._

XXX

Sylar eyed the fiery empath for a moment, another test. The fervor was amusing, touching even. "No. One hour. Assuming we get that far." He rolled his eyes.

XXX

Peter glanced at his watch. It still wasn't running, but he checked it out of habit. He couldn't tell an hour from anything else, but the exact time wasn't important. It was the information. "Fine. Get started."

XXX

He inhaled and exhaled a breath before he began. It took a few seconds longer than he expected to force his mind to go back to those memories: confusing and retroactively painful. His words came out slowly, "I arrived at the Stanton looking like Senator Petrelli. I needed him to get close to the president as part of my real plan to fix everything Nathan, Danko, Bennet, and probably your mother had fucked up for all of us. I left Nathan alive and mostly unharmed in his office."

Already anticipating Peter's bitter vengeance as always at the end of this subject, he bared his teeth for the next statement, "I would like to point out that I gave him a pass. After everything he'd done, I gave him a chance to walk away from it all and sit this one out, to think about what he'd done. I've only given maybe a handful of passes and he didn't even qualify for it. We both know how easy it would have been to kill him to be sure he stayed out of my plans."

"By getting involved after that, he knew what was coming." Sylar shook his head.

XXX

" _You_ knew it. Get on with it." He also didn't want to listen to Sylar insult Nathan. It would make this as impossible as the first time Peter had asked the question.

XXX

Sylar frowned. It was stupid, but maybe he wanted Peter to understand (like Peter always claimed he wanted), not just hear it. With the barest amount of self-defense, he said, "You wanted to know how I felt."

XXX

"Yeah, I did. And I do." Peter shut his eyes for a moment and exhaled.  _The tie is making me tense. The subject. Him. Everything. Be calm_ _._ He opened his eyes. "I'm listening."  _Maybe if I was more comfortable?_  Peter leaned back and arched, trying to reach the pillows at the other end of the bed. He couldn't quite get them. He looked back to see Sylar watching him with amusement. "Can you get me those pillows?"

XXX

 _You're going to interrupt me to get comfortable? Or gather projectiles? And you want me to fetch them for you?_  The idea of Peter comfortably lying on the bed, gazing at the ceiling as he listened to this particular story was funny. Sylar got to his feet and approached the bed.

XXX

Peter pulled away, his expression hardening as he realized asking Sylar over might have been a mistake. It threw him right back into high alert. His eyes fixed on Sylar and his fingers curled into loose fists.

XXX

Sylar picked up a pillow, presumably belonging to Peter, glancing at it before handing it over. He wasn't about to let Peter destroy his pillow in a fit of rage.

XXX

Peter took in a deep breath and let it out, taking the second pillow as well after Sylar offered it. He gave a silent nod of thanks.  _It's okay. It's okay. Calm the fuck down._

XXX

With no small degree of self-preservation and avoidance, Sylar circled back around the bed to be closer to Peter's restrained limb. He found himself wanting to distract Peter, glad to be allowed this close again, as always. He laid his hand over Peter's socked foot briefly, lifting his hand once in a kind of patting gesture before moving away, back to his seat.  _Don't be weird._

XXX

Maybe for someone else or in a different context, the contact would have been threatening. For Peter, it was soothing.  _It's okay. Hey, it- maybe it really is_. Peter watched him thoughtfully for a moment as Sylar moved away. Peter was left safe and unhurt. He fluffed the pillows and arranged them so he could lie on his side and listen.

XXX

Peter arranged himself in such a way that he looked like a child awaiting a bedtime story. At least he was calm, but Sylar had anything but good news to tell – all he had was horror stories. Sylar wasn't taking as much pleasure from this as he would have hoped, being asked to divulge his superior motives and how he was really the hero of the tale. He was reluctant to start speaking again, especially under Peter's expectant gaze. "…I had Claire with me. She was suspicious the entire time. I think she wanted to keep an eye on me in case I was…well, me. I made nice with Nathan's friend Samuels, Lee something. Bennet called her cell phone and I didn't want to pass up that opportunity to…" Sylar licked his lips and shook his head, glancing away. The thrill of that particular chase was coming back to him, the greed for the power he could nearly taste and touch, and the terror he wanted Bennet to feel because of him – knowing his only daughter was held hostage by a familiar monster again. It was all the more sweet because of what actually happened (or didn't happen, as far as Bennet's fears were concerned).

XXX

"To do what?" Peter asked.

XXX

Tilting his head back around, he looked directly at Peter. "I wanted him to be petrified. So I played it up just to give him a heart attack and make him sweat." His mouth split into a proud, toothy, hateful smile while his eyes remained dead because he was only feeling maybe eighty-five percent of the malice that always came associated with Bennet.

"Anyway…the game was obviously up. I made a proposal. She declined. Then you two showed up."

XXX

"Wait, what was the proposal?"  _No fast-forwarding through things!_

XXX

Sylar narrowed his eyes slightly. "It was personal."

XXX

Peter blinked, definitely curious now. "What do you mean, 'personal'?"

XXX

"I mean it was none of your business. Between her and me. It had nothing to do with your brother."

XXX

"Are you saying that your decision to kill Nathan, her father, just minutes after you propositioned her and were turned down is completely unrelated?"

XXX

"He more than had his coming to him!" Sylar was indignant. It was obvious. "I told you that two minutes ago."

XXX

"Yeah, you did and I don't buy it." Peter was unbothered by Sylar's outburst. To the contrary, he took it as proof this was important. "Tell me what the proposal was. You've brought up before what happened between her and you in that room in some of the grossest possible terms and then contradicted yourself later. You're not convincing me it was meaningless."

XXX

A glance up at the ceiling helped his patience for a few seconds. "If it was meaningless, I would tell you. I don't think it's relevant to you and I right now."

XXX

"You're going to tell me anyway, because that was the deal." Peter knew Sylar's sense of personal honor cut both ways. Then there were Peter's own reasons: "Also, she's my niece. It would be my business for that alone, but you killed her father, my brother, which makes it even more my business what you were doing with her in that room that left you so angry you committed murder and then tried to slander her by pretending you turned her gay or something."

XXX

A dramatic sigh escaped him. The protective uncle routine was sweet, but ultimately pointless. It left him still feeling a little insulted for Claire – her family never taking her ability for granted. (Her ability to get into trouble and be a pain in everyone's ass was a different matter). Sylar on the other hand was more of a guinea pig to be put through his paces – in a 'how much can he handle this time before he croaks?' kind of way. This time he shut his eyes before turning his face to the ceiling for patience and willpower to divulge something he considered more private than anything else so far. He was angry and embarrassed, hoping to breeze past this before Peter looked in too deeply.

"Fine. She's not here. She might not even exist anymore. I…didn't want to be alone and I was going to live forever. So was she. Our ages were more or less compatible. She had an ability. I couldn't kill her. I didn't have to and didn't want to. It doesn't work that way." He finished with a growl, "It was a good match!"

XXX

"For you maybe." That Sylar saw those tenuous reasons as sufficient for a possibly eternal, probably intimate relationship told Peter a lot about Sylar's experience with people. Or inexperience.  _Those qualifications fit me as well._

XXX

That stung. As a biting retort, he threw out, "How was I supposed to know she was gay? It's not like they wear a sign or something."

XXX

"I don't think that had much to do with it."  _Might have helped if you'd known her well enough to know that sort of thing. You didn't, and barged ahead anyway. I can see where this one's going. But_ he _thought it was all going to work out. Or might._

XXX

He pointed an aggressive finger at the empath, glaring and fighting a shamed flush. "I'm telling you this under protest, Petrelli. There was no part of the agreement that said anything about smartass quips from you!"

XXX

Peter exhaled, eyes steady on Sylar's face.  _Threat, embarrassment, and a warning. It's nice to get a warning. I really ought to pay attention to that, but God, I don't want to._ It was tough not to mock Sylar mercilessly for making such a stupid pass at his niece and getting rightfully shot down for it.  _He was the one who couldn't keep himself from making fun of Nathan's death last time and I went off on him because of it. If I don't shut the fuck up, the same thing's going to happen in reverse – I won't have my answer, and I'll have to do something even more extreme to get him to try again_. "I'll hold it down."

XXX

Mollified, Sylar continued in an attempt to explain a poor decision. "I told her everyone was going to die sometime, but at that point, both her precious daddies were alive and actively being a problem. I'd saved her life, twice, and she's seen how horrible both her fathers were."

XXX

"She owed you one, huh?" Peter said, deadpan. It was so tough not to tear into Sylar about this. The faulty logic was begging for refutation.

XXX

Sylar opened his mouth, before canting his head and closing his mouth. It was clear he was thinking. "No, she didn't owe me anything!" He insisted but it lacked his angry energy from before. "I'm just saying that I had reasons to think it was a good idea – that there was something there or could be there."

When Peter didn't have a comment or reaction, he continued, needing now to fill the silence. "I offered that: myself. Maybe we could have a future together in some unique way. Yes, she turned me down. I tried to show her how I was asking nicely and I didn't have to. That I wanted her willing cooperation."

XXX

Peter raised his brows, thoroughly unimpressed with Sylar's behavior. "Let me guess, her response was why you threw her through the doors when we showed up?"

XXX

"Yes," Sylar said sourly.

XXX

Peter couldn't keep himself from asking, "Did you really think the nice guy act would work?"

XXX

He leaned back in the chair, straightening his legs from where he'd pulled them in to shut Peter up. Arms crossed, he sighed, "No." Even his suggestion of Claire killing him repeatedly for centuries hadn't garnered any interest from her. He recalled how disappointment has an aftertaste of Pinot.

XXX

"Does it ever work?" Peter asked relentlessly, because it was important to know if Sylar had learned anything from that encounter. This wasn't mockery – at least, not now. It hadn't been lost on Peter that Sylar had made the same offer (himself) to Peter as he had with Claire, but there had been few similar threats with his offer to Peter.  _Did something change? Did he change?_

XXX

Sylar glared at him, rolled his eyes and shook his head. It hadn't worked here with Elle or here with Peter, although neither of those attempts had included the not-so-nice-guy portion.  _Is it any wonder I can't make friends without fucking them first?_

XXX

 _He knows being fake doesn't work. What does that mean, though? There are so many other things in play. I can go into that later, though. He was being an asshole then, and she had to deal with it._  "What did you do to her?" There was an edge to Peter's voice. "Specifically."

XXX

Sylar slumped with annoyance. "Hardly anything," he grumbled. "I pushed her around with my puppet master ability, held her in place, made her sip some wine – I know, how terrible of me," he concluded sarcastically. "I touched her face, hair, with my hand. She wasn't afraid of me or what I might do." His attention wavered as he wistfully looked back on the moment. Claire had shown not the slightest amount of fear, except when her family was concerned, but even then it solidified into rage and determination to stop him. It was a very attractive quality, one of her best.

XXX

Peter waited a minute to process that and make sure it fit with everything he knew of Claire and Sylar, plus what Sylar had said about the incident and what Claire had not said. He could see why a bitter, rejected Sylar would try to play it up. He could see why an exasperated, threatened Claire wouldn't mention it (especially since Sylar had been 'killed' right after). It wasn't exactly inconsequential, but it truly didn't seem like something Peter should do anything about. He'd covered this ground before and come up with the same conclusion, but it was too important not to go over again just in case the answers changed. "Okay." He moved on. "Do you still think that had nothing to do with your choice to murder someone important to her the next opportunity you had?"

XXX

"Fine! Yes, it did have something to do with it!" How he was regretting this decision! Peter's ankle was looking less and less worth this trouble. How did Peter know just where to stab every damn time? He recalled thinking Claire's rejection was just a lover's quarrel, kiss-and-make-up. After all, they had lifetimes. He remembered bitterly, ironically chuckling as her father choked his last about Claire's reaction. "Among six or eight other perfectly valid reasons, each of which by itself would be good enough. That was in there, are you happy now, Peter?"

XXX

"Yes. I'm glad you see that. Now I understand a little more about what was going on in your head. What happened next?"

XXX

He scoffed loudly, mocking. "Right! It's important about how I see it at the end of the day!" He took a few breaths, irritated with Peter's accuracy and his own stupidly honest admissions. "You know what happens next."

XXX

Peter ignored Sylar's sullen act, just as he'd ignored the sarcasm. "Walk me through it."

XXX

With a huff, Sylar muttered, "This is such a turn off." Then louder, he continued. "I waited until you were finished gawking at Claire. You came in, flying at me. I shut the doors." It had been flipping Claire just another middle finger for the rejection because he could and she was powerless against a pair of doors. "I should have known when you got your hands on me. That was the first thing you went for and you weren't trying to kill me with it. I didn't care because it made you an easy target. I kicked you away and fried you with electricity. I…" He trailed off to gather his thoughts.

It wasn't that he was ashamed of it, but he was quite sure Peter wouldn't see it the same way. "No one had showed up to talk. It was a death match. I was prepared to kill anyone to protect my plan. I had no sympathy for you, no more passes for anyone. You were both going to die for interfering. Nathan wasn't about to let you die. He tackled me out the window – not the first time a Petrelli tried to drop me off a height, but I'd learned a few tricks since Odessa." He gave something of a wry smirk. That flashback hadn't really ended well for either of them.

"I blasted him away from me, back through another window a few floors down. He landed on a piano, I think, and slid off it. I landed." Sylar decided to crack a joke to distract from what he did not want to describe. "You'll be pleased to know the drapes did in fact flare out dramatically for my entrance. You should have been there."

XXX

He came up on one elbow, teeth bared, muscles tense. "Trust me – I wish I'd been in that room with you." Peter was staring at him like he wouldn't have minded tackling Sylar right then.

XXX

Sylar warily assessed the movement and Peter's tone. He met the stare seriously. "I would have killed you if you had been there." He frowned and broke the eye contact. "I killed him and left to find the president."

XXX

"No," Peter said patiently. He hadn't listened this far to have the important part dismissed and unvoiced. He wanted to hear it in Sylar's words, out of Sylar's mouth. It was as close to a confession as Peter figured he'd ever get and he desperately wanted to end the silence between them on this subject. "I want to know exactly what happened. Every step. Every word."

XXX

Sylar inhaled heavily and looked out the window, crossing his arms. He was physically uncomfortable sitting there, on display for Peter. Talking about it meant describing it. Describing it meant thinking about it, which involved memories. The memories involved emotions and sensations he did not want to relive. They were confusing and painful and it would be embarrassing to react to any of that in front of Peter. For a second, he toyed with the idea of throwing a fit to get out of it, but he'd agreed to this and knew Peter would hold him to it. Peter's calm, unhurried demand was upsetting somehow. It would be easier to handle if Peter was angry yet he didn't want to deal with the consequences of that anger. Sylar knew it was only fair, but didn't have to like it.

XXX

 _I know this is hard for him. I want to hear it. I have to hear it. I have to hear him acknowledge it. He's not looking at me. I don't think he really thinks I'm the problem here – the problem is making him face up to it. Maybe that's why I can't drop it – he keeps pretending it doesn't matter. Well, it_ does _matter, asshole._  Peter waited him out, reminding himself that he knew how the story ended. He had to let Sylar tell it.

XXX

The longer his strength-gathering went on, the more he was grateful for Peter being quiet and not rushing him. He found his eyes had been shut and he'd lost track of time. It wasn't getting any easier. He opened his eyes, still gazing out the window. Licking his lips, swallowing, he began. "Nathan was on the floor. He stood up and turned towards me. He took a couple of steps…one, two. I thought he was preparing to tackle me again and you weren't there to distract me anymore."

The building outside he'd been staring at with unfocused eyes was now cold and boring. Sylar glanced back at Peter, then looked anywhere but at him. "On his third step, I cut his throat. I barely knew him, I just knew what he'd done. It was simple and quick. It's ridiculously easy for me to kill someone. One swipe…" He made the brief slicing gesture with his hand, taking care not to aim it at Peter, then shrugging, feeling helpless.

He was reliving things now, /the panic that he might die; that he was dying; the sensations of dying, his last thoughts and wishes and regrets before death…He knew it would be quick and he was grateful for that. His concerns were for his family, that he hadn't acted sooner to rectify his mistakes./

XXX

Peter's eyes narrowed as the expression on Sylar's face changed – the way he held his head, his lips, the slightly wider eyes – the changes made him look like a different person, less like Sylar and more like Nathan.  _There – it's happening. I wondered if he had those memories, too. He had to, though. It wouldn't make sense if he didn't._  Peter's attention was intently focused on Sylar's every nuance.

XXX

/"I…the cut and there was blood. The taste, smell, everywhere. I stumbled on the fourth step and it stopped me. The room was empty except for us, there was no one to help and there wasn't anything anyone could do. I knew what was happening. It wasn't going to take long. I couldn't take another step. I wanted to finish the job, fix the mess I made, and make you proud of me, but I was just making another mess for people to clean up after me."/

/"I think there was a chair. I think I fell onto it. I couldn't stand anymore. Everything was…thin, light in the middle and dark at the edges. I kept trying to cough and clear my throat." He could feel his throat moving convulsively, breathing tight, shallow breaths. He felt clammy. "I knew I was dying, but you were safe. It was okay. Then…"/ Sylar came back to the present, inhaling air suddenly with a shudder. His body had been keyed up and strangely relaxed at the same time, but he was so upset, pain and anger mixing together. When he looked at Peter, shocked and wary, his vision was blurry.

XXX

Peter met his gaze without the slightest waver, trying to convey the strength he thought Sylar needed. He didn't have to use his empathy to sense the turmoil in the other man. It was clear to see. It struck Peter to his core. He wanted to reach out, but all he had was his voice. "Sylar," he said in a clear, calm tone. "Your name is Sylar."

XXX

Bitterly and with rapidly returning strength, Sylar lunged to his feet and said, "I know it is!" but it sounded like a plea even to his own ears. "Fuck!" He kicked the chair in one direction and turned on the dining room table, upending it in the other direction. The use of his muscles expended some of the pent up energy within him. He yelled in inarticulate rage, feeling like he couldn't yell loudly enough before wheeling to glare at Peter, who had sat up on the bed, but was otherwise still.

XXX

"I knew you'd killed him," Peter told him, sitting up when the furniture was being thrown around. If Sylar attacked him, having his foot tied to the bed was going to be a serious liability, but he didn't reach for the tie or even look at it. Sylar had his full attention. "I knew you had his memories. I needed to hear this from you. It's not a secret, Sylar. You don't have to hide it. You need to be able to talk about it."

XXX

He was breathing hard and trying to find a reason to continue to rampage. What Peter said shocked him to his core: 'It's not a secret, Sylar. You don't have to hide it. You need to be able to talk about it.' That nearly hurt worse because he didn't know what to do with that, or if he agreed with it (he knew what he felt about it, though). He wasn't in the mood to be grateful and sharing anymore. With an accusing finger and over-compensating angry body language, the only thing he could say to it was, "I don't want it! I never wanted it!"

XXX

Peter nodded slowly. "I get it. I never wanted him dead, either. This whole story is about people not getting what they want. You, Claire, Nathan, me – all of us."

XXX

Peter always had the right thing to say. It was true. There wasn't a happy ending for anyone involved. What made it worse was it was that it was completely his doing and that made him so sad and regretful he couldn't bear it. He snarled, then sniffed, shaking his head. He looked around and saw more damage that was his fault. Sylar retrieved the chair and set it down loudly to sit, swiping his hair back to regain some composure.

XXX

Peter moved his ankle restlessly in the restraint, wanting to release himself for safety and wanting to go to Sylar to offer support. He could see Sylar was shaking. Neither seemed wise, so aside from the brief movement, he did nothing.

XXX

Sylar looked up at the motion, then looked away, briefly held himself, then leaned back in an attempt to resume a normal posture. "I did get what I wanted," Sylar said with the darkest humor. "I laughed at his corpse and told it Claire was going to be so mad at me. I'd had my revenge for her role in making sure I died alone and miserable. It was what I wanted then."

XXX

"'Then'?"  _But not now?_

XXX

"It wasn't the right decision! It was all a mistake. It was a nightmare. Where I kept…doing the wrong thing! This isn't supposed to be about me! Why do you keep asking? What happened to him is more important. That's all you care about anyway!" He couldn't help being pathetic or angry.

XXX

Peter tilted his head but didn't answer directly.  _Okay, that's still too sensitive to talk about. Got it. But at least we're talking. Fuck, it's a relief to do that!_ "You said there were other reasons."

XXX

Still Peter pressed it. Sylar seized on that because it was somewhat easier to talk about. "He had it coming! He fucking  _wanted_  it!"

XXX

Peter winced at the last reason. He'd suspected. Sylar, as Nathan, had said as much on top of Mercy Hospital. "Go on. I want the details."

XXX

Peter was enduring, stoic and that upset him even more for reasons he couldn't explain. Briefly, Sylar wondered if the man was only temporarily holding it in. He felt even more in the hot seat now that he'd thrown the table away and Peter was inviting him to…bash Nathan. Because that always ended well. With a wry shake of his head, he delivered. "He was a threat to  _all_  of us, Peter. All of  _us_. He was the mastermind behind Building 26. He was the one who went to the president to get the government involved and keep it a secret, banking on the public mob mentality about 'terrorists' to make it fit the law. He tried to a plan a  _solution_  to specials by having us neutered, destroyed, imprisoned, or identified like we were a  _problem_  for normal people. He chose a side and it was the wrong fucking side."

XXX

 _Nathan, as Hitler – the Final Solution to the Jewish Question_. It was chilling how well it fit and although Peter had seen the parallels before (how could he not?), he'd never thought of Nathan as the instigator, but instead as just one more person swept up in it and responding as best he could.  _Nathan wasn't the only one trying to get rid of us_. Quietly, Peter said, "Danko did the same thing. You didn't go after him."

XXX

"Danko was…different. He got his in the end – I saw to that. Danko wasn't special. He didn't have a brother who was special. He didn't have a daughter who was special. He wasn't the son of two specials! Nathan was right in the middle of it all! It was a betrayal, Peter! A betrayal! Treason against us, against his blood, against his family."

Sylar rose. "Do you think Claire's home life would have fallen apart if Noah hadn't been snared into what amounted to another Company again? The divorce because he was lying to his family  _again_ , but it was Nathan who gave him something to lie about! You wouldn't have been shot at, arrested, drugged, crashed in an airplane, and on the run! It's amazing you weren't killed, Peter! He took aim at you, specifically and repeatedly! If it weren't for Nathan picking the wrong side, you'd probably still have both parents. Your _mother_  wouldn't have been on the run. Hell, Nathan himself would still be alive if he hadn't started this shit! I wouldn't have gone after the president if it wasn't to stop this pogram of hunting us down and treating us like animals!"

Sylar advanced, pointing an angry finger at Peter. "He tore down everything around him, Peter. He was a menace. He was a danger. To you, to everyone you loved, to everyone like you. I have no sympathy for taking him out. He deserved it more than anyone. If you can't be offended by that – and I know you are – then obviously someone had to be. I saw him as a legitimate threat to…my kind."

XXX

Sylar waited for a response, but Peter said nothing. His lips were firmly clamped shut. He wanted to defend Nathan, but everything Sylar had said was painfully true. He knew, also, deep inside, that Sylar needed to have his reasons accepted (and Peter needed to accept them as Sylar's reasons) for either of them to ever have peace over it. It was exactly what Peter had asked for, regardless of how hard it was to hear it.

XXX

When Peter didn't argue, Sylar went back to his chair, circling it to put both hands on the back and lean on it. Quieter now, his rant over, he tried to make sense of it for Peter. "He knew a reckoning was coming, Peter. He knew he was fucking up. He knew he was weak, cowardly. He was afraid."

XXX

"Everyone's afraid," Peter interjected. It was a weak defense, but he wouldn't let Sylar slander Nathan for normal human responses.

XXX

"He was  _ashamed_ of it," Sylar shot back. "It drove him. It fueled his immature, insecure overcompensation – throwing himself at women, money, power because it was never enough! You had orders to obey. Nathan had them to succeed, to make his daddy proud. But that's a fool's errand and he knew it. He wanted out. He was so tired of trying to be something he wasn't. He was depressed, an alcoholic. He'd lost you, your faith, your trust! He didn't deserve your forgiveness. He was trapped in a job he never wanted, his family a shambles, and he knew it was all because of him. His fault. His guilt. When he saw me on that television screen, it was a relief. He saw a way out. He didn't think he was going to survive that, Peter. You know that, right?"

XXX

Peter scowled.  _Did my forgiveness make Nathan feel like he had to prove himself and be that hero he always thought I saw him as? Is Sylar trying to say Nathan's death was my fault for telling him he was selfish back in Coyote Sands? It all makes sense, though. That's what hurts._ Very quietly, his voice tightly controlled, he said, "That's why I want to hear your side of the story." His fists balled and released the top blanket on the bed.

XXX

"You're getting it! He came at me, Peter! You both did! You had other choices, both of you! You could have stayed at Coyote Sands! You could have talked. You could have gone to Danko or the president. You could have done  _anything_  and  _nothing,_ but you decided to attack me, with your fists. You literally threw yourselves at me like a pair of angry toddlers. Except you're adult human beings and I don't appreciate being hit! Your intentions were to kill me, murder me, stop me any way you could. It was ridiculous and stupid, so I slapped you down and I killed him. I would have killed both of you, but it didn't work out that way. He separated us so it was only him – and that  _wasn't_  an accident, Peter."

Sylar leaned forward over the chair. "It was self-defense for me. It doesn't matter that I was more powerful. You know that in retrospect. I know that in retrospect. But at the time, you had abilities and you were trying to kill me with them. That's what I knew. The gloves were off. It was life or death. I didn't particularly want to die. As it turned out, Nathan did. I obliged him. But that doesn't take away from the fact that I had a right to protect myself from lethal force. Which is the whole reason why I was there! Nathan's actions, that whole chain of events that he not only set into motion but kept urging along, was what I was there to stop! I was there to stop the president, stop Nathan's plan, and protect our people. You were on the wrong side, Peter."

XXX

 _Pride. He's proud of himself. Of being the hero and never recognized for it. Maybe if you didn't murder people along the way?_  Peter inhaled deeply, then let it out. "I don't agree with that," he said with difficulty, "but I see where you're coming from."

XXX

By then he was staring at Petrelli and he felt himself cycle through reactions so fast he couldn't track them: anger, disgust, disappointment, then curiosity, amazement, gratitude, relief, and back to defensiveness.  _That's it?_  He gave a bitter smirk as he sat at an angle. "Of course. You're the hero so you would know what's right." He didn't want to deal with Peter's emotional response that was inevitable, stories and hopes of the brother, how wrong Sylar had been, how irredeemable a monster he was, the tears… _It would be my fault if I made him cry after he asked me to tell this._ He didn't mention how he'd had other choices other than killing Nathan because he knew Peter had already torn himself up inside with those possibilities. If only, would have, could have…

XXX

 _You passive aggressive asshole!_ Peter seethed inside and a wordless snarl passed briefly over his face. He tried to master his breathing and keep from launching himself off the bed to pound Sylar into a paste. The fact that he would have to stop and untie himself, however minor that action would be, served considerably to keep him from doing anything so rash.  _Him lashing out is a normal response. Just like how I'm feeling right now. Both of us – get attacked, act defensive. But I don't have to stay that way._

"You were thinking you had reasons for what you did," Peter said slowly, forcing the words out, "reasons that made sense to you and now they make sense to me. That's what I wanted out of this. I wanted to know…why. You've answered that. I'm not going to get over losing my brother or tell you it was the right thing for you to do. But I can understand, or come to understand, why it happened, if you explain like you just did, if I listen. I listened. We're getting somewhere."

XXX

Sylar stared at him, waiting, waiting. He clenched his teeth a few times.  _(I'm upset because in his life I want to replace Nathan with me…And I can't do that until he let's go)._  He took that judgment, neutral such as it was, and it served to ease his defensive anticipation. Peter was almost complimentary and, God, that was even more uncomfortable.  _I fucking yelled at him and flipped out and drug his brother through the mud and told him stories about how he died, how I killed him. Peter's pleased with that? (How can_ _he_ _be content with any of that? I didn't do anything right)._ He knew part of himself didn't want Peter to forgive him, or even to be remotely tolerant of him and that was confusing to fight his own needs and his own nature while trying to deal with Peter's, too.

When he saw Peter move to begin untying himself, Sylar got up and approached, brushing the man's hands away, saying quietly, "I promised I'd do this."

XXX

Peter sighed and looked up at him, letting Sylar finish releasing him. It was weird to have Sylar right next to him, almost touching and definitely helping, when Peter's heart was still racing from the desire to deck the guy. But he'd meant what he'd said – the anger was there, but he didn't feel he had to act on it. Sylar gathered the skinny tie in one hand and tousled Peter's hair with the other. It was a gesture borrowed from Nathan, but Sylar's expression showed nothing calculated or intentional about it.

"We're good," Peter said definitively, because even that touch was something he could tolerate.

XXX

"Maybe you are," Sylar said, walking away to see what he could do about the battered table.

XXX

"I wasn't talking about good or bad. That's…complicated," Peter said, moving over to retrieve his shoes. "I asked you for something and you gave me what I asked for. That's not complicated. You and me, on this – we're good."

XXX

Sylar glanced over his shoulder at Peter. The empath was right as far as what he said. Sylar didn't understand the sum of the equation though he comprehended the formula. After a beat, he gave him a reserved nod and went back to righting the table.


	151. Unburied

Day 77, February 25, Evening

Peter finished putting on his shoes as Sylar righted the table. He stood up and went to the wheelchair where he'd hung his jacket. "I'm going for a walk." His head was buzzing with everything Sylar had said. He was trying very hard not to imagine Nathan's last moments, despite having asked for and heard about them from a firsthand witness.

XXX

Sylar inhaled roughly. He felt raw and uncertain. He wanted to be confident that he'd done the right things in the past, or said the right things now so he could pick a fucking reaction and stick with it. He wanted to know Peter would return or if tonight would be lonely, leaving him wondering each night afterwards if Peter was coming back. The one uncertainty he was okay with was he didn't know if Peter leaving was a good idea, if it was what he wanted, if he wanted to accompany Peter. For some reason, that made sense.

He stared after his partner, crossing his arms like the room had suddenly gotten colder.  _(Am I supposed to let him go?)_  Sylar wanted to be tortured or hugged or vented at, something! This quiet breaking away was too detached. Belatedly, he croaked, "That's a good idea," even as he stood now behind the table, having moved there to pick up Peter's chair from where the table had taken it down.

XXX

Peter shrugged into his jacket. "I'm going alone. I want to get away from you and I want to grieve." It was strange to be so blunt and so honest, but Sylar hadn't sugar-coated anything in the story. Peter wouldn't do the same to what he needed after having heard it. He shut his eyes and turned his face mostly away from Sylar. He knew what Sylar needed to hear from him, or at least, one of the many things Sylar needed to hear: "I'll be back tonight, after dinner, to sleep here." _With you_ , hung unsaid on the air. He couldn't give voice to that yet though. It would make it sound like he needed Sylar, wanted to be with him, which was impossible to say on the heels of what Sylar had just confessed. Peter glanced back to check on Sylar, seeing him out of the corner of his eye as he headed for the door.

XXX

Sylar cleared his throat. "Hmm. Yeah, okay," he agreed as if it effected Peter at all. He didn't watch as Peter closed the door behind himself. Instead, he stared sightlessly at Peter's chair, lying on its back on the floor. He felt like an idiot. For doing what he'd done, for stupidly telling Peter about it (what good would come of it?), for slipping into foreign memories. He felt so helplessly angry at himself, and for Peter having little to no reaction because what the hell did that mean? Didn't Peter care? His reaction had to be private? Sylar knew he was going to a rooftop and he begrudged Peter that the empath had permanent dibs on that spot.  _Where does this leave me?_  he asked the universe, in lieu of asking Peter.

Numbly, he righted Peter's chair and placed his own chair next to the table proper.  _Peter knows it meant something._   _He'll never agree with my reasons._ 'It's not a secret. You don't have to hide it', Peter had said.  _(Why did I think I had to hide that? I still have things to lose, things he can take, revoke, or deny)._  Some part of him wanted to drink it all away, and he might resort to that if Peter failed to return. He sat on the couch for a while and eventually slumped over and curled his feet on it.

He couldn't settle himself internally. Did he want to be Nathan or Sylar? How did he want Peter to view him? To treat him? He would have no defense if Peter decided to be cruel – he would probably welcome it. It would answer questions, confirm their standing, and make sense. On the other hand, deep down, encouraged by Peter's general kindness, care, and persistence, he wanted Peter to continue that way – when there was no reasonable explanation for him to do so. Sylar could no more explain the desire than he could Peter's actions.

It didn't feel right, morally. Peter was the expert on all things moral and right, so shouldn't he trust Peter's judgment on this or anything else? The indecision was breaking him and making him doubt himself. Would he agree and submit to Peter's choice or would he fight it on principle and long-confined anger? He wanted finality and couldn't make up his own mind. Or maybe the back-and-forth was part of existence, part of the punishment?

Sylar was tired. He knew Peter was tired. He wanted to assuage Peter's pain but had little to give and had selfish motives, as always. He felt like a worthless toy, guilty because he'd been caught and everything backfired, and angry for feeling pathetic, allowing himself to be played, and angry for every one of Peter's reactions and the consequences.

XXX

Peter walked the freezing cold streets, keeping to the windswept clear patches when he could and trudging through drifts when he couldn't. His goal was easy enough to find, though blocks away – the tallest building in the city. He'd climbed its many stairs a day or two after coming here, consumed in denial and rejection of the ways of this world. He climbed them now – ten flights, twenty, thirty. He didn't recall how many there were altogether. His steps echoed in the harsh, empty stairwell like it might go on forever. His thighs burned. His chest ached. It wasn't that he was short of breath – he was in great shape. But emotion was sapping him. His will to go on faltered. One step, two…

'On his third step, I cut his throat.' Sylar's words echoed through Peter's mind.

Peter missed the first step of the next flight. He stumbled, landing hard on the unyielding stairs. He froze there where he'd caught himself, panting and wincing from the impact to his knee. Two drops wetted the concrete under his face – two drops that made him bare his teeth and force himself to his feet. He stared up the seemingly endless stairs and blinked away the rest of his tears. He thought about his stubborn insistence the first time he'd been here and the days of hobbling from blistered feet and crippling muscle aches he'd had from it.

'I knew what was happening. It wasn't going to take long. I couldn't take another step.'

Peter sniffed and wiped at his eyes.  _I can't keep going like this._ Nathan's death defeated him. There was no choice but to surrender. He looked up the stairs again, up the narrow opening between the flights where they disappeared dizzyingly into the distance. That sort of infinite reach, the 'anything is possible', just keep trying and never give up – his heart hurt thinking about it. Nathan wasn't coming back from this one…and neither was Peter. He gave up. With leaden feet, he turned on the landing and pushed open the fire door. He walked through eerily empty cubicles to the elevator. He pressed the button.

'I knew I was dying, but you were safe. It was okay.'

He wasn't safe. He was never going to be safe. He was trapped here with the man who'd killed Nathan and he was fucking him, fighting with him, trying to find a way to be decent and kind to someone who had ripped his heart out. Peter sagged against the wall as the lift whisked him to the top floor. He walked into a sumptuously appointed conference room to rest his forehead against the tilted glass. The city was unfurled before him, but hazy and vague in the dark.  _Sylar,_ he thought.  _He's out there somewhere, wondering where I am, worrying when I'll come back, stuck in his own personal hell without me. With me, he's putting out and answering questions he doesn't want to and spending time with someone he hates. He has no choice and I don't know how to make being with me okay for him._

'This isn't supposed to be about me!'

But it was. All of it was.  _I should hate him more for everything he said, but it feels like less. I should have hit him, but I didn't. I wouldn't. He told me what I asked. He untied me. He gave me my shoes back. He was cleaning up. He didn't used to clean up. He didn't used to make me sandwiches. He didn't used to answer my questions, but he's answering them now. I asked him to work on it – on us – and he's doing it._

'I offered that: myself. Maybe we could have a future together in some unique way.'

 _He tried to be with Claire. She turned him down. He killed Nathan. Now he's with me. Some 'unique way' for us:_ 'It's an arrangement. Just like those one-sided deals you like so much.'  _He's not promising Emma's life or threatening it. She doesn't have anything to do with it. He wants to be with someone – it's that simple._  Peter thought back to Noah's advice to him not to isolate himself, to engage with his family, to reach out to his people. He'd disregarded it for the most part. But he'd really enjoyed holding Sylar, on a deep level he couldn't articulate. It was so selfish and fucked up. He didn't know what to do about it. It colored everything.

When he heard Sylar's reasons ('He was a menace. He was a danger. To you, to everyone you loved, to everyone like you. I have no sympathy for taking him out. He deserved it more than anyone. … I saw him as a legitimate threat to…my kind.'), his tongue fell still. Sylar, having had years to contemplate his crimes, still felt justified. And yet: 'It was all a mistake. It was a nightmare.'  _Which is it? Right? Wrong? Right at the time, but wrong later? Does it matter?_

That was what sent a shiver down Peter's spine – the thought that maybe why Nathan died didn't matter anymore than any of the other fucked up things that had happened in Peter's life. It was just another trauma, layered onto an already overstrained psyche. What was important was what was left – family, love, self – the things that were good in the world. People. Helping. Making a difference.

With a sigh, he dried his tears. He went back to the elevator. He wound his way through the frozen streets to the Pegasus Building where they shared the penthouse. Things were complicated. He didn't know what to do. But he knew where he wanted to be and for once, it wasn't brooding on top of a building.

XXX

Sylar would have tried to smile if he thought it was worth anything. He met Peter's eyes with gratitude and a sense of duty. He felt relief all the same to have Peter back, assuming they would both sleep in the penthouse. Hopefully, perhaps, Peter was done talking for the day. Maybe he could be comforting for Peter.

He turned down the bed and sat on the couch to read and await his turn in the bathroom.

XXX

Aside from an acknowledging nod and a moment of eye contact, Peter didn't have any greetings for Sylar. He took off his jacket and headed for the bathroom to clean up. He had no intention of anything happening tonight, but they would still be sharing a bed. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and hands of any residue from crying earlier, and combed his hair.

XXX

Peter emerged and so, of course, Sylar turned to look, especially when the other man was still dressed and held a change of clothes. The possible explanations for that were confusing. He began to put away his book when Peter, lost in thought, took off his shirt…and then his shoes…Sylar sat frozen, staring.

XXX

He didn't notice Sylar's gaze until he straightened from taking off his pants, the garment still in his hands. Stark naked (though from the angle and on the other side of the bed, he was concealed from knee down), Peter looked back.

Sylar had already seen him at his most vulnerable, whether that was asleep or so injured he was blind, disoriented, and defenseless. But those were…unintentional. It could be argued that Peter hadn't shared himself in those circumstances in any consensual way. Much like now, looking up to see Sylar's eyes on him when if he'd thought about it at all, he would have expected Sylar to be off minding his own business in the bathroom. He hadn't stripped for Sylar's pleasure.

Peter dropped the jeans on the bed, leaving himself without a stitch of protection between them, because none of that mattered and if Sylar hadn't realized it already, then he needed to. He'd already destroyed what Peter would have died many times over to protect – seeing him naked was less important. Peter glanced down at his body – not erect, muscles not tensed in any special pose, stomach slack. He knew he looked okay – good even by most standards – but he had also not made any effort to be appealing. It wasn't on his mind. Most of his lovers had seen him bare, had they cared to, as had a few roommates even when they'd preferred not. Sylar would just have to deal.

He gave Sylar a faint, amused smile in return for the shock and turned to get his boxers, letting Sylar see his rear end as well, if he wanted to look. Peter covered himself in as normal a fashion as he could given the scrutiny, but permission to look was definitely granted. He opted for boxers first because he knew from experience that enough ogling from a potential partner would be arousing. That would be an embarrassing mixed signal he didn't want to give. Next, he pulled on his t-shirt, folded his jeans and set them aside, then climbed into bed.

XXX

Peter was completely naked before him. From his first, instinctive glance at the man's junk, Sylar met the empath's glance and it held for what felt like minutes. It was intense. Peter was calm and unashamed. When Peter discarded his jeans, it broke the question in the air and altered it to be a different kind of tension, at least for Sylar. This was intentional. Peter wasn't afraid or hiding – he was confident. God, it made Sylar's head spin. Somehow those gestures were innocent, beautiful, and inviting. He wanted more but was content to observe, drinking in whatever this moment was. When the jeans hit the bed, Sylar still held Peter's gaze for a moment longer, conveying that he understood, before allowing his eyes to wander.

He saw a slim waist, the light and shadows of the man's abdominals in their completion. There was a well-earned 'V' leading from Peter's thin hips to his groin. Peter's pubic hair was dark, patchy above the relaxed penis. He'd had Peter's dick in his mouth last night, tasted it, smelled it, pleasured it, but he hadn't seen it like this. More often than not, Sylar's presence made it stiffen. The empath's thighs were thick and muscled, creating a lovely silhouette. He took his time, looking over each feature individually, then as a whole, trying to commit it to memory without reasoning why.

Finally, he looked up to Peter's eyes again to see the man give him a happy smile.  _I forgot: he enjoys showing off._  Peter had done this before, been naked, exposed, leered at, and more. This time, it included Sylar among the audience. As soon as the smile appeared, Peter was turning away to reach for something to reveal his plump, firm buttocks below a defined, strong back. Sylar didn't dare to blink. He didn't know how badly he wanted to see the empath's body until now. He knew on some level he was being teased. Peter wasn't so shy that he had to rely on Sylar to initiate. Within a few seconds, Peter was covered, at least from the hips down. A few seconds after that, Peter wore a shirt and was snug in bed with Sylar still staring.

Sylar swallowed. He felt aroused, but…not. Something else was happening and he knew it wasn't right somehow because he wouldn't be able to keep this experience. He set his book aside for better things and rose to his feet. He walked at an angle between Peter in the bed and the hallway to the bathroom, stopping between the two. In a husky, quiet voice he asked, "What was that about?"

XXX

Peter was glad of the covers over him. Sylar's undivided attention as he stood there next to the bed had been easy enough to get through without a reaction. But the approach coupled with the thirsty, wanting tone of voice undid him. It was no more than walking across the room and asking a question, but the curiosity spoke of desire and appreciation. Sylar wanted him. He'd liked what he'd seen. And yet Peter still felt safe. Definite turn-on.

Peter fluffed the blankets and answered slowly. "It means I'm comfortable enough with you to undress normally."  _I don't want to have my defenses up all the time._

XXX

Sylar blinked, even though his assumption was confirmed. He felt a quick thump in his chest, concern that he'd somehow broken Peter. If that were true, was it really a bad thing? His fingers and skin itched with greed to touch Peter and he was grateful to be allowed to sleep in the same bed and steal human warmth.  _(It's always stealing. Always cheating and lying to get something. It's getting old. He knows I'm disgusting – that's what's taken him so long)._  "You shouldn't bother with clothes next time," he said with a tilt of his head. Exchanging another look with Peter, wanting the empath to fear for his innocent virtue, Sylar stalked to the bathroom to prepare for bed.

XXX

Peter raised his brows a little at the suggestion, fidgeting with the blanket again as Sylar headed off.  _I wonder if he's going to jerk off in there? Too bad I don't have enough time to do it out here._ But then the conversation about Nathan came to mind as soon as he thought of why he shouldn't just do it anyway, time enough or not. Every trace of arousal bled out of him as he thought about what might have happened at the Stanton if they'd treated Sylar as someone they could have negotiated with rather than beaten down.  _He probably wouldn't have listened to us anyway. I've been here for months, we're lovers now, and it's still about power. He's afraid I'll beat the crap out of him or walk (or both), so he's putting out to protect himself. Back at the hotel, he had all the power. Why would he have cared what we had to say? He already had all those reasons why he wanted to kill Nathan. He intended to kill me, too. I wish I could have traded with Nathan._

XXX

Peter hadn't showered, but Sylar wondered if he was supposed to. It might be a waste of time if Peter didn't want anything tonight – and all the more obvious that Sylar had over-prepared. He settled for brushing his teeth after considering if he should masturbate (again, if Peter didn't want anything or even if he did perhaps. What if Peter did expect him to get off and he couldn't because he'd jerked off fifteen minutes ago? It wasn't ideal and he didn't feel horny enough). It left him frustrated at his own desires, his own body.

XXX

Peter's expression when Sylar rejoined him was somber. His gaze was direct. _I don't want to be alone, either. I can't have my brother. I just want to rest._

XXX

Peter looked…quiet. That probably meant he was sad. Sylar's lips thinned, but he approached the bed. Once there, on his own side of the mattress, he shucked off his shoes, jeans, and started on his shirt. He hadn't decided if he would or should bare himself completely.

XXX

"No," Peter said. "Leave the shirt on. I want to be close, but I don't want to be sweaty."

XXX

Sylar paused and gave him a look. The request made sense (because he knew Peter was attracted to him for some reason), so he left it alone with a shrug and climbed into bed.  _He wants to be close._

XXX

Peter moved towards him, starting to touch Sylar's shoulders and upper arms with the intention of guiding him to the position he wanted to sleep in. _I hope he's okay with this._

XXX

 _Oh. Okay._  Sylar ducked his head, turning as Peter made contact and began to move down the man's body in an obvious repeat of last night's activities. Before he could really process what was probably relief or formulate a plan of how to execute a better, more enthusiastic blowjob, he was stopped.

XXX

"No," Peter said softly, urging Sylar back up after the man was clearly going all the way down on him. Sylar's unhesitating willingness made an impression, as it always did. With no more than a nudge, Sylar had headed off to give him head.  _I have to be careful with him._  "No sex. I just want to hold you. Like this." He slid his lower arm between Sylar's head and the mattress; the upper rested on Sylar's hip for now. One leg hooked around Sylar's. "Like last night."

XXX

Sylar exhaled with more disappointment than he anticipated.  _No, Peter, come on…_ He frowned a little, but followed Peter's motions, allowing Peter to pillow his head for him. He opened his mouth, intending to protest and thought better of it when he felt the man's leg around his.  _Just do what he wants._

XXX

Peter shifted forward enough that he could bend his elbow and move his hand to brush fingers across Sylar's shoulder. The other hand slipped around the small of Sylar's back. He didn't feel guilty about requiring Sylar to do this much, under these circumstances. Sylar breathed heavily, the tension bleeding out him. Feeling the man relax in his arms was so sweet, confirming that his sense of the situation had been accurate. Peter made a faint, but audible sound of pleasure in the back of his throat.

XXX

Still, Peter wasn't done touching him, hopefully taking what he needed. It was unthinkably good for Sylar. He was grateful for it, undeserving of it. Voice a quiet whisper, he asked, "Why…this, Peter?" He glanced up at Peter, his face wondering. "After everything…today?"

XXX

"You mean," Peter said, "listening to you talk about killing my brother? About how you murdered him out of wounded pride and arrogance?" Peter's voice was conversational, his tone only a little more emotional than if he'd been discussing the weather. He didn't know how else to sound. He felt lost in how to meaningfully talk about a subject he wanted to yell himself hoarse about.

XXX

Maybe it was the inappropriate mildness that made Sylar's relaxation vanish and his shoulders hunch. His face went blank and pale, but he didn't look away.

XXX

Peter sighed and looked away. He knew it was unfair to reduce everything Sylar had shared with him today to how it had directly impacted Peter. But he wasn't entirely sure Sylar knew, or cared outside of how it had turned out badly. If he'd gotten away with it, then Sylar would have never spared a second thought to Peter, no more than he probably had for any other victim or their loved ones. It was that suspected lack of caring that let Peter off the hook for being selfish in return.

"I don't know if I've ever been able to be with someone and not be what they needed me to be. What they wanted. What they expected." He breathed out unevenly, turning his head to the side so he wasn't blowing in Sylar's face. The man was still watching him. "It's not that I lied. But I…felt…them so strongly…that was just how it was."

Peter met Sylar's eyes, his gaze harder. "It's different with you. You killed my brother. You get to deal with the fallout. What you said, today, was rough to hear. I know it was rough to say, too, but that's not my problem. What is, is that I don't want to be alone tonight. I don't want to be lying here replaying every word you said. It  _hurts_ too much." Peter's voice caught a little. He brushed his fingers over Sylar's shoulder and continued more steadily. "You said I could use you to 'self-medicate'. Well, this is what it looks like."

XXX

He didn't feel Peter's behavior and words aligned as far as what his partners needed or wanted. Not with Peter so desperate to find answers, damn the consequences. It connected with his need to cope, to medicate and use Sylar that way. The admission of pain was…somehow a relief if Peter could voice it and get it out in the open for both of them. He had nothing to say. There was no comfort to give other than what he was already doing, apparently. He still wished to do more active penance somehow. Peter wasn't seething with hate (or wasn't admitting to it) and it was difficult to imagine Peter was finally in the healing stage so quickly. But perhaps it was progress.

XXX

It was a laughably mild revenge, but it was what Peter needed at the moment – someone to hold, someone to be with, someone whose presence would keep him from sinking inside himself and wallowing in how much he hurt inside. That it was Sylar who had to fill this role was perversely fitting.

Peter's hands clasped Sylar lightly. He turned his head and leaned forward to rest his cheek on Sylar's forehead. It was brief, turning back to touch his nose on the same spot, then pulling his head back to rest on the pillow. Sylar blinked at him, his eyes dark and large. They looked wet. He made a single nod to Peter, ducked his head, and shut his eyes. The relaxation returned, but slowly. That was okay. Peter might have refrained from petting Sylar's shoulder and side if he'd thought Sylar was going to sleep right away. But he wasn't, so Peter indulged himself until drowsiness pulled him under.

XXX

He couldn't tell where he was. The scene kept shifting. One constant was the threat he was under. He was reliving so many moments of déjà vu, but reality was fluid. /His head and lungs burned from lack of oxygen after his throat was cut. He tried to swallow or gasp or clear his throat, something. He felt weak, fading away as his body went into shock and struggled to fight the inevitable. He wished Peter were there so he wouldn't die alone (Sylar standing there, watching, didn't count), but that wasn't going to happen and wasn't safe even if it did. It was right, this way, and wrong, too. He'd had choices, good and bad that led to this. He wanted this as a surcease from pain and the opportunity to put things right. It was like watching himself in a mirror and seeing multiple reflections of himself – he could turn behind himself to look for his non-existent double, but it wouldn't explain the images in the mirror itself. It was still horrifying to experience death, whomever it belonged to./

Sylar tried to make noise. He knew someone was near. Just maybe that person could help – would help. He writhed against light, but strong impediments all around him, as if they were responsible for his asphyxiation. /The scene blurred from warm taupe to cool gray. There was more solid contact around him, against his back and more intense pressure directly against his throat. He was staring at someone familiar, a young man. They should have been amiable. Or was that an illusion, too? A lie? That young man, with dark hair and darker, menacing eyes had him pinned against a cold wall, bodily with impressive strength./

/Peter's hand was shoved against his throat, but not squeezing hard enough to kill – not yet. Peter was vengeful and not terribly rational. It was obvious to see what had happened to him and that explained the anger. He could see Peter amping up and he knew what was coming, wasn't too concerned about regenerating. He was immobilized quickly and the sensation and sound of his own bones snapping so close to his ears surprised him. As he dropped helplessly to the ground, he was left looking towards the window and door of the cell. A flash of fear revealed his mother and he knew what was happening. It was almost too late./

Sylar thrashed and tried to make sound again, pitiful, whimpering, maybe even begging. He tried to clutch at his throat to fix it or remove the impediment to his breathing because he was couldn't get air. It didn't make sense and he couldn't discern who was dying and the moral reasons why. Both seemed senseless, painful.

XXX

Disturbance. Distress. Fear. The emotions bled through into Peter's consciousness, into the dream he'd been having of living in a cabin in the woods that his EMT coworkers kept inexplicably showing up at and wanting to hang out. There wasn't even a road up to the remote camp, so how were they getting there? The emotions he was starting to feel didn't fit the dream. Peter was even able to recognize that they weren't coming from within himself.  _Foreign._ He struggled to wake up, but he was disoriented.

Some things were real: He was with someone, they were upset, it was dark. The dream faded. "Sylar?" Although the name left his mouth, he didn't know how he knew that was right. An image came to mind of a teenager with messy, uneven hair standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shaving. "Gabriel?" The name had a certain rightness to it, at least in association with the memory. He could also remember carving 'I AM SYLAR' into his own arm, blood welling out and then sealing over. It had barely even hurt. He'd painted it on a wall using blood on his hands. It wasn't his blood. The memories had an overpowering feeling of dissociation and disconnection.

 _Those aren't mine,_ Peter realized, drawing his focus back to the man in his arms. "Gabr-, uh, S-Sylar? Sylar?"

XXX

Someone was speaking to him, saying his names. Saying more than one name. It leant itself to the now, not of being relieved. He felt his throat flexing, just on the cusp of drawing in air when some physical sensation of movement thrust him into wakefulness and only then did it dawn on him that it might have been a dream. He gasped for air, shaking badly. The next moment he detected that same person moving very close to him, possibly still attacking him. Sylar shoved away, getting his legs up as best he could, coughing as he got oxygen in himself in hurried gulps. He couldn't speak yet and warn the person away. He didn't even know where he was or the context of anything.

When he'd thrown and dragged himself free of the bed and bedding, he stumbled to his feet and turned to face the mattress. It was dark. He felt dirty. /Maybe he'd been buried in the ground…in the woods, by a road?/ It was too dark. He could barely see…Peter. He somehow knew Peter was here. Then the light blasted his eyes making him cringe and blink. He felt exposed in the light yet better able to defend himself. "Peter?" he whined and only then realized he'd been crying, sobbing dryly until his throat was tight.

XXX

"Yes?" He peered at Sylar, as effected by the sudden brightness as Sylar was, even if Peter had been the one to roll over and click on the bedside lamp. Sylar's plaintive tone had Peter sitting up and shifting to the edge of the bed, brows drawing together in concern. But he didn't stand up. The violence of Sylar's departure discouraged that. Peter knew enough not to press. "Sylar? I'm right here."

XXX

Shakily, Sylar grasped his throat because that was tangible and he could try to fix it. "What…? What-?" He felt like some Frankenstein zombie come back to life in an unnatural, raw way. He kept a distracted eye on Peter, mostly to make sure he didn't move from the bed. When he couldn't answer his own questions, he whispered, " _Who_ …?" as if to himself. His eyes wouldn't clear – they continually filled up and spilled over. Sylar touched his chest, his heart beating a panicked rhythm.

XXX

"You're okay. You had a nightmare." Peter watched the way Sylar touched his throat.  _Did he dream he was Nathan dying? Does he know who he is now?_  The tears running down the man's cheeks made Peter shift uneasily. He wanted to help, but getting in Sylar's face or chasing the still-disoriented man around the room would do the opposite. The apartment was big and Sylar wasn't going anywhere so he stayed put.

XXX

"No…No…It's different. I'm…I'm different?" He croaked.  _What if I can't fix this? Some piece of me is missing and I don't know what piece or where it is._ He rubbed at his throat compulsively, frowning at Peter. "Is this my body? Do you… _know_ … _me_?" There was such a feeling of danger he had of Peter. Some guilt and shame he couldn't cleanse to make the man hate him beyond any doubt. What if Peter didn't want to help? Or couldn't? He might never know himself without someone else to see him and if Peter attacked him or didn't help…

XXX

 _Did he wake up thinking he's Nathan, but in Sylar's body?_ Peter adopted the same firm, steady tone he'd used earlier that day when Sylar had lapsed into the same memory and identity. "You're Sylar. You're the man I know as Sylar. Understand?" He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the bed on both sides of his legs and telegraphing an intent to get up.

XXX

Something about the tone, or the question at the end, or the body language to stand up made him inexplicably suspicious.  _I'm just supposed to accept that? Take your word for it?_  He spared a quick glance around the apartment for an exit in case he needed it, taking a step back and away. Then he went back to keeping an eye on Peter.

XXX

Peter straightened and put his hands on his knees. Sylar's expression, eye contact, and posture said 'no' to Peter standing, so he didn't. Instead, he spoke. "We first met at a high school stadium in Odessa, Texas. I stopped you from killing Claire. The next time we met was in Mohinder Suresh's apartment. You killed me. We met again at Kirby Plaza and fought." He waited to see if the recounting of shared history helped Sylar orient on the correct identity.

XXX

Sylar frowned.  _/_ _I was there when you were born, Pete_ _,_ _/_  he thought before he was snapped away from that line of thinking by the other things Peter said. He twitched at the mention of Claire  _(Not my daughter,_  he reminded himself) and grimaced about Kirby Plaza. "Stop! Don't. Don't talk about her….Or Kirby."

That was literally a painful memory every way he looked at it. Being burned and suffering from radiation, being left by his Heidi for all the lies catching up to him, and his career going up in literal smoke after almost letting his baby brother die for his family's schemes. Being in the hospital for three months in agony and what he could remember was gruesome. He thought he heard Peter's voice in the middle of the painkillers and the haze just before his recovery – a miracle the doctors said. But Peter was gone. Had been gone the entire time….Ma was convinced he was dead and it brought on the pathetic drinking binge in an attempt to cope. He should have made the right decision immediately. Peter was worth the sacrifice of his career.

Or the other story, trying to prevent the bomb by calling Mohinder to be betrayed, seeking help from his mother (another mother) only to be told he could be special if he went back to the job market. She said that without even knowing his power, so innocently assuming he was a harmless person with the capacity, maybe someday, to be a good man, to be saved and redeemed enough to enter Heaven's gates. And then the stupid struggle, the accident, the blood and her corpse…but he couldn't leave it alone. Not with his abilities. Seeing her again like that brought back so many other memories…Sylar closed his eyes briefly, hearing the faint ticking of clocks, then scrubbed the moisture from his cheeks and ran his fingers through his hair.

He dragged shaking fingers down his chest and arms as if searching for something. Dirt. Blood. Some telltale sign of identity based on his clothing.  _Pajamas aren't helpful when he and I…We? He? Wear the same thing to bed._  He had this nagging impression that he should be somewhere dark and cold, filthy in borrowed clothing until there was too many lights and he was trapped in various cages. His mind kept returning to the face of a kind, tall, dark woman, but deep down, he knew she was long gone.

XXX

"More recently," Peter said slowly, "you were made to think you were my brother, Nathan. But you threw that off. You know you're not him." Peter dipped his head to the side and glanced away before looking back. " _I_ know you're not him." He gestured at the other man. "You're in Sylar's body. You have Sylar's personality. You have Sylar's memories. You have Nathan's, too, but you're still Sylar." He waited a beat while Sylar processed that.

XXX

As Peter spoke, more pieces came together. Somehow, he knew Peter was telling the truth. It helped to know Peter was being honest, but he wasn't satisfied by the results. Peter's watch was silent, distracting and jarring. He tried to nod, but wound up shaking his head, worrying at his lower lip and gazing out the window. Rubbing at his forehead, he flapped his other hand in a shrug as he shuffled away from the bedroom. He found himself standing between the couch and table. His reflection in the dark window showed a familiar, tall, lanky brunet. Everything except the expression was 'him.'  _If I saw someone else, would I still think it was me?_ He dropped the hand from his forehead, touching over his chest once more, seeing the movement reflected.

XXX

Peter rose and immediately angled his body so it was clear he wasn't approaching Sylar. He headed to the kitchen, where he flicked on the light and got out two glasses. They weren't about to go back to sleep. Peter accepted that. He frowned into the refrigerator, making a mental note to get some beer or liquor at some future point for moments like this when they both needed something to take the edge off. In the meantime, he took out the orange juice and filled the glasses. He returned the bottle to the fridge and offered one glass to Sylar as he passed near. Peter sat at the far side of the table, where he waited, letting the momentary silence be comfortable. He sipped his drink and stared out at the blackness of the night sky.


	152. Spiked

Day 78, February 26, Early Morning/Night

He watched Peter get up, ignoring him as he walked on the other side of the table and into the kitchen, then watching as Peter sat himself facing him and kindly passed him a glass of orange juice. Peter waited patiently, staying up and not going back to sleep as he could have so easily done. "Thank you," he said quietly, taking a sip. He knew this was the space for talking. And he wanted to, but didn't know what (or who) would emerge when he opened his mouth.

"She offered me a drink, too. Tea. And her watch was fast." He gave a bitter, fond half smile at the thought of Dr….Dr. Gibson. "She reminds me of you, actually. The way you are with…people, always helping." He was babbling just to get words out and fill the silence for Peter, he told himself. He cleared his throat and took another drink, shifting his weight. "Danko was helpful, too. My left eye stayed blue for over an hour once and extra teeth appeared in my mouth when I woke up. I didn't want to play dead and I didn't want to be Taub. That wasn't long before Stanton actu-" Sylar caught himself and cleared his throat again. "You don't want to hear that. I think I'll take a walk. You can go back to sleep if you want." Walking wouldn't help, he suspected, but if he was going to ramble aloud it was probably best to do it in private and not disturb Peter's night further.

XXX

"We're not dressed for a walk," Peter observed, trying to discourage any immediate departure and fishing for whether he'd be welcome to accompany Sylar if a walkabout was what the man wanted to do. Sylar still wasn't sitting. Peter certainly understood tension and restless energy. Softly, he added, "What I would like is to hear you and whatever you have to say." Peter recognized that Sylar was opening up, if only just a little, and so, so disjointedly. Most of what the man had said didn't make sense, but it wasn't the time for asking questions – just for listening.

XXX

Sylar paused in the act of setting his drink on the corner of the table. He looked at Peter; hand still on the cool glass. His gaze fell back to the glass as he rotated it against the wood. He didn't feel like putting effort into gracefully accepting the offer without looking more vulnerable than he already did. "I wouldn't know what to talk about. Obviously," he hesitantly voiced. "I just…had a nightmare. That's all." And he was frightened of the cold darkness tonight, fearful of being sucked into some endless pit. A walk sounded dangerous.

XXX

Peter let the silence prompt Sylar more surely than anything he might say.

XXX

"I was dying. I thought I was dying. I was killing…me? Then you killed me. It's so stupid. It's just a nightmare. It's just dying. I've done it fifty times or more, so what's the big deal?" He frowned in annoyed anger at his own reaction and using Peter as a sounding board without realizing it. "'Die alone', that was the deal. There're no surprises. Killing yourself or having your brother-fuckbuddy kill you is pretty damn ironic. It's always just like a nightmare, too! Dying doesn't leave a mark! Nothing does! How am I supposed to know what happened if it doesn't leave a mark?"

XXX

 _I'm a 'brother-fuckbuddy'. He sees me as a brother. It's incest for him. Huh. I'm not sure what I should do about that. I'm not even sure it bothers him._ For his own part, Peter didn't look at Sylar and see Nathan; he looked at Sylar and saw Nathan's killer. But this wasn't the time for that discussion. Sylar needed someone to help him process. Peter could do that. "That…must feel so unsatisfying. You want to show how something made you feel and there's nothing there for anyone to see. Claire told me, 'dying is no big deal', but being killed certainly is. Having someone else take your life from you? That's terrible. Every time it's happened to me, it fucked me up just a little more, because that was someone who wanted me dead. Is it the same way for you?"

XXX

Peter hit the nail on the head – there was never any proof of his wounds to show anyone. It was all, always, internal, apparently healed based on his outer appearance. He stared at Peter, totally lost at how to express anything after that. Even if he could prove the trauma and get someone to listen, that didn't mean he deserved to heal or be helped. Sylar desperately wanted to stay in that moment and attempt to figure it out, but Peter had moved on. He huffed a sigh when Peter brought up something he should feel guilty about. "At the time, I meant it as a compliment. You have brass balls." There was more he could say about that, but he selfishly wanted to discuss himself.

XXX

 _Killing me was a compliment? That I was worth his time to get rid of me?_ Peter didn't feel flattered. He felt angry that Sylar was blaming Peter for having tried to stop him, blowing off the terror Peter had felt in those early encounters as inconsequential. He tried to keep his expression steady, but some of the supportiveness inevitably bled away. Sylar seemed to sense it.

XXX

Sylar lifted his glass and retreated around the table so it stood as a barrier between them again. "Everyone I know wants to kill me. Mostly it's inconvenient and frustrating when I can regenerate. I assume everyone is 'out to get me' so it's become part of life. It's…worse when it's…someone who should have…been my family." The Petrellis. He threw a nervous glance at Peter. He'd been cast out from the family clan he still clung to, feeling betrayed (yet understanding that he'd never been desirable and no longer served any use) and vengeful. Mercy Hospital was a raw memory even now. Sylar questioned if it was safe to be talking to Peter Petrelli like this.

He continued when there wasn't any interruption, "People who still are my family in some ways. Anything from them, Bennet, or the Company is personal. The 'why' is important. There's really only a few deaths that…bother me. Like I said, it's stupid. It's just a stupid nightmare that doesn't mean anything," he said dismissively into his glass. He took a large gulp of juice as something to distract himself with.

XXX

 _Nathan's death bothers him. Good._ Peter drew in a breath and exhaled, trying to get his mind out of the wrath it had sunk into at the trauma of their encounters being reduced to Peter having 'brass balls'.  _He knows damn well how much that fucks a person up! That's what he's talking about!_  Peter shut his eyes for a moment, pursed his lips, and tilted his head as he opened his eyes to regard his orange juice. "There's a lot between us," he said quietly. "Being upset about dreaming that isn't stupid. It means something to you. It's personal. That's  _yours._ " This was easy to say – no empathy was required for the plain truth.

He looked up at Sylar. "The hardest things for me to deal with have been my family coming after me, or even worse, just…not caring. No, it's always the 'not caring' part. That's what it was when I was a teenager dealing with Dad. That's what it was when Mom left me in that cargo container, and here. And when Nathan decided he'd rather have me locked up so he didn't have to deal with me anymore." He took a drink of his juice. "Your family should be on your side. That's what I've always tried to do." His gaze fixed on Sylar. "Even with you – when I thought you were my brother, both times."

XXX

That was true. Peter had tried (succeeded, not so much. Mostly, Sylar recalled having to hunt Peter down several times after the Carnival and when he first thought he (Nathan) was developing a dozen new abilities. Peter had been distracted and busy). Now he had the feeling Peter was done talking about stupid nightmares. It was irksome, but a fact of life. He was grateful to be allowed to vent as much as he had. "You remain loyal and get hurt and betrayed in the process. That doesn't effect me anymore. I would ask you how you deal with that, but you've already told me."

XXX

"No," Peter agreed, "it doesn't effect either of us. Not now." He rose and walked around the table, putting his hands on the outside of Sylar's arms and rubbing slightly. Mostly, he was checking to see if he was allowed to get close or to touch.

XXX

Even with Peter's…admission? agreement? Sylar felt a welter of reactions.  _My family is dead. You still ha_ _ve_ _family. Does it ever stop effecting us?_  He wasn't wary at Peter's approach, more lost in thought than anything else.  _I don't deserve any of that, Peter._  Biting his lip, he looked at Peter and greedily drank up the contact anyway. Knowing Peter, it felt like a prelude to a hug, if he'd been someone trustworthy. He was disgustingly grateful and still somewhat embarrassed to have caused such a scene.

XXX

"What we have, here, is each other." Peter moved away now, picking up his glass and carrying it to the sink for a quick rinse. "You had a bad dream about me killing you. If we go back to sleep, would you rather I was in the bed with you, on the couch, the guest room, or somewhere else?"

XXX

 _(Is that it? Will I ever 'have' you?)_ Sylar knew the answer, and he understood Peter hadn't meant it that way. It showed Peter's inner character of sweetness and he felt…filthy to be around or receiving it. Peter mentioned another point of interest – the bed. There was literal distance between in bed and 'in  _the_  bed.' It was casual, unintentional, subconscious, but it told him where Peter was. Not 'my bed' or 'our bed,' just the bed. After everything else, that was acceptable and Sylar wasn't about to ask for more. He watched Peter whisk away to dutifully rinse his glass. It gave him some silly relief to see the clean up. "In the bed. With me," he answered meaningfully.

It was an odd question, he realized, to be asked his preference. Yet another kindness he didn't deserve. "You expect me to go back to sleep after you give me sugary fruit water? Didn't they teach you that was bad in medical school?" Lips quirked with humor and no real complaint, Sylar swallowed the last of his juice and followed Peter's example of placing it in the sink after filling it with water.

XXX

"Sugary fruit water?" Peter asked, amused. "I could have given you caffeinated bean water, or dried leaf water. I'm sure we have some around here somewhere." He gave Sylar a light jog to the shoulder while the man was at the sink, then headed back to the bed. He climbed in on Sylar's side, lifting the covers and scooting over to the middle of the bed. Even though Sylar was obviously following him, Peter added, "It's dead dark outside. I don't want to stay up. If it takes a while for you to get back to sleep, that's okay. Or if you want to leave the light on and read, I'll be fine."

As Sylar joined him, Peter didn't move aside. He watched Sylar with careful attention to body language and distance, trying to judge where they stood relative to one another. _Is this okay, or should I mind my own business?_

XXX

Sylar smirked at the nudge. He felt something in his gut twist at the sight of Peter climbing into bed on the wrong side –  _his_  side – and Peter lifting the covers invitingly, watching him. It was sweet and far more caring than he deserved. He knew it wasn't anything more than Peter being his empathic self. He wanted it. Peter wanted it; otherwise he wouldn't do things like that. It was easier to be greedy that way. Sylar crawled into bed, slipping between the sheets, and lay down about a foot away from Peter.

XXX

Peter sniffed audibly and rolled to his side, having decided that Sylar wasn't radiating any form of 'fuck off, Petrelli!' He touched Sylar on the shoulder just as he had at the start of the night, extending the invitation to go back to lying in one another's arms. Peter enjoyed it and he knew there was no altruistic or larger purpose to it this time. When they'd first gone to bed, it had been a means of coping with everything Sylar had told him earlier. It had been selfish even then, but possibly for the best for both of them. Besides, he felt kind of…entitled. But now, he wanted to do it just because he liked the feel of another body next to his – and Sylar's particularly.

XXX

Sylar exhaled and assumed Peter wanted more proximity. He shifted closer and Peter took care of the rest, positioning them the way he wanted. Perhaps he told himself that this was for Peter's sake still, paying his dues.  _(I think he's still trying to comfort m_ _e.)_

XXX

Peter settled in, basically in the same position as before but with extra care this time not to do anything Sylar might interpret as a request for sex. Even so, Peter wriggled and shifted a little as his pleased hands brushed Sylar's hip and the back of his shoulder a few times. He was happy and felt a brief surge of energy.  _Oh! He's okay with this? I know we're not fucking and I like this and it's probably wrong to be this close to someone without…without being willing to so much as kiss him…_ Peter dipped his head forward the few inches it took to give Sylar a brief peck on the forehead, disproving his internal monologue.  _Is this playing with him? Is it wrong? I probably shouldn't do this no matter how much I want to. What if he thinks it's more? He just had a nightmare of me killing him. I should stop._ Peter drew in a deep breath, calming himself from his desire to fondle, tease, explore, and play.  _Chill, okay?_  He exhaled slowly, relaxing as deliberately as he could. A few more deep breaths, and sleep found him faster than he'd expected.

XXX

Sylar relaxed at the petting. How strange it was to think the bed might actually be a safe zone. It still felt…relationship-y. He experienced another jolt when he felt a kiss on his forehead.  _I know mouth-kissing upsets him. Other…applications of mouth don't bother him. Maybe it's a bedtime thing. Parents kiss their children's faces._ Sylar couldn't discern the cause behind it or what he'd done to earn any kind of kiss. It didn't seem to matter when Peter appeared to drop off to sleep if his breathing was any indication. Sylar was still very relieved to have company and to be held, particularly after a nightmare where he'd woken his bed partner. He didn't remember much else after he compared how different his nightmare was to the current Peter here with him.

XXX

Day 78, February 26, Morning

Something was tickling his nose. It was no way to sleep. With a half-stifled grunt, Peter pulled his head back from where it had been buried in the fine hair of Sylar's crown. His irritation at the errant sensation vanished as he saw the reason for it. He blinked at the dark mop, registering the close embrace they shared and had shared all night. That…tolerance made him grateful and warm, aware as he was of how accommodating Sylar was.

He tightened his arm protectively around the other man and lifted himself slightly, only the inch or two he could shift without changing position. Peter surveyed the room. It was brightly lit – fully morning and all the lingering snow outside was sending up quite the reflection. More importantly, though, he could see the everywhere he needed to and there was no one else here. Not that he expected anyone else, but the vigilance wasn't likely to vanish by itself.

He settled back down with a slow sigh. He could enjoy this and he was going to. He took in another breath, immersing himself in the sensation of having someone close to him, safe and secure. It had been so long since he'd had anything half so lovely. His pleasure in it was made more acute by knowing how fragile and impossible the whole thing was. He moved his head forward, nose in Sylar's hair again, and exhaled hot air against the man's scalp.

XXX

Sylar wasn't conscious and it was so restful. He twitched hard when he felt something teasing his scalp with an intuition that it was from another person who was close by. His eyes snapped open and all he could see was flesh. Sylar pulled his head back, lifting it off the pillow and away from whatever had touched his head, only to detect there was a lot of touching going on. The more threatening touch to his head didn't correlate with…being held. By Peter Petrelli. The sun was a bit blinding, and he blinked as it hit his suspicious, narrowed eyes. The man's hands were accounted for so the threat was non-existent. "Were you smelling my hair?" he asked. The light behind Peter made him difficult to see in an artistic kind of way, like classy photography of handsome models. He looked incredibly soft and tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed – or hadn't yet rolled out of it. He stared as best he could with sleepy, sun-dazzled eyes.

XXX

 _That sounds perverted. Not that that's a bad thing._ He felt playful, yearning to indulge himself further, but that way was dangerous.  _What if he didn't like that? I'm not supposed to touch his head – does that qualify? I don't know what's okay and what's not._ "Um…maybe," Peter hedged. Sylar was squinting, making it difficult to discern his true expression. The morning light revealed the bruises from their fight just days before, but the man was still drop-dead handsome.

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar grunted lazily with the arrogance of being right, dropping his head to the pillow and back within reach. The thought of Peter molesting his hair was quickly growing into (at least) mental foreplay and it was sure to feel fantastic. "You should fuck me already," he murmured, slyly sliding his hand up Peter's abdomen to his hip. Interrogations and judgments aside, Peter's current seduction was very effective, Sylar realized. The kindness, questions, and proximity were making him high.  _If he keeps this up, fucking me might not even be…bad._  He was almost starting to want it.

XXX

Peter sighed and relaxed, feeling the touch as Sylar's hand rode up his body, feeling welcomed by the action. He sank into it, even while knowing he shouldn't, couldn't. "I want to," he murmured back as he moved forward into a tighter embrace, his chin over Sylar's shoulder. "I want to make your toes curl," he said softly, huskily, letting his frustrated desire bleed into his voice. "I want to hear you gasp when you go. I want to see you come undone with me in you." He paused, dipping his head to put his lips for a moment against the t-shirt on Sylar's shoulder. "But I still can't let go."

He'd intended the words more as a statement of how he couldn't follow Sylar's advice to just 'let it happen', but once spoken aloud, what was brought to mind was Nathan, hanging from the edge of Mercy Heights Hospital. All the muscles in Peter's hand, arm, shoulder, and back had been burning, but he'd refused to voluntarily release his brother. Peter pushed away from Sylar, separating them enough that he could see his face.  _It was Sylar then, too. Not Nathan._ There was concern and regret in Peter's expression. "Not enough for that."

XXX

Sylar swallowed drily. He felt a flush of heat at those words, the ideas or maybe the promise therein. Was it a promise?  _You think you're really that good? Peter Petrelli and his magic dick. You could turn me gay, get me off that way? (Do toes curl during orgasm? Is that a gay thing or an abilities thing or…?)_ Part of him didn't care about any of it; it sounded so good, worth a try anyway.

And then the rest of what Peter had to say. Letting go.  _This again._  It always came back to him – to Nathan. How difficult was it, truly?  _You get the easy part, Petrelli. Get hard like you do, roll me over – you're strong enough – and put your dick in me, like you did before. It's just a different hole. You've done it before to other…men….women? I have to let you fuck me!_  He grit his teeth, wanting to bite Peter out of spite. Before he could react, Peter was pulling away and would be able to see him. "Good thing you can let go in my mouth…" he said gruffly, likely glaring with half the intent to make that glare arousing. The rest of it was angry.

The hand on Peter's hip, slid down and into the empath's underwear, grasping the beginnings of (no surprise) an erection. He had every intention of thoroughly going down on Peter, using the angry glaring the man found so attractive as motivation.  _All of his complaining and he'll still let me do this._

XXX

Peter was left gaping at Sylar's response. It was true, sort of. It made him look shamefully guilty of being selfish, that he'd accepted a blowjob and handjob from Sylar, and reciprocated only with a badly-ended handjob of his own. Now Peter was trying to unilaterally refuse anything else - specifically the receptive role, which Peter saw as the more desirable of the two. If Sylar saw it the same way, then Peter was taking the acts he liked from the relationship and not extending the same to Sylar.

He knew he needed to do or say something, but "Huh?" was all he got out before Sylar was reaching for him. His thoughts were tangled up in whether it was more selfish to decline or accept, how either impacted Sylar, and how Peter was getting angry at having to juggle the insecurities of the guy who had done so much to hurt him. Plus, his meaning of 'no' had been perfectly plain even if he hadn't said it explicitly.  _He knew what I meant!_

Peter took Sylar's wrist and pushed it to the side, leaning into him with the intention of putting Sylar on his back. Peter's lips skated over Sylar's stubbled cheek, because he wanted Sylar despite everything else. If he hadn't, then he wouldn't have been in this mess. "Yes, I did," Peter said sharply. "And I don't regret it, but I'm not going to do it again until I get my head straight." He was also, he noticed, about to hump Sylar's hip, given the way their bodies were pressing together.  _I am the fucking king of mixed messages,_ he thought with some resignation. _But fuck him. If he wants me, then he'll deal with it._ He gave another touch of his face to Sylar's cheek before withdrawing (or at least trying to).

XXX

Sylar was…distracted by being rolled over with Peter nearly atop him and Peter being in his face. "What?!" he spat. That was too ridiculous. How righteous and sanctimonious…! It had reached a whole new level of Petrelli crazy. He quickly reached out and snagged a hand around the back of Peter's neck to keep him from escaping. That was it? Good for one (admittedly poor) blowjob and jerk off session to be discarded for offering up sex? Deciding things with no warning, only an off-hand comment as explanation?

"Sweetie, we both know your  _head_ ," he emphasized to refer about the head without Peter's brain, "is anything but straight. I assume I didn't hear you correctly because Peter Petrelli loves to talk things to death. How the hell is fucking me different than anything else?"

XXX

' _Sweetie_ _'?_ It was more endearing that it should have been, especially given that they were effectively arguing about an incredibly sensitive subject while face-to-face. Peter frowned and tugged his head back enough to make sure Sylar was committed to keeping him there. That ascertained, Peter didn't fight it. "It's not," he snapped. He let go of Sylar's far wrist, the one he'd pushed to the side, and put his hand on Sylar's chest in case he needed to resist being pulled down. "It's all off the table!"

XXX

Sylar tightened his grip and flexed his arm to keep Peter here. He wasn't thinking about beds and safe zones, just the insanity of it all and his demand for an explanation that probably wouldn't make sense.  _It's not different? It's 'off the table' – it's not on the fucking bed maybe!_ He glared at Peter's tone, ignoring the hand on his chest. "What's so wrong with you getting off? What changed?"

XXX

"That's not the issue." Peter bared his teeth. "I can't just shut off the past and pretend everything's okay. I thought I could. I  _can't_."

XXX

 _That's insane! I fucking told you that before!_  "When were you going to tell me? Why do you get to make these decisions when you claim  _this_  is a relationship? Or am I suddenly not good enough for that?"

XXX

"I've been telling you all along!" Peter shifted a little to put a few inches between their bodies. His eyes darted over Sylar's features as he tried to divine how bad this was.  _He's insecure. He must be afraid he loses whatever protection he thought he had. He was willing to put out for that. It means a lot to him. I'm scaring him._ Peter changed gears, taking a more delicate tack. "It must feel like a betrayal for me to back off now." He left it at that, inviting Sylar's response rather than throwing his own out there.

XXX

"A betrayal?" Sylar snorted out a breath. "Right, you suddenly remembered you're better than a mass murderer? Or did the thrill just wear off? Because I know you didn't get what you wanted. It sure looks like you regret it. It…doesn't have to be shameful because no one will  _ever_  find out."

XXX

 _That's everything he's afraid of, right there._  "I'm with you, Sylar. I want to make this work, just like you do. The other day, you showed me that you were all-in on us, that you were willing to do whatever it took to…please me." He stroked Sylar's chest lightly. "And that's what you're offering right now. I get it. I want to take you up on it. I've tried to take you up on it before." He chewed his lip for a moment and moved his head, feeling Sylar's hand shift in his hair. "That feels nice. Would you be okay with something…a little lower stakes? For now?"

XXX

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was an air of manipulation and he attributed that to Peter wanting to avoid a scene (or to 'protect the safe zone' or something equally lame). It was complimentary if sugarcoated. He inhaled when he felt the delicate caress against his chest.  _Why do you do that?_  he thought of Peter's contrariness, considering a possible pattern,  _(He might be more…giving when he's turning me down.)_

Sylar rolled his head aside on the pillow in frustration. He felt Peter sliding around in his grip and he turned back to observe that. Peter still looked, well, adorable now, petting himself with Sylar's hand. He greedily spread his fingers out and speared them possessively into Peter's lush hair.  _Like what? I've already done most things with you – to you – whatever. I don't think you mean you'd let me feel you up. I know you want sex, so what else is there?_

"Do I have a choice?" he rumbled, knowing the answer but wanting Peter to hear how stupid his question was. He continued massaging Peter's scalp.

XXX

Peter turned his head to look around the apartment, continuing to roll it against Sylar's hand, then looked back to answer, "Given the lack of other people lined up for the opportunity, I'd say there's not much of one." He settled against the mattress, putting his head to the pillow, Sylar's hand included. He sighed, wishing Sylar would take a little more active role in touching him.  _It seems to be 'sex or nothing' with him. That's frustrating._ He kept moving his head against Sylar's hand and looked at the man with half-open eyes. "You can always bow out."

XXX

Sylar's face went blank. It didn't seem to him that the comment was warranted, reminding him that he was only the Last Man on Earth and there was no line outside his front door, no waiting list, no demand. Admitting that he had no choice but to be pathetic and wait on Peter's moods because Peter was the only one even considering having him – even then only because he was desperate and Sylar was cheap and available.

Peter had since flopped to the side, trapping Sylar's hand beneath his head. Absently, he twitched his fingers to give scratching strokes to Peter's hair, pressing and releasing. He controlled his snort of derision this time. "Oh, really," he said with mildest sarcasm. Quickly he covered it with a disinterested, questioning, "Can I?"

XXX

 _Does he mean 'Can I bow out?' or is he asking to do something, like with my hair?_  Peter raised his brows a little in question. It also hadn't gone unnoticed that his minor joke had pissed Sylar off, or at least fell flat. A depressingly familiar wariness returned. "Yes," he said. The answer was the same either way.

XXX

Sylar shook his head. Peter wanted to cuddle after all the build-up and teasing. The empath had been on the course to consummation until something had changed.  _I shouldn't have told him about Nathan. It was fine before then. He just uses me to tell him things about his brother. He certainly thinks I'm his bitch. All the 'I'm going to get you off so hard' bullshit was just that and he thinks I believe it. Of course he can't be with something filthy._

There was nothing to be gained by backing out, assuming that was an actual, unlikely option. (If anything, it would hurt his chances by being inconsistent, proving his interest was 'shallow', which apparently mattered). Peter offering it at all meant he was in for another, perhaps longer wait. The tenderness wasn't undesirable – far from it, but on the heels of such a pointless rejection made him angry.

He had questions, but knew he wouldn't be satisfied with the answers and he certainly didn't want to have any discussion in such a passive-aggressive location. "I get the feeling it will be about the same either way," he said succinctly. "I said you could fuck me and you can fuck me." He lifted himself up onto an elbow, took a slight handful of Peter's hair, and bent down to bite at the man's neck. After sinking his teeth in enough to leave a mark deep and dark enough to satisfy a predator, he released.

XXX

A bite.  _Another_ bite. Opposite side of the neck from last time. Peter made a low groan and arched tensely. He put his hands on Sylar – one on his chest and the other on his arm – but neither pushed nor gripped. He winced and bared his own teeth when it started to hurt.  _How hard is he going to do this? Is this revenge? Foreplay? Ow, damn it._ Then it was over, without having quite reached the point where Peter was willing to shove him away. Peter fell back on the bed, getting himself, especially his face and neck, far enough back that Sylar would have to shift and stretch to reach him again. He had a sullen look on his face.

XXX

"Ummm," he purred, licking his lips and eyeing the mark. "What do you want for breakfast?" he asked even though he knew the answer. Sylar flung the blankets off and lifted himself from the mattress with the intent of showing off his body for the horny, but self-righteous empath, standing beside the bed to wait for the reply.

XXX

Peter stayed where he was and didn't answer right away. He was feeling resentful of being bitten without any erotic lead-up that would have made it pleasurable, and of the failure to get more than token touching when he asked for something lower stakes than sex. Sylar stood up fluidly, posing as much as one could in t-shirt and boxers. Peter let his eyes roam up, down, and then back up again, though he didn't feel particularly attracted. He looked because he was obviously supposed to. Peter wiped at the spot on his neck slowly. "Coffee, toast, and jelly," Peter said finally.  _He's still making me food. Is that what he thinks people in a relationship do? Or is he trying to make up for being an asshole just now?_

When Sylar headed off, Peter felt safe enough to stretch on the bed. He rubbed at the spot on his neck and called out half-bitter, half-jokingly, "Do I need to start wearing a spiked collar?"

XXX

It appeared that Peter wasn't amused or aroused and that was troubling. He knew the message he'd missed (perhaps intentionally).  _I don't want lower stakes. What does that even mean: 'less than sex'? He just wants more of the same – he doesn't want to grope me, won't let me pet him, so it's just more cuddling. He's putting me off and blaming me for it somehow._  There didn't seem to be any point in asking for clarification, so Sylar proceeded to the bathroom. He chuckled at the idea and the enticing image Peter presented so willingly, and possibly, seriously. He paused and turned halfway back. "Hmm. Of course. I'm happy to bite you elsewhere." His eyes flicked over Peter's spread form, mentally referring back to the nudity from the night before.

XXX

Peter assessed Sylar with a heavy-lidded, otherwise neutral look while still touching his neck. "Yeah?" he said, inviting clarification, if it was available. Sylar kept toeing up to the line between 'sexy' and 'unsettling'. While being bitten was usually (could be?) sexy, this last time had simply hurt and he wasn't sure Sylar understood that.

XXX

"Oh yeah," he replied in a deep voice. He had a sizeable list of places on Peter's body where he wanted to apply his teeth. Muscular, soft, flawless flesh bare and innocent to his filthy desires. Peter enjoyed it but still rejected it. He knew as he said it that his lusty initiation was a turn off for the empath. His face went blank after that. No amount of creativity would convince the most stubborn Petrelli when that Petrelli didn't want to be pleasured. Once in the bathroom, clean up was a simple affair – not that it really mattered. The only person he needed to impress was…unimpressionable.

It didn't escape him how messed up it was to have a requirement that Peter fuck him, yet wanting to accept this lesser offer of 'lower stakes' without sex because it met half of his needs. If he accepted, he would never be viewed as 'fuck-buddy' material and Peter would be free to abandon him because there would be nothing to tie him to Sylar.  _(Is there a possibility he knows what I'm doing? No,_ he dismissed the idea.) Peter's motives were selfish – clearly – and his own, always revolving around Nathan and family and doing the right thing.

He went about making breakfast for two, pondering where he stood in whatever agreement they did or did not have and how Peter really felt about any of it. Nathan was still an obstacle he couldn't solve. Since toast was uncomplicated, he waited until it sounded like Peter was finishing in the bathroom before starting the toaster. After quick preparation, he brought it to the table and sat with his own plate.

XXX

Peter stayed sprawled on the bed until Sylar finished in the bathroom, then took his turn using the facilities. He came out and found his workout clothes, shooting a glance over to Sylar. The man had his back to Peter, just beginning to pour up coffee. Peter changed quickly, aiming to avoid a scene about his brief nudity and yet annoyed at feeling he needed to be furtive about his own body, in their shared apartment, with a guy who claimed to be at his disposal for sex. At his disposal…but Peter wasn't comfortable enough to change clothes without checking, not after Sylar calling attention to it the night before.

He moved to the table and accepted his cup when Sylar brought it over.

XXX

They had both barely settled in at that table before, Sylar blurted out his burning question. "Out of curiosity, what did you mean by 'lower stakes'?" He hoped it sounded casual and disinterested enough, a negotiator interested in the 'other' options he was being presented with – assuming it was truly an option.

XXX

The question was asked just as Peter bit down on a piece of toast, which was lucky. It gave him time. The food was also excellent – having been lightly buttered while hot, with a thin layer of jelly that left it still crunchy, but sweet. He would have used too much jelly if he'd done it himself, giving him soggy toast and a sugar overload. Peter appreciated the difference as he mulled over his thoughts.

 _What? He doesn't know? Is this why he's 'sex or nothing'; why he bit me and backed out; because there's nothing else on the menu?_ The no-hands blowjob came to mind, along with Sylar fleeing to the bathroom after, either to spit or to retch, but Peter's money was on retching.  _I warned him, but he didn't pull off. How much experience does he have? What if it's none? It's not like he had any experience in getting flogged, but he signed up for that, no questions asked._

Peter put down his toast and followed it with a sip of coffee to wash it down.  _That needs more cream and sugar, but it's close. He's trying to do it right and not fuck this up._ To Sylar's question, he answered, "Playing. Making out. Touching." He shrugged like the next was more optional than the others, "Kissing? Like with abilities, maybe I just need to practice."

XXX

Peter's delay in responding made him suspicious that perhaps Peter hadn't considered what it really meant and was now hastily making something up. It was a decent answer, full of logic flaws. Sylar frowned heavily, munching on his own toast.

Massages and touching, flirting was already happening, if not playing (because Peter didn't like painful, violent, scary things and Sylar had no idea what else 'playing' could be).  _I don't see how anyone can make out without kissing. And kissing me is so different that he needs to fucking practice it. He knows he doesn't have to do anything for me, so why offer even that much? But no sex. Because I don't qualify for that. He'll just dangle it in front of me with the hopes of 'some day' while he uses me to answer all his elusive questions about his precious brother._  Sylar's lips thinned dangerously as he considered.  _That's…really backwards. The last thing most people want is any kind of…interaction with a killer. I think he wants something…normal. I want to ask him about this so badly!_

 _I think he's…asking me. Actually asking me to choose. Giving me a choice. (And I have no idea what I want more or what is an acceptable answer.) I think he…allowed those things because he was concussed and now he's changing his mind. He wouldn't really be able to remember his own reasons for doing it._  He gave up on his contemplative, worried frowning. "How is your concussion?" he asked, genuinely interested and dodging the current topic as far as Peter was concerned.

XXX

Peter ate quietly, watching as Sylar slowly digested Peter's suggestions for 'things to do in bed other than stick a dick in someone'. The delay confirmed his suspicions about Sylar's relative inexperience.  _Should I have been more specific? No, I don't think so. We'll work it out. Eventually._

"It's okay," Peter said in answer to Sylar's eventual question.  _Abrupt change of subject, which probably means, 'I don't know what to do or say about the sex thing, so let's talk about something else.'_ "I still have a headache, but it's not that bad. If I have other problems, I haven't noticed them. How's your back?"

XXX

 _I've noticed them,_  Sylar thought about their encounter the other night compared to the rejection of this morning. "I think it's fine." Partly to be available, he swiveled in his seat and began to lift up his shirt.

XXX

Peter grunted as Sylar reached for his shirt. Taking a look wasn't what he'd expected, though it made sense. He rose and moved to fetch the kitchen towel, wiping his hands free of any crumbs and butter as he moved behind Sylar to see. Peter helped push up the shirt so he had a good view. "I'm not going to touch you because my hands aren't clean," he said distractedly as he studied the marks.

"You're right. They look good. You should probably still take antibiotics for a day or two more. I'm not sure what caused the infection to start with." He let the shirt fall, feeling a little guilty because he had his suspicions about what had caused it – hate, anger, some physical manifestation of his feelings, inflicted on Sylar's flesh. Peter huffed and went back to his seat to finish eating. At least they were healing.

XXX

 _Now you won't touch me because of something that may or may not be an excuse?_  Sylar adjusted his shirt and faced forward again. "Are you sure about your concussion? Is there a test I should run or something?"

XXX

Peter took a larger drink of his coffee. "There are tests. It'd be like the mental exam I was giving you. The biggest use of that was keeping me focused on being patient with you and letting me know how much I needed to help with and watch out for, like on self-care." He pushed his empty saucer forward. "You're already doing that: making sure I eat, get enough sleep, and take care of myself. That's really all you need to do."

Peter shook his head dismissively. "I'm not operating heavy machinery or working. If I still have symptoms aside from a sore head, they'll probably manifest as me not thinking clearly or getting disoriented." He gave a self-deprecating smile as he passed on his way to the sink, cup and plate in hand. "I don't know if you'd be able to recognize that as any different from normal."


	153. Seconds

Day 78, February 26, Late morning

He was watching Peter throughout the explanation. When Peter mentioned not thinking clearly, he glanced down and away. It made him feel…sad for a moment, then perhaps relieved the more he considered it.  _He was messed up when he allowed it. Now he's feeling like himself. Everything is back to normal and he says he doesn't want it. We both know he does and I have to persuade him to do it again._  "I can tell," he said simply. "I see you're going to the gym."

XXX

"Yeah." He poured out the last of his coffee and rinsed off his dish. "What are you doing today?"

XXX

 _(You?)_  Sylar shifted his weight in the chair. With a soft tone, he replied, "I was going to clean up the dairy section at the store." He felt that the fight was his fault and thus cleanup would fall to him. It wasn't something he necessarily wanted to draw attention to. Cleanup was something that should happen behind the scenes after all.

XXX

"Oh," Peter said, leaving the sink and walking towards Sylar.  _Should I offer to help? What kind of a mess did we leave? Blood everywhere, I think. Maybe broken stuff. I'm not dressed for it and I've already said I was going to work out. Should I ask him to wait?_ "Um, okay. If you're not back when I'm done, I'll come join you. We could stand a few more groceries anyway." He gave Sylar a concerned, uncertain look, then moved to his side to touch lightly along the top of Sylar's nearer shoulder. In a soft voice that matched Sylar's, he said, "Are you okay after last night?"

XXX

He couldn't stand that voice. The pity or caring, certainly not the gentleness it implied. It felt so wrong and out of place. Sylar nodded quickly and began fussing with his own dishes, waiting until Peter broke the patronizing contact first.

XXX

Peter nodded. "Okay. I'll see you later then." He gave Sylar's shoulder a pat and left, heading downstairs to the exercise room. Once there, he stretched, his mind full of thoughts on the morning, the night, the evening before, and Sylar's story of Nathan's death.  _He talks about that and the next day, Sylar wants me to fuck him and gets bent out of shape when I don't want to. The night after he told me all that, even then, he acted like he thought I wanted head._

Peter shook his head as he climbed on the treadmill _. If things were normal, I'd say he was insensitive. Just beyond. But it's the opposite. He's reading my anger and trying to suck up. Or make it up. Make me breakfast, go clean up the store, offer himself – whatever he needs to do, like I'm the monster._

Peter scrubbed at his face.  _It doesn't make any sense. It makes too much sense. I don't know if he's seeing the truth or lying to himself. Am I just like my dad? Or my mom? Am I the one lying to myself? Fuck it. Fuck him. Just run._ He punched the right buttons for one of the tougher, pre-programmed running plans in the machine. When his legs were rubbery and lungs burning, he turned it off, took a short breather, and moved to the rec room where he pounded the punching bag as hard as he could, keeping at it until he managed to sprain his elbow. He stopped at the pain. The whole room was spinning by then, so he staggered to the pool table and leaned against it, looking uncertainly at his bruised knuckles. The leading ones were bleeding.  _Fuck_ , was the only coherent thought his mind could form.

He made it back to the penthouse and into the shower, although he couldn't have explained how he got there if he'd needed to. It didn't matter much. Warm water cascading over him took his worries away. He stayed there until his thoughts cleared and he remembered his offer to help Sylar at the store.  _Shit. He's probably done by now._

XXX

Nearly forty-five minutes later, Sylar returned to the penthouse. On opening the door, he heard sounds coming from the shower. He felt this was an opportunity. He had a predatory urge. Anger and lust, a kind of vengeance and overcoming himself were part of it. The bathroom door was open. Sylar imagined he could smell Peter, could certainly imagine him because he'd already seen the man naked. He stood where he was, between the living room and the kitchen, in view of the bedroom – and waited.

XXX

Peter exited the shower and pulled the towel off the rack.  _There wasn't that much to clean up, but I should still go check if he needs me._  He scrubbed at his hair, pausing for a moment to wipe his face, then went back to his hair.  _Get some extra groceries at least. Maybe eat there_. He turned toward the rest of the apartment, letting the towel fall to his shoulders. He pulled on one side, sliding it off and gathering half of it to dry his hands. He was moving on to drying his forearms, having reached the side of the bed, when he realized he wasn't alone.

XXX

Sylar watched as Peter's body jiggled about a little as he dried himself vigorously. The empath paraded himself to the bed before his eyes met Sylar's. The bottom half of the towel hung in front of Peter's groin, the rest was wadded up, held at his navel. The man's skin and lovely dark hair glistened.

Sylar approached, getting in Peter's space, close enough to breathe on him and breathe him in. He smelled delicious. Peter's face wore multiple emotions. Sylar touched the wet, black hair, sliding his fingers into it until his palm rested under Peter's ear. It was already mostly slicked back, making Peter look younger than he was. Some strands dangled around his face in a beautiful arrangement. "Is this what you meant by 'touching'?" he rasped.

XXX

Peter drew himself up in height as Sylar approached, the air immediately becoming charged with tension. But no amount of straightening his spine made up for the fact that Peter was barefoot, Sylar was shod, and Sylar was several inches taller than him even when they were both in shoes. The man towered over him by nearly half a foot. That, added to Peter's nakedness, sent a wave of defensiveness and vulnerability over him. It wasn't fear, though, that caused his skin to prickle or his nostrils to flare. His heart started drumming in his chest and his fingers tightened on the towel. It was excitement of a different kind. He finally broke eye contact with Sylar to glance in the direction of the touch to his hair. "Some. Yeah."

XXX

Peter didn't look upset, at least not the vengeful kind. He was paying attention though. The hand in Peter's hair trailed one finger down Peter's cheek to his lips. He knew it was a bad idea – too much intimacy, too emotional, too real, but he wanted to touch. For a split second, he thought Peter would allow it until he saw the anger and everything in the man's body language refused. So Sylar shifted closer and his finger continued down over throat, collarbone, chest, abdomen…

XXX

Sylar's eyes bored into him.  _He wants me._ The morning fight (argument) ran through his mind.  _Sex would make him feel safe, but I turned him down. Is he threatening me? He's fucking hot._ Peter watched the finger come to his mouth. He didn't part his lips, but he did breathe harder as anger rose up in him.  _No! I'm not going to suck him off_.

Their arrangement – the height difference, the power imbalance of Sylar clothed and him not – combined to make him think Sylar was about to demand the tables be turned and Peter…wasn't up for that yet. He was just barely on the side of not freaking out about having Sylar looming over him like this – submitting further, to so dangerous a person, was too much.

Keyed up by tension, he shivered as Sylar's finger trailed down his body. Sylar drew their bodies together, but Peter still grasped the towel between them. It kept him covered, but made it impossible to tell how ready to go Sylar was and how much of this was designed to upset him.

He refused to play that game. Pushing down his anger, Peter let go of the towel with one hand and trailed tentative fingers up the outside of one of Sylar's arms. He tilted his head to the side, regarding Sylar and inhaling as he reached the man's shoulder.  _He's so handsome. Even when he's all over me like this_ _._

His hand crossed to Sylar's chin.  _He's mine, if I want him._ He leaned in and kissed Sylar's jawline. It was rough stubble so his touch was light. His lips made a gentle trail of separate pecks a few inches along Sylar's jaw. When he reached Sylar's ear, Peter whispered, "Is this what you want?"

XXX

Sylar wasn't put off by the touch up his arm. It seemed within the realm of familiar possibility of Peter's range of touching. The touch to his face surprised him. He twitched and his expression nearly broke. What was the purpose behind that? It felt good. It felt better when Peter kissed across his jawline. It made him exhale and gave him nasty ideas. Sylar canted his face to be as close to Peter as possible. "This is what you want," he whispered back, then dropped to his knees.

XXX

_Should I refuse? This isn't fair to him is it? He's doing me and I'm not doing anything for him. But that's…that's exactly what he wants. He wants me to owe him. He wants to make me happy. If I don't let him get me off, then I'm telling him we're still enemies. I have to let him do this. This is what he wants: proof, actions, not lip service and promises but instead for me to put it on the line like he has._

It was a difficult step to take. It still felt like a bizarro-world situation.  _I told him it was all off the table this morning_ _, but as long as I hold out on him, he can't be sure I'm not going to hurt him. (Or rather, he can be sure I'm holding out and can't be trusted.)_

 _This is fucked up. Twisted._ He had no guns to stick to – his principles were at odds with one another. Peter was certain Sylar had orchestrated the perversity of the situation precisely so there was no clean and easy way for Peter to refuse. In retrospect, Sylar had obviously hit on sex after trying many other things, seeking enough leverage to manipulate him. He'd found it, Peter was sorry to admit. Maybe this was Sylar's act of last resort, which left Peter ashamed that he'd forced Sylar to go to such an extreme to prove himself…though on the other hand, Peter wouldn't have believed his sincerity for anything less.

Having reached this point, to turn Sylar down again would be cruel and dangerous, signaling a desire on Peter's part to continue fighting (and not just arguing), signaling that Sylar wasn't safe and that there might be no amount of degradation or submission that would satisfy Peter. That wasn't true.

With a jerky, uneasy movement, Peter moved the towel aside, exposing himself. His penis was swollen, but not erect. There was too much tension for that. He dropped the towel on the floor. His other hand stroked the back and side of Sylar's neck in acceptance.

XXX

Peter hesitated then bared himself. Again, he wasn't ragingly hard and ready. It was worrisome on several levels. Sylar felt a jolt that perhaps he was overestimating his own appeal. The hand on the back of his neck was everything. He didn't mind most of this process; in fact, it was a kind of ego stroke. Peter was easy. Sylar leaned in, looked up, and opened his mouth to take Peter in. It was still filthy that Peter didn't just fuck his face, instead forcing him bob and suck on him.

XXX

Peter gasped when Sylar put his lips around him. The look up at him was incredible. Sylar's expression, this time, looked so much more engaged, meeting his eyes and responding. Peter cupped the back of Sylar's head with one hand, the other skimming the top of the man's shoulder. Sylar's hands…were not in play, just like the first time.  _What's he doing? Does he not like to touch? Maybe…I need to show him?_

"Give me your hands," Peter asked, guiding one to the base of his cock and the other to his butt cheek. "I like it when you touch me."

XXX

Sylar slowed and lifted his hands, expression mildly questioning. His hands were placed on Peter's dick and, more importantly, on one ass cheek. His breath left him in arousal, puffing out around Peter's organ. He made an involuntary noise, his dick was suddenly inexplicably stiff, and his eyes burned with trying to communicate. He squeezed that ass cheek and his head spun. The cheek was soft to the touch, firm and muscular, the perfect handful. He had thoughts, but they passed too quickly to be remembered. It was unthinkable what was happening. Sylar sucked harder, driven now to do a good job this time, though he didn't want to like it.

XXX

"Oh! Oh yeah." It was working. The whole thing was working. This was actually intimate and Peter could  _feel_ the difference. "Yeah, oh…" He was tingling, too, and all over but mostly where Sylar was touching him. He knew he was going to come fast. Peter brushed his fingertips through Sylar's hair, down his neck and over his shoulder where he could reach. Peter's other hand rubbed over his own chest and then his neck, covering the latest bite mark Sylar had given him. The fingertips on the back of Sylar's shoulder dug in a little as he neared his peak.

XXX

He was stroking Peter's dick into his mouth, tasting him, feeling the hard shaft slide over his tongue. After a time of that and groping Peter's ass, his hand fell away and he pressed deeper. It didn't take much and Peter was pumping himself inside far too gently. There was rhythmic contact at the back of his throat all the same and his lips were smudged wet. He desperately wanted to do things to Peter's ass, more than squeezing and rubbing. Sylar listened to Peter's noises, watching his hands pet him and the other touching himself.

XXX

Sylar took him even deeper, swallowing him down and enveloping him nearly entire with his large mouth. "Oh fuck," Peter whispered. The hand on Sylar's shoulder became firmer as he pressed down as though for balance. He couldn't stop his hips from moving in tandem with Sylar's sucking – they seemed to have a mind of their own but he did his best to thrust as little as possible. "I'm gonna c-come." He pressed on the bite mark on his neck – it hurt enough that he needed do nothing more to get the rush he wanted.

A few seconds after orgasm, he pulled out.  _I should have pulled out before I came. He retched last time. Fuck, why didn't I do that? This was hot. Sylar…_ There was a yearning tone to the thought. He went to his knees, joining Sylar on the floor, still panting and spent. Peter picked up the damp towel and offered it in case Sylar wanted to spit in it or just clean up.

XXX

He felt when Peter came in his mouth before he tasted it; the throbbing, hot heartbeat was a giveaway. Sylar tensed up, feeling helpless and trying not to gag. Peter withdrew and Sylar held still even when the empath knelt in front of him. He would have shuddered about the taste, but he was vaguely aware that Peter was close and probably watching. Spitting this time wasn't going to work, not if he was going to prove himself. He choked it down and swallowed. He didn't have a use for the towel, as wiping his mouth would be rude, so he held it loosely.  _Am I supposed to put this in the hamper?_ He stared confused at the towel.

XXX

Sylar seemed lost inside himself. Peter ached because this wasn't right. Something wasn't right about the whole thing. He touched fingertips to Sylar's forearm and leaned in to give him a light kiss on the lower cheek. He touched Sylar's face with the tip of his nose, then withdrew a few inches, eyes moving over Sylar's features, trying to find something to connect with.

XXX

He felt Peter brush his arm and then a sweet, undeserved caress of a kiss grazing his cheek. Sometimes it seemed as if Peter knew him very well; knew he was a sucker for having his face touched. Sylar exhaled and his eyes followed Peter. He drew another breath, staring at the man's neck. The taste in his mouth was an unwelcome distraction.

Sylar darted a glance at and out of the window.  _I had time. I should have closed that._  Since Peter appeared to be waiting for some kind of acknowledgement, he pretended to be fine with a grin.

He stood, intending to keep moving so Peter didn't say, think, feel, do anything to ruin it and to avoid the very clear shot of the window. Walking to the bathroom, he disposed of the towel in the hamper and returned to the living room after another round of paranoid checks to the window. Sylar stood between the support column and out of direct range. "Do you want lunch?"

XXX

 _That's it. That's all I get. A blowjob, a brush-off, and lunch._ He should have been happy. He was the one who received the act, but the way Sylar acted, Peter still felt used and discarded. He felt ashamed for wanting and accepting it when he'd known there wasn't the intimacy or understanding between them to support it – but there sure seemed like there had been at first.  _It was good for a moment there._ He looked at where Sylar was standing, decidedly away from him.  _He doesn't want me near him now. He did what he needed to and left._ With a sigh, he got to his feet. "I guess," he said with quiet depression.  _He's trying. He just blew me. This isn't his problem._ Peter nodded and spoke more firmly, making eye contact and trying to act normal. "Yes, please. I'll get dressed."

XXX

"You probably don't have to get dressed," Sylar muttered, mostly to himself. He had a built-in excuse to get in the fridge for something to wash the taste away – his mouth still feeling tacky or dry, perhaps both. He used that excuse and quickly drank some juice. Now, ideally, Peter wouldn't be able to complain about the quality he provided. He'd given it his all and Peter had even given him something though it wasn't necessary.

After a few breaths, he considered the meal preparation. He was angry and disgusted. Peter was easy and very willing to accept this as the new arrangement of all-take-and-no-give no matter what he said about it. He avoided his feelings about other things that would get in the way of his performance. Sylar got out bread and condiments. Peter's veganism prevented a heartier sandwich. He allowed himself to feel righteous smugness to meet Peter's basest needs, hearing Peter's voice saying, 'I like when you touch me' in direct conflict with his cool acceptance of his hair being touched moments before.

XXX

There was something dreadful about what Sylar had muttered about him not getting dressed that made Peter feel more naked than any leer could have. It was hard to put into words how unsettling that was on top of everything else. He put clothes on immediately.

 _Fuck! I shouldn't have let him do that. I knew it. I knew it! Fuck!_ Peter took a moment as Sylar was busy at the counter to press the heel of his hand against his forehead.  _This is fucked up. He keeps doing this to me. (I keep letting him do it!) Who's fault is this? Why doesn't he quit?_ He looked over at Sylar and realized he wanted to deck the guy, for Sylar giving him a blow job he hadn't asked for and then making him feel like scum for accepting it. Anger was building up fast. Peter took a few deep breaths and tried to put that aside with a shake of his head.  _Okay, maybe this is his problem. I don't fucking know._

He drummed his fingers uneasily on his knee for as long as he dared, but when Sylar brought food to the table, Peter had to rise and join him. He tried to keep the many mixed emotions he was feeling off his face, but he doubted he did a good job at it. He pulled his sandwich in front of him and ate it silently, without even a 'thanks'.

XXX

Peter was unusually quiet. A look at the man's expression showed there was definitely something going on. What that might be was less clear: anger, disgust or something else entirely. Sylar knew it was his fault and he was weighed down by that. With a brief, helpless frown, he attacked his own sandwich.

XXX

"So," Peter said when they were both done eating, "tell me about something you said yesterday. You said killing Nathan was a nightmare and the wrong thing to do, but then you argued you were justified. Which is it?" His tone was both confrontational and tired. He knew different ways conflicted feelings like that could play out, but he wanted to know what Sylar meant by it.

XXX

That was not the topic Sylar expected. After a myriad of reactions, he landed on suspicion. Was this Peter's pattern: fucking and questions about Nathan?  _Is he using me?_  It was a dangerous thought, especially since it was his plan to manipulate the empath and he'd assumed it was working. "Really, Peter? This is how it's going to be?" Sylar rolled his eyes and sighed. "Maybe you liked being tied up."

XXX

He snorted at the insinuation, then pursed his lips and looked at the table. Regrouping for another attempt, Peter tried, "Is it both? Did you change your mind later? Explain it to me."  _I want to know. I want to get_ something _from you._

XXX

Sylar sat quietly for a moment, trying to gauge his partner. His lips tensed before he reached for Peter's plate. He placed it atop his own and brought them to the sink. It wasn't a difficult question, but his feelings about it, his motivations might be.

XXX

Peter sighed.  _The silent act? Great._ "You can tie my foot down again if that helps. Whatever. We have to talk, Sylar."

XXX

Apparently Peter had no patience, but that was what Sylar wanted to know. "Actually we don't, Peter. You want to talk. You didn't wake up this morning with this in mind," Sylar said as he scrubbed the plates. "If one question and one answer will help you calm down, then yeah. I will tie your foot down."

XXX

He started to argue about that – he wanted to. But yeah, he hadn't woke up with this in mind. But fine, Sylar was agreeing.  _Keep my mouth shut, then._ With a roll of his eyes, Peter went to the corner of the bed when Sylar was done with the dishes. He took a seat and drew up one foot, unlacing his shoe. He did the other one as well.  _I didn't say he could have my shoes this time_. He frowned at them, but left them on his feet. If Sylar wanted them for the Q &A, then he could take them off.  _He gave them back last time._

Once Sylar came over and began to wrap the tie around his ankle and the post on the bed, Peter couldn't stop himself from…objecting. Physically. He pushed Sylar's upper arm, then grabbed at the end of the tie. He wasn't trying to stop him. He was just upset, so agitated and frustrated and not getting what he wanted.  _This isn't helping, fucking with him. Shit._ He let go of the tie, the muscle of his jaw jumping as he clenched it. Peter looked away in a huff and said, "Never mind. Go ahead."

XXX

Sylar paused at the interference and gave Peter a look. For a man who'd got his this morning, Peter was being testy and juvenile. Sylar knew he had to handle this carefully because Peter was a tinderbox (and not in a good way). When Peter subsided and appeared cooperative, Sylar continued with the same tie from before.

He didn't bother with any excess touching of Peter's ankle this time. He plucked off Peter's shoes and sat at a kitchen chair, turned towards Peter. Feeling defeated, he gestured for Peter to ask his piece.

XXX

Peter looked at that gesture and shook his head mutely, falling backwards onto the bed. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets, then yanked hard, three times, at the restraint on his ankle. It tightened, perhaps dangerously – that depended on how Sylar had tied it and Peter wasn't going to the bother of checking it. He wanted to yank harder. He wanted to rip the fabric (although a good silk tie was almost certainly stronger than he was). He wanted loose. He wanted his problems solved. He didn't want to be sitting across from Sylar who wouldn't talk to him and treated him like he was a monster. He ground his teeth.

Peter sat up with a controlled sigh. "I want to know if you think you did the right thing in killing my brother. I don't mean that in any simplistic way. I know it's a complicated subject. I want to hear it." He stared at Sylar, lips pressed together and expression intent.

XXX

"If this is some kind of sideways attempt to get me to confess to something, you're barking up the wrong tree," he said with a somewhat annoyed warning tone. "I told you shapeshifting can…affect your mind, especially when Parkman's done things to it. I've been your brother and I think you know how confused that can get."

Clasping his hands in his lap, he glanced at them for a moment. "I'm not going to answer anything about any regret or mistakes I might have. You haven't…earned that from me. 'Earn' isn't the right word," Sylar winced at that incorrect implication. "I have the idea that you will keep digging no matter what I tell you and…you can't dig into this answer. You can get as angry as you want or take it personally. You can try to beat it out of me, but…" he shrugged.

He was surprised Peter was still listening, hadn't broken the tie and charged him to do just that. It was difficult to explain because Peter would only hear 'no' and not the reasons why or what Sylar was truly trying to communicate.  _This answer has a lot of meaning. And he doesn't care, not about me anyway._

XXX

Peter flopped back on the bed again, moving his leg restlessly. "Okay," he said in a tense tone as he stared at the ceiling. "Okay. I hear you. I've backed you into a corner. You're being very…diplomatic about everything. I don't need a confession. I know what you did. And of course I'm going to keep digging. I loved him! You killed him! It's personal, Sylar. Fucking personal. I can't beat it out of you. I can't beat anything out of you."

He lifted one of his hands, looking at the reddened, puffy knuckles from trying just as pointlessly to beat some sense into the punching bag earlier in the morning. His elbow still ached for his trouble, but at least it was only Peter hurt – not Sylar, no one else. "I think you're saying that between the shape-shifting and Matt, the answer's different now than it would have been then. You've changed, or been changed."

XXX

Sylar exhaled in relief that Peter understood and what's more, dug deeper into what he wasn't saying (couldn't say). It was more than he'd hoped to achieve.  _He can read between the lines. Yes! Good!_ He licked his lips while Peter checked his hand. He canted his head to the side, looking away, with something of a nod to say 'something like that.'

XXX

He muttered as though to himself, "At least, that's what I think you mean." Back to Sylar, he said, "How do I get the answers I need? How do I earn your trust?" He rolled his head to the side, looking down his body and across the room at Sylar. Peter's face was less tense and more like angry begging. "What would you suggest I do here?"

XXX

It wasn't the first time he'd been asked this. The answer was just as clear now as it had been before. "I suggest you…continue to read between the lines for answers," he gave Peter a well-earned smirk of encouragement. He was pleased with Peter's response, his performance, so praise was due. In a way, that would give Peter more answers to questions yet unasked and perhaps even gain some trust. "I suggest you try to be as consistent as possible. I know that's…a lot, of you, especially now, especially to me."

XXX

Peter stared at him for a long moment, his face turning serious.  _He's not going to tell me what I want to know. That's what he's saying. But…what if he can't? What if this isn't a case of 'won't'? If he's not being difficult?_ Peter let out a slow sigh and pulled at the restraint.  _I think he's being difficult. Because he doesn't trust me. But it doesn't matter. It's how he is._

"Could you untie me? I'm not going to ask anything else." It all seemed pointless – fighting, arguing, begging for answers from someone who implied he didn't have them, wouldn't give them, perhaps couldn't, and that Peter wasn't trustworthy enough to make an effort for. From a man who'd just given him a blowjob under what looked a hell of a lot like duress. All this distance from Peter looked like a sort of flinching away from the monster. Peter felt horrible.

XXX

He knew Peter was disappointed. It was a mixed bag because he thought Peter got the point, but Sylar didn't derive much pleasure beyond that. The Petrelli's kicked-puppy emotion was palpable. Sylar pursed his lips and approached to remove the tie, which Peter had repeatedly yanked on and tightened. He used his fingernail and knowledge of the knot to loosen a few strands first.

XXX

Peter breathed out heavily again as Sylar untied him. He sat up and watched the process as Sylar picked at it. "I don't even know what consistent is for me anymore," Peter said quietly. The moment the tie was released, he put his hand on Sylar's forearm, holding it.  _I want this. Please?_ He pulled it over to where his leg was crooked on the mattress. With a glance up at Sylar's face for permission, Peter put Sylar's hand, palm-down, on the jeans that covered his calf.  _Can I show you? It's not sexual. It doesn't have to be._

XXX

"Hmm," Sylar agreed with a surprising amount of understanding. Giving it more thought, he wondered if he really wanted consistency from Peter after all – what with the man's intense passions being so interesting. It probably wasn't a fair thing to ask someone so emotional. Peter grasped his forearm and Sylar paused, curious. He met Peter's eyes and allowed his hand to be positioned on the man's lower leg. It seemed harmless enough.

XXX

After a beat, Peter moved Sylar's hand in a petting motion, watching what he was doing instead of Sylar's face. After a few strokes, he moved it to his knee and did the same. Then he lifted it slowly to his face, looking to Sylar's expression again for guidance. He turned Sylar's hand and pressed the palm to his cheek. Peter shut his eyes and sighed.  _I would have been happier with this than the fucking blow job._

XXX

Sylar briefly frowned when his hand was moved upwards. He didn't have time to worry – his hand was raised to cup Peter's face next. He was free to relax his expression when Peter was no longer looking. The empath appeared contented.

 _He misses Nathan's touch,_  Sylar concluded.  _Nathan touched him all the time, was possessive about it in fact._ Peter had invited or asked to be touched before now (platonically more often than not).  _He misses his family. And he wants me to comfort him after I turned him down._  Sylar used his other hand to slide his fingers into Peter's hair near the temple.  _He has to know I don't deserve this._ He repeated the stroking, fingers brushing Peter's scalp. It wasn't brotherly, but it wasn't anything more or less either. It was good to be used this way, to soothe and comfort.

XXX

 _Two hands now?_ That was good; more than good – wonderful. He made a small happy noise. Peter tipped his head into it and let his shoulders sag. Eyes shut, face downwards, he presented his head for Sylar to touch.  _This is what I need. Please. This is so good._ He existed in a pleased bubble of undemanding touch, no one being traumatized (he hoped), no one being taken advantage of (he hoped this, too), where Sylar was willing to do this for him, and neither of them would suffer later because of it. Peter breathed heavily, wishing he could fall asleep like this and wake up a million years later, finally content and calm with all his tension behind him.

He reached out and touched Sylar on the waist, thinking about hugging him, but decided that might be too forward, or misinterpreted somehow. He didn't want to fuck this up. Peter let his hands rest on his leg instead. "Reading between the lines," he said and paused for few beats, thinking. "Can I ask a question anyway?" His voice was even and relaxed, just loud enough to carry.

XXX

Sylar hummed, enjoying Peter's pleasure. He loved watching Peter's glossy hair move about, petting it back and forth. "I suppose," he replied after a moment's thought. The empath appeared pliant and his voice lacked any edges.

XXX

"Did you feel guilt about it then? Do you feel guilt about it now?" He kept his head down as long as Sylar was still touching him. "It doesn't change anything, but I want to know. If the answer's no, then that's the answer."

XXX

 _Damn._  Peter was still calm, but how easily that could change since he was no longer restrained. It was another question Sylar lumped together with the previous one – topics that would not be discussed. "Isn't 'guilt' just another word for 'regret'?" he asked right back.

Both hands moved to be smothered by Peter's hair, one in the forelock and the other nearly stroking the back of the man's head. He wanted to be deeper in Peter's hair, wanted the man's face pressed to his abdomen to really get into a massage if only to distract him from a second refusal.

XXX

"I suppose so," Peter said slowly. He made another sound of pleasure – a noisy sigh. "Not really, though. I think guilt is if you do something wrong and regret is if you wish you hadn't done it. I might feel guilt about pulling the trigger on my dad, but I don't regret it. I'd do it again. Probably."

He winced a little as Sylar's fingers touched too firmly at the still-sore spot on the back of his head. It was from slamming his head on the floor of the grocery store. He pulled his head free of Sylar's hands, or at least mostly free and let Sylar do the rest. "Okay. I like this, what you're doing. A lot. Thank you." Peter looked up at Sylar. "You can do it anytime you want to."

Peter shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know if you would…want to, but you can." He looked in the direction of the door. "I guess I'll go downstairs and play music or something."  _Since you're not going to give me answers and I've pushed too much._ He waited for Sylar to step back before he went to put his shoes on.

XXX

He met Peter's gaze as he listened. He lofted his eyebrows slightly as if to say 'Oh, really?' as he acknowledged the…offer. It was almost certain that it was a legitimate offer – one he might take the Italian up on.  _Waking up, lying in bed, playing with his hair…or maybe his ass…_  He felt disappointment when Peter looked past him with the air of moving on. Sylar took the hint and stepped away slightly, nodding at Peter's plans. He intended to follow even if that wasn't an invitation and gathered up a book to bring down.

XXX

Peter laced up his shoes and headed downstairs, content that Sylar was coming with him. It had been a strange morning. He was pleasantly buzzed from Sylar messing with his hair, which had been far more enjoyable in a lingering way than the blowjob (which he was still torn up about). It pleased him that Sylar wasn't staying on the other side of the room from him like he had briefly. Even though Peter had been stymied on answers, he was okay with that as long as Sylar wasn't acting like Peter was an abuser.

In the rec room, he went to the piano and played upbeat songs for a while. His fingers were still sore and his elbow achy, so he quit sooner than he would have liked. He walked over and fiddled with the puzzle, standing next to the table rather than taking a seat. When he got bored with that, he came to the couch and sat at the opposite end from Sylar.

It was only at this point (looking at Sylar and thinking about earlier) that he realized how much disarray his hair was in. Peter ran his fingers through his hair, watching Sylar openly to see if he cared or noticed. Then he got his comb out and did a proper job of straightening it out, without quite so much observation.

That done, he settled into the corner of the couch, one knee crooked, and spent his time looking at his companion. Just looking – and trying to mentally feel his way through things.  _How do I read between the lines on a guy who won't even let me crack open the covers of the book?_  It was a dilemma.

XXX

Sylar noticed Peter touching his hair because of the motion. He followed it with a side-eye before glancing at Peter's face to find the man already looking at him. He would have enjoyed watching the combing regimen but brought his attention back to reading. After a while, he was aware that Peter was watching him. At first it was nothing, though he didn't feel any shift of attention away from himself. In fact, it felt as if Peter was scoping him out. He waited to see if that shift happened. It didn't. Peter was staring and observing him.

Sylar glanced up, casual and checking.  _Am I supposed to do something for him?_  Peter met his eyes and held them with a neutral expression, then went back to scanning his body, lingering on the book and Sylar's face, not just his eyes. Nowhere did Sylar gather than he had to do anything for Peter in this moment. There was no lust or anticipation he could detect.  _Um…Okay. He just wants to look? I would ask him but it's not worth starting a philosophical argument I have to fend off._

Since Peter wasn't being needy and the attention wasn't offensive, Sylar went back to reading. Concentrating on the text was another matter.


End file.
